Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  They marched down to the bridge, saw the signs of a great migration, rutted tracks in the road before and after the bridge, boot-prints and huge paw-prints leading into the Desolation. They crossed over the bridge, walked only a little further.

  ‘They left this way, it is clear,’ Salach said.

  ‘Aye. What happened, that brought them here, and then sent them back again?’

  Other scouts were returning as they marched back towards the feast-hall on the hill. Uthas conferred with them briefly.

  He found Rhin in chambers beyond the feast-hall of the new keep, black and gold-cloaked warriors parting for him. She was in a shadowed chamber, the roof a skeleton of dark-timbered bones, and she was bent before her sorcerous frame of flayed skin, fire crackling in the iron bowl, sending shadows dancing, the skin rippling with a twisted parody of life. At his entrance both Rhin and the flayed face stared at him, a red-eyed spark of intelligence flickering in its eyes.

  Calidus.

  ‘What news?’ the flayed face hissed.

  ‘The Jotun were here,’ Uthas said. ‘My guess is that they built this –’ he waved one arm in a wide circle – ‘but then they left. There are tracks crossing the bridge and travelling back into the Desolation. What made them leave . . .’ He shrugged, a rippling of his slab-like shoulders.

  The flayed face cursed.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ Rhin asked.

  ‘Send scouts after the Jotun, track them, find them, but nothing else. You must come to me now, bring me the necklace and cup. They must be made safe in Drassil, protected. And I suspect our enemy are preparing for battle, the fools. I need your swords about me. After, I will go to the Jotun myself. But for now, come to me. There is a great road built by Jael that carves into Forn. Travel east and you will find it. Once in Forn I will send some of my Kadoshim kin to guide you.’

  ‘How long, before we are with you?’ Rhin asked.

  ‘A moon, if you ride hard. The road is good.’

  Then the skin sagged in its frame, the distortion of life gone.

  Rhin stared at the flames in the iron bowl.

  ‘A moon,’ she whispered.

  Uthas knew what she was thinking. One moon until she was face to face with Calidus. One moon until he discovered that she had lost the starstone necklace.

  Uthas and his Benothi were ready to march at dawn, but Rhin’s warband were not. It was a task, it seemed, for five thousand men to break fast and camp. The hill and meadows were awash with the rattle, creak and jingle of leather and iron, horses stamping hooves, neighing, men shouting orders and insults. Uthas stood upon the brow of the hold’s hill and stared at Forn. The world felt new to him, this morn, scoured clean by a harsh wind. The sky above was heavy with rain-bloated cloud. He felt the weight of destiny upon him, as if he stood upon the brink of a precipice. One half-step and he would be over, could not return.

  He felt scared.

  This is what I wanted. I have fulfilled my promise to Asroth, found the cup and necklace, no matter what Rhin has done with them since. My part of the bargain is complete. And in return I shall be made lord of the giants. King of them.

  The thought filled him with joy.

  He turned his gaze southwards, wishing Rhin’s warband more speed.

  I would be on my way.

  In the distance, beyond the warband, he saw a lone rider on the southern horizon.

  Rhin was mounted on her grey mare, sable furs about her shoulders when the rider drew near to them, galloping along a road of hard-packed earth that led to the massing warband.

  A hound ran at the horse’s side, and Rhin guessed what Uthas had already seen.

  It was Rafe.

  Rhin rode out to meet him, Uthas striding one side of her, Geraint and Conall the other. They met upon the meadows beyond the hill.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Rhin asked, her voice tense, a tremor to it.

  No lover’s greeting here, then.

  ‘I bring news,’ Rafe said, his horse blowing great bouts of air, its sweat-soaked ribs and flanks heaving, ‘news both great and dire.’

  ‘What news?’ Rhin snapped.

  Rafe slipped from his saddle and dropped to his knees in the dirt before Rhin, head bowed.

  Not a good sign.

  ‘Morcant is slain; Ardan fallen. Taken by Edana.’

  Rhin’s lips twitched, the colour draining from her face.

  ‘And what of the starstone necklace?’ Rhin asked, voice heavy with venom and tinged with fear.

  ‘Edana still has it, my Queen.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ Rhin snarled. ‘Answer well, if you would keep your head upon your shoulders.’

