Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  The Treasures, Corban realized. He told Rhin they were making him stronger, so if they are gone, destroyed, then perhaps his powers are weaker now.

  Calidus didn’t look happy about the fact.

  ‘Your death is coming,’ Corban whispered again.

  There was a sudden flapping sound and wings and feathers fell upon them; Craf was descending on Calidus, scratching and pecking, ripping at his face. Calidus reeled back, lashing out. He caught Craf a solid blow with his hand, sending Craf spinning and squawking through the air. He crunched into a step and fell, flapped feebly and then was still. At the same time Corban swung with all his might, but Calidus swayed back, Corban’s sword-point scoring half-a-thumb deep into Calidus’ throat. Blood welled and dripped, but his head stayed firmly upon his shoulders.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ Calidus said, his voice different, a ragged croak now.

  Corban answered with a combination that sent Calidus reeling, tripping over a step, staggering and leaping out of range. His hand reached inside his cloak, pulled out a fold of fabric. He retreated a few more steps, Corban following. Calidus opened the fabric with deft fingers, revealing . . .

  A flower.

  A purple thistle.

  And Corban knew it, felt something snatch in his gut, as if a fish-hook were in his belly.

  The flower I left upon Mam’s cairn.

  Calidus smiled at him, seeing the recognition dawning in Corban’s face.

  ‘A lovely gesture,’ Calidus said. ‘I have her head somewhere.’

  Corban flew at Calidus, an explosion – beating, hammering at his enemy. He saw the Kadoshim stumbling, bowed, barely able to meet Corban’s blistering speed and strength. A sound filled Corban’s ears, swamping his whole world. He slowly realized it was his own screaming, and then a quiet voice within his head, a whisper.

  Gar’s voice.

  Anger is the enemy.

  And then he heard Gar whisper something else to him.

  Corban saw a smile twitch Calidus’ lips as he flourished the purple flower at him, knew what the Kadoshim was doing, but it felt impossible to control his rage, to do anything other than unleash his wrath and fury. He feinted a blow at Calidus’ belly, knew instantly that it was rushed, then slashed high, but his timing was a fraction out and the twist of his feet left his right side open a moment. He realized his error, began to shift his feet, and then something slammed into him, like a punch, a red-hot pain, lancing into him, through leather and chainmail, into flesh, above his hip. Calidus’ sword was stabbing deeper, Calidus snarling a feral smile as he rammed his blade harder, punching in through Corban’s belly and out through his lower back.

  Distantly Corban heard someone screaming.

  Corban and Calidus stood like that for a long, frozen moment, Corban staring down incredulously at the sword that had run him through, blood seeping into his mail shirt, a widening stain, then he looked up to Calidus’ arrogant smile.

  And then Corban reached out and wrapped his wolven-clawed fist around Calidus’ hand.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Corban grunted, pulling himself up towards Calidus, along the length of the Kadoshim’s sword, grimacing with both pain and rage, ‘you have to take a wound to give a wound.’

  And with all his might, a world of pain exploding in his gut, Corban swung his sword and cut Calidus’ head from his shoulders.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE

  CORALEN

  Coralen opened her eyes.

  She found she was lying on her back, a thumping pain at the base of her skull, another in her jaw, staring up at the domed roof of Drassil’s great hall. Kadoshim and Ben-Elim wheeled and circled, though the Kadoshim were few.

  ‘It’s all right,’ a voice was saying. ‘Just lie still a while.’

  She shifted her head and saw Cywen looking at her with an expression of great concern, and standing with one leg over her was Storm, her chainmail coat hanging in tatters, her belly vibrating with a deep rumbling growl as she tracked Kadoshim in the air above them. The wolven looked down at Coralen, her muzzle thick with crusted blood. She bent her neck and licked Coralen’s face, then went back to growling at the sky.

  Coralen looked from side to side, saw Cywen kneeling above her, Dath one side of her, unconscious, Farrell the other, groaning and trying to sit up. Cywen pushed none too gently on his chest.

  ‘Slowly,’ Cywen said.

  ‘Where’s Ban?’ Coralen asked as she pushed herself upright so that she was sitting. The world spun, and she fought the urge to vomit. She put a hand tentatively to the back of her head and found a lump the size of an egg.

