Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  The shield wall disintegrated; men were running in all directions, Coralen’s crew slaughtering them as they ran, even as more eagle-guard from the camp appeared a few hundred paces behind them.

  You are too late, Coralen grinned fiercely as she loosed one more arrow, saw an eagle-guard stumble and fall, feathers sprouting from his back, then she was running too, chasing two fleeing guardsmen as they ran the wrong way in their panic to get away from Storm, charging deeper into Forn, away from the camp.

  For a while they crashed heedlessly through the forest, unaware of Coralen behind them, moving steadily away from the camp, one of them dropping his shield as they twisted around obstructions. Eventually they stopped. The one without his shield was a young warrior with straggly wisps for a beard, the other an older man, grey sprinkling his black hair. They looked around, bewildered.

  Coralen nocked an arrow.

  ‘Which way’s the camp?’ the younger one asked.

  The older one just turned a circle.

  ‘This way,’ he said, marching off in the wrong direction.

  There was a wet slap as Coralen’s arrow slammed into his shoulder, sending him staggering into a tree, shield falling from his grip. He grunted, the other man spinning wildly, holding his sword two-handed.

  There was a rustle of undergrowth as Storm leaped and crunched into the older warrior, both of them crashing to the ground. The younger warrior took a look at Storm and sped off. Coralen saw Storm on top of the man she’d attacked, her jaws clamped about his forearm, sending his sword spinning through the air, disappearing into the undergrowth.

  Then she stepped off him.

  What’s she doing? Usually has their throat out by now.

  And then the cubs were emerging from the shadows. The one with the black face first, that Haelan called Shadow, and then two others.

  Storm yipped at her cubs and Shadow padded forwards, hackles up, growling at the old warrior.

  He turned and ran. The cubs burst into a loping run after the fleeing man.

  She’s teaching her cubs to hunt.

  Coralen left them to it, setting off after the other warrior, whose sounds of flight were fading but still audible. She caught up with him in less than fifty paces, just as a chilling scream rang out through the forest.

  Storm’s first lesson.

  The forest changed around them, subtly, until something struck Coralen as being wrong. There was no birdsong. Then the warrior in front of her ran into a glade, his footsteps crunching, making him slow and stop. All about the clearing were mounds of earth and forest litter, at least ten of them, maybe more. They were as wide at their base as one of the wains Coralen had just ambushed, rising in a conical shape to the height of two men. Coralen paused on the glade’s edge, her skin prickling. Something under her feet crackled and she looked down to see tiny bones underfoot. Birds, rats, shrews, larger bones of foxes, badger, deer. She blinked, realized the whole glade was covered in them.

  She took a faltering step away.

  The warrior in the glade stared at her, holding his sword up, retreating towards the mounds.

  ‘Stay back,’ he snarled at her.

  Don’t have to tell me twice.

  The mound closest to him began to move.

  Coralen thought it was her eyes, but the surface of the mound seethed, a dark shadow spilling from its base, spreading towards the young warrior, covering the ground in heartbeats, reaching his heels, pooling around his feet, a black stain that climbed up his ankles, higher, to his knees.

  He began to scream.

  He swatted at his legs, his hand coming away black, covered in something that squirmed and writhed about his fingers and palm, began swirling up his wrist. Droplets of blood fell from his fingertips, spattering the ground.

  He lurched into motion, stumbling towards Coralen, still screaming, dropped his sword and ripped at the stain as it reached his groin, climbed higher, ever up, like ink soaking into parchment. A dozen paces from Coralen he fell to his knees, fingers clawing at his face as the darkness crawled into his mouth, up his nose, into his eyes. He toppled forwards onto his face, feet drumming on the earth.

  Coralen recoiled, understanding what it was that she saw.

  Ants.

  Thousands of them, tens of thousands, each one as big as one of her fingers, razored mandibles snapping and tearing at his flesh, swarming over the fallen warrior.

  Even as Coralen watched, the ants began to move towards her, a great dark mass of them, like water overflowing a bowl, unstoppable. She stamped on the forerunners, felt something nip at her calf, then she was spinning around and running, heart in her throat, faster than she had ever run before.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CYWEN

  Cywen found Brina sitting on a tree stump with the giant book open upon her lap. She looked up as Cywen approached and smiled, her face drawn with deep lines.

