Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (39 page)

The soldiers stumbled
past him with their heads down and shoulders slumped, exhausted from the climb.
Pathetic,
he thought. He hadn’t heard
much about the rebellion from his hide in the Dantus, but the rebels should
have torn these men apart. He refused to call the rebels the Sons of Iss. He
had met the real Sons before and they could not field an army, though they were
still a terrible enemy.

“Pick your heads up!” he
roared suddenly, causing the nearest to flinch. “You are soldiers of Veria. Act
like it.”

Some raised their heads
sullenly but most ignored him, ducking behind the men in front of them and
bowing their heads until they were past this strange man who shouted at them in
the dusk.

Beccorban sighed and
turned to look towards the front of the column. Illis’ carriage was somewhere
up there, protected by little more than a few scouts mounted on lean horses. He
grunted. A motley crew of amateurs, and all to protect the most powerful man in
Daegermund.

He looked up. Night was
approaching. It hovered overhead like a cloak of dark sable, while behind the
sky was a deep orange, the sun a perfect orb above the eastern horizon, so
close to the water that he thought he might see a cloud of steam as it sank
lower.

A horn called from the
head of the column and the men came to a juddering halt. Were this a regular
unit, a vetero would have been storming up and down, keeping people on their
feet and screaming bloody murder. However, since there were no experienced
soldiers here, many just slumped to the ground, chests heaving and armour
clanking. Some moved off to the handful of wagons and began to unload bedrolls
and tents. Surely they weren’t going to camp here? They were still on a slope.
Another hour’s march and they could have made it to the top where there was
bound to be some kind of plateau or more defensible position. The soldiers broke
themselves up into smaller groups, some even wandering off into the trees on
either side of the path to rest their weary backs against the pines, or start
their cookfires with no thought to concealment.
This is madness,
thought Beccorban.
Where is the discipline? The structure?
He wanted to scream aloud
but he had already had one outburst and that had attracted enough attention for
now. In fact, some of the conscripts nearby were already casting surly glances
in his direction. He turned away in disgust and looked back down the hill, at
the path that had carried them through forest and stream, all the way from the
beach.

As he watched, the sun
slipped down below the horizon. Sometimes during his time in the Dantus, he had
found himself watching the sunset from a stone shelf that formed a natural
bench. The altitude meant the air was clear more often than not and it allowed
a perfect view of the land between him and the Scoldsee. On the clearest days,
he could just about make out the spires of Kressel as a hazy series of jagged
bumps. In the summer, or spring if it was warm enough, he would sit there and
wait until nightfall. It brought him comfort, and he never really knew why else
he did it. Perhaps it was because the death of another day was progress. One
more day without spilling blood. One more day without Niralla. He twisted his
mouth to the side. Riella had tried to ask about her, but he did not want to
speak about that part of his life. He did not need to. He was at peace with it.
That life could never last for you.

With the sun gone, the
darkness began to bleed downwards, staining the orange with blue-black. He
stood like a sentinel as night grew deeper, ignoring the mutterings behind him
and the clamour of an ungoverned camp. He frowned. There was still a stubborn
orange haze spilling over the horizon and limning the land below him. He had
never been this far north but surely day and night were the same? A few who had
been to distant Ri’esh told of lights in the sky that sent men mad but they
were too far south for that.

A low mournful horn rent
the air and none of the soldiers reacted, for they were already setting their
camp. Yet Beccorban grew suddenly tense, for it was a note he had heard before
and it was not made by man. It sounded again and his stomach dropped away.

The orange haze. They
were burning the ships.

He turned to run and
crashed into an unfortunate young soldier who had come to offer him a plate of
food. They both went sprawling but Beccorban rolled back on to his feet and
carried on. A few had picked up on the alien sound and stood staring back down
towards the bay, as if waiting for confirmation. Most still rested or laughed
with their comrades as if all was well.

A hand shot out and
grabbed Beccorban’s arm, and such was his speed that he dragged its owner along
with him a ways. It was Riella.

“What’s happening? I
heard the horn but—”

“The ships.” He grabbed
the sides of her face and bored his eyes into hers so that she would
understand. “They’re burning the ships.”

“Wh—”

“Droswain’s Echoes,
Riella. They’re coming.” He released her and continued his run, pumping
powerful legs and scaling the slope in great leaps and bounds. He had to get to
someone in command, though who that could be he did not know. He quickly came
upon the imperial carriage and fought down rage at the lack of activity. As
Beccorban approached, the two provosts from the beach stepped forward with
their spears lowered.

