Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  Corban made his way into their camp. His friends were lined behind him, Storm’s mail coat rippling as she moved. It fitted her perfectly, leather-studded collar snug about her neck, buckles and straps under her chest and belly pulled tight so that the mail coat looked like another skin, flowing and undulating with each muscular contraction and extension. Corban had given Storm an opportunity to become accustomed to it during raids on Nathair and Lothar’s warband. She’d scratched at it at first, but Corban had adapted it with an under-rug of wool so that it did not rub, and now she looked like a sleek statue carved from iron, fluid and molten metal. Corban could feel the weight of her steps beside him shivering up the soles of his boots.

  ‘You’re making everyone stare,’ Corban told her, and she was.

  Brina walked beside him.

  They had met with Corban’s captains, told them Craf’s news. All of them knew now how that would change the plan of battle. The strike against Nathair and Lothar would remain the same, but now, instead of avoiding Calidus, they wanted to keep his eyes fixed on the plain, and if possible draw him and his thousands from Drassil. Much could go wrong.

  ‘We could go now,’ Brina said to Corban.

  ‘No. I must be seen on the battlefield.’

  Brina grunted, but gave up as they’d discussed this already.

  ‘When we go, we will need to move fast,’ she said to him.

  ‘Aye,’ Corban replied. ‘We need to stay close to each other.’

  ‘Yes. So don’t go getting carried away and running off to stab people.’

  ‘This is a day for stabbing people.’

  ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘But just be selective.’ He felt her hand slip into his. ‘And stay safe, Ban. There are very few people on this earth that I care about, but you’re one of them.’

  ‘Love you, too, Brina.’

  He squeezed her hand and she humphed at him but there was a smile tugging the corner of her mouth.

  Corban stopped at the crest of a shallow hill at the southern end of the camp. He stood there a few moments, eyes closed, the enormity of this day filling his head, falling upon him like an avalanche. It almost took his breath away.

  He opened his eyes.

  The warband was massed before him. Amongst the crowd he saw Jehar, giants, men and women from so many realms: Ardan, Narvon, Domhain, Isiltir, Tenebral. Everywhere he looked he saw the emblem of the Bright Star, upon banners, shields, surcoats, cuirasses, the sigil uniting such a diverse gathering, the symbol of what bound them all together. Three and a half thousand swords, all looking to him.

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘Today we fight,’ he said, the crowd before him still as a windless lake.

  ‘We’ve suffered, lost much, had much taken from us. But today is the day we say, NO MORE.’ He saw nods and grunts ripple around the warband. His eyes flickering across so many, giants, men and women, Haelan looking at him with shining eyes, Camlin, a wry smile upon his face, Vonn and Halion, many others, finally Gar.

  ‘I am proud to stand beside you. I know that none of you fights for riches, nor for glory or for fame. We fight for something simpler and more powerful.’ He tapped his chest. ‘We fight for those we love.’ He felt a lump in his throat, his mam and da filling his mind, saw many about him with silvered eyes.

  ‘And that truth shall give us the courage we need,’ he cried out. ‘On this day we will march out to meet our enemies, those that have slain our kin, stolen our homes and would take our lives, and we shall show them what drives us. TRUTH AND COURAGE.’

  Voices shouted out then, a wall of sound, echoing his cry of TRUTH AND COURAGE. He felt a surge of passion as he looked about at them all, pride in them, a fierce bond of love and brotherhood for this warband, full of so many who were just like him, scared, angry, pushed too far, ready to stand against evil in defence of their kin and loved ones.

  ‘This day,’ he cried, shouting now, ‘we will live or die, but whatever the outcome, this will still be the day we avenge ourselves for those we’ve lost, the day we right the wrongs done to us, or die in the trying. It will be a dark day, a bloody day, a proud day, for this is the day of our wrath.’

  ‘WRATH,’ the cry went up, ringing and echoing through the branches.

  ‘WRATH.’

  The roar was deafening, all yelling with a fierce passion, banging weapons on shields, stamping feet, echoing on and on.

  ‘Well, if Laith’s not awake now, she must be deaf,’ Dath whispered to Farrell.

