Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (40 page)

“Friend? Whose friend?”
said Illis in a wavering voice. “Who are you? What are you all looking at?” His
eyes darted around the crowd like a nervous child. “What do you want from me?”

“Ask him if he remembers
you, greybeard. Go on, ask him.” Callistan twisted Illis’ hair again and the
Empron moaned in agony.

“Callistan, don’t do
this.” Riella stepped forward to join Beccorban.

The horseman ignored
her. “Ask him, Helhammer.”

Illis’ eyes lit up and
he raised his hands together as though they were manacled at the wrist, to
point them at Beccorban. “You! You are him. You’re Beccorban. But no, no, he is
dead, dead!” He looked up at Callistan. “Can’t be him!”

“Quiet!” Callistan drove
a knee into Illis’ back and he cried out again. “He won’t remember you,
Beccorban. He can’t because he’s not the Empron. He is a slipskin, like the
traitor on the Lussido, like the captain of the Fallow Deer, like anyone here
could be. They are everywhere. We are riddled, Beccorban, as riddled as a
ship’s biscuit.”

A ripple of disquiet
went through the crowd.

Droswain laughed.
“Nonsense! How dare you make such accusations. Get away from him.”

Callistan laughed back.
“You have far too much use for your tongue, priest.” He turned back to
Beccorban. “Listen to me. I have killed these things before. They took…” he
paused. “They took my family from me. I’m telling you that this thing is not
the Empron, merely a good imitation.”

“You have no proof,”
Droswain sneered.

“Oh, believe me, priest.
I have all the proof I need.” With that, Callistan pushed Illis forward on to
his hands and knees. As the Empron sprawled, the horseman brought up his
falcata and chopped it down. Illis screamed and blood misted in the evening.
Several soldiers started forwards but Beccorban was fastest. He threw his fist
into Callistan’s face and knocked the horseman on to his back in an explosion
of dust. The soldiers pointed bared blades at him but Beccorban screamed,
“Leave him!” He stood over Callistan. “What have you done? I can’t protect you
from this.”

A hiss of agony from
behind made him turn. Illis had climbed to his feet and was clutching the stump
of his arm. His white robes were stained with bright red blood.

Callistan began to
laugh, blood streaming down his face from his broken nose. It was a manic noise
that seemed to require all of his breath. “Can’t you smell him, Helhammer?
Can’t you smell his deceit?”

Beccorban knelt to pick
up Illis’ severed arm and then recoiled as something long and milky white
slithered from it. It too was an arm but unlike any he had ever seen, fleshy
and translucent with eerily long fingers, each like a worm.

A
slipskin.
Beccorban felt his stomach turn over.

Reality returned to him
with a rush and he heard the beating of hooves.

“It’s the scouts, sir.
They’ve returned!” someone cried.

He nodded and stood,
trying not to think about the horror that Callistan had uncovered. When he
spoke, his voice carried to everybody. “Good news, I hope.” He pointed at
Callistan. “Bind that man in irons. The Emp— that thing too. And be quick
about it. Night is upon us and our enemy is close.”

Night fell as a
sepulchral blanket and before long they were making their way by moonlight, trusting
that the clouds would stay scattered and not plunge them into total darkness.
It was a wild land of thick forests and high hills but there was a peace here.
Though their situation was desperate, Loster felt comfortable. The shadows did
not hold the inky menace of other shadows, the trees — tall pines —
seemed older and gentler somehow, the usually straight trunks warped with age
into softer shapes. A voice in his mind told him to step off the path into the
darkness and there be hidden.

“
They will still find you,
” said another, louder voice. “
We called them, you and I. They are coming.
”

Loster rubbed his temple
with the point of his finger and pushed Barde back down. There would be time
for him yet. He had tried to block out the voice, tried to be more forthright
in his own thoughts, but he had only managed rudeness. He thought of his
earlier interaction with Riella. How foolish to try and tame her. What had he
been thinking?

