Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (6 page)

The air did not taste
like a forest’s should. It was stagnant and stale as if the wind had not
penetrated this deep for centuries. There was a heavy, humid feel and the
Soldier could feel himself sweating, although he was not entirely sure whether
that was due to the odd temperature or his condition. He wiped cold moisture
from his forehead and immediately regretted it as the salt stung where his
missing finger should have been. He hissed in pain, for this was not a slow,
sapping pain like the wound in his thigh, but rather the sharp bite of an agony
that had been pushed to the back of his mind. He thanked all of the gods he
could name that his right hand was still whole. Without a full set of fingers
he would have struggled to hold a sword again.

The borrowed blade
thumped softly against his back. Since he had no scabbard to speak of, he had
fashioned a sling from a torn flag found near the fringes of the battlefield.
Aware that stealth was an ally he had slipped the sling over his neck so that
the short sword nestled in between his shoulder blades. That way it wouldn’t
move about and was less likely to betray him to unfriendly ears. Normally he
would have worn it strapped to his thigh, yet he did not trust himself to walk
without tripping over the stubborn length of metal.

An orange glow blurred
his horizon. He tried to wipe away the mirage with his good hand but a tingling
in his nostrils told him it was no illusion. He fought the urge to breathe in,
afraid that the smell of smoke would choke him.

The memory of his
mother’s death snapped into his mind with startling clarity. She had angered
his father — he knew not how — and so had been condemned to die,
burnt at the stake like a witch. He had fled and eluded his father’s bondsmen
for three days before they caught him, feral and near-starved, and dragged him
back to watch his mother burn. She had tried not to scream, but without the
mercy of a bag of black powder at her throat it had been hopeless. He
remembered standing on the platform, gripped firmly by the mailed glove of a
guard, while his mother writhed and struggled against her bonds, the flames
licking at her feet, a crowd of people who never knew her baying for her blood.

When her flesh began to
blister, she had let out a noise that was wholly inhuman, a keening agony that
ended in a liquid warble as her hair ignited and her skin began to melt. He had
wept like the child he was, sobbing despite the blows he received from the
guardsman tasked with making him watch. He would never forget the smell of that
day: a sickly, sweet scent that was too close to roasting pork. To his
everlasting shame, his mouth had watered as his empty stomach clutched at the
promise of cooked meat.

The Soldier breathed in
deeply. This fire was not nearly so macabre. It was only woodsmoke.

He stumbled on and
abruptly came to the end of the treeline. Beneath him, down a shallow rise,
stretched a grey field lit here and there by the cooking fires of a victorious
army. Crimson tents were pitched in neat rows that reached into the distance.
The Soldier scrambled backwards and leaned against a tree, catching his breath
and fighting down panic. These were imperials. He could see a few lank banners
flapping lazily in the breeze yet he was willing to bet that they bore the
device of the Empron: a crowned man leaning on his sword. Somehow he had gotten
himself turned around and now he was in the enemy camp.

The camp was smaller
than it should have been. At least a third of the army would still have been
hunting down the remnants of the rebel band that had stood so proudly against
them hours before. He didn’t know how, but he knew that it was standard
procedure: never let a beaten enemy lie.

He slid down the tree
and gasped as rough bark pricked at his thigh. He didn’t think he could just
turn around and walk back the way he had come. He would probably get lost again
and that was only if his strength didn’t give out first. What would they do to
a captured rebel? Enemy prisoners were supposed to be treated well — at least
they were if they were noble born. What was it that crone had said? He had been
wearing expensive armour. Maybe he was a noble. Maybe he was wealthy.

He swallowed heavily.
A noble rebel?
He would be made an
example of. Hanged, or burned like his mother, or quartered and pinned to the
walls of the capital as a warning to others.

Or all three.

There really was no
choice. He had to go back, find others like him, rally support. Retreat and
regroup.

