Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (7 page)

Callistan laid back and
stared at the canvas roof above him. He could not remember a single one of
these men. Surely he should have known the faces of those under his command?
Domestic of the Dalukar
. It sounded
important enough.

Who had he been a matter
of hours before? It occurred to him how odd it was that he had not been rescued
from the battlefield. If he was an officer and men of his unit had survived,
why had they not protected his body? He had been left to rot in the westering
sun, mutilated by looters and pecked at by carrion. Had he been such a terrible
leader that his men had abandoned him, glad to see him fall amongst foes?
Callistan frowned. His whole body ached and screamed at him for sleep yet he
could not bring himself to close his eyes just yet. A dark feeling of unease
had coiled like a snake in his belly and sat there dripping venom into his gut.
Something was terribly wrong.

A horse whinnied outside
and there was a commotion of voices. Someone shouted angrily and there was a
gasp, then silence. Heavy footsteps slapped in the mud and suddenly the cloth
entrance to the tent was thrown open. A tall, lightly muscled man with a lean,
angular face stooped in the doorway. His hair was dirty blonde and shoulder
length and his eyes were a piercing green — bright and intimidating. As
he stepped inside and stood to his full height, Callistan could see that he was
dressed in a fine tunic of deep blue, trimmed in red. A nobleman, then.

“As I said, a spy among
us! An agent of the enemy!” His voice was oddly familiar, deep and lightly
gravelled. Hapal pushed through the opening behind him, followed by several
heavily armed men with grim faces and hungry expressions. The noble pointed at
Callistan. “Seize him at once.”

Confused, Callistan
tried to stand and fell against the bed. Rough hands gripped him under the arms
and hauled him to his feet where he was greeted by a punch in the belly that
bent him double, and then a knee in the face that brought him back upright. He
spat blood on to the floor and looked up at the noble with rage in his eyes.

“My, my Lord! I don’t
understand!” Hapal protested, wringing his hands, his eyes flitting between
captive and captor. “How can he be a spy? The war is won. Who is left to spy? I
don’t understand.”

“Look at him, man. Is it
not obvious? This is the enemy we have been warned of! The
unseen
enemy. This is the true danger to the Empire.” He looked at
one of the men holding Callistan. “Take him to the command tent and bind him in
irons. We will take this…
thing
back
to Temple and show him to the Council. Then they will know what shadows we
loyal men have to face.” He flicked his hand and the men dragged Callistan out
into the cool night.

As he passed Hapal, the
older man reached out as if to stop him, but must have thought better of it for
he lowered his hand. “My Lord Callistan,” he called and Callistan shifted
awkwardly in the grip of his captors to answer him, only to see that it was not
him who was being addressed, but rather the tall noble. And then he realised
why the noble's voice had been so familiar.

It was the same voice as
his own.

In the town of Elk, in
the shadow of the mountain people called the Widowpeak, a young man ambled. He
was of a slim build, with narrow, feminine shoulders and long limbs that seemed
to have altogether too many joints. He was neither tall, nor short, but rather
of a middling height that drew little attention. His face was still soft and
rounded with youthful puppy fat, but framed with high, fragile-looking
cheekbones and full pink lips, frozen perpetually into the threat of a frown.
He had eyes of deepest brown laced with veins of orange gold, and could be
considered handsome in a vulnerable sort of way, though his features were
marred by a small pockmark under one eye. His hair was jet black and cropped
like a soldier’s, except this young man was not a soldier. He was, instead,
wholly unremarkable, in a manner that only the young can be, their faces not
yet lined with the unique character etched by worry, hardship and experience.
However, had somebody taken the time to look, they would have noticed the
beginning of such truths. It was in the way he wore his face: subtle tics and
spidery creases in the flesh that spoke of suffering untold and lived with.
Some might even say he had an old face, and they would be right, for though he
was not yet fully grown, he had seen things few would ever have the strength to
comprehend. He was Loster, the second son of Lord Gaston Malix, and he had
watched his brother die.

Every day, Loster had
lessons at the little wooden building in the town proper. It was unusual for a
noble to be schooled outside the grounds of his father’s hall but Loster had
insisted. He had his reasons. Ever since the death of his brother, Barde, some
years before, the Lady Helin had been impossible to be around. She had
convinced his Lord father to forbid him from swordplay, so while the other boys
practiced with the family weapons master, Jaym, he lifted nothing heavier or
more dangerous than a quill. It was a source of shame for him to watch those
who he must one day lead learn skills he could not. Already several of the boys
had begun to mock him. They were a scant few months into their training yet
they hounded him with jeers and catcalls whenever he passed by, as he must,
every day, on his way from the little wooden building where he learned history
and numbers and respect for the gods, on towards the Great Hall of his father.

