Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  That was some feat. Gundul’s warband numbered in the thousands, and we only lost a hundred men. Gundul is slain, the warband of Carnutan broken.

  And Jael is dead.

  Every time Maquin thought of that moment, and thought of his oath to Kastell fulfilled, he felt a lightness in his chest, like a child awaking on his nameday.

  I have fulfilled my oath. He felt himself grinning, though he still felt the distant ache of losing Kastell.

  I miss you, my friend.

  Alben emerged from the tunnel, in conversation with the men they had found in the forest.

  Glad to have them – they can help us find this warband of the Bright Star. Maquin fell in behind the old warrior, along with a score of other men, and together they scouted the land, setting a perimeter around the emerging warband.

  It would not be a good time to be attacked.

  It took a while for the warband to set up camp: clearing the ground, digging fire-pits and stacking weapons.

  Fidele saw him standing on the fringes of their camp and approached, a handful of her new shieldmen at her shoulder. He felt his breath catch in his chest at the sight of her, and enjoyed watching her walk towards him. She saw the look he gave her and smiled shyly back at him.

  How has this come to be? Me and Fidele! He barked a laugh at the treetops.

  In the heart of Forn Forest, an enemy in league with the Kadoshim ahead of us. Outnumbered and heading into more pain and death, and yet I am the happiest I can ever remember being.

  When she reached him he took her hand and kissed it. She smiled and stroked his cheek, pulling him into an embrace, and from the corner of his eye Maquin saw Fidele’s new shieldmen look uncomfortable.

  They can go spit, Maquin thought. If Fidele doesn’t care, then I sure as hell don’t.

  ‘So, my lady,’ he said when they parted, ‘it seems the sun still shines.’

  ‘Good riddance to that tunnel,’ she said with a shudder.

  ‘Aye. And now on to Drassil.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her expression turning pensive. He saw the pain and worry in her eyes.

  ‘And Nathair is at Drassil,’ he voiced her thoughts.

  ‘He is,’ she agreed. A pause. ‘As is Lykos.’ She couldn’t keep the loathing from her voice.

  Nor should she. He felt a hot wave of anger at the thought of the Vin Thalun Lord, anger at the little that Fidele had told him of her experience with Lykos, a flash of his own memories, of torture, of flame, of the branding-iron and the knife’s edge. His hand reached up to touch the brand Lykos had seared into Maquin’s shoulder.

  Lykos. Another bastard I mean to kill before this war is done.

  Maquin peered through a gap in the undergrowth and felt the air hiss from his lungs.

  ‘So that’s Drassil,’ he muttered.

  For so many years he had heard it only mentioned as a faery tale, a story told on cold nights beside a roaring fire, with a skin of mead being passed around. But to see it, somehow it was more than the tales ever led him to expect.

  A wide plain rolled out before him, cleared of trees and undergrowth.

  A killing ground, and purpose built.

  And beyond the plain a huge fortress stood. Its walls were high, its oak gate wide and thick. Towers rose from within the walls, but behind and above it, overwhelming all else, the enormous trunk of a giant tree soared. Its bulk was so vast that Maquin did not realize at first what it was, its trunk broader than any great hall Maquin had seen, its branches arching above and over the fortress like some ancient giant protector.

  Drassil, and the great tree. Well, that’s a sight, and no denying.

  Maquin looked at those lined beside him: Alben, their scouts and the giant Alcyon, who had joined them. All looked awestruck, even Alcyon. The only ones who were not were the warriors that they had found in the forest.

  They’ve seen it before. Lived in it.

  They had led Maquin and the others to Drassil, telling them that their own warband moved camp regularly, so the best way to find them was to go to Drassil and then hunt for scouting parties.

  Maquin looked back to the fortress, saw a banner ripple above the gate tower, a silver eagle upon a black field.

  So it is as we feared. Nathair has taken the fortress. Is there even anyone left here for us to fight alongside? If not, then we’ve walked a damn long way for nothing.

  As he watched, the gates of Drassil opened, a slow, ponderous movement, the creak of oak and iron rumbling across the open plain. Figures appeared, marching onto the plain. There were a hundred men at least, heading off to the south, towards the forest. As the distance between them narrowed Maquin saw they were a combination of men, some clothed in the black and silver of Tenebral, long shields on their arms, intermingled with a more disorganized mass, men in leather and iron, bucklers instead of shields, short swords at their hips.

