Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  Despite his surroundings, Nathair felt his spirits were lighter. It was being away from Drassil, he was sure, away from Calidus and the Kadoshim, from Lykos and the Vin Thalun, where he was forever reminded of the hand that had engineered his unwitting path.

  Out here I can think and plan, without feeling that my every step is monitored, my every thought read.

  My only regret is that I am going the wrong way – south instead of north-west. Sent to watch over Lothar when I could have been travelling to reclaim the starstone dagger.

  He felt his better mood melting away at that thought.

  Does Calidus not trust me? Or does he think me incapable of completing the task?

  His mind filled with scenarios, battles, confrontations, each one taking him down a different path.

  But we do need more men, if the cauldron, axe and spear are to be kept safe at Drassil. Now that Veradis is with my enemy. Look what he did to Gundul’s warband. We must not underestimate him.

  He glanced left and right, scanning the deep shadows of Forn.

  Veradis could be out there right now. Watching me.

  But would he really attack me?

  ‘Helred, how much longer?’ Nathair called out to the messenger before him.

  ‘A few more nights, at least,’ Helred replied, an older man, more grey than black in his hair. He was dressed in a huntsman’s garb, hardwearing boots and breeches, a woollen tunic, leather vest and cloak. He walked with a spear in his hand, only a knife at his hip.

  He knows his craft, though, the only one of ten men sent by Lothar to get through to Drassil.

  His draig raised its head, its long tongue flickering out to taste the air, thick-muscled neck casting its head from side to side. It slowed.

  Helred noticed and dropped back.

  ‘Something wrong?’ the huntsman asked.

  By now everyone had heard of the destruction of Gundul’s warband, and added to that were the raids and ambushes that had befallen every party that had ventured forth from Drassil and had dared the forest.

  Nathair raised a hand and horn blasts echoed out, bouncing off of the trees, the warband rippling to a well-trained halt.

  ‘What is it?’ Nathair whispered, looking around. The forest was calm and still, a crow cawing angrily somewhere high above, the rustle of branches caressed by a breeze. Nowhere could Nathair see or hear any movement of men amongst the trees, the glint of pale light on iron, the creak of a bent bow or the rasp of a drawn sword. Nothing that suggested an ambush.

  He flicked the reins to give his draig its head. Its tongue flitted out again, and then it was lumbering on, to the right, away from their path, into a patch of dense undergrowth thick with thorn and vine. The draig trampled through it, burst into a clearing, then stopped, staring down at a carcass on the floor. Not even that, no skin, flesh or sinew left, not even cartilage, just a collection of bones. The draig was leaning close, tongue fluttering over the bones. It opened its jaws to clamp on one but Nathair barked a sharp order, the draig’s jaws snapping shut as it turned and gave him a doleful stare.

  It was a wolven, a big one, its skeleton intact, from muzzle to tail, the skull broad and thick-boned, long curved canines in its jaw.

  ‘There’s more here,’ Helred said, joining them, circling the huge skeleton. ‘Another skeleton here. Much smaller. The big one’s cub, maybe. It broke its leg – look,’ Helred said, pointing at where the foreleg of the smaller skeleton was stuck down a hole of some sort.

  Rabbit hole, maybe.

  Whatever it was, it looked as if the cub had fallen, broken its leg, been unable to move and the adult wolven had stood over its offspring in an attempt to defend it.

  That didn’t work out too well.

  Nathair crouched beside the skeletons and prodded at a rib with the tip of his sword. The bone was immaculately clean, as if it had been dipped at a tanner’s yard. Usually, no matter how fed-upon a carcass had been, there would be small strips of skin and flesh, some gristle, matted fur. Here there was nothing.

  ‘What did this?’ Nathair asked.

  ‘This is Forn,’ Helred said with a shrug. ‘Maybe one beast slew them, a host of others stripping it after. Best not to linger,’ he added, looking at their surroundings suspiciously, eyes drifting upwards to the distant cawing of crows, a macabre choir.

