Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  Then figures were bursting from the trees, running up the slope to Camlin, one small, one large. The small one was a girl; he recognized her from Ardan, red hair, an oversized helm strapped to her head. The large figure was a hound, brindle-coated and broad muzzled. He knew him as well: Buddai, Thannon’s old hound.

  The girl grabbed hold of Camlin’s arm and tugged at him, but it had little effect. Buddai set his feet protectively before the girl and Camlin and snarled at Rafe and his horse, hackles rising.

  Good, I’ll trample all three of them, then.

  Rafe bent lower in his saddle and urged his horse faster.

  ‘You’re a rare find,’ he whispered to his mount, ‘more vicious than a sack of snakes.’ He grinned.

  Movement flitted in his peripheral vision, shadows within the trees, but he ignored them, everything about him focused on the trio in the road before him, the thought of Camlin trampled to pulp filling him with a wild bloodlust.

  He saw Buddai crouch, muscles bunching, lips drawing back in a snarl, only a dozen paces separating them; the crack of his mount’s hooves on stone filled Rafe’s ears.

  And then his stallion just . . . stopped. A straight-legged, stone-grating, skidding stop, and Rafe was suddenly airborne, flying weightless through the air, spinning over Camlin’s head and crashing down to the earth with a bone-jarring thud.

  For a moment he just lay on his back, looking up at patches of sky through winter-shorn branches. He heard the drum of paws and felt a surge of fear as he thought that Buddai was coming to rip his throat out, but then a rough wet tongue was licking his face and Scratcher’s grey-haired muzzle was looking down at him. The rope he’d tied the hound with back in the stables was ragged and frayed. Scratcher had chewed through it and found Rafe as he left the battlefield.

  The only thing that’s loyal to me.

  He sat up, felt fresh blood trickling from the wound on his back where he’d recently removed Camlin’s last arrow. A dozen paces away his horse was standing with head dipped to Buddai, who was acting like a pup, barking and jumping up to lick the stallion’s mouth, tail wagging.

  You’d think they were best friends!

  And then he remembered: a paddock back in Ardan, on the meadows below Dun Carreg, Gar’s stallion and Thannon’s mare.

  That’s Corban’s stallion!

  No matter, I’ll finish them myself. An old man and a bairn, and Camlin can hardly stand.

  Rafe rose and drew his sword.

  And I’ve drunk from the starstone cup.

  He strode towards Camlin, who was desperately trying to stand. The girl ran to fetch Camlin’s blade. She hefted it from the road and hurled it to Camlin, who caught it and used it to lever himself upright.

  ‘Time for you two to die,’ Rafe said as the girl sped back to stand beside Camlin.

  ‘Get out of here, Meg,’ Camlin said.

  The girl reached inside a pouch on her belt and hurled a stone at Rafe. He swayed, heard it whistle past his ear.

  ‘Think I’ll kill you first,’ Rafe said to her, raising his sword and lunging forwards.

  But then Buddai was between him and Camlin again, snarling, making Rafe stagger backwards.

  ‘Scratcher,’ Rafe commanded, his hound loping forwards, baring his teeth at Buddai. The two dogs snapped and growled at one another, and then shapes were bursting from the foliage next to the road – wolven, lots of them, padding up the embankment, circling Scratcher, snarling at him. They weren’t fully grown, Rafe saw at a glance, all of them adolescents, but they were knotted with muscle and their teeth looked long and sharp. Then Buddai jumped, slamming into Scratcher, rolling with him across the road and down the embankment, the wolven following him in a mass of snapping fur and muscle.

  Camlin and Meg stared after the hounds and wolven; never one to miss an opportunity, Rafe leaped at them.

  Meg scurried out of his way, Camlin swinging his sword to block Rafe’s swing, iron sparking, Camlin staggering back, swaying on his injured knee. Rafe followed with a succession of blows, Camlin parrying desperately, swinging back at Rafe, but the blow was feeble and Rafe slapped it away, stepped inside Camlin’s guard and kicked him in the knee.

  Camlin dropped to the ground, howling, and Rafe stood over him, raised his sword.

  A crunch in the back of his head and Rafe stumbled forwards, stars and darkness exploding before his eyes. He twisted to see the girl reaching for another stone in her pouch.

  Camlin first.

  He raised his sword again, then pain ignited in his foot. He looked down to see that Camlin, still on the ground, had stabbed him with one of his arrows.