“
You were thinking about what she has between her legs. Careful she
doesn’t use that knife on you. She has a name for it, you know?
”

Loster took a deep
breath of frosty air and imagined Barde shivering inside his head. It made him
feel better.

Though night had fallen,
the sky at their backs was still an inferno. It drove them on, a promise of
what might await them if they slowed their pace. Few of them spoke, indeed,
what was there to say? Finally they stopped climbing and their pace quickened
on the level ground. Loster noticed rider after rider thunder past, each on an
unknown errand. It amazed him how quickly Beccorban had wrested control of the
group, but then he
was
the Helhammer.
Sins were quickly forgotten when the need was dire.

“Look there,” said a
nearby soldier. Others began to chatter excitedly until a sarif snapped at them
to be silent. Loster looked ahead to see what the fuss was about. Below them
was an open plain. It was dotted with clumps of trees but was otherwise
exposed, washed in a pearly glow. In the centre of the plain, atop a slightly
raised plateau, was what had once been a fortress. It was mostly ruins now but
in some places the walls were still higher than a man. Two towers stood, though
one leaned crookedly in over the inner courtyard and the other, further back,
was missing its top half, as though a great axe had cut it in two. They began
their descent, aiming for the ancient ruins.

Before long, they had
struck well out on to the plain. The land was not as flat as it had seemed from
above; it was broken here and there by gullies and dry riverbeds that folded in
over each other. As they approached the fortress, Loster stepped out from the
column so that he might get a better view. The walls were cut from a dark
stone, as thick as a horse was wide. Each block had been chewed by the hungry
mouth of time so that the seams between them, perhaps once rendered invisible
by a master mason, were now ugly wounds in the stone. There were many places
where the wall was little more than knee high yet in at least two corner
sections it rose to almost twenty feet.

As the soldiers filed
inside, Loster climbed closer and ran a hand over the rough, time-ravaged
stone. It was warm to the touch, even in the cool of the night. He closed his
eyes and tried to picture the noble Dalvossi who had built this. Did they share
his fears? Had these walls repelled such strange enemies before?

“Wondrous, isn’t it?”

Loster turned to see
Droswain standing behind him. The small priest had approached almost silently
and stood now in the moonlight, just outside the hard shadows cast by the wall.

“I think this was
probably a trading station.” He walked closer, lifting his robes like a woman
would hitch up her skirts. “That is the real strength of an empire. Not armies
or warriors. Trade. Money.”

“High walls for a
trading post.”

“Of course. Men of violence
are always necessary. The wealthier you become, the more people will seek to
take from you. But swords do not build, Loster. Gentler ways are needed for
that.”

Loster nodded though he
was struggling to find the merits of civility in his current situation. He
looked back up towards the distant ridge where he had stood a few hours before.
In his mind’s eye, he imagined the serried ranks of the Dremon lining the
crest, brutal and efficient warriors come to rescue them. A phantom relief
swelled in his stomach and died as quickly. From here it would be difficult to
tell the difference between friend and foe.

“What will we do if the
Echoes find us here? Do you expect me to lead the line?”

“What?” Droswain
frowned. “Of course not.”

“Isn’t that what heroes
do?” Loster knew he sounded surly but he did not care. It seemed petty to worry
about manners while standing next to the bones of an entire civilisation.

“Loster, you
misunderstand. You are not the Dread, nor are you expected to be. I wish I
could tell you that there will be no fighting but that would be a lie. Yet that
doesn’t mean you are supposed to beat the Echoes single-handedly.”

“I couldn’t even kill
one, Droswain!” Loster’s voice broke and he felt tears threaten. “I am not made
for this.”

“You killed the traitor
on the Lussido.”

“I stabbed him in the
back in the dark. Not very heroic.”

Droswain stepped to his
side. The small priest took him by the hand and though his grip was cool and
dry it was too cool and too dry, like the skin of a snake. “You are a symbol,
Loster. That is all. Look at the men with us. They are afraid and they have
every right to be. I doubt any of them has ever raised a sword in anger. We
could be all that is left of Veria and that is a scary thought, but when I tell
them of you…” the small priest laughed to himself. “You shall be the balm that
soothes their fears, Loster. You shall be the rallying point, else all is
lost.” He released Loster’s hand. “Now come. Stop looking at the ruins. They’re
making you maudlin.”

