Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (24 page)

He had crushed the
skull, and those beautiful features were gone, mauled by his bleeding knuckles.
Shards of white bone jutted from the jellied mess and blood had matted in that
coppery hair and spattered downwards to stain Raiya’s borrowed breasts with
blood, dark against flesh. However, tellingly, a strange blubbery plate of
translucent cartilage had been exposed beneath the hairline and a single orb of
cat-eye yellow stared glassily at him from behind its dislodged human mask.

Callistan sat back in
the mud and tried not to look at the ruin of the slipskin. Water fell on his
cheek and he thought he was crying, but the water was cool and he held out his
hand as the heavens opened. The gods were trying to wash away the horror.

Crucio snuffled loudly,
and Callistan turned to look on him. As he did, he noticed a tiny figure pop
its head around the side of the house and then disappear again.

Callistan leapt to his
feet and snatched up the fallen falcata, swinging himself on to Crucio’s bare
back and kicking the horse into motion. Crucio answered without resistance, as
if sensing his new master’s mood, and they quickly reached the corner of the
house.

On the dark grass by the
stream, a small, child-like figure ran helter-skelter, not even pausing to look
over its shoulder. Wordlessly, Callistan dug his heels into Crucio’s flanks and
they sprang forward, eating up the distance in no time. The rain muffled most
sounds but a warhorse is not built for stealth and the thunder of Crucio’s
hooves was enough to make the creature he had called Farilion turn and look up
in terror. Callistan leant out from the saddle and slapped the small slipskin
with the flat of his blade, knocking it into the mud. He hauled Crucio to a
stop and dismounted smoothly, stalking over to the slipskin, that was
scrabbling backwards, one hand held up to cover its face.

“No, Papa! Don’t,
please!”

The sameness of that
voice nearly defeated Callistan but he felt ice forming around his heart so he
set his jaw and crouched to grab the small boy by the jerkin.

“Please, Papa! Let me
go,” it sobbed.

Callistan felt raw
emotion clawing at his throat, but he swallowed and it stilled, caught in the
iron bonds of his resolve. He placed the tip of the falcata on the slipskin’s
chest, his arm bent awkwardly to admit the length of the blade.

“Don’t do it! Don’t do
it! I’ll be good! I don’t want to be like Mela, I don’t want to go to the
orchard.”

Callistan closed his
eyes and suddenly a flash of memory swirled before him: Mela screaming and
running in panic from a hive of bees she had found whilst playing. He
remembered the fat worker bee near her grave amongst the trees and opened his
eyes to stare at this mockery of his son.

“Mela hated the
orchard,” he said softly and the slipskin looked at him as if he was insane and
then gave a piercing scream. He thrust the blade forward and it was over. The
small body hung limp in his arms.

The body was not heavy,
but he would not carry it. Instead he tethered it to his saddle and dragged it
back through the mud, then laid it beside Raiya’s double on the huge wooden
dining table and piled wooden furniture from the house all around. There was a
barrel of lantern oil in the servants’ quarters that he splashed on everything,
and then he struck a fire in the stone hearth, and once it had caught, touched
it to the slick wood.

The flames rose
hungrily, and before long the thick black smoke drove him from the house and
into the rain, where he could hear the roar of the fire and the hiss as errant
drops from above fell into the heat.

Callistan sat and
watched the fiery dancers devour the house and did not flinch as the great
beams of the roof gave way in an explosion of sparks. Crucio kept his distance.

The rain ebbed and
flowed and smoke mingled with steam. Tears not of his making formed on Callistan’s
cheeks, scouring paths of clean flesh through the filth. He was grateful for
them because, try as he might, he had not the strength to weep.

It was madness, sheer
bloody madness, and he was leading from the front as he had so often before.
The Land Walls of Kressel’s Outer Fortress towered above him and he had to make
a conscious effort not to slow down and stare in awe. Despite the flames, the
outer walls glowed like a bleached skull in the moonlight. That was fitting:
the city reeked of death. Ahead lay the Wandering Gate, even bigger than it had
seemed from a distance. Something had torn it from its hinges, and as Beccorban
looked at the twisted and tortured metal, he shuddered to think what he would
find in the city beyond.

He motioned for Riella
to catch up. She was young and fit but this kind of pace was relentless and
Beccorban had opted for speed over caution. He could feel a thousand phantom
eyes burning into the back of his head, though fortunately there had been no
more columns of long-limbed soldiers, nor any sign of the strange birdlike
creature and its rider with the antlered helm. The light from the city made
them both cast long shadows on the sandy turf as they scuttled across the open
ground.

