Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (42 page)

Then there was nothing
more to say, for the enemy was upon them.

Loster threw himself
forward under a swinging blade and ducked behind his shield. Ever since the
heavy, awkward thing had been strapped to his arm he had resented it but now he
saw its worth. He drove it forward like a ram and came up hard against his
opponent’s body, swearing as his head crashed into the wood. He had lost his
helmet some time earlier and wished he had a moment to stoop down and find it.
A heavy blade swung with incredible force bit into the top of his shield,
slicing through the iron rim and embedding itself in the layers of wood
beneath. He tried to stab around the edge of the shield but it was a weak blow
and it glanced off of something hard. These were not the dread knights that had
caught him in the forest but they were still tall and impossibly strong. Each
was dressed in long robes that seemed at once voluminous and yet tight-fitting,
serving to disguise the wearer’s body but not hindering their movement any.
Loster had already figured that they wore some more practical protection
underneath, but twice he had lashed out with his sword and twice he had found
soft flesh — though in neither instance was he sure of a kill.

The Echo facing him
tried to jerk his weapon free and Loster felt panic rise as the shield pitched
forward. He made an effort to pull it back, digging his heels into the soft
turf and dropping his weight to one knee, but the Echo was too powerful. An
idea landed in his head like a gift and he clutched at it with sticky fingers.
He stood suddenly, straightening his left arm, and the shield slipped off. The
Echo fell backwards and Loster took his opportunity, lunging forward with his
sword held out ahead of him to pierce his enemy’s chest. He had put his whole
weight behind it and the Echo was pinned to the ground like one of the insects
in Aifayne’s workshop.

He felt the joy of
battle course through his veins and half-closed his eyes at the ecstasy of it.
He could feel his enemy writhing on the end of the blade. It was a sensation
like none Loster had ever enjoyed before and now he understood why others liked
to fight, to test their strength against each other. It was a savage, primal
feeling that made his blood buzz in his ears and the fibres of his muscles
quiver with energy.

He opened his eyes to
see another Echo coming at him, sword raised, and he tugged at his own weapon,
realising with a dawning horror that he had not twisted it and that it was now
trapped in the Echo’s corpse. He threw himself backwards to avoid the new attacker’s
furious swing and landed heavily in the mud, crying out as the rim of his
armour dug into the small of his back. The Echo grinned viciously and came on,
stepping over his comrade’s fallen body and raising his hooked blade high
overhead. Loster looked around for help but those around him were fighting just
as desperately for their lives. None had time to come and save a frightened
boy.

Loster closed his eyes
and waited for Barde’s mocking tones, but none came. Instead a new voice spoke
in his head.
Up!
it said.
Get up and fight!
Loster realised with a
start that it was his own voice, his own thoughts, so unlike the sharp tongue
of his long dead brother.
Make them pay,
said the voice.
Make them fear you.

Loster’s eyes snapped
open and he heaved himself on to his belly just as the Echo swung downwards.
The blade glanced off the back of his pauldron, sending jarring vibrations down
his arm and then burying itself in the soft ground. The Echo screamed with
frustration and Loster pushed himself to his knees, looking around for a
weapon.
You
are
a weapon, you fool. Use your brain!
Loster dug his fingers into the
earth and tore free a clump of wet mud. He made himself fall backwards again as
the Echo attempted a savage sideways cut that would have decapitated him. As he
fell he threw the mud as hard as he could. It slapped into the Echo’s face,
covering his eyes and open mouth, and the huge creature staggered forward,
falling to its knees and gagging for breath. Loster clambered to his feet again
and kicked the Echo as hard as he could in the throat. He felt something break
and pain shot up his leg so that he thought he had broken his toe. But whatever
damage he had done to himself was worth it, for the Echo pitched forward on to
its face, convulsing like a boned fish.

Loster gulped down air
like a drowning man.
I do need a weapon
,
he thought.
I can’t go around flinging
mud.
For the first time in weeks he could not even sense Barde’s presence
in his mind. He felt free.

The battle had moved on
past him. They seemed to be winning — if it could be called winning
— pushing the Echoes back into the open ground and advancing along the
whole line. Beccorban was somewhere in the crowd and Loster thought he should
go and find him. He told himself that it made sense to stay with the main focus
of the battle but he knew that he wanted to show himself off.
Look, Beccorban. I am a warrior too now.
He heard faint laughter and realised it belonged to him.