  ‘This book,’ Brina said, tapping the ancient pages, ‘may have the answer.’

  ‘Answer?’ said Cywen. She had given the book to Brina upon her return to the camp, and Brina had shown a rare display of excitement at having it back. Since then, though, Brina had become more and more irritable. Until now.

  ‘Yes. To the war. It hints at something. A spell . . .’ She closed the book with a snap. ‘Where’s Corban?’

  ‘He’s just returned to camp, back from a raid on Nathair and Lothar.’

  ‘Come on,’ Brina said, jumping to her feet, and marching off through the camp, which was full of activity, a band of a hundred or so leaving to begin a fresh raid on Nathair and Lothar’s warbands. Coralen had split the camp so that there was always some kind of assault on the enemy, giving them no respite. Even so, Cywen had heard that the road was still moving steadily towards Drassil.

  They found Corban pulling on his breeches after washing in a stream. He was bare-chested, bruises mottling his ribs, a long gash down one forearm. Gar and Farrell were with him, tending to their own collection of wounds.

  ‘I’ll look at that,’ Cywen said, moving to inspect Corban’s arm.

  ‘Can we destroy the starstone dagger?’ Brina asked as she marched up.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well,’ Corban blinked, brow furrowing. ‘Meical told me.’

  Brina gave him a long hard stare and waited for that response to sink in. Corban reached to his belt and pulled the dagger from its sheath, turning it in his grip. They all bent close to stare at it, the blade dull and black.

  ‘We need someone big and strong to hit it,’ Cywen said.

  ‘Balur,’ Corban called out.

  The giant didn’t answer or appear.

  ‘I’ll have a go,’ Farrell said, sliding his war-hammer from his back. ‘Put it on that rock.’

  Corban did, and Farrell swung his hammer high, bringing it down with all of his prodigious strength. There was a concussive boom and Farrell’s war-hammer bucked high into the air, dragging Farrell staggering backwards. The starstone dagger remained upon the rock, completely unmarked.

  ‘Maybe you didn’t hit it hard enough,’ Cywen said.

  Farrell scowled at her. ‘Tell that to my wrists.’

  ‘A forge?’ Gar suggested. ‘Perhaps we could melt it.’

  Footsteps sounded and Balur One-Eye emerged through the trees, Veradis with him. Balur looked from Farrell to the starstone dagger.

  ‘You can’t destroy the Treasures while they are apart,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know?’ Brina asked him.

  ‘We tried hard enough with the cauldron in Murias,’ Balur answered. ‘I spent a long time pounding it with my war-hammer. No. The Treasures must be together, and even then Nemain told me that only words of power would unmake them.’

  ‘Unmaking,’ Brina whispered.

  ‘Aye, that is what Nemain called it,’ Balur replied.

  ‘Looks like Meical told you the truth, then,’ Brina said to Corban.

  ‘This time,’ C
orban agreed, a hint of bitterness edging his voice.

  Meical’s betrayal cut you deep, my brother, Cywen thought.

  ‘Well, my thanks,’ Brina said, picking up the dagger and passing it back to Corban. ‘This has been most helpful. One more question, Ban.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Your visits to the Otherworld. How do you get there?’

  Corban shrugged. ‘Meical has called me, somehow. Like a summons, I think. And sometimes I just . . .’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know. There have definitely been times when I have been there without Meical’s call. But how? The last time I was there, Meical told me that I am drawn to the Otherworld.’

  ‘Could you go there, at will?’ Brina asked.

  Corban shrugged.

  ‘Think, because that could prove very helpful,’ Brina said.

  ‘I will think on it,’ Corban murmured, looking as if he already was.

  Brina walked away, calling Cywen after her. She followed, then heard Veradis say something to Corban and hesitated.

  ‘I would speak to you, of Nathair,’ Veradis said.

  ‘Aye,’ Corban answered slowly. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Fidele left to try and reason with him. She believed he could be reasoned with.’