  ‘Are they ready?’ Corban asked Veradis. They both looked across the camp, heard the clang of iron, Balur swearing loud enough to scare birds from trees.

  ‘They’ll have to be,’ Veradis said.

  ‘Veradis,’ Corban said, gripping the warrior’s arm as he turned away. ‘You asked me a question once, about forgiveness . . .’

  ‘Aye,’ Veradis said, still as stone now.

  ‘My answer is, yes,’ Corban said.

  Veradis exhaled.

  ‘My thanks,’ he said.

  Beside him Corban saw Halion talking to Craf, who was perched on Brina’s shoulder. The warrior leaned close to the bird’s head and spoke quickly and quietly. When he was done, Craf squawked a complaint, but bobbed his head. Halion walked away.

  ‘Keep an eye over us, make sure there are no nasty surprises out there,’ Corban heard Brina say.

  ‘Win and live, or Craf be lonely and sad,’ the crow said, riffling its beak through Brina’s hair, then flapping into the sky.

  ‘And you fly safe, you scruffy old crow,’ Brina muttered.

  Corban felt a wave of fear wash over him as he looked at Brina and the others.

  I have tried, planned for every eventuality and outcome, but now we are on the brink. March into this battle and we could be marching to our deaths. Coralen, Cywen, Gar, Brina, Dath, Farrell . . .

  The thought of them dying – it threatened to take his very breath away.

  And yet, it must be done. Calidus must be fought, and who else is there but us?

  He untied his wolven claws from his belt and strapped them onto his left fist, pulling the buckles with his teeth to cinch them tight, then he strode from the hill, his captains falling in behind him, horses neighing and stamping as riders mounted up. Like a great beast waking from sleep the warband lurched into motion and moved into the forest, and behind them Storm lifted her head to the sky and howled.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  NATHAIR

  Nathair heard a wolven howl, loud and long, the sound of it echoing through the forest, setting birds to flight. It chilled his blood, a note within it that resonated with spine-tingling malice, and he knew that it was not only he who felt it. All about him his eagle-guard paused, a ripple passing through them. Even his draig sensed it, head cocking to one side, its lumbering gait stuttering for a moment before it carried on.

  It is Corban’s wolven, Storm. I know it.

  The beast had been seen enough times over the last few moons, flitting through the shadows of Forn, stalking them, picking off any who strayed too far into the forest. Nathair had heard men talking about the wolven at night while sitting around their fires, how it was not mortal, that it was deathless.

  I’ll show them how deathless it is, if only my draig could get a hold of it.

  Nathair was situated at the head of the column, before him a few hundred eagle-guard in loose formation, their wall eight rows deep, spreading back around him, narrowing into a three-row column that carried on back along either side of the road and workforce that was labouring frenziedly to get this road built and onto the plain of Drassil for wains, horses, auroch and four thousand feet to tramp across.

  When I found Gundul we had six thousand swords between us. Now Lothar has three thousand left, and my eagle-guard number little more than a thousand. But after three moons of constant raids and attacks you have to expect to lose a few men. Two thousand, to be exact, though over a hundred were men caught trying to desert. Lothar made quite the
example of them. A ruthless man. I admire him, even though he isn’t so easy to manipulate as Gundul.

  As he looked back he saw Lothar riding up the line towards him, his warband a crush of men beyond the few hundred labourers working on the road. He had ordered his warband into their best gear today, as they expected either to reach Drassil or to be given battle.

  Probably both. Corban and his rabble cannot hope to stop us, but surely they will not allow us to reach Drassil uncontested.

  The sound of hooves drumming. Lothar did look impressive as he cantered up on his black stallion, mail shirt gleaming and freshly scrubbed with sand, white cuirass polished, the black hammer of Helveth embossed upon it, a cloak of white wool with ermine trim about his shoulders and a silver torc around his neck, warrior braid bound with silver wire. Ten Kadoshim ran alongside him, falling in around Lothar and Nathair to walk with them.

  Lothar nodded to Nathair curtly, as an equal, which never failed to annoy Nathair, and then spent a few moments controlling his mount as it shied away from Nathair’s draig, which secretly pleased Nathair.

  ‘How long?’ Lothar asked, peering into the gloom of the forest ahead. Only tree and shadow filled their horizon.