  ‘Edana is riding to Drassil, and she is bringing the necklace with her.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I heard her say it, my Queen, upon the walls of Dun Carreg.’ Rafe looked away, licked his lips. ‘I thought of fleeing,’ he whispered, ‘of running away, as far from you as my legs would carry me, but when it came to it, I could not do it. I have failed the task you set me, but I would serve you still, if you would have me.’ He looked up at her then. ‘And that is why I sneaked back to Dun Carreg, how I managed to overhear Edana talking of her plans.’

  Rhin stared down at him, her face a cold mask.

  ‘You can keep your head, for now,’ she said. ‘Ride with me, and tell me more of Edana’s plan.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CORBAN

  Corban danced out of reach of Gar’s sword but the Jehar warrior gave Corban no respite, stepping nimbly in, forcing Corban to block a savage combination of three, four, five blows that targeted his skull, eyes, throat and chest, a sweeping loop that would have taken his leg off below the knee and ended with a short, straight lunge to Corban’s belly. Corban parried and countered, pushing Gar onto his back foot, striking high and low, steering him towards a twisted root poking from the ground. At the last moment Gar spun away, a half-circle that brought him round to Corban’s left flank, Corban swaying and blocking a horizontal blow aimed at his waist. Corban rolled his wrist to stab at Gar’s armpit, but he ducked somehow, and nodded his head at Corban, a recognition that Corban had never received from Gar before.

  Forms swirled around them, men, women, giants sparring, training, but Corban’s only focus was on Gar and his sword.

  Then Gar was closing again, blows a maelstrom about Corban, chopping, stabbing, spinning, striking, feinting, lunging, but Corban blocked them all and slowly began to counter. As he came out of a combination attack he saw Gar hesitate for a heartbeat and punched a short lunging stab at Gar’s gut. Gar swayed but the blow still caught him, the blunt wrapped tip of Corban’s blade stabbing into Gar, just above his hip.

  Corban was so stunned to have touched his blade to Gar that he just stopped, grinning foolishly.

  ‘I think I just killed you,’ Corban said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Gar grunted. ‘Or perhaps not, if you missed my intestines.’ He looked down at the tip of Corban’s sword, frozen where it had struck, then nodded. ‘I think you would have missed them. Just.’ He shrugged. ‘You may have nicked them, in which case I’d likely have died in agony, screaming, a ten-night later.’ He looked up at Corban and smiled humourlessly. ‘You, however, are dead right now.’

  ‘Wha—?’

  Corban realized that Gar’s sword was resting against his throat, a pressure over his artery.

  ‘But, I killed you first,’ Corban said.

  ‘No. You gave me a wound which may or may not have killed me in some days’ time.’

  ‘You let me stab you, so that you could stab me back?’

  ‘I did,’ Gar said, smiling, which was disconcerting in itself. ‘Sometimes you have to take a wound to give a wound.’ He stood straight and brushed Corban’s training sword away. ‘A good blow. You have come so far, Corban. We have reached the point where to kill you I have to risk death myself.’

  Corban let that sink in as Gar walked away. He followed, threadi
ng through the training warriors around him, on into their new camp. They’d moved south, closer to Nathair and Lorcan’s encroaching warbands. The last moon had seen a myriad of skirmishes and assaults on their enemy, growing ever more desperate as Drassil loomed closer. Although many of Nathair and Lothar’s warbands had fallen, and their progress slowed, they had not been stopped. They would reach Drassil soon.

  And so we must attack them soon, an all-out assault, seek to finish them before they reach Calidus, whether Veradis’ stratagem is ready or not.

  Late last night Dath had returned to the camp, part of the constant rotation of warriors that were stalking the forest around Lothar and Nathair. He’d brought word of a plan that Coralen had devised. Corban shuddered as he thought of it, acknowledging its potential, but still . . .

  He saw Brina and made his way over to her.

  ‘Brina – I wanted to ask you about Coralen’s idea.’

  The sound of wings beating drifted down to them, and the raucous cawing of a crow high above. Corban and Brina both looked up and watched it spiral down through the trees, the bird squawking more and more excitedly.

  ‘Is that . . . ?’ Corban said.

  ‘It can’t be,’ Brina breathed.

  And then the crow was flapping its wings, slowing its descent, heading straight for them.

  ‘BRINA,’ it squawked, ‘CORBAN.’