  The Vin Thalun, Maquin realized, feeling his lip curl in a snarl.

  What if Lykos leads them?

  Before he even knew it, he was slipping into the undergrowth and padding silently through the trees, shadowing the men on the plain. The sound of footsteps behind him told that some, at least, were following him.

  The enemy patrol entered the forest to the south, moving along a well-worn path, winding through the maze of thick-boled trees.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Alben whispered in his ear as Maquin shadowed the patrol, careful to stay hidden. Alcyon was a few steps behind them. ‘They are too many for us.’

  ‘I know, but what are they doing?’ Maquin whispered. ‘Why are they out here?’

  ‘Good question,’ Alben muttered.

  They followed them for a while, saw that more paths were being cut through the forest; areas cleared, stripped of foliage, and every now and then the patrol would stop, the men of Tenebral would set up a perimeter with their shields, while the Vin Thalun laboured within to clear a new stretch of ground.

  ‘Perhaps they are attempting to make a new road from Drassil, like Gundul’s?’ Alben whispered as they lay on a bank behind the patrol and watched.

  Maquin grunted. He was staring hard at the Vin Thalun, trying to pick out details. So far he had not seen Lykos amongst their ranks. Still though his fingers twitched for his knife. How he hated the Vin Thalun.

  ‘I think it is time to leave,’ Alben said with a pat on Maquin’s shoulder.

  ‘Wait,’ Alcyon said beside them, a low rumble. ‘Something’s out there.’

  Abruptly there was a tension in the air, a silence, then a whistling sound, the wet thunk of flesh being cleaved. Screams from Vin Thalun and eagle-guard. Maquin stared harder and saw the hilt of a single-bladed axe protruding from a Vin Thalun skull. Then axe-wielding men were swarming from the undergrowth: warriors wrapped in fur and leather, long hair and beards braided, their appearance similar to those whom Fidele had found. From the far side different warriors attacked: some clad in mail and red cloaks hefting spears, others clothed more lightly, just leather and sharp iron. There was something familiar about them.

  Then a great bellow rang out, war-cries, and out from the gloom of the forest larger shapes appeared, man-like, but bigger, wielding war-hammers and battle-axes.

  Giants! What is going on here? Maquin counted at least ten of them charging at the enemy patrol like an avalanche.

  The attackers struck into the patrol from three sides, breaking into their ranks even as the eagle-guard were lifting their shields and desperately trying to form their wall.

  Don’t let them, Maquin willed, knowing how deadly the wall of shields was. He had seen it first-hand in Haldis, when Veradis had used the shield wall to break through the might of the Hunen giants. Even as he watched he saw some of the black-painted shields snapping together, a dozen men forming up, others fighting through to join them, making a small square. Swords stabbed from behind the shield wall; the attackers were pierced, falling.

  ‘Not going to just sit and watch this,’ Maquin grunted, scrambling to his fee
t and breaking into a loping run. He knew that Alben and the rest would follow.

  He reached over his shoulders, gripped the hilts of his two short swords and drew them as he ran. Behind him he heard Alcyon bellow his war-cry, ‘KURGAN, KURGAN,’ and in front of them the battle seemed to still for a moment, many pausing to look their way.

  Got their attention now.

  Maquin grinned, a feral thing, and then he was amongst them.

  He veered around the flank of eagle-guard in their shield wall, swung at an ankle beneath a shield rim, felt his sword scrape along iron-banded greaves, saw a sword jabbing out at him and swerved away. Then he was amongst the Vin Thalun. In half a dozen strokes of his sword four men were dead or bleeding out on the floor. Maquin screamed wordless joy as the battle-rage took him and he strode through them like death itself, parrying, chopping, stabbing. He left one of his swords stuck in an enemy’s spine, drew a knife and fought on.

  Behind him he glimpsed Alcyon hacking at the shield wall with the two long axes he’d taken from Gundul’s woodsmen. He was standing back, not getting close enough for their short swords to reach him. He hooked an axe over the rim of a shield and dragged the warrior holding it stumbling forwards, his other axe chopping into the man, between neck and shoulder. He dropped with a gurgling scream, blood spraying as Alcyon wrenched the blade free, but before he could take advantage of the crack in the shield wall another man had filled the gap.