  ‘Didn’t you already try that?’ Corban asked coldly.

  ‘I did, but I was too shocked, and Calidus was close. He is the true villain here, the deceiver and manipulator. And Nathair is far from him, now, away from his influence.’

  ‘Calidus is the head of the snake,’ Gar said, ‘and it was Calidus who slew Gwenith.’

  ‘I know that well,’ Corban growled. ‘Calidus is the true enemy here, but every king has his battlechief, and that is what Nathair is to him.’

  ‘Nathair has been deceived and manipulated,’ Veradis repeated.

  ‘As were you,’ Corban said. ‘But now you and Nathair both know the truth, and yet you are here, and Nathair is not.’

  Veradis hung his head, Cywen seeing the pain in the warrior’s eyes.

  ‘Nathair knows the truth, and has made his choice,’ Corban continued.

  ‘And if Nathair chose to renounce the path he’s on? Chose to stand here, before you, and ask your forgiveness?’ Veradis whispered.

  Corban stared at Veradis in silence.

  ‘Would you forgive him?’

  ‘He slew my da.’

  ‘He did. As I have slain many while I was deceived. Deaths that I deeply regret. You speak of truth and courage. Forgiveness can be the greatest act of courage.’

  The silence lengthened.

  ‘Cywen!’ Brina called, making Cywen jump and sending her running after the healer. She caught up with her in the shadow of a great oak, a fire-pit dug before it, a pot hanging suspended over the flames. Brina was prodding at the embers, the giant book open on the ground. As Cywen skidded to a stop, Brina stood and drew a knife from her belt, a look on her face Cywen had never seen before: dread and determination mingled.

  Brina put the knife to her thumb and cut a red line, blood dripping into the pot.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Cywen whispered, something about the scene sending ice down her spine.

  ‘Learning,’ Brina said. ‘Starting small, with just the pricking of my thumb. But if we are going to do this, we will need a lot more blood.’

  ‘Do what?’ Cywen asked.

  Brina gave her a long, sad look.

  ‘Master the spell of Unmaking,’ she said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  MAQUIN

  Maquin ran alongside the river, and about him, as always, it seemed, Forn Forest reared, the world an ocean of oak and linden and ash. He was sweat-soaked, salt stinging a hundred scratches from thorn and branch, each breath and heartbeat a drumbeat that marked time.

  Time until he caught them. Time until he saw her.

  Fidele.

  A thousand thousand times he had been over the last night they had had together, replayed every moment, sifting through it for clues, signs that he could have read, should have read, that might have alerted him to her plan.

  And avoided this.

  Avoided her being taken by Lykos.

  Behind him he heard the tell-tale splintering of undergrowth that marked the passage of Alcyon and his son, Tain. They had kept up with him, through rain and sun, day and night, without complaint. As had the others, even Alben.

  From across the river Maquin glimpsed a shadow, knew it was Teca, a dozen strides behind her Javed and his crew of Freedmen strung along the riverbank. His small band of hunters had split into two groups, one on each side of the river, in case Lykos and his men had decided to leave the river for some reason and travel on foot. A moon into their journey and there had been no signs that they had left the river. Every once in a while they’d come across a footprint and evidence of an emptied bowel, but even that was rare.

  Lykos is in a hurry, and I fear they are rowing faster than we are running. Every day he is with her, every night, and I am not. What he did to her before . . .

  He forced himself to stop.

  Just keep running. This river has an end. I will find them. And when I do, I will kill Lykos.

  Maquin broke up a hard biscuit and chewed on it. He was sitting beside the river – no fire, only a little clouded moonlight edging the darkness. He was going through his nightly ritual, checking his two short swords and his multitude of knives, sharpening, greasing. It took a long time. Alben, Alcyon and Tain sat with him.

  Alcyon passed his son a water skin, his two woodsman’s axes that he had taken from Gundul’s camp jutting over his back. His son had one, and a spear as well. It was thick-shafted, with a heavy wide blade and an iron spike on its butt end.

  ‘A good spear, that,’ Maquin commented.

  ‘Balur One-Eye gifted it to me,’ Tain said proudly. ‘I will blood it on our enemy soon.’