  ‘If we rode hard we’d see Drassil before the sun was halfway to highsun,’ Nathair said. ‘But at this pace –’ he shrugged – ‘sunset.’

  ‘And the enemy?’ Lothar muttered, eyes scanning the gloom to left and right.

  ‘No sign, yet,’ Nathair replied.

  ‘I heard that beast howling. Everyone did. They’re out there. They will attack.’

  I know. I would if I were them.

  ‘They are a rag-tag warband, made up of a dozen different factions, all with different leaders,’ Nathair said. He paused, catching a scent on the air, off to the north.

  ‘Do you smell that?’ Nathair asked Lothar.

  ‘A fire? Perhaps we are close to their camp?’

  Then it was gone.

  ‘This Corban is supposed to lead them,’ Nathair continued, ‘but who really knows? And with the size of our warband, Corban and his rabble may not even have the stomach for a contest with us. The outcome would be inevitable.’

  And then, as if naming called, there were figures solidifying out of the shadows on the path ahead.

  Nathair felt a jolt of surprise, and then fear, because they were dressed in the black and silver of Tenebral, a line of thirty men blocking the path, trees thick on their flanks. Their shields formed a loose wall, and from Nathair’s height on his drag he could see they were at least six rows deep. The only difference in their appearance from his own warriors was a white star upon their shields. That made him angry.

  The warband of Ripa. Krelis’ men. They are no match for my Draig’s Teeth.

  To prove his contempt, Nathair allowed his eagle-guard to march another few score paces. His eagle-guard stopped with well-oiled practice, shields coming together in a loud crack, the flanks rippling together to face outwards along both sides of Lothar’s workforce.

  A figure stepped out from the enemy warband, not Krelis, as Nathair was expecting, but someone even more familiar.

  It was Veradis.

  For a moment Nathair felt a smile tugging at his mouth and had to stop himself from leaping from his draig and embracing his old friend.

  Veradis was looking straight at him, and Nathair saw that he was stroking the palm of his hand, the scar from that night when they had sworn an oath to each other, become blood-brothers.

  ‘Well met, Nathair,’ Veradis called out.

  ‘My friend,’ Nathair said. ‘Why are you stood against me?’

  Veradis took a few steps forwards, stopped only a dozen paces from Nathair’s shield wall.

  ‘Because you are wrong,’ his friend said simply.

  And in that sentence, just for a moment, Nathair felt all of his arguments, his politics, strategies and oh-so-rational excuses fade away, and he knew Veradis was right. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut tight.

  How have I ended up in this place. A pawn of Asroth?

  He already knew the answer.

  Ambition. Greed. Power. And cowardice. I am a coward. I chose to live and swear an allegiance to my enemy, rather than die with my head held high and my conscience clear.

  At that moment, pure as white-hot flame, he despised himself.

  He realized there was a great silence around him, looked up and saw Veradis staring at him, eyes pleading with him to do the right thing.

  I could turn, even now. Join Veradis, destroy Lothar’s warband. It would make such a difference to their campaign that I would be forgiven my past mistakes, and with Veradis I could lead them to victory.

  A blur of motion drew his eye: on the right flank, amongst the trees, bone-white, moving fast, in and out of view. A wolven leaped out of the trees and stalked along their line, head low, amber eyes seeming to glow as it eyed the rows of eagle-guard. It looked up, at Nathair’s draig, and Nathair heard it growl, its coat shimmering and rippling like molten silver in the twilight, long curved teeth in slavering jaws.

  So this is Storm.

  Nathair felt a rumble in his draig’s belly, an answer to the wolven’s challenge.

  Storm prowled onto the path close to Veradis, and another figure stepped out of the shadows, the wolven padding to him. A young man, black-haired, broad-chested, dressed simply in chainmail shirt and leather surcoat. A four-pointed star emblazoned his chest.

  ‘You are Corban?’ Nathair asked him.

  ‘We have met before,’ the young warrior said. ‘Do you not remember?’

  ‘I do,’ Nathair said. He remembered a young lad, more a boy, staring up at him from a blood-soaked floor, crouched over a dead man, telling Nathair that he would kill him.