  ‘Aye,’ Nathair muttered. ‘Feast,’ he said to his draig and the beast snapped at the wolven’s bones, jaws clamping around the back leg of the adult, followed by splintering sounds.

  They retreated, Nathair staring at the remains, the warband lurching into motion behind Nathair.

  It is only another death within Forn, one of many. And soon there shall be a glut.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CYWEN

  Cywen lifted Shield’s foreleg.

  ‘Easy, boy,’ she murmured, feeling his breath on her head. ‘Good lad, good lad,’ she repeated as she saw to her task, using a small blunted knife to clean out his hooves, then trying to trim them back a little, as they were growing long from inactivity.

  You need a run, some exercise. But at least you are still here, and in one piece.

  She stood straight, ran a hand over his muscled flank, and he nudged her with his head, gave a whinny.

  ‘I miss him, too,’ she said quietly. ‘Corban will be back soon, you’ll see.’

  At her brother’s name the stallion’s ears pricked forwards and he whickered gently, arching his neck and dipping his head to rub it against her.

  She patted him hard enough to stir dust from his coat, gazing along the length of the stable-block.

  So many empty pens. We came here with a herd of close to three hundred horses. Now there can’t be more than seventy left. All gone into hungry bellies.

  ‘At least it smells better in here,’ she muttered, looking along the line of pens to the stable that had housed Nathair’s draig. It was empty now; Nathair had been gone over a ten-night.

  And good riddance to both of them.

  Every time Cywen saw the draig pen, though, and smelt it, even if it was only a shadow of the stench it had once been, it reminded her of Haelan and his den.

  The stench of draigs is down there. And it must come from somewhere. Somewhere beneath Drassil.

  She gave Shield a distracted kiss on the muzzle, lifted her one-wheeled cart, piled high with straw and dung, and pushed it along the stable-block out into daylight.

  A Kadoshim was leaning against the stable wall, arms folded across its chest, eyes fixed on Cywen’s every movement. It was guard to Cywen and the other able-bodied prisoners on stable duty. It followed Cywen as she merged with the others, all pushing their carts of dung. They filed outside into the courtyard and Cywen averted her gaze from the mass of stakes and corpses that hung from the gates like grisly ornaments.

  Ahead of her she saw Hild, one of the prisoners, only recently recovered from her battle injuries. She was Wulf’s wife, Swain and Sif’s mam, and every time Cywen saw her she felt a stab of guilt that she hadn’t told her of her children. That they lived, that they were safe, and so very close. But the risk was too great.

  Would she give us all away, the thought of seeing her bairns overwhelming her sense? As it is, it’s amazing that they have stayed hidden in the middle of this vipers’ den, and raised Storm and Buddai’s cubs as well. And we have a new addition. Trigg.

  Over a ten-night since she joined us, she seems to have some bond with Haelan, even though Haelan abandoned her. She hangs on his every word, wants to please him.

  It was strange and made Cywen feel uncomfortable.

  There is more to her that I do not understand, though. There is something brittle about her. Not broken, quite, but close.

  They turned another corner, moving behind the stable-block into a hidden courtyard, where Cywen was surprised to see a set of scaffolding had been erected, five boats sitting suspended within it. They looked all but complete, men slapping caulking onto the hulls and spreading it along the timber strakes. A
s Cywen walked past them the smell of pitch-tar and pine oil filled her nostrils.

  Why are they building boats in the middle of Forn Forest, hundreds of leagues from the nearest sea?

  She frowned as she thought on that while waiting in line to empty her cart on the dung heap. Upon finishing, she found the Kadoshim standing in her way.

  ‘Knife,’ the Kadoshim said to her, holding her hand out, swirls of dirt staining the creases in her skin like some intricate tattoo.

  Cywen thought about denial, but she had seen what happened to those who lied to the Kadoshim. She bent down and pulled the knife from her boot, where she’d stuffed it after finishing Shield’s hooves.

  ‘It’s blunt, anyway,’ Cywen muttered.

  ‘A blunt knife can still do much damage . . . to your kind, at least,’ the Kadoshim said with a smile, making Cywen shudder.