Callistan and Illis were
led to the entrance of the broken tower. Behind them, its crooked sister hung
drunkenly over the courtyard, casting a dark shadow across the mossy stones.
Any door had long since rotted away but the arched stone portal was still
intact, with steps leading down into a cool, musty chamber. Two tunnels that
had been swimming in shadow for centuries grew from the chamber. The prisoners
were separated and led down opposite tunnels. Each was confined to one of the
cramped rooms that fed off of the tunnels, with only bars of rusted iron to
turn the rooms into cells. Guards were placed on both of them, and torches were
nestled in ancient sconces nearby to light the way.

Riella took advantage of
the general confusion outside to slip down into the tunnels. She had tried to
argue with Beccorban about Callistan’s imprisonment — after all, he had
revealed an enemy in their midst — but the big man was too busy for any
discussion, planning for the next stage of their journey. He had snapped at her
to be quiet and continued with his new role as leader. He seemed to be enjoying
it. He didn’t have to hide any more.

She stepped into the
chamber under the tower, careful to step around the puddles of brackish water
that had formed there. A hand gripped her wrist and she looked up into the eyes
of a young conscript.

“You’re lost, lady.
These are the dungeons.”

She shook herself out of
his grip and stepped back a pace. “I know where I am, thank you. I bring a
message for the Lord Callistan. Tell me, which way do I go?”

The conscript shook his
head. “No lords here, just prisoners. You need to leave.”

Riella stood up
straight. “My message comes from Beccorban himself. Am I to tell him you sent
me away?”

“The Helhammer?” His
face grew pale. “He sent you?”

“Of course. You must
have seen us talking?” It was funny, Riella thought, how these men, no doubt
raised on stories of Beccorban’s monstrous crimes, had adopted him as their
leader. Invoking his name gave them a visible pride but it was still a name
that inspired fear and now that emotion was written all over this young man’s
face. “I suggest you point me in the direction of the Lord Callistan.”

The conscript swallowed
and then ushered her into the leftmost tunnel. It smelt of moss and wet stone,
rich and earthy. A few torches lit the floor in orange blooms but the rest was
black and hidden, undisturbed from a lengthy slumber. Another conscript leaned
against the wall halfway down the tunnel and rapidly stood up straight when he
saw them approach.

“Open the gate, Tellisk.”

Tellisk frowned. “But I
thought—”

“Just open it.”

Tellisk nodded and
turned to a set of rusted iron bars. There was no key but two spears had been
jammed into the gaps as makeshift locking bars.

“That’s not going to
hold anyone for long,” Riella observed.

“We’re not supposed to
be here for long,” said the first soldier. “It will hold for as long as it
needs to.”

“Besides, we’re here if
he gets past,” said Tellisk.

Riella looked at him and
could see no traces of mirth on his chubby features. She held her tongue.

Callistan was in another
room at the end of a corridor behind the gate. They had driven an iron spike
into the ground and looped the manacles that bound his wrists together through
it so that he was forced to sit with his legs stretched out before him, his
hands resting on his thighs. He looked up when she entered, though he did not
smile. His face was cool indifference lit by warm orange, his broken nose
casting a shadow across his features. She felt a warmth in her belly, and
wondered if she was mad.

“Leave us,” she said to
the two guards. Tellisk tried to argue but was pulled away by his companion.
Finally they were alone. “How are you?” she asked.

He did not reply
straight away and she thought he would ignore her, then he finally said, “I
have been a prisoner before, wrongfully then as well.”

She stepped closer. “I
have spoken to Beccorban. He has a lot to think about at the moment…” she
stopped as Callistan began to chuckle. “Sorry, did I say something funny?”

“Is that why I’m here,
because I gave the greybeard a headache?”