They came to the broken
gate and Riella waited while Beccorban checked it was clear. Behind the gate
was a long, high-arched tunnel. It was black inside the tunnel and the stone
walls were curiously damp. Every now and again a fat droplet of icy water found
the gap between clothing and flesh and sent shivers down his spine in stripes.
Each step squelched and each squelch echoed off the walls so that it was all
the old warrior could do not to double his pace.
You’ve used your speed, Beccorban, now use your caution.
A strange
ghostlight bounced off of the high curved ceiling and Beccorban could make out
the murder holes: thin slits placed at regular intervals so that defenders
could pour suffering down upon any foe that made it past the gate. Usually it
was oil but once in his youth he had seen the outnumbered occupants of a small
fortress in the Heatlands use heated sand, each grain a white hot speck of
agony that stuck to skin and burrowed down into the flesh. Sand was so much
worse than oil. Instinctively he hugged the lefthand wall, avoiding the evil
gaze of the murder holes and whatever watched from behind them.

Finally they came out of
the tunnel into the main courtyard of the outer fortress. Beccorban had last
been here decades before. Kressel was a busy city, and though most of its business
came from the sea, there was always activity on the landward side, even in the
relatively small Outer Fortress which had been designed to keep people out
rather than as a waystation. The walls here were high enough to block out the
brightness from the main city but the moon was high and, though it was little
more than a sliver in the sky, it bathed the open area in a dim bluish light.

He felt Riella’s hand on
his arm. “Where is everyone?” she whispered.

Beccorban looked around.
There were a few broken wagons and barrels lying around as well as several
scattered and shattered weapons, and there in the middle of the open space was
a large piece of dark cloth. An eddy of wind from the sea washed over the walls
and caught an edge of the fabric, teasing and lifting it so that Beccorban
could make out the sigil. It was a flag, with a crowned man resting on a sword
— the emblem of imperial Veria. The wind gusted stronger and lifted the
soiled flag from the mud, turning it over and making it fold in on itself so
that the crowned man appeared incredibly thin.

Riella stepped out of
the deep shadows of the tunnel and into the courtyard. Beccorban did not stop
her but watched instead, ignoring the voice in his head that told him he was
using her as bait.

“Where have they all
gone?” she asked, louder this time. Her question echoed off the walls all
around and she cowered at the loudness of her own voice.

He raised a finger to
his lips and gestured for her to join him at the mouth of the tunnel. She
scampered over to him. “Beccorban, what do we do?” She looked up at him and her
eyes were big and wet.

He reached out and
placed a hand on her shoulder. “I think we should go, lass.” He spoke softly
but she recoiled from him as though he had shouted.

“We can’t. We have to help
those people. You can’t just let them die.”

“They’re already dead.
Listen.” He pointed at the dark gatehouse, past the Long Bridge into the city
proper. There was a distant howling sound that had been with them since they
had approached Kressel. Until now, Beccorban had thought it was a sea-wind, the
same one that tore the tops from the waves of the Scoldsee. However now that he
truly listened, he could tell it was a human sound, the sound of agony,
thousands of voices screaming in terror. Heard all together, it was no surprise
that he had mistaken it for something elemental. “We can’t save them, Riella.”

Riella hesitated and he
could see she was torn, but then anger seized her. “You really are a cold
bastard aren’t you?”

He closed his eyes. “I
am, but a corpse is colder. Now come with me or cross the Long Bridge and find
out for yourself what is making that noise.”

Riella turned to look at
the gatehouse that guarded the Long Bridge, then she went very still. Another
noise sounded in the distance and Beccorban spun on his heel. Behind him was a
rhythmic clacking, growing louder all the while. Beccorban cursed under his
breath. They were trapped.

“Another column! Now we
have to go into the city.”

“Don’t be a fool. That’s
almost half a mile of open walkway, and who knows what’s waiting at the other
end.”

“We can fight them!”

Beccorban ignored her
and looked around the courtyard. Broken wagons, broken weapons. There was
nowhere to hide. The part of his back where Kreyiss’ weight touched him began
to itch. No, he could not fight them all. The clacking grew louder. “Come,” he
snapped and grabbed Riella by the wrist. He ran to the soiled flag and grabbed
it by a corner. “Take the other end.” Riella hurried to obey and together they
carried the fabric, heavy with muddy water and something darker that could have
been blood, over to a wagon. One of the wagons still had a bed that was more or
less intact. They threw the sodden material over the top and then clambered
inside, pulling each other close and making sure that they were both completely
covered.

Satisfied, Beccorban
hooked an edge of the flag on to a corner of the wagon so that he had a
triangular porthole from which he could see the courtyard. Riella elbowed her
way forward so she could join him. He considered telling her to move back, but
she had every right to see what was coming. Beccorban blinked sweat from his
eyes and calmed his breathing. He had the absurd feeling of being a child,
cowering under his bedclothes.

And then the clacking
stopped.

“Meat. That’s all we
are. Meat and bones and succulent flesh.” The old woman choked out a phlegmy
cough and wiped greasy spittle from her mouth. Loster screwed his eyes shut,
trying to drown out her voice. “Now her, she can’t be good for much. No fat on
her, you see. They’ll like as much use her bones for picking bits of you from
between their teeth.”

“Shut up!” snapped
Selene. “None of us want to hear your bellyaching.”