The Great Hall of Elk
was on a hill that overlooked the town below. Elk itself was not large, merely
a simple collection of low wooden buildings and some grander stone
constructions that housed in turn a tavern, a modest Temple Dawn, and a muster
hall for the militia. The town sat in the shade of the Widowpeak, the highest
point in all of Daegermund, and thus had been robbed of every glorious dawn
since the first foundation stone was laid at the foot of the mountain. Loster
dragged his feet as he climbed the winding path to the Great Hall. He always
did when he came near the Lord of Elk.

Gaston Malix’s hall was
a large, high-ceilinged building of wood and stone. He met his petitioners in
the main hall, and when he was fatigued or simply bored, he retired to the
living quarters: an ugly square monstrosity grafted on to the side of the hall.
The living quarters had a discreet entrance, usually reserved for servants, but
it was there that Loster went, avoiding the surly glances from the two
guardsmen that stood on either side of the great wooden doors of the main
building and stepping into the heat and bustle of the kitchens.

“That door there, close
it!” came a thick, matronly voice. “Oh, little Lord Loster, I didn’t know it
were you. Kindly shut the door behind you.” The voice took on mocking
politeness, and a large, round woman stepped out of the steam and smoke, and grinned
a black-toothed grin so cold it should have melted. “Finished our book lessons
‘ave we, milord?” Cook’s son, Barik, was already a keen student of Jaym’s and
she could not help but gloat.

“Yes, done for today,
thank you, Cook.” Cook probably had a real name, but nobody had ever troubled
to learn it. “Is there a cold plate I could take to my room?”

“Nothing, little Lord.
Yer father’s entertainin’ tonight, so we’re all busy in ‘ere. Besides, the Lady
Helin was askin’ after you. Wouldn’t do to keep ‘er waitin’ til you’ve eaten.”
The fat woman’s tone bordered on insolence, but they both knew he would not say
anything.

Loster sighed. “Yes,
well I’ll go and see her, then.” He eased around Cook’s bulk — she made
no effort to move — and tried not to breath in the stink of her, nor
touch the greasy, stained apron she wore. He made for the door that led to the
stairs and called over his shoulder, “If anybody finds the time, just some
cheese will do.”

Cook spread her hands.
“If there’s time, milord, if there’s time.”

Loster stepped out of
the steam of the kitchen and tentatively smelt his clothes. He had only been in
there for a moment, yet they stank of smoke and roasting meat and fish, and he
knew his mother would scold him. She could never understand why he wouldn’t
enter through the Great Hall, but Loster would not run the gauntlet of his
father’s attention if he did not have to. The Lady Helin was adept at being
oblivious to problems around her, especially when it came to her husband.

Loster sprang up the
wooden steps, keen to get things over with and then retreat to his room. The
staircase was narrow and the steps were made of stone, not yet old enough to be
worn smooth. Each step
clopped
loudly
in the narrow stairwell. He turned the corner and came face to face with a tall
man with gaunt face, and long, pale hair like straw.

“Lord Loster. What a
pleasant surprise.” The man’s voice came from high up in his nose.

“Good day, Korin,”
Loster nodded in greeting. “I’m going to see mother. She asked for me.” Loster
did not know why he was explaining himself to a steward.

Korin sniffed.
“Unfortunately the gallery is closed, young master. The Lady Helin is sleeping.
I would strongly recommend that you go back downstairs.”

Loster sighed, and as he
breathed in he realised that he was angry. “Let me pass, Korin. I haven’t got
time to argue with you.”

The lanky steward raised
his eyebrows briefly, but then his disapproving mask slipped back down. “As I
have told you, young master, your father has ordered the gallery closed. He
doesn’t wish your mother to be disturbed.”

If
that were true then he wouldn’t have moved her sleeping quarters to the gallery
above the Great Hall.
Loster knew the truth of it. The gallery was a
perfect position to eavesdrop on the happenings in the Great Hall. By making
sure that his wife occupied the rooms there, he could ward off any possible
spies, and had a convenient excuse to keep it clear of listeners. But Loster
was no spy. He was the heir apparent of Elk, and he had just about had enough
of people telling him what to do.

He took a step forward,
but Korin moved quickly to position himself in his way, reaching out a hand as
if to physically restrain the young noble. Loster looked up at him. “We both
know that my father would not appreciate you touching me,” he said through
gritted teeth. Korin was Lord Malix’s closest confidant; many was the time that
Loster had seen him standing outside the room while his father exercised his
perverse sense of discipline. But Malix was a jealous man who regarded all of
his family as possessions, and he would not suffer to share them with anyone.

Korin hesitated for a
moment more, then skipped aside and disappeared down the stairs on long,
insectile legs.

Loster breathed his
relief and winced at a stabbing pain in his head. Confrontation always gave him
a headache.

