Free Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) by Tom Stacey

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.”
    “Don’t tell me you
believe that drivel. You’re called many things, Malix, but idiot is not one of them.”
    Loster looked at the
speaker. He was a man of average height, dressed in a charcoal grey robe that
stretched to his knees, with a hood pulled down low over his face like a thrall
of the Temple Deep. But this was no priest. His father had spoken of the war.
From his lessons with Aifayne, Loster knew that this meant the man was a member
of the Sons of Iss, a shadowy group of Respini plotters and assassins that had
sworn vengeance against Veria.
    “Lies? Are they lies?
Were you not responsible for the atrocities at Iero?” Malix asked sweetly.
    “You know that had
nothing to do with us. We had an understanding with Illis.”
    Loster could only assume
his father was referring to the event that had started the recent conflict: two
imperial grain collectors seized and murdered by a mob at Iero. Aifayne had
told Loster that it was the influence of the Sons of Iss, stirring trouble
against the rightful rule of the Verians. In response, Illis had declared the
Sons outlaw, to be killed on sight. That had been two years ago. Now the news
from the Greenlands was that the last rebels had been crushed. There would be
peace again.
    Malix barked a laugh.
“An understanding! Yes, yes. He gave you the Helhammer and you promised to stop
your little attacks.”
    “The Scourge deserved to
die a thousand times and more,” the robed man’s voice brimmed with hate, “but
that was twenty years ago. We had, other arrangements with Illis.”
    “You are aware that some
say the Helhammer is still alive?” Malix could not help but grin as he mocked.
It made Loster’s skin crawl.
    “It changes nothing. We
did not break our covenant. Illis did. The Sons of Iss were a convenient badge
to pin on any unrest. Taxes and forced conscription started this war, not us.”
The man in grey waved a hand. “But all this is immaterial. Why did you not
accept our last tribute?”
    “Tribute? Is that what
we’re calling it now?”
    “Malix,” the grey man
spoke with a warning tone, “why did you not accept it?”
    Malix tapped his goatee
with one long finger and then swung himself around so that he was sitting
forward. “Because I have had a change of heart. Providing you with sanctuary in
these turbulent times has proven to be more expensive than I originally
thought.” He grinned evilly. “I’ll consider your tribute half of the required monies.”
    “Half?” the robed man
spluttered. “You have lost your mind. Your price is already exorbitant, and
your sanctuary… well, we have lost seven members these past two weeks. There
are tunnels a mile long, winding and twisting…” he trailed off as Malix began
to chuckle, low in his throat.
    “I’m not surprised you’re
losing members. Rats often jump from a sinking ship.”
    “We are not losing
members, they are disappearing. There is a difference. If we find out it is of
your doing, there will be a price for it. One that you cannot pay. Remember
that only our arrangement keeps the knives from your door,” the robed man
snapped. “Elk is not so far from the ashes of Iss. Do you think we suffer a
Verian to live here lightly?” He spat on to the floor in front of him, and
Malix’s