“Out of my way, you
fools!” he snarled. “Your enemy is nigh but I am not him. Now stand aside!” Before
they could obey, the clip-clop of hooves announced the arrival of Callistan.
Beccorban looked up at the blond warrior, whose hair was in customary disarray.

“They will be here soon,
hammerman,” said Callistan grimly, without looking at him. “We need to move.”

“Of course we need to
move!” Beccorban snapped and Callistan finally turned his gaze on him,
amusement glittering in his eyes.

The horn sounded again
and it passed like a ripple through the soldiers nearby. Fear began as murmured
conversation and spilled over into panic as angry shouts began.

“You!” Beccorban pointed
a thick finger at the first provost from the beach. He couldn’t have been much
past twenty. “Sound the advance. We are getting off this damned slope.”

“But I—” the
provost began.

“Do it, man. If you
don’t we all die here.”

The blood drained from
the young soldier’s face and he made to move.

“No. Do it quietly,”
Callistan added. “They have enough cause to find our trail without any help
from us.” He turned his horse and thundered back up the slope to the head of
the column.

Beccorban watched him go
and flexed his hands to stay calm. The hunger was on him again as it had not
been for decades, and he could feel Kreyiss straining in the harness on his
back, begging to be set free and taste blood once more.

“Gods help us,” he said
aloud, and tried to ignore the youthful faces that looked upon him with
expressions of betrayal.

“You two, grab your
mounts.” Beccorban pointed at a pair of bewildered sarifs. “Ride out ahead of
the column and report back to me as soon as you find something defensible. A
hill, a wall, even a ditch — anything, you understand?” They both nodded.
“Good, now go.” The two young officers raced away, stirring up dust as they
went. Beccorban turned to face back down the column. It was beginning to gather
some semblance of order now. A few hours ago he would never have imagined that
they could work so quickly.
Fear.
In
the right amount it can settle your mind.

“You there! Excuse me!”
A young — Hel, they were all young — officer forced his way through
the crowd. He was dressed in crimson plate like the others but his pauldrons
were adorned with the three circles of a lommocel. However, most lommocels
Beccorban had met were well over thirty summers. This one could not be anything
more than twenty five. He had even grown a straggly beard to hide a weak chin.

“Me here, what?” growled
Beccorban.

The lommocel froze, then
remembered himself and stood up straight. “I am Lommocel Operin of the Seventh
and I am in temporary command here. Explain yourself.”

“I do not feel the need,
Operin,” said Beccorban, turning his back on the young officer. He did not have
time for this.

“I am going to have to
ask you to explain yourself or go elsewhere. You have no authority here.”

“Well I am taking
authority, Lommocel,” said Beccorban, rubbing his brows. “If we are caught here
on this path we all die.”

“So you will not
comply?” asked Operin. His voice sounded very fragile.

“No, Operin, I won’t.
Now bugger off and leave me—”

“Arrest this man!”
snapped Operin and Beccorban spun around in shock. Several nearby soldiers
started forward with their hands on their weapons but none was senseless enough
to draw them.
Gods, let me not have to
spill blood here,
he thought. An idea struck him and he reached behind him
to draw Kreyiss. The men froze and Operin’s eyes grew wide.

“I am not the enemy
here, Operin. Do you know what this is?”

“A war hammer.”

“No, Operin. This is a
killer, a widowmaker. Kreyiss is a drinker of blood and I am her servant, and
by all the gods I will not be arrested and thrown in a cell.”

Operin hesitated and he
could see the young officer’s resolve fading, but he had not seen any higher
ranked officers anywhere. If he stole this one’s confidence then nobody would
follow him. “It’s your decision, Operin, but I am here to help. You need me.”

Operin hesitated and
flexed his hands. “You are the Helhammer,” he whispered at last in a
conspirator’s tone.

“I am he, a proud son of
Veria, despite what the Empron’s scribes say about me. Now make your choice.”

Operin nodded and
brushed an imaginary fleck of dirt off of his gaily painted breastplate. “What
do you think we should do?”

Beccorban grinned and
clapped the young lommocel on the back and then barked out a flurry of orders.
As they set about organising themselves, he caught more than a few glances
aimed at him, as though seeking his approval.
They will follow you now, as if you were Illis himself,
he thought.
Men followed confidence and, though he might not feel it, he had to make sure
he showed it.