  He screamed, kicked Camlin in the gut with his injured foot, not sure whom it hurt more. Camlin rolled away, coughing blood.

  ‘Get away from him,’ he heard Meg screeching, running at him with a dagger in her hand.

  The creak of wood from the other direction: Camlin had found his bow on the road, was nocking and drawing an arrow. Rafe twisted away, reigniting the pain in his foot, slipped around Meg’s clumsy blow and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her in front of him, grabbing her dagger and putting it to the artery that pulsed in her neck.

  He was just in time, as Camlin was kneeling in the road, a drawn arrow aimed straight at Rafe.

  ‘Let her go,’ Camlin growled.

  ‘I’ll cut her throat,’ Rafe said, taking a step towards Camlin.

  Get close enough, use the little bitch as a shield. Kill him, kill her.

  Good plan.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come after me, old man,’ Rafe said, taking another step.

  ‘You killed Baird, and Halion,’ Camlin grunted, spitting blood.

  ‘Halion? I saw him jump after Conall. Good.’

  The truth was that he’d not enjoyed killing Conall, but Rhin had set him that task. Conall and Edana.

  Slay them both and you’ll be forgiven your past failings, Rhin had whispered in his ear during their council of war the previous evening, and he knew what failing again would mean.

  He took another step towards Camlin, only a few paces between them now.

  Then there was the scuff of paws. Buddai and the wolven appeared, circling Rafe, hackles bristling. There was blood on their jaws, dripping from their teeth.

  Rafe felt a whisper of fear, and sadness as well. Scratcher had saved him more than once, and he’d hoped for a little more help now.

  And I’ll miss the hound. Only friend I’ve got.

  ‘Call them off,’ he snapped.

  ‘Let her go,’ Camlin said.

  ‘I’ll trade you – her life for mine,’ Rafe said. ‘Call those bloodthirsty beasts off and I’ll let her go.’

  Meg slammed the back of her head into his face. He heard his nose break and staggered a step, his grip around her throat loosening a fraction and then she was twisting like an eel in his hand, slipping, jumping away from him.

  Rafe stood there a moment, staring at Camlin, along the length of his arrow.

  ‘Mercy,’ Rafe whispered.

  ‘Mercy?’ Camlin said, pulling a face. ‘Bollocks to that,’ and he released his arrow.

  Rafe opened his mouth to scream, but then the arrow punched into his chest, a short sharp pain and then something slammed into his cheek. The ground. He blinked, or at least he thought he blinked. He couldn’t feel much. Nothing, in fact. He could still see, though, see Camlin’s boots approaching, but even they were fading, everything fading . . .

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN

  CORBAN

  Corban reeled and staggered. Asroth was bearing down on him like a mountain, sword trailing black smoke. Drassil’s great hall was a heaving arena of war, a fight for life or death filling every part of it. Dimly Corban glimpsed Gar on the steps, crossing blades with Calidus and a handful of Jehar, above him Meical beset by Kadoshim, and beneath it all the hypnotic intonation of Cywen as she chanted Brina’s spell of Unmaking. When last he’d looked, Corban had seen Coralen and Farrell desperately defendin
g his sister from Kadoshim, though he didn’t know how long ago that had been. Time seemed to change as he fought Asroth; he felt as if he’d been trading blows with the Lord of the Kadoshim for days, but it might also have been only a handful of heartbeats. Blood and sweat were stinging his eyes, countless cuts and grazes about his body where Asroth was proving faster and stronger than him, and the gap felt to be widening, each blow containing more power than Corban had ever encountered before.

  Can’t go on like this much longer, it’s like fighting Balur One-Eye with wings.

  When Asroth had first attacked him, Farrell had been at his side, and together they had held Asroth at bay, but then Kadoshim had swooped upon Cywen. Corban had yelled for Farrell to protect her, and that’s where his friend was now, standing before her, hammering Kadoshim from the sky.