  Four snarling Vin Thalun came at him. Maquin hesitated a moment, then he was running, spinning close amongst them. His knife opened a throat with his first strike, his sword hacking through a forearm with his second, leaving both arm and buckler on the ground. He blocked an overhead blow from the third Vin Thalun, lunging in, swayed away from a sword thrust, hooked his ankle and sent his opponent crashing to the ground. A sharp thrust of his sword finished the man, and Maquin was stepping over the dead warrior to get at the last man.

  They circled one another, Maquin crouched low, sword and knife bloody, hands and arms slick with gore. He grinned at the young Vin Thalun warrior, who was staring hard at Maquin; as recognition dawned, he staggered back a step.

  ‘It’s the Old Wolf,’ the Vin Thalun stammered, then louder. ‘It’s the OLD WOLF!’ he cried, then turned and ran.

  Maquin looked around for someone else to fight, saw that most of the battle was done, only a small knot of Vin Thalun still standing.

  A glance over his shoulder showed Alben, Alcyon and their scouts still harrying the shield wall, which was marching steadily northwards, trying to break for Drassil.

  Alcyon hammered another axe-blow into a shield, sending a shudder rippling through the wall, but doing no other damage. Suddenly the other giants were there and instead of attacking the shield wall, turned their attention to Alcyon, circling him, war-hammers and axes waving threateningly at him. One of the giants took a swing at Alcyon with a war-hammer. Alcyon deflected it with a blow from one axe. The warriors from Drassil who had travelled with them were shouting, ‘Peace, they are allies,’ at the giants, but to no avail.

  In the distance Maquin glimpsed the eagle-guard shield wall disappearing into the forest. Furious at their escape, Maquin turned his attention back to the giants and ran straight at Alcyon’s attacker. He threw himself into the back of the giant’s knees, dropping him to the ground, rolled over the giant’s torso and knelt upon his chest, sword-tip resting against the giant’s throat.

  ‘This isn’t exactly the thanks we were expecting,’ Maquin growled.

  Then a young man was stepping out from the midst of the giants, in mail shirt and red cloak, thick-necked and long-armed. He was staring as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  ‘Maquin?’ he whispered.

  Maquin lifted his blade, climbing off of the giant, and gave a snort of laughter.

  ‘Tahir?’

  The man in front of him was grinning now, arms opening wide and then they were hugging each other tight, slapping backs, laughing.

  ‘I thought you fell,’ Tahir said, ‘with Orgull. The two of you were holding the door beneath Dun Kellen . . .’ Tears were streaming from his eyes, and Maquin realized he was crying, too, and laughing. Tahir, his last living sword-brother from the Gadrai. A friend from another lifetime.

  ‘We were taken, made slaves by the Vin Thalun,’ Maquin murmured.

  ‘Orgull?’ Tahir asked.

  Maquin shook his head. ‘He fell. Haelan?’ he asked.

  Tahir lowered his head. ‘He survived; we made it to Orgull’s kin. But in the battle of Drassil we were separated. I hope that he lives still . . .’

  Another man stepped from the crowd, one of the axe-throwers. He was tall and muscled, a knotted braid in his thick beard.

  ‘You knew my brother?’ he said.

  ‘This is Wulf,’ Tahir introduced. ‘Orgull’s brother.’

  Maquin could see the resemblance now.

  ‘Aye,’ Maquin said. ‘A better man I never knew.’

  Wulf nodded grimly.

  ‘But how are you here?’ Tahir blurted.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Maquin smiled.

  ‘What’s all the fuss about? It’s not like he’s the only pit-fighter to make it this far north,’ another voice said, a small, wiry man stepping forwards with a sharp grin. He was dressed similarly to Maquin, favouring a leather jerkin and breeches over heavy mail. He was shaven-haired, his skin burned dark by the sun.

  ‘Javed?’ Maquin said. ‘Have I died and crossed the bridge of swords?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Javed said, coming closer and punching Maquin in the gut, doubling him over.