The sound of laughter
carried to him, soldiers telling tall tales and sharing in that unique
understanding of what it means to be alive after staring down Death. It was
time to move. He hauled himself to a standing position, resting his weight on
his good foot and finding his balance.

A branch snapped
somewhere off to his right.

He froze and listened,
straining his senses. He had been foolish. Any camp would have a picket line.
At some point he must have crossed it, and that meant that now he was trapped
inside a web of sentries.

The Soldier reached
behind him to draw his sword, momentarily forgetting his weakness and shifting
his weight to his damaged leg. He fell with a thud, dropping the sword in the
undergrowth. He scrabbled around in the darkness, oblivious to the pain in his
hand and the scratches and cut of thorns and nettles. After what seemed an age,
his right hand wrapped around the hilt—

—as a sharp edge
of metal pricked the back of his neck.

“Not much of an army are
you?” mocked a gruff voice. “Just you out here, is it?"

The Soldier breathed
deeply and threw himself to the side, twisting and swinging the blade
double-handed with all the weight of his body behind him. He had owned a sword
once that could have cut through stone. He had named it something suitably
grand, yet now, like so many other things, he could not remember what it had
been. If he had been holding
that
sword
then he would have cut through both the legs of his attacker and still had
enough momentum to decapitate another. This sword was not like the other.
Nevertheless it hit the sentry just below his knee with enough force to break
his leg with an audible crack, before glancing off the dented plate and flying
from its wielder’s hands into the shadows. The sentry screamed and fell,
tumbling down the shallow rise.

The Soldier rolled on to
his belly and squatted, gasping with pain yet ready to spring into action. A
man flung himself from the darkness of the forest and tackled him. They both
fell, limbs flailing, to land a few feet from the first sentry, who was
clutching his shattered leg and howling with agony. Three more sentries ran
down the incline and surrounded the two struggling men. The Soldier struggled
under the weight of the brute atop him yet managed to bring his knee up into
the man’s groin. The man hissed in pain and rolled away, giving the Soldier the
chance to stand and face his enemy.

By now, more men were
running from the campfires, come to see what all the noise was about. The
Soldier knew it was over. His mind was a fog of exhaustion and torment and he
tottered on his feet, yet he still stood.
That
is all you can do,
he told himself.
Stand. Don’t let the bastards see you fall.

A fist caught him in the
back of his head and forced him to his knees. He put his hands out to steady
himself and screamed as the stump of his finger dug into the soil. He fought
back a sob and looked up as he heard the sound of galloping hooves.

A knight. A leader.
Somebody to make a decision. It would soon be over. He would feed the crows
after all. His world began to spin and he felt as if the ground was coming up
to meet him.

“Out of the way! Stand
back!” a muted voice called, a voice given to command. “Back! Back I say!
What’s going on here?”

The Soldier could taste
the dew on his lips and it tasted as sweet as nectar. The pain in his body
began to fade.

“Well? What is going on?
Who is this man?” A gasp. “Callistan?”

Callistan
, thought the
Soldier.
That sounds familiar.
And
for the third time in one day, darkness took him.

It felt like going home.

“Careful. Be careful
with him.” Strong hands lifted him gently and laid him on something soft and
downy. He breathed in the scent of fresh flowers, and for a brief moment he
imagined that he was in a familiar room, in a familiar setting, surrounded by
familiar people. However the stab of pain in his leg soon brought him round
with a start.

“He’s awake! He’s awake!
Stand back, stand back!” As his eyes focused in the dim firelight, the Soldier
recognised one blurry silhouette more than the rest: an elderly, needle-thin
man crouching uncomfortably close. A cool, dry hand gripped his arm. “Lord
Callistan, we thought you had fallen. We searched for your body but it was as
if you had disappeared, but now you are back, you’re back and the men will be
so glad, so very glad. They’ve missed you terribly. Terribly!” he emphasised
this last by raising his eyebrows and smiling paternally.

Callistan cleared his
throat and immediately succumbed to a hacking cough. A man whom he did not know
held a bowl of steaming water scented with something leafy and fresh under his
nose for him to spit into.