  Corban gritted his teeth and charged at Asroth, swinging his sword, the demon leaping back, replying with an overhead strike. Corban, meeting it, shifting his weight to deflect it wide, saw it hack into flagstone, spraying chips of rock. Now Corban was spinning to chop into Asroth’s waist, but a beat of his wings and he was gone, sweeping over Corban, landing behind him, slicing down at Corban’s head, Corban rolling his wrist, turning Asroth’s blade, falling back, off balance. Asroth’s wings pulsed, air blasted Corban, rocking him backwards, and Asroth was surging forwards, swinging and hacking, chopping and stabbing, Corban beating the attack away, each blow shivering through his arms and shoulders. An arrow punched into Asroth’s arm, the Kadoshim looked at it, snarling and then ripping it out. Corban took the opportunity to lunge in, cutting at Asroth’s knee, raking at his wings with his wolven claws, Asroth leaping away, so that the wolven claws slashed only air, the tip of Corban’s sword slicing through demon-skin and flesh, droplets of blood splattering. It was only a shallow cut, but Asroth scowled at it.

  ‘That’s the trouble with becoming flesh,’ Corban said. ‘Means you can bleed and die like the rest of us.’

  Rage twisted Asroth’s face and he came at Corban like a storm; as he did so, two more Kadoshim were swooping in, one either side of him. Corban backed away, felt the steps behind him. He breathed deep, calmed his fear, set his feet, raised his sword into stooping falcon.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Corban snarled at the Lord of the Fallen.

  Corban sidestepped a spear lunge from one of the Kadoshim, a chop from his sword splintering the shaft. He saw the Kadoshim drop from the sky, one wing crumpling, an arrow through its shoulder.

  Dath, you are worth your weight in gold.

  Coralen ran in, hacking and slashing at the wounded Kadoshim.

  A Ben-Elim swooped low, spear jabbing at Asroth, but he swayed aside, grabbed the spear shaft, dragging the Ben-Elim close and stabbing deep into the angel-warrior’s neck, blood spurting, Asroth flinging the body away.

  Corban lunged, deflected a blow from Asroth, spun in close and punched his wolven claws into Asroth’s thigh. A bellow of pain filled the room. Corban tried to pull his claws free, but Asroth reached down and clamped a huge hand about Corban’s wrist, beside him the other Kadoshim was raising his sword.

  Then that Kadoshim was gone. Farrell stood in his place, his war-hammer matted with blood and bone.

  Coralen turned from the fallen Kadoshim and ran at Asroth. He beat his wings, making her stumble, and backhanded her across the jaw, lifting her bodily from the ground and hurling her through the air, to crunch into the stone stairs. She didn’t get back up.

  ‘NO!’ Corban screamed, tugging and wrenching against Asroth’s grip, but the Kadoshim Lord beat his wings, rising from the ground. Still holding tight to Corban’s wrist, he lifted him into the air, Asroth swinging his sword at Corban’s head, Corban blocking, numbing pain shuddering through his wrist and up his arm, Asroth’s wings pumping, carrying Corban higher.

  There was a snarling growl and Corban glanced down, saw a glimpse of fur and flashing teeth: Storm running and leaping from the stairs, arcing high into the air, jaws opening wide, slamming into Asroth.

  A bone-jarring crunch, and the three of them were spinning in the air, the sound of Storm snarling and slavering as her claws scrabbled for purchase, jaws locking onto Asroth’s arm, tearing flesh. Another bellowed scream, Asroth releasing his grip on Corban, and suddenly Corban was falling, careening back to the ground, weightless for a few heartbeats before he slammed into the stone floor, rolling, sword skittering away. He climbed to his feet, ran and snatched his sword back up, saw Asroth plummeting to the ground, battering at Storm. The wolven’s teeth tore free of Asroth’s arm and she was falling, Asroth winging back up high, disappearing momentarily amidst the frenetic blur of battling Ben-Elim and Kadoshim.

  Storm crunched to the ground with a whine, but leaped to her feet and searched the sky for Asroth. Corban whistled for her as he ran to Coralen’s side, fear churning in his gut. She was so still.

  He crouched beside her, saw that she was still breathing, her jaw bruising blue-black, a trickle of blood running down the back of her head and onto her neck. Storm reached them, sniffed Coralen and whined. She was bloody and battered, her chainmail coat slick with blood, rent and tattered in places.

  The beating of wings behind him.

  ‘Storm, guard,’ Corban commanded, standing and stepping away from Coralen, looking up. Asroth was returning, a swarm of Kadoshim swirling about him, Ben-Elim sweeping in with looping attacks. Storm growled and took a pace after Corban.

  ‘No,’ Corban said, holding a palm out. ‘GUARD.’ Storm turned in a circle, then stood over Coralen, snarling and snapping at any who came near.