“He was very close to
Illis,” she said quietly.

“And I was not?” he
roared. “I am an Imperial Marshall, Riella. I may have lost my memory but I
have not lost my wits. I handed you your enemy and now,” he rattled his
manacles, “I am here.”

“It wasn’t my decision.”

“Then set me free.”

She shook her head. “I
can’t. I won’t betray Beccorban again.”

Callistan sighed. “Of
course. You and the greybeard. I’ll admit, I didn’t see it.”

“What?” she snapped.
Was he accusing her of sleeping with
Beccorban?
“How dare you!”

“A prisoner dares many
things, Riella.” He looked up at her and his eyes were as green as deep pools,
with none of the malice of his words. “He’s not rich, you know? That’s all
creatures like you live for.”

She screamed with rage
and fell to her knees before him, flashing Esha up to rest just beneath his
jugular. “I could kill you,” she hissed.

His voice was
maddeningly calm. “Then why haven’t you already?”

“Are you okay, lady?”
The voice of the first conscript came from behind her.

“Yes, thank you. Please
don’t let me keep you from your duties.” She listened until she was sure the
guards were gone, then she sheathed Esha, placing the blade back in the leather
scabbard she wore on her thigh. She looked into Callistan’s eyes and then
gripped his chin and kissed him briefly on the lips. He tasted of salt and
earth and she fought the urge to linger. She could see from the look on his
face that she had caught him off guard but his mask quickly slipped back down.
“I am more than a whore, Callistan. The last man who thought otherwise died in
a very ugly way.”

Callistan hung his head.
“Why are you here, Riella? To mine me for information? I can tell you now that
I know little.”

Riella stood. “No,
you’re right. You’re empty.”

She turned and walked
away from him, asking herself why she had come at all. She felt light-headed
but she told herself it was because she had stood too quickly.

As Beccorban moved
towards the tower, he noticed Droswain and Loster hovering outside.

“Beccorban!” Droswain
waved as he spotted him. “When are we moving on? I’ve noticed some of the men
putting down bedrolls. They can’t surely be thinking of sleeping?”

“All in good time,
priest. Boy…Loster,” he corrected himself. “Come with me.” If he was to start
the young man’s training, now was as good a time as any. He marched into the
chamber under the tower and grunted as he collided with a small figure. He
recognised Riella and failed to keep the shock from his face. “What are you
doing here?”

“She was delivering a
mess—…” the young guardsman trailed off as doubt took him.

Riella glared at him and
defiance danced in her eyes alongside the glint from the torch flames.

“I’ll deal with you
later, lass. Now stand aside.” Riella paused then stepped from his path, waiting
until he had passed to join the back of his train of young officers. Beccorban
scowled at the unfortunate guardsman and the youth had the good sense to hang
his head. He could not be judged too harshly. He was not the first man of duty
to be snared by a pair of pretty eyes.

Beccorban followed the
path to the right tunnel and felt a tugging at his elbow.

“You’re going to
question the slipskin,” said Riella. “Shall I fetch Callistan?”

Beccorban blinked at her
and pulled himself free of her grasp. She had that determined look on her face,
as though she was ready for a fight. She had been more and more distant ever
since the
Lussido
. Only in his
wildest fantasies had he imagined her a lover but he had thought her support
infallible. He carried on down the tunnel, nodding at the conscripts tasked
with guarding Illis’ cell. “And why would he be necessary?”

“Because he has seen
them before. He knows more about slipskins than anyone here. One tried to kill
him!”

Beccorban nodded at the
guards to open the rusted gate. “And he tried to kill one back.”

Riella scowled at him
and tugged on his arm again. She did not have the strength to pull him around
but he stopped and faced her nonetheless. “Don’t do this, Beccorban. You can’t
tell me it’s wise to keep him out.”

He gripped her by the
shoulders and leaned in close. “What hold does he have on you, girl? He is a
madman, a wild animal.”

“A wild animal that
bested you.”