  She heard voices, a rush of hatred flooding through her veins as one stood out. Calidus. She glanced around the Kadoshim’s bulk and saw Calidus examining the boats, Lykos with him. After a few exchanged words, Lykos began waving his arms in the air, remonstrating the workers. Other figures walked with them, a little behind. One was shrouded by a swirl of flies.

  That Kadoshim. I hate him.

  The Kadoshim remained close to the other figure, almost like a guard. It was cloaked and hooded, standing in the shadows of the scaffolding, but Cywen recognized her anyway. The knife in her hand dropped to the ground, her fingers forgetting they held it.

  The figure she’d seen was Trigg.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  LYKOS

  Lykos ran a hand along the strakes of one of his new-built boats, eyes closed, savouring the lines, the smell of pitch. He swore he could almost hear the crying of gulls. Then an image of Fidele swam into his mind.

  Ach, why can’t I get that bitch out of my head? It’s because I know she’s so close. It’ll be good to get away and feel the roll and sway of water beneath my feet, even if it will only be river-water, and not the swell and the salt spray of the ocean. I’ll forget about her then.

  He opened his eyes to see Calidus staring at him, mouth a thin line.

  ‘I said, when will they be ready?’

  Lykos inspected the boats more closely, saw the oar locks were being fitted by Alazon, his best shipwright.

  Not that these are ships. Just rowing-boats, but they are best equipped for a long journey upriver.

  Short masts, rigging, sails woven from wool, and sets of oars were all close by.

  ‘As long as it takes for the pitch to dry. We could leave on the morrow. Or tonight?’

  ‘Good. Ensure that all is ready. You’ve chosen your men?’

  ‘Aye,’ Lykos grunted.

  A harder, nastier bunch of cut-throats you’re not likely to see. Legion’ll fit right in.

  ‘And all else is ready?’

  ‘Aye. A bit of last-minute packing,’ Lykos shrugged.

  I need to find enough mead to last me to Arcona.

  ‘Leave tonight, then. If you can get away from Drassil without being seen, then all the better. We don’t want any interference from those brigands in the forest.’

  Unless Fidele wants to come and try stabbing me again. No doubt she’d bring her faithful Old Wolf with her. He lifted a hand to his cheek, felt the uneven puckered scar where Maquin had bitten a chunk of flesh from his face. For a moment he was lost in his imagining of that encounter. Always Maquin died first. Screaming.

  Calidus tutted.

  ‘I hope I can rely on you to complete this task,’ Calidus said.

  ‘Of course,’ Lykos grunted.

  ‘Your lack of focus is unsettling. Need I remind you what hangs upon this mission?’

  ‘You can trust me. I’ll return with the starstone torc, of that you need not doubt. And yes, leaving under cover of dark is a good idea. Not so many eyes. Our enemies in the forest are likely to be watching our walls.’

  ‘Aye, they are. And, talking of those blackguards in the forest, Trigg, come here.’

  The half-breed took a hesitant step forwards, out from the shadows.

  ‘Have you found them?’

  There was a silence, too long for Lykos’ liking.

  ‘Yes,’ Trigg said, head bowed, hood up.

  ‘Well?’ Calidus said into the silence. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They move regularly, so as not to be caught. I will need to go back out there.’

  ‘I see,’ Calidus said, stroking the stubbly whiskers on his chin – they were finally growing back. ‘But it would be possible to track their movements from the camp you discovered?’

  Another long silence.

  ‘Most likely,’ Trigg said.

  ‘And where is this camp? The one that you found, before they moved?’

  ‘North-west,’ Trigg said with a jerk of her chin, sounding sullen, reluctant.

  She knows more than she’s telling.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Calidus asked, stepping closer to Trigg, staring into her eyes. Legion moved up behind her, flies buzzing irritably.

  ‘No,’ Trigg answered. ‘Forn is dangerous. I prefer it here.’

  ‘Aye, well, you can stay here as long as you like once those irritants in the forest are dealt with. You will be rewarded well.’

  ‘My thanks,’ Trigg grunted.