The old woman grunted as
though she was in possession of a wisdom they could not comprehend, but she
fell silent nonetheless. Loster was grateful. The scratches on his chest itched
and his head had been throbbing for hours and nothing he did would make it
abate. It was all too much: the smell of smoke and peaty earth and blood and
shit, the whispering grass, the clack-clack of their captors’ armour, the tread
of boots and moccasins and bare feet on the ground, and over all the vision of
that nightmare face hiding on the inside of his eyelids — a gaze he might
never escape.

They were on yet another
muddy path that Loster suspected had not existed a few hours previously. On
either side marched several of the freakishly tall creatures that had captured
them, each in a familiar full-face helm. Around him were the downtrodden
figures of around forty prisoners. Most were women and children, though one or
two men staggered along with them; men who had not fought and died as they
should have, men like him. One was Faro, the merchant from the forest of Mantle
whose wagon Loster and Selene had found abandoned in the woods. His daughter,
Mirril, walked with him, clutching at his clothes and burying her face in his
midriff.

Loster had no idea where
they were going. Ever since his capture he, Selene, and the others had been led
ever eastwards. The tall soldiers did not speak to them nor did they take off
their helms — Loster wondered if what was underneath could be any worse.
They did not seem offended if their prisoners spoke; all that was expected of
the captives was that they walk and keep up. Several times on the first day
people had stumbled from the column, exhausted. Those people were gathered up
by sharp hands and led off, out of sight. They were not seen again. The girl,
Mirril, had fallen once but Faro had picked her up and carried her like a babe
until they had stopped for a rest. Tonight, there had been no rest, so most of
the prisoners stayed quiet, keeping their heads down and concentrating on
staying with the group. The old woman was the only one who kept up her ghoulish
speculation.

A hand touched him on
the shoulder. “Stay with me, little Lord. We’re getting closer to the sea.
Wherever we’re going, we’ll be there soon.”

Loster nodded and
immediately wished he hadn’t. The pain in his head rolled around like a ship
caught in a violent storm. He felt nausea rise and took several deep breaths.
If he blacked out, he would be dragged off into the forest like the others.

“Look, a city.” Selene
pointed and Loster peered over the heads of those in front to see a large white
shape looming out of the darkness. They had passed through a city a few days
earlier, a great, high-walled monstrosity of dark stone that was as silent as a
crypt. Selene had told him it was Ruum but Loster did not want to believe that.
He had never been to the mountain fortress but its strength was part of Verian
legend. What they had passed through was an empty shell.

Their group had been
ushered into a corner of a courtyard and left until morning, accompanied only
by the noise of crows and the smell of roasting flesh. Loster shuddered to
think of that smell again. It had made him hungry, though he guessed at its
nature. “They’re taking us to Kressel, to the second city.” Selene shook his
shoulder with excitement. “If we can get away, find a boat…”

Kressel grew larger
until Loster could see that it was in fact two cities: one smaller on the shore
and another, much larger, that sat out in the Scoldsee on its own rocky island.
The city in the sea was on fire and the night sky straight ahead was being
chased away by the orange glow from the flames. As they got closer, he became
aware of a high pitched noise that hovered on the fringes of hearing.

“Those are screams,”
said the old woman. “Where are they taking us?” A few people, tired as they
were, turned to look at her and then began to mutter. “They’re going to eat us,
just like they did the others. They’re going to cook us in that big fire.
Listen to the screams!”

Loster heard the impact
as Selene hit the old woman. She fell heavily, all the wind leaving her in a
great
humph
. She tried to stand again
but people were in a panic now, a panic that she had started. Every time she
pushed herself up, she was knocked down again by the feet or knees or elbows of
people too afraid to do anything else but hurry onwards. Loster closed his eyes
as the old woman fell outside the ring of soldiers and began to scream. Nobody
dared look back. Instead they quickened their pace and the lanky knights that
guarded them seemed all too happy to match them, lifting their great legs in
rhythmic lockstep.

“Murderer!” someone
yelled.

“Quiet!” said Selene.

“You killed her!” said
another.

The accusations flew at
the Daughter of Iss and she finally bent under their weight, her protests
becoming ever weaker. “She was a fool… I didn’t mean for her to fall… I only
wanted her to be quiet.”

Part of Loster felt some
sympathy for the stern young woman, but his head pain was growing ever more
acute as they approached the second city. They were now only a few minutes
away, heading for a great dark portal next to a broken gate on the southern
side. The huge white walls of the land fortress had blocked out the island city
but the glow from the fires inside could still be seen staining the sky above.
It seemed they were marching straight into the Pit. The noises from the city
had not lessened any and now seemed to blend into one great piteous moan. It
sent chills down Loster’s spine and twisted a knife into the soft tissue of his
brain so that he began to see white spots in front of his eyes.

“Selene!” he called out
for her.
I cannot fall, I must not fall!

“What?” she sounded
relieved. “What is it, Loster?”

“Help me. Please, gods
help me.” He felt his knees begin to buckle and he staggered. Strong arms
gripped him from behind and for one dreadful moment he thought that the tall
soldiers had selected him anyway, had not even allowed him to fall down but had
grabbed him, ready to drag him away out of sight.