  ‘You swore you would kill me.’

  ‘I did,’ Corban said.

  ‘You may try, if you are brave enough.’

  A look of pure hatred flickered across Corban’s face, slowly marshalled, smoothed away.

  He has some self-control.

  Corban took a long, frayed breath and looked at Veradis. Finally he turned his gaze back to Nathair. ‘And you may join us, if you are brave enough.’

  ‘Wha—?’

  ‘You could join us,’ Corban repeated. ‘Calidus is our enemy here, the enemy of all mankind. He has lied, murdered and manipulated his way to Drassil. He has used you, but you can end that now.’

  ‘Join us, Nathair,’ Veradis urged him. ‘Corban is offering you a chance. Turn away from the path you’ve chosen, remember who you are, remember our dream. Our oaths. Our friendship.’

  Nathair stared at Veradis, felt a moment of longing for the simplicity of those times.

  ‘And Corban?’ Nathair asked.

  ‘He will forgive you. He is the Bright Star. We should have followed him from the beginning.’

  A new emotion reared up in Nathair, then. Jealousy.

  Forgive me! The Bright Star! I bore that title for so long, and now you are so quick to give it to another. Do you think him a better man than me?

  Nathair felt something cold slam shut within him and drew himself up straight in his saddle.

  ‘I offer you the same choice, Veradis. Join me. I will forgive you, and your men. Come, be my first-sword, my battlechief again, be the man you were supposed to be. You swore an oath to me, and you are not an oathbreaker. Or are you?’

  Veradis stared up at him, mouth twisting.

  ‘It was all a lie,’ Veradis whispered.

  ‘Join me,’ Nathair commanded. Then quieter, ‘I can make this right.’

  ‘No,’ Veradis shook his head. ‘You can’t. You don’t even know what right is any more.’ Silent tears streaked his cheeks.

  ‘Are you going to listen to these fools much longer?’ Lothar asked him.

  No.

  He smelt smoke again, but ignored it, eyes fixed on Veradis and Corban.

  ‘Sound the advance,’ Nathair said to the horn-man beside him. ‘Caesus, wipe th
is mob from our path,’ he called out, horn blasts ringing.

  ‘So be it,’ Veradis said sadly, the whipcrack of eagle-guard slamming shields together and advancing drowning out his words.

  Corban and Storm melted back into the darkness and Veradis marched back towards his shield wall, yelling as he went. To Nathair’s great surprise they started to retreat. It was organized, even quite impressive, not turning their backs on Nathair and his advancing shield wall, but nevertheless, they were retreating.

  This is going to be easier than I thought.

  CHAPTER NINETY

  VERADIS

  Veradis bellowed his orders, felt a rush of pride at the way his men were retreating in disciplined ranks, ten paces, twenty paces. Thirty, more. He followed after them, moving to the side of the trampled path, in amongst the trees.

  Nearly there.

  There was a pain in his chest, a physical manifestation of how he felt at Nathair’s rejection of peace.

  Of redemption.

  So much could have been saved, so many lives. And our friendship.

  He stepped over a shallow ditch that cut across the trampled track, strode another score of paces and sucked in a deep breath.

  He’s made his choice, and I have made mine. Nothing else to be done but see it through.

  ‘BALUR,’ he yelled.

  Immense shapes emerged from either side of the path that the shield wall had just vacated: giants, lumbering under a great weight. Veradis saw Balur first, a thick plate of iron strapped across his torso, hammered and shaped to cover the giant from neck to hips, like a leather cuirass; more moulded plates were strapped and buckled about his shoulders and arms, iron bracers wrapping tight about his wrists and forearms, and the same with his legs, iron greaves enfolding ankles and legs. Upon his head he even wore a helmet of iron, a nose-piece and cheekplates making his face a shadowed thing. He looked like a walking forge. In his arms he held a wooden shaft longer than a spear, banded and butted with iron, at its head a single, wicked-looking axe-blade with a long curved point tapering like a beard. Another nine giants emerged from the shadows clad like Balur in plates of iron and gripping the spear-long axes, and then another score clothed in their leather and fur, all wielding their traditional weapons of hammer and double-bladed axe.