He found the Echo who
had taken his shield and yanked his blade from its body. He bent to rescue his
shield but then stopped. The Echo’s own sword lay on the ground nearby. Loster
picked it up with his free hand and marvelled at the lightness of it. It was a
short, hooked blade that struck out straight from the simple wooden hilt before
curving outwards like a sickle. This was the weapon that had bit into his
shield as though it were cutting through cheesecloth. It made Loster’s own
heavy shortsword feel clumsy by comparison. He drove the point of his sword
into the mud, leaving it there, and quickly found another of the curious hooked
blades. He had very little formal training and so had not developed a favoured
hand but the swords felt equally comfortable in both and he gave a few practice
swings, seeing if he could wield them without hurting himself. Satisfied, he
scanned the crowd ahead to make out Beccorban’s huge figure and loped off to
rejoin the fight.

Beccorban caught an
enemy blade on Kreyiss’ head and used the haft to trip his opponent. As the
Echo fell he brought the killing end down to crush its skull and then ripped it
free, lifting it again to face the next threat. Yet there were no more threats.
As he looked around he saw that all along the line of battle the Echoes were
either dead or dying. The only ones left standing were men, his men. They had
held.

If only this could be
the end of it. Yet he knew that, like the battle for the
Lussido,
this would be a testing move. The real fight was yet to
come.

“Back to the walls!” he
shouted, urging those that had spilled over the ruins to return to its scanty
protection. He did not know what surprises the Echoes had in store for his men
but he knew it would be worse. He tried to do a quick head count of the men
left standing. Of the four hundred, all but one of the archers had survived and
there were around three hundred still left on the ground. He sighed. Too many
lost. He could not spare any men to tend the wounded. They would have to be
taken inside somewhere. Perhaps Callistan would not mind sharing his cell with
the dying.

He shook his head as a
feeling of shame overcome him.
Why are
you keeping the horseman there?
Is it
really to protect him as you say, or is it something more? Is it the girl?
He caught some rain on his hand and sucked the moisture from his fingers. The
weather was improving but the rain still made things greasy and any footing
treacherous. A few times he had found himself slipping in the mud, only sheer
will keeping him upright. It mattered not. Soon they would be forced to fall
back farther into the courtyard where the floor was made up of old flagstones.
They should provide more grip.
You’re
distracting yourself from the matter at hand
. He cursed softly. He did not
need to keep the horseman locked up. They needed every man they could get and
Callistan was a devastating foe.

A hand reached out to
touch him and he spun around, surprised to see Riella standing there. She had
found a helmet and balanced it precariously on her head, and resting on her
shoulder was a battered old sword that seemed almost as large as her. “What are
you doing here, girl?” he asked, wishing he had not called her
girl
.

He saw the spark of
anger in her eyes. “I’ve come to fight.”

“Fight? You should be
inside with Mirril and the others.”

“What others? The
priest? No, if I’m going to die then I’d rather be out here with a sword in my
hand.”

Beccorban laughed and
she scowled at him.

“What is so funny, old
man?”

“Nothing, lass. I don’t
mean to mock, truly I don’t.” He sighed and sat down on a huge lump of black
stone that had fallen from the battlements long ago. “In truth we need every
sword we have. But stay near the back, mind.” He pointed at her. “I’ll not have
you throwing your life away unless there’s no other choice.”

Riella did not respond
straight away. Instead she lifted the heavy blade from her shoulder and lowered
the tip to the ground, using both hands to grip it. She sat beside him on the
block of stone and when she spoke her voice was quiet, pleading. He already
knew what she had come to ask. “Let me free Callistan. Give him his weapon. You
know as well as I that we could use him. He is almost as good as you.”

Beccorban laughed.
“Better than me, lass.”

Riella blushed red. “I
did not mean what I said before.”

“You did, and you were
right. He bested me. He’s a marvel in battle, lass. Like none I’ve ever fought.
All the fury of a berserker but with none of the carelessness. Every time I
tried to hit him he was there already, as if he had seen it coming. I never did
get a square knock on the bugger.”

“You did break his
nose,” Riella offered.

He laughed again and
this time Riella laughed with him. It felt good, like they had torn down
whatever barrier had arisen between them. “Free the mad bastard,” he said.
“We’re going to need him before this fight is out.”