He climbed the last few
stairs and found himself in the gallery corridor. To the right was the Great
Hall. There were several arches at regular intervals that led to a wooden
platform allowing a view over the whole space. The left wall was unbroken
stone, except for a wooden door about midway along its length. The corridor was
dim here since there were no windows. The only light came from the Great Hall
itself: a deep orange glow that spilled in great fan shapes to lap at the
opposite wall.

He began to walk
forward, hugging the left side of the corridor. Lord Malix was in the hall, and
though there was no chance Loster might be seen from below, the very thought
made him uncomfortable. Loster came to the door that led to his mother’s
quarters. The wood was a lustrous orange, unstained and fever-bright. He eased
it open and recoiled from the suffocating heat that boiled out.

“Hello? Who’s there?”
said a voice too strong to be his mother.

Loster took a deep breath
and stepped inside.

“Oh, Lord Loster. The
Lady Helin is sleeping.” Helin’s handmaid, Ogda, tried to ease her considerable
mass from the wicker chair by the fire. It was roaring strong, which struck
Loster as odd on this cool but otherwise mild day.

“It’s okay, Ogda, you
don’t need to get up.”

The fat handmaid sank
gratefully back into her chair. “Shut the door, milord. You’ll let the heat
out.”

Loster frowned. He never
understood the old wisdom that maintained that fresh air was the enemy, and
that healthy lungs should only breathe steam and fume. It was stifling. “I’m
leaving soon. Tell me, what did my mother want?”

Ogda let out a little
moan. “I don’t know, milord. She’s not well. She was berry picking — and
in this cold! I warned her against it, but she went and caught a chill. You
really should shut the door, milord.”

Loster ignored her and
looked around the room. He was in the antechamber, a small stone room with
curved walls like an oven, and just as hot. There was a stone step on the right
side of the room that would take him up to the Lady Helin’s sleeping quarters.
If he looked, Loster could just make out the silhouette of his mother’s four
poster bed. The curtains were drawn and everything was dim or dark. “Have you
sent for the priest?” he asked, though he knew what Ogda’s response would be.

“Oh no, milord. We
didn’t want to bother with that. Don’t need any priestly dithering when I’m
here.”

Loster grunted. It was
far beyond this dull woman to diagnose illnesses, but he suspected his mother’s
latest ailment was just another phantom. He crossed the room and stepped up
into the bedroom. Approaching the bed, he eased back the curtains and looked
upon his mother. The Lady Helin lay fully clothed on top of the coverlet. Her
dress was many different shades of grey in this light, and in the heat, sweat
had broken out on her brow. She was a pretty woman — Malix would suffer
no less — but hers was a muted brilliance, ethereal. She had never truly
recovered from the loss of her eldest.
I
am a consolation prize,
thought Loster.
No,
that is unfair. She loved us both equally. She cannot grieve for me as I am
still here.
Loster reached out and tenderly wiped a lock of hair back from
her brow. He bent and kissed his mother on the forehead. She whimpered softly
in her sleep.

Suddenly the distant
voice of his father sounded loud from the Great Hall. So that was why the
gallery was closed. Malix had a guest he didn’t want the world to see.

Loster turned and came
back to the antechamber. “I need to go, but when she wakes, tell her I was
here.”

“She’ll like that,
milord,” said Ogda happily.

Loster headed for the
door. “Maybe try opening a window,” he offered. “Clear the air a bit.”

“In her condition,
milord? She’ll freeze!”

Loster shook his head.
“Yes, well, look after her.” He shut the door behind him and filled his lungs
with cooler air. He felt damp where he had sweated.

“To what do I owe this
unexpected pleasure?” Malix’s voice was too loud, as if he were performing.

Loster slid down the
corridor and chose the archway nearest the staircase. If he watched from there,
he would be directly in line with his father and therefore less likely to be
spotted.

“You know why I’m here,
Malix,” the answering voice was boyish and yet bubbled with anger. “This is
what you wanted, was it not? To make us come to you on bended knee.”

Loster crouched and
crawled towards the edge of the gallery. The Great Hall had ceilings as high as
a Temple Dawn’s — a true Temple Dawn, not the low hall in Elk — and
Loster could see everything from here. The high windows on the far side were
the only windows in the hall and they were covered with black leather. It meant
that the only light came from the torches in sconces on the wall, and two great
braziers of dished iron at the foot of the dais where Malix sat. In truth, the
Lord of Elk lounged, with one leg dangling arrogantly over the arm of his
chair.

Loster reached out to
grab hold of the wooden railing along the gallery. As he did so, he was very
briefly transported back to that dark room in the Widowpeak that smelt of old
blood. He screwed his eyes shut and the vision dissolved but the pain in his
head flared briefly before settling back down to a persistent ache.

“Come now,” Malix
continued. “I only do what I am forced to in order to provide for my people.
The war has been hard on them, you see. A war, I shouldn’t have to remind you,
that you started.”