Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (37 page)

Beccorban gripped his own
jaw in one huge hand and tugged it from side to side, as if working it back
into place. He seemed to hesitate for too long, and Loster thought that he
would say no, but then the big bearskin-clad warrior nodded once and it was
settled.

“What about the slipskins?”
said a low voice, and Callistan stepped forward into the light.

“What did you say?” said
Droswain, suddenly serious.

“Slipskins,
skin-changers.”

“You’ve seen them?”
spluttered the priest.

“Yes. One of them tried
to have me executed.”

Droswain blinked in
surprise.

“I have also killed
them,” he pointed at Loster. “The boy has killed one too.”

“Me?” Loster gasped.

“Our traitor was a
skin-changer?” asked Droswain.

“Yes. The boy saved us
from his betrayal. You heard the prisoners. It’s how they caught the Fallow
Deer.”

“
Just one slipskin? Oh, but we both know you’ve killed more than that,
Los. You’ve brought death to an entire nation. What did you unleash? Maybe you
are the Helhammer’s son.
”
Loster
screwed his eyes shut, hoping none of them could see inside his head.

“Yulethon does not say anything about skin-changers,”
Droswain began.

Callistan shook his head as though trying to clear water
from his ears. “No, they are not the same. They’re not big like the…”

“Echoes,” Droswain prompted.

“…like the Echoes and they don’t wear armour. They’re not
soldiers. They look like us, on the outside at least, but the inside…” he fell
silent.

“Could things like that exist?” asked Riella.

Droswain pursed his lips. “There’s no official mention of
them in any of the texts I have seen but there were always rumours, stories
about a race who could change their appearance at whim. Too many differing
accounts from unconnected sources: poems, children’s stories, oral histories. I
fear it is entirely feasible that such creatures could exist.”

“Children’s stories,” breathed Loster. “Just like the
prophecy.”

“And they’re working with the Echoes?” asked Riella.

Callistan shook his head
again. “I don’t think so. I think they’re working
for
them.”

“If there are
skin-changers abroad in Veria, then we have been truly outplayed,” said
Droswain grimly.

Beccorban’s great black
brows met in a downwards angle. “Some things are just stories. Let’s not get
carried away, else we start wondering agape at everything we heard as children.
Slipskins can’t be real. It’s ridiculous.”

Callistan wheeled on
him. “And pointy-eared demon knights are not? Why are you so eager to believe
the priest, greybeard?”

“Because he is not
drunk.”

Callistan paused and
looked down at the bottle in his hand. He laughed once in a short bark and
threw it to the ground. Loster flinched as it smashed into a thousand pieces of
smoky glass that sparkled like gems in the dim light. “They are killing
Imperial Councillors, did you know that? I watched them hang two old men, old
but powerful, perhaps two men who could have spoken sense to the Empron. Temple
is peopled by a mob but even they would not allow such casual murder. No,
whoever is behind this has convinced the world that the men within reach of the
Imperial throne are capable of treason and sorcery and they are doing it by
stealing their faces. They are planting seeds of doubt so that we turn on each
other, forcing us to look inward so that the big ones, the Echoes, their
masters, can come in and sweep us all into the pot.”

“How do you know all
this?” asked Riella, still refusing to look up.

“Because I was in
Temple,” said Callistan sharply. “I got out before the noose tightened but they
had already purged most of the council, and all in the absence of the Empron.”
He fixed Beccorban with a hard stare. “This is more than a simple invasion.
They must have been planning it for years, perhaps longer.” He turned his gaze
on everyone in the room. When those green eyes rested, however briefly, on
Loster, he felt as though he was being impaled by a boar spear. “Any here could
be one of them, a spy or an assassin in our midst, and we wouldn’t know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,
horseman,” scoffed Beccorban.

“I’m not. I’m the only
one who knows the truth of it, what they look like underneath. Any one of you
could be a slipskin.”

Loster stood quickly.
“That’s why you checked my teeth, back by the farmhouse.”

Callistan nodded. “They
have a second set behind their false ones. Sharp, wicked things.”

“Well, I can assure you
I am a man,” said Droswain and he bared his teeth like a dog, hooking a finger
behind the upper row and tugging. “See, only my own.”