Riella placed a cool
hand on his and he twisted his wrist, clutching her palm before she could pull
it back. “Thank you, Beccorban,” she said. She looked over at the battered and
bruised conscripts and he followed her gaze.

They looked exhausted,
blood-stained and encrusted with filth but also proud. They had fought well,
better than he had ever expected them to. Amongst them, Loster strode with a
straight back. Curiously he had dropped his shield and lost his helmet and he
wore two of the strange curved blades used by the Echoes. Beccorban had not had
time to inspect the enemy’s swords but perhaps he should ask Loster about them.

“Do you think we can
survive this?” Riella asked.

He hung his head,
lowering his voice to avoid errant ears.
No,
he thought. “I haven’t been beaten yet, lass. I don’t mean to start now. People
would talk.”

She laughed again and
patted his hand. He let her go and watched her walk away, dragging the huge
sword behind her. She reminded him so much of Niralla. Gods, but it had been
too long since he had seen her face.

At the edge of his
vision the archers on the wall scrambled to their feet and grabbed for their
weapons. He stood quickly and ran to the wall. There, at the edge of the
treeline, tall silhouettes were forming ranks. This was the main wave. These
were the world-breakers, the armoured demons that had destroyed Kressel. That
familiar horn wailed its mournful call and he turned to shout his orders but
then he heard another noise and it sent a chill down his spine. It was a harsh
shriek that he had only heard a few times before and even as he spun around he
knew what he would see. From the trees came Antler Helm, riding that huge,
feathered lizard. As Beccorban watched, the monstrous knight raised one
long-fingered hand and pointed it forward.

The Helhammer could not
help but feel that it was pointing directly at him.

Riella heard the inhuman
cry behind her and quickened her pace. She leapt down the stairs into the
chamber below the broken tower, splashing through the stagnant pools there without
caring. She slipped on the mud and smashed into the rough stone wall, cursing
as she grazed the thin skin of her ankle. She pulled herself back to her feet
and limped down the leftmost tunnel, using the wall as a support. Finally she
came to the iron gate of Callistan’s prison and stopped.

It was open.

“Hello?” she said
warily. There were no guardsmen present and everything was too quiet, so quiet
that she could hear the muted voices and clashing of metal from outside.
Slowly, she eased open the rusted iron gate and crept down the long corridor
that led to Callistan’s cell. Even before she stepped inside she knew something
was wrong. There was a pair of manacles lying on the floor, and no sign of the
iron spike that had held them. Callistan had broken free, but how?

She turned and ran back
down the tunnel, favouring her bruised leg. She sped through the entrance
chamber once more and continued into the opposite tunnel. It was black here,
since all of the torches along the corridor had been snuffed out and the only
light came from the cell at the end where Illis’ slipskin was being held.

Riella saw movement
ahead and slowed down. Could the Echoes have made it this far? No, that was
impossible. There was no way they could have passed Beccorban and the soldiers
outside. Her foot touched something hard and she cursed softly, clapping her
hand over her mouth.

“Is someone there?”
Droswain called out and she relaxed. She might not have any affection for the
odious priest but at least it meant she was safe.

“It’s me,” she said.

“Ah, Riella. Be careful
as you come in. Your friend has left you some obstacles.”

She stooped down to
touch the object that lay in her path and flinched as she touched cold metal.
Armour. She ran her hands along until she found a fleshy neck, still warm. She
had found the guards, then. “Are they dead?” she asked, her stomach sinking at
the thought of Callistan killing innocent conscripts.

“Only one,” said
Droswain. “The others are out cold. He hit them with something very hard.”

Riella stepped over the
unconscious soldier and counted two more as she neared the entrance to the
cell. Like its counterpart, the iron gate was open and she stepped inside, into
the narrow tunnel that led to the room.

“Gird your stomach,
Riella. The main performance was in here.”

Performance?
She walked
forward slowly, wincing as her eyes adjusted to the light and then gasping. The
torches had not been snuffed out after all but had instead been placed here,
driven into cracks between the flagstones to light what now hung from the wall.

Illis’ slipskin had been
pinned to the stone with two iron spikes driven through its arms. It had been
skinned from neck to navel so that the borrowed human flesh hung open like a
cloak, laying bare the pearly, blubbery creature inside. The slipskin was
shaped like a human but with a very narrow waist and a pigeon chest that showed
the silvery bones beneath, shining like glass. Its face was a pale, formless
oval with narrow yellow eyes and only two slits for a nose, its mouth a cruel gash
like a knife wound. In death, the slipskin’s lips had curled back to reveal
sharp, spade-shaped teeth.