  ‘Brina, Brina, Brina, Corban, Corban, Corban,’ Craf was crowing jubilantly as he landed on Brina’s shoulder, hopping from foot to foot, cawing, flapping, running his beak through Brina’s hair, rubbing his head against hers.

  Corban was grinning as if it was his nameday, and Brina was blinking away tears.

  ‘Where have you been, you stupid crow?’ Brina asked Craf.

  ‘Edana,’ Craf squawked. ‘Bossy,’ he muttered. ‘Craf do this, Craf spy there, Craf find that, Craf fly here.’

  Corban and Brina stared at each other, incredulous.

  ‘How did you find us, you marvellous bird?’ Corban asked, scratching Craf’s neck through his ruffled feathers.

  ‘Craf clever,’ the bird squawked indignantly. ‘Craf search for Drassil. Find you.’

  A huge crowd had gathered around them now: Veradis and Balur, many others. Cywen appeared.

  ‘Craf!’ she said, ‘Welcome back. Have you come from Edana?’

  ‘Ahh, message, message,’ Craf said.

  ‘You’ve a message from Edana? Well, why didn’t you say so, you fool crow!’ Brina scolded. She was still smiling, though. Craf hopped from her shoulder to Corban’s, giving Brina a sulky look.

  ‘Edana coming,’ he said.

  ‘Edana? Coming here?’

  ‘That’s what Craf said. Here. Warband. Two thousand men.’

  There was uproar for a while then as they all tried to get as much information out of Craf as possible.

  In the end Corban was certain that Edana was coming to Drassil, after a great battle where she’d won Ardan’s freedom. However, it sounded as if Rhin was bound for Drassil too.

  ‘Edana must be guided in, shown the fastest way,’ Veradis said. ‘We could surely do with another two thousand swords.’

  ‘Aye,’ Corban agreed.

  ‘Brikan would be the quickest way,’ Veradis continued. ‘It is a tower in the south-west of Forn,’ he clarified in response to a blank look from Corban.

  ‘Craf knows it, flew over it,’ Craw squawked. ‘By river. Stone bridge.’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Veradis said, pleased.

  ‘Tell Edana to ride there, and we shall send a guide for her,’ Corban said to Craf. ‘There’ll be a road after that, and then a tunnel.’

  ‘Tunnel,’ Craf shuddered, one of his feathers falling out.

  ‘You don’t need to go into the tunnel, just help Edana get to it. This is very important, Craf. All of our lives may depend on it,’ Corban said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  FIDELE

  ‘Get out of the boat,’ Lykos said to Fidele. He’d cut the rope that tied her to one of the benches, and also the rope binding her ankles – only her wrists were still bound. She rose and clambered ashore.

  They were standing on a rocky beach, an island of grass, scrubby trees and dark rock rearing above her, behind her the lake, lapping at the shore. Fidele pulled a face at the thought of it. As the Vin Thalun had rowed across it she’d seen dead fish floating on the surface; the stink of death and rot wafted off the water along with the fog that curled lazily upon it. She looked back at the lakeshore now, beyond it saw endless rolling grass plains. They’d camped on the lakeshore last night; the grass taller than she’d expected, much of it as tall as a man. As she looked at it now she thought she saw a ripple within it, moving against the wind, then a splash in the lake. She stared, but there was nothing else.

  ‘No point looking backwards,’ Lykos said as he tied a longer strip of rope to the bonds at her wrist, then knotted it to his belt. ‘Especially when our future is so bright.’ He grinned, tugging on the knot to make sure it was good. ‘Wouldn’t want you to get lost on this island, now.’

  As soon as he’d set foot on the island Lykos had sent out a scouting party. Now, while they waited for word, Lykos’ other men were hauling the five boats further up the beach, roping them to wind-battered branches. The Kadoshim, led by the one perpetually surrounded by flies, were marching confidently further ahead, up to a strip of jagged rocks set like a natural barrier between the beach and the island proper. He turned and called impatiently to Lykos.

  ‘Wait a while, some of my lads are scouting it out,’ Lykos called back.

  ‘I’ve waited long enough on those boats,’ the Kadoshim growled, his voice strange, multiplied, as if there were an echo within his own throat. ‘It’s time to kill something.’