  ‘Well, things are starting to work out rather well,’ Calidus said. ‘I will prepare a force for you to guide into the forest. On the morrow. Don’t wander too far. If I cannot find you when I need you, I shall be vexed. You won’t like me when I’m vexed.’

  The master of understatement.

  ‘I’ll stay close,’ Trigg said.

  ‘Good,’ Calidus clapped his hands together. ‘Everyone away, then, and do what you need to do. Lykos, be here at midnight with your men and your mead.’

  Lykos snorted and then they were all marching away, Legion accompanying Calidus, Trigg striding ahead and veering right at the first opportunity, away from the Kadoshim. Lykos watched them all go, his eyes finally fixing upon Trigg.

  I’ve a lot to do, but something about her is not right.

  He followed her.

  At first she seemed to wander randomly through the wide streets, Lykos keeping well back, clinging to alcoves and shadows, but eventually he saw a pattern to it.

  She’s doing a wide loop, ever tighter. She’s going to the great hall.

  Soon they were there. The gates were wide open, with eagle-guard before them. The guards watched Trigg suspiciously as she walked into the huge chamber, and stood straighter when Lykos appeared.

  Inside the chamber the Treasures and doorway to the ancient forge were roped off, the boundary patrolled by a score of Kadoshim. Between them, along the perimeter, a unit of eagle-guard were stationed. Trigg stopped on the stairs and stared down at the cauldron. Lykos sidled off to one side and stood in the shadows of one of the many stairwells that wound up to towers and chambers above.

  What the hell is she up to? If she’s come here to steal the Treasures she’s not doing a very good job of it.

  Abruptly Trigg moved, climbing a stairwell up into the cavernous heights of the chamber, then disappeared. Lykos followed, moving as quietly as he could manage.

  He reached an archway that opened onto a corridor, the stairwell continuing to spiral upwards. Trigg was there, at the far end, standing before another doorway, staring at it. She reached out and lifted the latch, then stepped inside.

  Lykos frowned.

  What is she doing here?

  This corridor was not used by them. Most of the troops had been barracked in buildings spread in a loose half-circle between the great tree and Drassil’s gates. Only Calidus actually slept within the tree’s chambers to stay close to the Treasures. Moving as quietly as was possible, Lykos crept down the corridor, finally stopping just before the open doorway.

  He peered inside.

  It was a chamber that had been lived in. The cot had a rumpled blanket on it, the mattress of straw was s
lashed and scattered, the room in disarray. After the main part of the battle for Drassil had ended, many of Calidus’ forces had run amok throughout the fortress. From the looks of it, it was the Kadoshim that had torn through here. There were too many things remaining that the Vin Thalun would have found of worth. Lykos saw the shine of a chainmail shirt, a fine-made shield, iron-rimmed, with battle-scars testifying to sword strokes across it. A well-made pair of boots, iron greaves stitched into them.

  Someone high up, with war gear like that. A captain, a leader.

  Trigg was walking slowly around the room, examining. She saw the chainmail shirt, lifted it, shook it out, and then rolled it up, stuffing it inside her cloak. Moving on, she bent and picked up an empty bowl, what looked like mildewed porridge dripping from it in lumps. She dropped it and walked on.

  What is she doing?

  She carried on, then stopped again, bent and picked something up from the floor. Iron glinted amongst the leather. At first Lykos thought it was a belt of knives, but then Trigg slipped the leather over her fist, up her forearm, and Lykos saw it was a leather gauntlet with three curved iron claws extending from the knuckles. Trigg tugged on the leather thongs that tightened it, then gave an experimental swipe.

  That could do a lot of damage. Wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of those.

  She took it off, rolled it up and secreted it away within the folds of her cloak.

  Enough’s enough.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He asked as he stepped into the room, casually drawing his short sword.

  Trigg took a step back, startled.

  ‘Nothing,’ she blinked.

  ‘Doesn’t look like nothing,’ Lykos said, picking his way through the debris. ‘Looks like you’re collecting. Question is, why?’

  The half-breed shrugged, Lykos noticing the breadth of her shoulders, the length of her arms.