Someone shouted in the
distance and the cry was taken up until even below decks they could clearly
hear the toll of, “Land ahead!” Their conversation forgotten, they all ran up
into the open air. Loster followed behind. Droswain was nattering excitedly,
but the young acolyte could not make out the words past a constant buzzing in
his ears. As he leaned on the gunwale, he could see the dark hump of the coast
on the horizon. Standing off from the shore was a gathering of other ships.
Some were small and tubby and wallowed in the wash of the sea, others were long
and sleek like the
Lussido
and
painted a dark crimson colour. One ship, however, was larger than all the rest.
It was a vast, triple-decked leviathan constructed of pale, unpainted wood, and
its masts were great columns fully as broad as ten men bunched together, with
fields of white sail hanging from them, flapping lazily in the breeze. It was
rounded at the back and pointed as sharp as a blade at the prow, where a great
carved figure of a man leaning on a sword stood staring at their approach.

“It’s the imperial
flagship,” said Beccorban at his shoulder. “I don’t think it has a name yet.
Look,” he pointed. “It hasn’t even been painted.”

“They launched before it
was complete,” said Droswain. “Bad luck.”

“Yes,” Beccorban nodded.
“It must have been one of the first ships to escape Kressel.”

“Our mighty Empron,”
sneered Callistan.

“Do you think he’s
there?” asked Loster. For some reason he imagined that if they could find the
Empron then everything would be alright. He knew it did not make any sense but
it did not have to. It was a comfort.

Beccorban looked down at
him and there was a flicker of something painful in his eyes. “I don’t know,
but we are carrying the saviour of Veria,” he said with a wry grin. “I suppose
we shall have to find out.”

The land ahead of them
was Dalvoss and Riella knew that the ancient nation was a hard, uncompromising
place, a place of legend. The company said their goodbyes and clambered into
the small wooden punts that had carried them to the
Lussido
days before. Callistan went with Crucio, on a raft guided
by a team of sailors. It seemed like they had been at sea for months and now
all that lay before them was the country that had once been the seat of the
greatest empire on record, greater even than Illis’ Verian rule.

The Overmarches of
Dalvoss had forced civilisation on the untamed landmass of Daegermund, reigning
from the Headlands of Pleippo and Rindell, all the way down to the Edge Islands
off the coast of Carpathin. But the last Overmarch had been entombed half a
thousand years ago and now Dalvoss was a sparsely populated country of little
distinction. The coast loomed before them. It was a land of remembered
greatness, and all the bitterness that comes with that clutching emotion; a
land of hills and slate, as grey and miserable as the memories of its faded
glory. The few people that still lived here were likely not even true Dalvossi,
instead merely the inheritors of a muted majesty that was imprisoned forever in
the ruins of great castles and tumbledown cities that dotted the land.
Maybe that’s what will become of Veria,
thought Riella. She could not say it made her sad.

They were heading for a
narrow beach of mottled pebbles that stuck out like a shelf from high cliffs of
jet rock. The land hung over them in their small boat, so that Riella could
almost imagine that it was reaching out to tip them into the iron sea. This was
a jealous country and they were trespassing.

They landed with a
rasping bump and Riella stepped out into the ankle-deep surf. She scanned the
curved skyline of the cliff above her, half expecting to see tall watchers
lining the edge. The beach stretched on for miles in either direction: dun
browns and pale greys, broken here and there by the shiny black of protruding
rock. Other boats were disembarking all along the coast. To the north she could
just make out a camp, centred around a great tent of faded and stained crimson,
from which flew a golden flag with a figure in black leaning on a sword,
curling and warping in the wind. Illis’ flag. The Empron
was
here, then.

Callistan landed with
Crucio nearby. Riella was still embarrassed — the horseman had barely
spoken a word to her since their meeting in the hold. She wanted to say
something to him, driven by a need she could not explain. She wandered over to
where Callistan was brushing down the horse. “He’ll be glad to be back on dry land,”
she said.

Callistan looked up at
her and the surprise in his eyes quickly fell away. “Yes. He’s a bit wobbly at
the moment but once I give him a run he’ll be fine.” Crucio snorted in
agreement and Callistan patted his mighty flank, stirring dust from his coat.
“We’ve a long way to go.”

Riella frowned. “You
know where we’re going?”

“We? No, but I know
where I am going.”

“You’re leaving us.” She
had meant it as a question but it came out flat, as though the knowledge
weighed down her tongue. “Where?”

Callistan ran a hand
down Crucio’s foreleg and the beast dutifully raised the limb so that it could
be brushed down. “Temple,” he spoke without turning around. “I have business
there.”

Riella licked her lips.
Her mouth had suddenly gone dry and she was not sure why. “But Temple is
occupied. The Echoes will be there.”