  ‘His name’s Legion,’ Lykos whispered conspiratorially to Fidele as he strapped a leather and iron buckler to his left arm. ‘Not the most patient creature. And angry, most of the time.’

  ‘He ate Agost’s face,’ Fidele said, shuddering.

  ‘Aye. He has issues. Handy in a scrap, though.’

  Figures appeared from a treeline on the island: Vin Thalun moving fleet-footed as they reached the sharp rocks of the beach.

  ‘News?’ Lykos shouted.

  ‘We found a cave, think it might be something,’ one of the Vin Thalun called. ‘Left some of the other lads to keep an eye out.’

  ‘Right, time to go and find us some treasure,’ Lykos smiled, pulling on Fidele’s rope as he strode up the beach.

  The sun was halfway to highsun, bright in a sheer sky, though there was little warmth in it. A wind blew off the lake, tugging and making tendrils of the mist, sending it rolling up the island’s beach like the tide.

  Lykos dragged Fidele up onto the jagged rocks at the beach’s end, Fidele slipping and gashing a knee, Lykos just hauling her on. She yanked on the rope in frustration and he turned and strode back to her, backhanded her across the cheek, sending her reeling to her knees, receiving another gash on the rocks. Then he bent and half-lifted, half-carried her to more even ground.

  ‘Do not do that again,’ he snarled. She tasted blood trickling from her nose. Glared back at him.

  ‘Ach, but there’s a fire in you,’ he said, suddenly grinning. ‘Come on, don’t want to miss the fun.’ He hurried off after his disappearing men.

  The ground sloped upwards; the island seemed to climb steadily towards dark-faced crags. They stepped beneath a copse of trees where the undergrowth grew thick, long thorns snagged at Fidele, ripping a hole in her breeches.

  Lykos strode ahead, catching up with his men. As they climbed higher Fidele felt something change around them. She could not explain what it was, but abruptly her skin was prickling, the air feeling heavy, oppressive, and the men around her were walking slower, glancing at the shadows.

  ‘Aegus, where’s this cave?’ Lykos called out.

  ‘Just ahead,’ a Vin Thalun said, a dark-haired man with a large part of his upper lip cut
away, showing rotting teeth.

  A shadow loomed out of the trees, Fidele jumped, but it was Legion, the Kadoshim.

  ‘Anything?’ Lykos asked.

  ‘Something,’ the Kadoshim muttered, sounding confused. It sniffed. ‘Blood.’

  Lykos drew his sword.

  They emerged from the trees, bright sunlight making Fidele blink, a metallic stench hitting her nose.

  The ground levelled before them into a grassy glade, one side of it overlooking a steep drop to the lake, punctuated by ledges with wind-blasted trees, jagged rocks at the bottom. The other way led to a sheer cliff face about fifty paces away. It rose high in staggered slabs, a cave mouth gaping wide at its base, but it was not the cave that Fidele was looking at.

  Bodies were strewn everywhere, or parts of bodies – arms, legs, heads, piles of intestines heaped in great steaming mounds. One head sat upon a boulder staring at them with tongue lolling, a hole in its skull, brains oozing out. A wide bloody track lined the grass, disappearing into the darkness of the cave.

  ‘Asroth’s stones,’ a Vin Thalun whispered.

  Above the cave’s mouth were ancient runes, dug deep into the rock.

  ‘Gach fir bás,’ Lykos read.

  All men die.

  Then things were leaping at them, bigger than men, on two legs but fur-covered. Fidele glimpsed long muzzles and curved, yellowing teeth. They howled as they came. One crashed into a Vin Thalun and he tumbled across the glade, a great rent in his belly, guts spilling.

  Then all was blood and screams and madness.

  Lykos sidestepped and slashed at a huge form, something clanging off of his buckler. He stumbled, ducked, an arm smashed into his shoulder, hurling him through the air, yanking Fidele off her feet, sending her rolling on the bloodstained grass. A heavy foot thudded by her head, shaggy-furred, and Fidele looked up at a huge figure towering over her. She caught a rushed image of teeth and claws before it surged at a Vin Thalun, lifting him from his feet and dropping him onto its bent leg, bending him like a twig. Fidele heard the Vin Thalun’s spine crack like a frost-hard branch, the warrior screaming, sword dropping from his fingers, then his throat was a red gash, blood spurting, the beast hurling him tumbling across the ground, searching for its next victim.