  Alcyon grunted approvingly.

  ‘You are of the Kurgan, and they dwelt in Arcona, yes?’ Maquin asked Alcyon.

  ‘Aye,’ Alcyon grunted.

  ‘Tell me of Arcona,’ Maquin asked the giant.

  ‘It is flat,’ Alcyon said. ‘A realm of long grass, gentle hills and great plains.’

  ‘Do you know where they are going? For the treasure.’

  ‘Cywen said the island of Kletva, set within a lake. I know of this place. This river runs from the same lake. I saw it once, when I was little older than Tain.’ He ruffled his boy’s hair, Tain pulling a face at the gesture.

  They are not so different to us. A youth, wishing to be treated like a man.

  ‘You saw it once?’ Maquin prompted.

  ‘Aye. The isle of Kletva. No one went there. I was told it was cursed, that a great evil dwelt there and that any that ventured there never came back.’ He shrugged. ‘It was a place of death. I saw dead fish floating in the lake, down the rivers. Dead horses – there are great herds of them in Arcona, small, shaggy-haired beasts that your people rode.’

  ‘So none of your clan tried to go there?’ Alben asked. ‘That sounds like a challenge to the young.’

  ‘Aye,’ Alcyon said. He chuckled. ‘Some did try. I tried. Went with two of my kin, all of us young, and full of pride. Delg and Cota were their names.’ He nodded to himself, moustache twitching in a smile. ‘We reached the island, swam through the dead fish, but something leaped upon us from rocks. I hit my head. When I awoke I was back on shore, my friends were gone, and there was blood and guts everywhere. I am ashamed to say I ran. All the way home, about thirty leagues.’ He shrugged.

  ‘I never knew that!’ Tain exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t tell your mam I told you,’ Alcyon said. ‘After that, no one went. When younglings are born to you so rarely, and then many of them sneak off on a quest that they never return from, well . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You take better care of the ones you have left. Over the years that island took many of the clan. Fifty of us, at least.’

  ‘How long, until we reach Arcona?’

  ‘Another twelve, fift
een nights to the borderlands, if we can keep to this pace.’ Alcyon pulled a face. ‘Maybe. It has been a long time.’

  We must be faster.

  ‘What of your clan?’ Alben asked him. ‘Where are they now in Arcona? Perhaps they would wish to join our fight, if you tell them of Ethlinn.’

  ‘They would, if any of them still drew breath,’ Alcyon growled. He stared into nothing.

  ‘Calidus,’ Tain whispered when Alcyon did not speak. ‘He fell upon our camp one night, a horde of the Vin Thalun at his back. The clan fought valiantly, but there were too many.’

  ‘How did you survive?’ Alben asked.

  ‘He wanted a giant,’ Alcyon shrugged. ‘As his servant. To aid him in his great quest.’

  ‘Why did he choose you?’ Maquin asked.

  ‘My father was clan chief,’ Tain said with pride, ‘and Calidus took me and my mother as surety, if ever his sorcerous manipulation of my father failed.’

  ‘My son. My wife. The last of my clan,’ Alcyon murmured.

  ‘Calidus has much to answer for,’ Maquin said.

  ‘And Lykos, too,’ Alcyon replied. ‘He was there. Had just become Lord of the Vin Thalun. He led them as they fell upon my people in the dead of night. It was a massacre.’

  This war has been decades in the making. But it will end soon.

  It was daylight, and Maquin was running again. A ten-night had passed since Alcyon had told them of his past, the tale of it sitting heavy upon Maquin. Once he had thought of giants as the enemy, as savage and cruel. Inhuman. He thought differently now.

  Perhaps, when this is all over, the old hatreds will be gone. The giant clans might become one and live in peace with men.

  It was a good thought, but one he had little room in his head for right now.

  Fidele first. And Lykos.

  The river showed flecks of foam, which had set a fire beneath Maquin’s feet.

  Still deep enough for rowing on, but it would be slower going. Which means we might be gaining, at long last.

  Highsun came, and Maquin realized it was brighter in the forest, the trees were thinner, more sunlight breaking through from above.