“The Echoes will be
everywhere soon and there has been no news from the Heartlands. The city may
still stand.”

“What if you’re wrong?”
she asked quietly.

Callistan shrugged, his
hands fiddling with the straps of Crucio’s saddle. “It changes nothing.” His
voice was low.

“Come, horseman, lady,
it seems the Empron is our neighbour.” Riella had not heard Droswain approach
but there he was, his hand on the shoulder of Loster. Behind them hovered
Beccorban. The big man had raised the hood of his bearskin cloak and stood with
his shoulders hunched. She held out her hand, but there was no sign of rain and
the sky was still clear.

A martial shout sounded
close by and a party of soldiers in painted crimson armour marched past. Riella
supposed the thought of a military presence should have made her feel confident
but then she had seen the opposition. These boys were no match for them. As
they passed, Beccorban turned his back on them. Of course — he had known
Illis. He was still a hunted man.

When the soldiers were
gone, Beccorban spoke up. “I do not think this is wise, priest.” He pulled the
cap of his hood dow low so that it seemed as if only his beard was moving.
“Illis is not a welcoming man.”

“I heard that he’s mad,”
offered Mirril helpfully, looking up at Beccorban.

Droswain frowned. “Calm,
Helhammer.” Beccorban flinched. “I will not speak your hidden name, though I
wonder how long you can maintain that…disguise.” He smiled a sickly smile. “I
can’t recall if it is against protocol to meet your Empron with a covered
head.”

“Don’t be a fool, man,”
growled Beccorban. “If you spout your tales of prophecy, he will kill you for a
liar and the boy as your accomplice.”

“I am not lying.”

“It doesn’t matter.
Illis does not share power. Not with anyone.”

“And you would know, of
course,” mocked Droswain, then he seemed to remember himself. “We are here for
a reason, greybeard.”

“Aye,” Callistan cut in,
“because we were chased north of Farstar.”

“As is the will of the gods!”
Droswain wheeled on the horseman. “Perhaps you would rather have us wander
around until we’ve convinced enough stragglers to join our cause? No!” He spun
away. “We need the imperial throne behind us or we are doomed. Illis is a pious
man. Come, Loster.” The priest marched away, towards the distant crimson tent.
Loster looked at Beccorban apologetically and then followed with Mirril in tow.

Beccorban spat in the
dust. “This will end badly,” he said to no one in particular and went with
them.

“Go, girl,” said
Callistan. “I’ll be along shortly to say my goodbyes.”

Riella nodded unable to
look in Callistan’s direction. He had called her
girl
. Why had she not snapped at him? She stared after Beccorban.
The old warrior was trying to effect an aimless shuffle — doubtless he
thought himself a convincing fisherman.

She would normally have
laughed but there was a deep sadness swelling inside her, all because of a man
she barely knew.

They walked in two small
groups: Loster and Droswain led the way, with the small priest constantly
leaning over to speak into Loster’s ear. Riella and Mirril came next with
Beccorban following closely behind, trying and failing to appear inconspicuous.

“What’s he like?” asked
Mirril suddenly. Riella looked down at the dead merchant’s daughter. She
frowned and tried to look as though she were considering the question. In truth
she did not know what to say. Most had heard the official stories of imperial
kindness and magnanimity but more knew the truths passed around crowded drinking
halls and echoed in the streets and the alleyways. Illis was a bastard. To make
matters worse he was a cruel bastard, half mad with the other half as rotten as
a maggoty apple. She wondered what Beccorban’s opinions were on the Empron.
After all, he had not seen Illis in decades and this was the man that had sent
others to kill him. This was the man who had thrown thousands of Verians and
press-ganged foreigners to their deaths in costly wars; the man who had taken
what land he desired with force of arms and cast her nation, Kaleni, back fifty
years by turning their glorious revolution full circle. Within months of the
overthrow of the government, the hated nobles who had starved the Kaleni people
had been forcefully replaced by faceless Verian equivalents and the new
overlords had even less compulsion to show mercy to the common folk. To people
like her, Illis was a military ruler, kept in place by the wealth he had stolen
and the mighty Dremon that he wielded like a bully with a big stick.
What is the Empron like?
she thought.
Like every other black-souled nobleman that
ever lived but then worse than all of them put together.

“He’s a kind man,” she
said at last, ignoring the snort of disbelief from the poorly disguised
mountain behind her.