Her words stung and he
felt like striking her. Sudden guilt smothered his rage.
Is that all it takes? Do you don the cloak you once wore so easily?
He lowered his voice. “I keep him caged to protect him from himself. Be careful
how far you let him in, Riella. You might be convinced by how well he wears his
mask, how he plays with the girl, Mirril, and rides his horse like an
aristocrat, but I’ve seen him unleashed. Affection for that man is barbed.”

Riella opened her mouth
to say something, but then she bit her lip and spun away. He ground his teeth
together.
Foolish girl.

Beccorban stepped
through the metal gate, followed by his entourage of sarifs and Operin, the
company’s only lommocel. The group followed a low corridor that led in to a
small chamber with a ceiling of curved stone. On the wall was a steel spike
from which hung a pair of iron manacles, yet they were empty. Instead, the
creature they had called Illis sat in the corner. His silver hair hung over his
face and his knees were drawn up to his chest. His white robes were completely
caked with blood and filth and whatever else coursed through a slipskin’s
veins. The group shuffled into the small room. Out of the corner of his eye
Beccorban noticed Droswain ushering Loster to the front.

“Sorry we didn’t use the
chains, sir,” murmured one of the guards. “It didn’t seem right.”

Beccorban ignored the
man and cleared his throat. “Illis.”

The slipskin flinched as
if struck, then began to mumble to himself.

“What is he saying?”
Droswain wondered aloud.

“I don’t know, sir. He’s
been ranting like that since we brought him in.”

“Well didn’t you tell
him to stop?”

The other guardsman
stepped forward. “I did, sir, but it only made him worse.” He pointed at the
stone ceiling. “He was saying something about the echoes.”

Illis leapt to his feet
in one violent movement and ran forward to grab the soldier with his one arm.
“Echoes!” the slipskin screamed. “They are here already. Let me go! Please let
me go!”

“Get if off me!” the
soldier cried and lashed out with a gauntleted arm, knocking Illis to the
floor. Illis curled up into a ball and began to keen like a wounded animal. The
soldier stepped forward with a drawn sword.

“Hold!” Beccorban raised
his arms and waited for the reverberation to die down.

“Gods, look at him…at
it,” said Loster.

Beccorban stared down at
the mewling slipskin. It was not the man he knew, but whatever it was, it was
terrified. He stepped forward and crouched by the slipskin’s side.

“Illis,” he whispered,
and then again. Illis looked up at him and his eyes were oddly human. “You know
me.” The slipskin nodded. “How?”

“How?” Illis asked,
struggling to form the word with his borrowed mouth.

“Yes, how? You are not
really Illis.”

The slipskin growled low
in his throat. “I am your Empron! How dare you question me! Guards! Arrest this
man!”

Beccorban knotted his
brows. Not only a slipskin but mad as well, or at least desperate. He looked
back towards Droswain but the priest simply shrugged. Behind him, Illis’
slipskin began to cry.

“Don’t make me go back.
Can’t go back. Mists and dead trees. Don’t want to see them. Thought they
wouldn’t find me.” His sobs crashed around the room.

Beccorban ran his eyes
over Illis’ ragged stump. “Your arm, does it hurt?” He had seen men lose limbs
before. This thing should have bled out by now.

Illis cackled and his
eyes rolled back into his head. “Not my blood, borrowed, yes, yes. My arm is
gone. Cut away.”

“Borrowed you say?” said
Droswain. “Where is the real Illis? Did you kill him?”

The slipskin’s eyes grew
wide and he crawled closer to Beccorban. He opened his mouth to speak, and
behind his first set of teeth — broken here and there at the gumline
where Callistan had beaten him — Beccorban could see a second, sharper
set of teeth. “I am Illis!” he screamed. “You shall call me Empron!” The
slipskin launched forward at Beccorban but the old warrior had seen the madness
in its stolen gaze and he dealt a great thundering blow to Illis’ chin. The
strange creature collapsed, unconscious, and Beccorban stood. “Chain him up
this time,” he said. “He can’t hurt anyone else but himself.”