On the wall to the side,
somebody had written in blood the words:
the
enemy within.

Riella jumped as
Droswain spoke close behind her. “He is a rabid dog. Think what we could have
learned from this thing. Now it is carrion. More meat for the birds.”

“The creature deserved
to die,” said Riella quietly, though she was not sure she agreed with her own
words.

“Did it? Had it harmed
anyone? When I heard it talk it was afraid, not vengeful. Did young Tellisk
here deserve to die?” Droswain tugged at her sleeve and pulled her around to
see one of the young guardsmen from earlier. His throat had been cut from ear
to ear. “He did that, your mad peasant friend. He should be hunted down.”

Riella shook her head.
Callistan was not a murderer, surely he would not have killed Tellisk so
callously? “Why did he leave the others alone?”

“They were hardly left
alone, Riella. One of them has a lump on his forehead the size of an egg. He’ll
be lucky if Callistan didn’t break his skull.” The priest shrugged and stepped
closer to the maimed slipskin, inspecting it as one would a sculpture. There
was blood on the sleeves of his robes where he had knelt by the dead conscript.
“Who knows how madness excuses itself? Maybe Tellisk got in his way? He did
kill Illis’ guards before, remember?”

“Those men drew blades
on him,” she said through gritted teeth.

Droswain rounded on her
“Well perhaps now he has moved on to cold-blooded murder!”

“No,” she said. “Not
Callistan. He didn’t even have a knife…” Riella trailed off as she had a sudden
uncomfortable thought. She felt down to the scabbard at her thigh. It was
empty. Esha was gone. Maybe she had left it somewhere or maybe Callistan had lifted
it from her even as she kissed him. She had thought him beaten but he had been
plotting his next move. What was it Beccorban had said? “
Every time I tried to hit him he was there already.
”

Droswain grinned coldly.
“Oh, this is brilliant. I can’t wait to tell people about this.”

Looking up at Droswain,
Riella could see the savage glee in his eyes.
How could a priest of the Temple Dawn delight in suffering so much?

She turned and fled from
the room, pursued by the sound of Droswain’s manic laughter.

“Fall back! Fall back!”
Beccorban’s shout reached even over the cacophony of battle and Loster felt the
shift as the men began to disengage, falling back from the much stronger Echoes
to regroup deeper in the courtyard. The new attack had been an onslaught, with
at least a hundred of the huge armoured knights thundering forward to crash
into their ranks. They had lost nearly fifty men with that initial thrust and
now Beccorban was pulling them into the courtyard, giving them a solid wall at
their backs.

“
This is where you die, Los,
” said Barde. He had been much quieter
than normal, but now he sensed an opportunity to gloat and so pushed his way
past his brother’s distracted defences and into Loster’s conscience. The Echoes
watched them go, staring after them through their menacing helms. Still Antler
Helm had not joined the fight. He had no need to, they were winning.

Loster ran after the
others, his legs burning and his breath scorching his lungs. As he ran, he
passed two sarifs who were busily lighting a line of torches that had been
placed diagonally across the open ground. Loster joined the newly formed ranks
of men, less now than they had been. The two sarifs finished their work and
began to race back towards the main group. A dart thrown from the approaching
ranks of Echoes caught one in the small of his back and he sprawled on the
floor and lay still. The men began to shout encouragement to the other sarif
and though other missiles came his way he avoided them all and made it back
unscathed.

The first rank of Echoes
stepped over the low stone wall on the far side of the courtyard and the sound
of their armoured feet on the stones was a storm of metallic thunder.

“This is it, men, the
greatest moment of your lives. I want each of you to pick out two of them. Make
them yours, and if there aren’t enough then fight over it!” The men laughed at
Beccorban’s order and Loster found himself laughing too, carefree. There was no
more need to worry. These men had seen their death coming and knew that it
could not be avoided.
So be it,
thought
Loster.
There have been worse deaths.

The Echoes came on until
they reached the line of torches and then crashed to a halt. They stood there,
silent and unmoving, and Beccorban strode forward.

“Come on, you bastards!
Come and die at my feet!”