  Come on, Cywen, finish your spell.

  He saw her standing before the cauldron, still chanting, straining as if carrying a great weight. Dath stood one side of her, loosing arrows at any Kadoshim that flew near, and Farrell guarding her other side, bloody and battle-grim, swinging his war-hammer with savage fury. To Corban’s left a mist-wraith formed in the air, screeching its wrath, beneath it Gar was still fighting Calidus, only one of his Jehar left beside him now.

  You slew my mam, Calidus. Gar will not stop until you are dead or he is.

  And then Asroth was hovering before him. One arm was torn and ripped bloody, and he limped as he walked, blood leaking from the wound Corban’s wolven claws had made.

  ‘The Banished Lands are not for you,’ Corban yelled up at him. Kadoshim hissed back.

  Meical came swooping down from above. Brandishing his sword, he sheared a wing from one Kadoshim and crashed into another, the two of them spiralling into a dive, skimming the ground and then looping high.

  ‘You’re more trouble than I thought, Bright Star,’ Asroth growled, alighting a score of paces before Corban, ‘but now you’ll die, all the same.’

  Corban didn’t bother replying, just ran at him.

  Kadoshim flew at him and he ducked one’s sword swing, spun around another’s spear, slicing into its neck, stabbed up at another, piercing its belly, blood spraying, raining down on him. More rushed to bar his way to Asroth, but he was unstoppable, felt time slow around him as he felt the battle-joy come upon him. Dimly he was aware of Ben-Elim swooping on Asroth’s guard from all angles, saw Meical swirl in front of his vision, decapitating one Kadoshim in Corban’s path, dragging another into the air, and then Asroth was before Corban.

  Their swords clashed, an explosion of sparks and smoke, Corban swirling around him, moving from one attack to the next, a combination of blows that struck at Asroth from all angles, stabbing, chopping, lunging, blood welling as Corban scored red lines across the pale landscape of Asroth’s flesh.

  Asroth retaliated with a ferocity born of pride that only a king can muster, striking at Corban with blows that chipped stone and smashed rock, and slowly Corban began to tire. Asroth beat him back until his heels touched the hall’s steps again, then slowly he began to retreat up them. Sweat and blood blurred Corban’s vision, his arm a leaden weight. A red line opened up across his thigh, another down his forearm, and Asroth grinned
at him, blue-black lips stretching.

  Halfway towards the chamber’s open doorway Corban stopped, setting his feet on a wide step, and for long moments they traded blows there, then Asroth gave a great beat of his wings, rocking Corban backwards. The Lord of the Kadoshim was suddenly airborne, slicing down at Corban as he swept over him. Corban, too slow in his counter, saved his head but took a wound to his shoulder, feeling as if a line of fire had ignited in his muscle.

  Asroth landed on the steps above Corban, his sword crashing into Corban’s, sweeping it wide, and he kicked Corban in the chest, hurling him down the stairs, Asroth gliding after him.

  Corban rolled down a dozen steps and finally came to a halt. He heard someone cry his name, reached blindly for his sword but he couldn’t find it, then a weight was stamping onto his wrist, crushing it. Asroth’s boot.

  ‘Time to cross the bridge of swords,’ Asroth said, raising his sword.

  Corban tugged and heaved at his trapped arm, but he was held fast.

  Asroth’s sword sped towards him.

  Then a figure was there, iron flashing, sparks incandescent. A man was standing over Corban, taking the full weight of Asroth’s blow and holding it.

  Gar.

  He rolled his wrists, sending Asroth’s blade slicing into thin air, and twisted his hips, sword flashing, a horizontal cut that sent Asroth reeling, a red line pouring blood across his forehead. Asroth cried out, staggered backwards, and then something crashed into him, an explosion of white feathers – Meical was sweeping in, the two of them rolling, tumbling, snarling, rising into the air, still twisting and turning.

  ‘Give me your hand, Ban,’ Gar said, reaching an arm down to Corban.

  ‘Gladly,’ Corban muttered, wincing from what felt like a thousand wounds as he struggled to rise.

  Then a sword-point burst through Gar’s chest, his blood exploding over Corban. Corban staggered to one knee, saw the sword ripped back and out of Gar’s torso as Calidus appeared behind him. Gar’s sword dropped from his hands and he stood there a moment, swaying, staring at Corban. Blood welled from his mouth and he sighed, falling forwards, into Corban’s arms.