“Beccorban! What is
going on?” Droswain came running up the path, face flushed with exertion.
Loster was with him, loping alongside. The boy looked scared.

“They have found us,
priest, sooner than we thought they might.”

“Do you need me to do anything?”
asked Loster.

“No! No, Loster,” said
Droswain. “We need to get you to safety.”

“Find Riella,” Beccorban
spoke over the priest. “Get her and Mirril to the front of the column. We’re
moving soon. You won’t have much time.”

Loster nodded and set
off with Droswain in pursuit, still complaining. Beccorban chuckled to himself
and turned back to the task before him. There were a handful of men waiting for
his word like petitioners in a kingly court, Operin at their head. He gathered
together the sarifs and the handful of missels — the most junior of
junior officers. All of them seemed entirely too young for their roles but he
could not change that. They would form ranks of six abreast. The path could
easily accommodate them at that breadth. The wagons would be left behind, all
except one on which all of the arrows and bolts were to be piled.

“Sir,” Operin raised his
hand. “What about the supplies? The shields? If we’re besieged…”

Beccorban stilled him
with a hand. “We won’t be a part of any siege, la— Lommocel.” It was a
sensible question and he did not want to shame the young officer by being too
familiar. He pictured again the broken walls of Kressel, strong enough to
withstand the rage of the Scoldsee but broken by the implacable enemy that
hunted them. “Our aim is to go unnoticed, not to meet the enemy head on. Not
yet anyway, we are not ready. Wagons are slow. Our foe is not.”

Operin nodded. “And the
shields?”

“Carry them. Your shield
is your best friend. We march at double speed. You,” he pointed, “will take
fifty of the fleetest men as a rearguard. How many horses do we have?”

“Twenty, sir, maybe more
if we include the pack animals.”

He grunted. “It’s not
enough. Where are the bloody Dalukar when you need them?” Some laughed
nervously. “The horsemen will be our screens, ten at the front and ten at our
backs. We can’t afford any on the flanks, it’s too overgrown.”

“Sir, what of the
Empron’s carriage?”

“That eyesore? We’ll
leave it behind as a gift for anyone with bad taste.” More laughter. “Don’t
worry about Illis.” He looked back up the column where the carriage was hidden
behind a bend in the path. “I’ll deal with the Empron.”

A scream rang out in the
evening and Beccorban immediately reached for Kreyiss. He was too late. They
were all going to die.

Riella stumbled along
the column, dodging the frantic soldiers as they ran around aimlessly. Just
when they had thought they were safe, the Echoes were on them again. They were
relentless. She felt the first flutters of despair stir in her belly but forced
herself to focus on the now. She smiled. That must be something she had learned
from Beccorban. The old bastard was rubbing off on her. She heard his voice and
saw him surrounded by soldiers. He was talking to them, giving out orders with
the ease of command he possessed. The Helhammer was back. They would need him
now if they were to make it out of this alive.

Callistan too. She
thought of the horseman and the look on his face as he exploded from the
Empron’s tent. It was the face he had worn when he attacked them in the
orchard: jagged hurt, cool anger. At first she had thought he was leaving them
there and then. Callistan had made straight for Crucio and leapt on to his
back, but instead of riding away he had trotted up towards Illis’ carriage. He
had seemed to be following it, keeping pace with the imperial procession as
ably as any member of the Provost Guard.

The imperial carriage
was somewhere up ahead, so he must be near. She needed to find him, to speak to
him, ask him to stay. He was dangerous, and that made him an asset they could
not afford to lose.

“Riella!” A hand grabbed
her arm and she turned to see Loster and the priest. “Beccorban said we’re to
move to the head of the column. Where is Mirril?”

Riella blinked. “She was
sleeping on one of the wagons. You’ll have to go back—”

“No, we all need to stay
together.”

Riella was not used to
this confidence from Loster and it annoyed her. Ever since they had left the
ship he had become louder and more forthright. Happier, almost. Droswain might
think that he was their saviour but to her he was still a boy, wet behind the
ears. “Let go of me.”

Loster stepped closer.
“But Beccorban said—”

“I don’t care. Let me
go.” She yanked her hand back and stormed away.

“Where are you going?”
Loster called after her. “I can’t let you walk away.”