The Echoes did not react
but instead parted down the middle, leaving a large aisle. That horrible shriek
came again and Antler Helm filled the space, lit from beneath by the firelight
so that he appeared even more demonic. He rode atop his feathered beast and now
rider and mount swaggered forward with agonising slowness, stopping before the
serried rows of tall knights. Loster clenched his teeth until his jaw began to
quiver. The man next to him swallowed heavily and looked over his shoulder, seeking
for somewhere to flee to, but there was only solid stone at their backs.
Beccorban had chosen this place well. There was no chance of desertion.

Antler Helm wheeled his
mount around and then drew his huge, cleaver-like sword. He pointed it straight
at Beccorban and then raised it high.

Beccorban dropped his
hammer and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Now!” he shouted and his voice
rebounded off of the stone walls of the courtyard.

For a long time nothing
happened. Antler Helm lowered his sword and then raised it again, visibly
confused by Beccorban’s actions but quickly consumed again by a hunger for
blood. Some of the men in the ranks began to ask each other questions and this
time their officers did not stop them, either because they were too tired or
because they were just as confused.

Beccorban still stood in
between his men and the Echoes, his hammer on the floor, the haft resting
against his thigh. He seemed to be waiting for something.

A strange, forlorn sound
rolled across the courtyard and Loster thought that it had come from the
strange creature, but then he felt the ground vibrate beneath his feet. He
looked up at the crooked tower and saw that it was moving, almost
imperceptibly. The archers! Of course! Beccorban had given a signal to the
large men posing as bowmen and now they were throwing their weight into the
damaged tower, pushing at the stone like mythical giants moving mountains. The
tower groaned and creaked and began to tip forward more. Some of the Echoes
looked up and Antler Helm turned with them just as the ancient construct gave
way, its mortar turning to dust, the stones around its base cracking and
exploding, torn from their timeworn seats like the roots of a tree blown over
in strong winds.

Loster looked on in
amazement as the tower fell, a golem with a broken back. It crashed upon the
Echo formation in a cloud of dust with a noise like the end of the world. As
the violence reverberated around the courtyard, everyone was silent until
Beccorban, caked from head to toe in white powder, appeared from the fog. “Kill
them!” he cried and the men gave a great cheer, following him into battle.

Loster ran with them and
his heart was alive. The old bastard had been planning this all along, leading
the Echoes into a trap. He was beginning to see why Beccorban was so feared. He
fought with more than just his strength.
That
could be you,
said the new voice in his head, and he grinned at the joy of
it.

The newly blooded
conscripts fell upon the Echoes as they climbed to their feet, and in a strange
parody of Beccorban’s wishes the men did fight over each kill. Antler Helm’s
strange beast was trapped under the fallen stone, and it cried pitifully as
twenty men drove their blades into its scaly flesh over and over. Moments
before they had been doomed but now they were winning. Loster looked up at the
pale grey sky. Dawn was coming. Fast.

A scream made him turn
and he saw that more than a few of the Echoes had escaped the main weight of
the tower. They had reformed into a square and now began to advance, cutting
their way through the men that tried to stop them. Loster ran towards the new
fight and dived in amongst the enemy, hacking and slashing left and right. His
blows were wild but the Echoes were still dazed and he seemed to be having an effect.
He skipped backwards as one tried to grab him and hacked down with his stolen
blade, slicing through the metal armour with ease to cut off the Echo’s hand.
It howled with rage and lashed out with a thick sword but he danced away and
his place was taken by someone else just as eager for a kill.

Beccorban had never
considered himself a master tactician. Many was the time in Illis’ court that
his ideas had been shouted down by more formally educated men. However, today
he could allow himself some pride. So many things could have gone wrong but he
had wiped out over half of his enemy’s force with minimal loss to his own side.
He grunted. It was doubtful they would teach the falling tower technique at the
academy in Iero, if indeed Iero still stood.

Now came the difficult
part, cleaning up the mess. There were still enough Echoes left standing to
cause a problem and none of them were easy to kill. He ran forward and leapt
atop a piece of rubble from the tower. It shifted slightly under his weight and
he swore as he fell to his knees, cracking his leg into something hard and
unforgiving.
You’re getting reckless in
your old age
, he chided himself. He used Kreyiss as a staff to get to his
feet, and found himself staring at a large saddle of strange, scaly hide where
Antler Helm had sat moments earlier. It was bruised and ripped by the passage
of the stone but there was no sign of blood or a body.