Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) by Tom Stacey Read Free Book Online Page A

and knitted armour. He had
no place here amongst the edges and barbs and men of metal. Another rebel,
then, like him. The Soldier had no memory of what they had fought for but they
had fought together and that was enough.
    He squeezed the boy’s
hand and felt no response. He sighed raggedly and reached for his stolen sword,
placing the tip at the boy’s throat. If the farmhand felt the blade, he made no
attempt to move away. He simply stared with mournful, glazed eyes that the
Soldier knew would haunt him for many nights to come.
    A quick jerk of the
blade and it was over. The Soldier hauled himself to his feet again and wiped
off the gore with a handful of grass.
    In death the boy looked
peaceful — something the axeman atop him had not accomplished. The
Soldier weaved slightly on his feet as the blood rushed to his head. He felt
nauseous. And hungry.
    There was nothing for
him here. He needed food and shelter and to find what remained of his comrades.
    The crow’s feast had
started as the battle ended. Soon it would be the turn of the wolves and the
wild dogs of the forest, once they were sure that the field held only the
shadows of men. Yet when the scavengers came, there would be those among them
that preferred their meals warm. He could not be here when they arrived.
    He walked towards the
forest.

 
 
 
    The Soldier was bleeding
again. The wound in his thigh had begun to weep as he stumbled through the
undergrowth but now, after tripping and falling heavily against the jutting
limb of a tree, it was pulsing dark fluid. He could feel the heat spreading
down his leg so that it seemed his flesh would scald him if he touched it. His
stomach was contracting around a lump of ice, sending a deep ache throughout
his abdomen in ripples.
    He stopped and stood
with his head back, staring up at the heavens, sucking in great lungfuls of air
to fight down nausea. Thankfully it was a full moon. The forest was thick and
unyielding but in places the silvery moonlight formed pillars that held the
leafy canopy aloft. Dust filtered downwards, floating in and out of the columns
of light with an ethereal quality. It all seemed so… wrong — another
world from the brutality of that muddy field nearby, where men lay like the
discarded toys of violent children.
    The Soldier caught his
breath and gritted his teeth, steeling himself for another few steps. He aimed
at the silhouette of a man — no, a tree — near a pool of light some
thirty paces away and forced himself onwards.
    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