He sat back upright and
grimaced as nausea fought for control. Breathing deeply and slowly he spoke to
the thin man in front of him. “You… you know me?”

The thin man frowned.
“Why, yes of course, my Lord.”

Lord.
“I
don’t remember.” Callistan paused as his head began to throb. “Where am I?”

“In your tent, my Lord.
It is the year 1259 of the Common Watch—”

“Yes, yes, thank you. I
know what year it is, though that may sound odd.”

“Apologies, my Lord,
apologies.”

“You said
my
tent?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Why did you attack me.
Those men…”

“The sentries? Forgive
me, my Lord, but you attacked them. They could not recognise you. Your face… it
was very dark, and well…” the thin man swallowed. “You were not yourself.”

“Myself…” Callistan
rolled the word around his mouth thoughtfully. “The others, from the battle.
Who were they?”

“One can only assume you
mean the hated rebels, my Lord, and I trust you remember — forgive me
— I trust that you are aware that they have been defeated. Defeated and
scattered to the four winds. Scattered like chaff. You, yourself, were
instrumental in that defeat, my Lord.” He paused for effect and Callistan noted
that several of the men standing by his bedside were nodding and looking upon
him with admiration.

Callistan grimaced as he
remembered the field of the dead. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me,
if I was so successful, why can’t I remember anything?”

“Well, you were
unhorsed, my Lord. You were unhorsed and you fell,” the thin man offered
helpfully.

“I fought on a horse?”

“The Dalukar always
fight from horseback, my Lord. You have never been defeated,” the thin man said
proudly, as if he were personally responsible.

Dalukar.
The
name meant something to him but he could not quite place it. The smell of horse
and sweat and leather came unbidden to his mind, and his inner eye teased him
with a wisp of memory: charging at the gallop into a broken enemy; the thunder
of hooves on soil; the reassuring weight of plate and mail and the promise of
blood in the frosty morning air. “And… I am a lord?” he asked.

The thin man looked at
him for a moment before answering. “What do you remember?”

Callistan grunted. “I
remember flashes. Perhaps it will come back to me.”

“I truly hope so. For
now I will remind you. You are Callistan Imbros, Lord of Blackwatch, Herald of
the Greatseat, Imperial Marshall and Grand Domestic of the Dalukar.” Callistan
would not have thought himself hallucinating if a fanfare of trumpets had
accompanied the thin man’s proclamation. The ensuing silence was uncomfortable
and he struggled for the words to break it.

“You will forgive me,
but I do not know your name, nor those of any of you.” He gestured at the five
or so rough-looking soldiers.

The thin man smiled. “Of
course, my Lord. How foolish of me. I am Hapal, your steward.” He pointed to
the men arrayed around him. “This is Bren, Miro, Fuste, Gorbilak and Crayne.
They are members of the Dalukar. They were the ones who found you. Oh, and
Arnolf.”

“Arnolf?”

“The man with the broken
leg, my Lord.”

Callistan grimaced. “Is
it bad?”

“The surgeons assure me
it is a clean break, a clean break. He will be back in action before long. As
will you.”

Callistan looked up.
“The war will be over soon, surely?”

“Forgive me, my Lord,
forgive me, but the war is already won. This was the last force the Sons could
muster against us,” said Hapal. “And they have been crushed. Utterly crushed.”

“Sons?”

“The Sons of Iss, my
Lord. The ones who started the rebellion.” Callistan looked at him enquiringly.
“They have always been trouble-makers, my Lord. Most are Respini who have never
adjusted to life under the rightful rule of the Empron.” He shook his head. “It
does not matter now. Their kind are hunted. But this all can wait. You need
rest. Rest. Lots of it.” Callistan leaned back and groaned as the stitches in
his thigh pulled at the tortured flesh. “Try not to stand, my Lord. The surgeon
has told me you will never heal without proper rest.” Hapal bowed respectfully,
ushered the other men from the tent, and then followed.