  ‘That’s for leaving me behind in a Vin Thalun arena,’ Javed said, ‘while you ran off with a pretty lady!’ Then Javed was laughing, slapping Maquin on the shoulder and helping him straighten; Maquin was coughing, still searching for breath. ‘Damn, but it’s good to see you, Old Wolf,’ Javed grinned.

  ‘It’s good to see you, too,’ Maquin said when he had his voice under control. ‘Looks like mine isn’t the only story to tell.’

  ‘There is much to say,’ Alben said from behind them, ‘but perhaps after we have stopped a new giant feud.’

  The giant whom Maquin had knocked to the ground had risen and was still glowering at Alcyon, who was frowning back.

  ‘Fachen,’ Tahir called up to the giant. ‘These are our allies, come to help us.’

  ‘He is Kurgan,’ Fachen said, as if the two things were incompatible, and Alcyon gave a half-smile, half-snarl.

  ‘Aye, and I am Tahir of the Gadrai, giant-slayer. But that was my old life; in this new one we’re sword-brothers, and if he’s come to fight alongside us, then so is he.’

  Fachen and the other Benothi shared a look.

  ‘You will put the old grievance aside?’ Fachen rumbled.

  ‘Aye,’ Alcyon answered, lowering his twin axes.

  ‘All right then, as will I,’ Fachen said. ‘Welcome to Drassil.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  VERADIS

  Veradis marched through Forn Forest, Krelis beside him, Fidele, Maquin and Alben just ahead. Alcyon, Raina and Tain were visible in front of them, walking with a handful of the new giants, as well as some of the others that Alben and Maquin had encountered in the forest.

  The Benothi giant clan, so Alben said. It was a Benothi giant I met in Domhain, allied to Queen Rhin. Uthas . . .

  Their warband marched behind them, a thick, winding column that disappeared amongst the trees. Twilight was a thick fog about them, limiting Veradis’ vision. Alben had filled them in on the situation at Drassil: Nathair was holding the fortress, the warband of Corban had been broken and scattered, but the survivors were now reunited and fighting on, waging a war of stealth and attrition on their enemy. They were walking now to join these survivors.

  ‘Been walking a long time,’ Krelis said to Veradis.

  ‘Aye,’ Veradis agreed. He looked up at Krelis, tall and broad, not much difference between him and one of the giants who were leadin
g them through Forn. ‘Sore feet, big brother?’ he said to Krelis.

  Krelis looked down at him. ‘I’ve had worse.’

  ‘I’m glad to be at your side,’ Veradis said. There had been years of tension between them, never actually coming to blows, but near enough on occasion. It had been caused by Veradis’ conflict with their father.

  And because of Father’s treatment of Nathair. Perhaps he never trusted Nathair.

  Seems he was right.

  But surely there is still good in Nathair. It is Calidus who has misled him, lured him down a path that he now feels he cannot turn from.

  ‘Aye,’ Krelis grunted. ‘Me too.’

  It felt good to be on the same side again.

  Those ahead of them stopped; shadowy figures emerged from the gloom around them. Veradis had a moment of panic, reaching for his sword and shrugging the shield from his back. The people appearing out of the forest were Kadoshim.

  No, he realized, they are Jehar warriors, untainted by the Kadoshim.

  Others appeared from the trees; Veradis recognized the men introduced to him as Tahir and Wulf.

  Soon they were climbing a gentle hill, at its crown a plateau upon which a warband was camped, woven branches and hides making screens and tents, fire-pits were even crackling, well covered from view.

  ‘Welcome to our camp,’ Tahir said as he approached Veradis, a broad smile upon his face. He was young, a strong jaw, his face open and honest. Veradis liked him straight away.

  Veradis looked around, gauging numbers by the tents and beds, by cook-fires and weapons racks. We number seven hundred swords. There are perhaps another four hundred, maybe a little more here. Not the largest warband the Banished Lands have ever seen.

  As the men of Ripa settled in, digging more fire-pits, racking weapons, many approached them and began to help, whether they were Jehar, Benothi giants or men of Isiltir. Veradis noticed the relaxed camaraderie amongst them, regardless of race or gender.

  When they were done, and Veradis had ensured that all of his men were settled with food in their bellies and drinks in their hands, Tahir and Wulf called for a meeting.