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

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