They approached the camp
slowly, taking in the activity around them. There were almost three hundred
soldiers on the beach and more drifting in all the time: long, ragged columns,
all wearing the crimson armour of conscripts. Riella knew Verian soldiers only
too well; they were ever-present in Lanark and more than a few had visited her
to spend their earnings. The vast majority here were common soldiers in
unadorned and crudely painted plate armour. Here and there a few sarifs
swaggered around with the misplaced arrogance of junior command and further
away, near the Empron’s tent, stood two members of the Provost Guard, Illis’
personal bodyguards. There were soldiers polishing armour and sharpening
weapons, soldiers cooking over small, smokeless fires; still more were gathering
what loose brush and driftwood they could, tying them into great, spiky bundles
and dragging them into lines that intersected the beach. In all things there
was one underlying problem that nagged at the back of her mind: where were the
older soldiers? Every face she could see was young and fresh, untroubled by
memories of war.
Where are the
greybeards?

“Beccorban?” she turned
to ask him a question, and he panicked and waved her away.

“Ssssh!!”

“Oh, hush, you great
oaf!” she snapped and the big man blinked in surprise. He opened his mouth to
say something and then grunted and pulled his hood down further over his brow
instead. “Look to the camp,” she continued. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you?”

Beccorban’s professional
interest overcame his caution and he lifted his hood slightly to cast his eyes
over the scene. He frowned. “Where are the veteros?” he asked. “Are they
setting camp here?” His voice was incredulous. He looked up at the black cliff
that stretched overhead. “A group of children with stones and slings could take
the camp from there!”

“You should say
something,” offered Riella.

He looked at her as
though she were mad. “To who? Illis? The man who wants my head? Or perhaps to
one of the provosts?” He pointed to a black-cloaked officer outside the Empron’s
tent. “I’m sure he’d love to take orders from a fisherman.”

“But you can’t be a
fisherman!” protested Mirril. “You don’t smell like fish!”

Beccorban’s brows
knotted in confusion and then he simply laughed instead, a great booming rumble
that made Droswain turn around and stare at them. He was joined by several
nearby conscripts who ran nervous eyes over the large man and the strange
company he kept: a girl, a priest, a whore, and the saviour of Veria.

“Hail Illis, first of
his name!” Droswain cried. The two men that guarded the Empron were provosts,
with cloaks of purest black to reflect the gravity of their duty. When Droswain
spoke, they both flinched, as though shocked that anybody would dare approach
the imperial tent. However their eyes were hard and wary and they gripped their
ceremonial spears with restless hands. “We seek an audience with the Empron,”
said Droswain smoothly, sweeping out a hand to encompass the others.

The two provosts shared
a worried look and then one stepped forward. “How did you get past the guards?”

Droswain blinked in
surprise and looked around theatrically. “Guards? I saw no guards. Not before
you.”

Another worried glance.
“You’re not supposed to be here. The Empron is, uh, indisposed at the moment.
He cannot host guests.”

“But I bring news,
gentlemen, great news that will be of the utmost interest to the Empron.”

“This is a military
camp,” the other provost cut in, “and we are officers of His Imperial Majesty’s
Provost Guard. You will leave at once.” He brandished his spear menacingly but
Droswain continued, unimpressed.

“Gentlemen, I understand
that you are doing your duty, but—”

“Leave now!” The second
provost took a step forward and Riella felt Beccorban stir behind her, but then
they were interrupted.

There was a noise like
whispering thunder, seasoned with the click-a-clack of stones falling atop and
amongst one another. Riella turned to see the cause but was roughly shoved
aside by the second provost, who barged past her with his spear held low. She
grabbed hold of Mirril’s clutching hand and looked up again to see what had
caused the man’s fear.

Callistan was bearing
down on them at full pace, bent low along Crucio’s neck with his ragged hair
flung out behind him like a golden pennant. Every time she saw him she was both
ashamed and excited by the warm stirrings in her belly, now laced with the
painful thought of his leaving. He was a handsome man but his face was marred
by scars and old blisters and covered in patches of filth and blood that he had
not bothered to clean off. Riella knew that if she were to have five minutes
alone with him and a pail of water she could scrub him back into beauty, but
there was no chance she would get that opportunity. Not now. She watched him as
he rode closer, guiding the horse with an arrogance born of practice, his
once-white tunic stained a dark rust-coloured brown on one side. He was
followed by a handful of scruffy-looking soldiers who ran to catch him, their
faces as red as their armour.