It’s
none of your business,
she thought to herself. She wanted to say that
it was his fault; it must have been him the Echoes were after. If he was who
Droswain said he was they would want him dead. However, she held back her barbed
tongue. He had saved her, after all. “Go and find Mirril, Loster. I don’t take
orders from Beccorban. He knows that well enough.” She turned back up the path,
facing towards Illis’ carriage. There was a clash of metal and then a scream.
Several soldiers near her heard it, but none did anything other than look
around in confusion.

Loster came to her side
with Droswain hovering nearby. “It’s begun,” he said quietly.

“We need to get you
somewhere safe,” muttered Droswain and Riella realised with amusement that he
meant Loster and not her.

“I don’t think there is
anywhere safe to go,” said Loster.

“Wait,” Riella held up a
hand to hush them. “It can’t be the Echoes. There’s no way they could have got
ahead of us so soon.” She thought of the look on Callistan’s face when he had
emerged from the imperial tent and something clicked in her head.
Gods, please let me be wrong.
“Quick!”
She darted forward and the others followed.

They raced up the path,
past stunned soldiers and wagons hastily being relieved of their burdens. As
they neared the imperial carriage, all was chaos. A conscript and several
provosts lay dead on the ground, while around the carriage itself there was a
ring of soldiers with nervous faces. They had drawn their weapons though none
yet had gathered the strength to use them. Crucio stood off to one side, pawing
the ground and looking down as though he were ashamed.

“What’s going on here?”
demanded Riella. “Who killed these men?” A few turned in her direction, but
none spoke. Then a voice rose in hatred from inside the carriage and all her
fears were confirmed.

“Why?!” A torn sound,
showing the raw anguish beneath. “Tell me why!”

“Callistan,” said
Droswain breathlessly. “I knew he was trouble.” The priest stepped forward and
turned to the crowd, raising his hands. “He’s going to kill the Empron!”

The crowd surged
forward.

Beccorban pushed through
the mob just as it started to move. He saw the priest with his arms outstretched
and the dead men on the ground, hands still clutched around their weapons, and
immediately he knew what was happening. Strangely it made him feel relieved.
“Hold!” he snarled at the top of his voice and the soldiers faltered then
stopped.

Droswain wheeled on him
and his voice was manic. “I told you he was a mad dog, Helhammer.” Droswain
almost choked on the last word as he realised his indiscretion but swiftly
recovered and stood with his back straight. “He needs to be put down.”

Beccorban jabbed a thick
finger into the priest’s chest and drove him back into the crowd. It did not
matter that Droswain had used that name. Not anymore. He was in charge now.
That much was clear from the way the men were looking at him, the way they had
come to him for instruction. They were scared and, to them at least, it seemed
that he was not. He stepped back into the open space around Illis’ carriage.
“Horseman!” he cried.

Silence.

“We don’t have time for
this, Beccorban!”

He held up a hand.
“Speak again, priest, and I’ll twist your head off of your shoulders.”

Droswain went pale and
shrank back into the crowd. Beccorban breathed out in a great sigh. All eyes
were on him. For the first time in decades he did not have to hide. It made him
feel strong. A small voice deep down told him that he should feel shame but
shame was a harder beast to conjure in company. Men did not follow humility.
“Callistan!” he called. “Come out. You have an old friend of mine in there.”

There was a pause and
then a whimper, and the Empron was thrown from the carriage to land heavily in
the dust. A few soldiers went forward to help him up but then Callistan stepped
lithely down from the carriage and strolled over to his victim. The tall
horseman reached down and casually gripped the Empron by his long silver hair,
twisting it savagely and drawing Illis up into a kneeling position. Callistan
cocked his head to one side and grimaced. “This is familiar,” he said.

Beccorban ignored
Callistan for the moment. He had the wild look in his eyes that Beccorban had
only seen when he was fighting. Callistan would not hear reason right now.
“Hello, Illis,” he said instead. “It has been a long time, old friend.”

The Empron looked up at
Beccorban and, for the first time in over twenty years, Beccorban looked back
— truly
looked
this time.
Illis’ hair hung in thick grey ropes, damp with sweat and filthy with dust. His
eyes were glassy and vacant and one was swollen shut like a simian mouth. Blood
ran from the corner of his mouth and there was a dark and sticky-looking patch
on his forehead where it had impacted the earth. His face was wet with
something else — it looked like he had been crying. Who was this man? The
Illis of Beccorban’s memory was a proud and vain man. Even after his suffering
in Fend the Empron had stood tall and straight, viewing his crippled arm as a
badge of honour, a mark of his role in the overthrow of the hated Respini. This
bent-backed creature was nothing like the man he had known.