  Storm looked towards the chamber’s doors and started whining. Coralen looked, too, and saw high up on the tiered steps two figures silhouetted by the pale light of the open doorway. They were fighting, the most ferocious sword-crossing Coralen had ever seen.

  She felt her breath catch in her chest.

  One of them was Ban, she knew without doubt by the way he moved, elegance and strength merged.

  Who is he fighting?

  Then Storm was leaping away, a growl rippling from her belly.

  Coralen pushed herself to her feet, felt a wave of dizziness, let it pass and stumbled after Storm. Behind her she heard Farrell grunting as he tried to rise again, Cywen swearing at him.

  Coralen stumbled up the first steps that led to the doorway, swayed and nearly fell, had to pause and close her eyes.

  Behind her she heard Cywen scream and her eyes snapped open, vision blurred, squinting, trying to focus on Corban.

  For a moment what she saw made no sense. The two men, warriors in leather and mail, were standing close together. One was Corban, she knew, and the other one had no head.

  Black mist poured from the headless man’s neck, forming into the now-familiar wings and red eyes of a Kadoshim.

  Calidus. It must be him. And Ban’s killed him.

  She felt a fierce pride in Corban, respect and love mingled.

  But Cywen was still screaming, and she heard Farrell rise and call out, heard him come staggering behind her.

  Why is Cywen screaming?

  And where’s Gar?

  She started to move, a stumbling walk, breaking into a stumbling run.

  The cloud of the mist-wraith was shredding now, disappearing, and the two figures fell to the ground.

  Fear snatched at Coralen’s heart.

  No, not Ban, no, no, no.

  Storm reached the two fallen figures. She started nudging Corban with her muzzle, whining, nudged him again, licking his face and hands.

  Then she stood, raised her head to the heavens and howled.

  Coralen ran to Corban, saw that a figure splayed a few steps below him was Gar. He lay in a pool of dark blood, face pale as milk, blood crusting on his lips and chin. His eyes tracked her, though.

  Corban was sprawled upon a wide step, Calidus’ headless corpse beside him, and a sword was sticking from Corban’s body, low, between his ribcage and right hip.

  Coralen threw herself down to him. His eyes were closed. Desperately she felt for a pulse, two fingers at his neck.

  Nothing.

  No.

  His wrist.

  Please, dear Elyon, let him live, let him live, let him live.

  Nothing. No pulse. No breath from his mouth or nose.

  Please.

  She lifted his head, stroking him, willing breath into his body, hoping, praying, begging that his chest would rise and fall, but nothing happened.

  He’s gone.

  She lay across his body and wept, behind her the sound of Storm’s howl filling the chamber.

  There was a thud close by, Farrell dropping to his knees beside her. He was weeping, too.

  ‘I’m your shieldman, supposed to guard your back, supposed to keep you safe . . .’ He was sobbing, his whole body shaking.

  Coralen sat up, cuffed her tears and crawled to Gar, only a few paces away.

  Gar tried to lift his head. He ha
d a wound high in his chest, Coralen suspected a blade had pierced him through, as blood was pooling out from beneath his back. His mouth moved, bubbles of blood on his lips, and she knew that was never a good sign.

  ‘Ban?’ he said, his voice a wet croak.

  Coralen sat beside him, wiped the blood and grime from his face and lips. She shook her head.

  Gar groaned, squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking from them. He flopped over, managed to get one elbow under him, attempting to drag himself to Corban. Coralen tried to help him. Farrell came and between them they lifted Gar and carried him to Corban’s side.

  ‘Ah, my Ban,’ Gar breathed, lying beside Corban, looking at him. He took Corban’s hand, and Coralen put her hand upon both of theirs. She could hardly see them for her tears.

  She sat there a while, stroking Corban’s face.

  His beautiful, beautiful face.

  She looked up, not knowing how much time had passed, but it couldn’t have been long, for the sun still filtered through the open doorway behind her. Storm was lying beside Corban, her muzzle pressed in tight to his head. She was whining quietly.

  She thought Gar was dead, he was so still and pale, but when she lifted her head his eyes fluttered open. More blood was upon his lips.

  Coralen saw Cywen and Dath climbing the steps to them, Dath with an arm around Cywen’s shoulder.

  Behind her there was a squawk, a frail flapping.

  ‘Help Craf,’ the crow cawed.

  Farrell did, hurrying to find Craf on the stairs. He brought the crow back to them, one of the bird’s wings was hanging at the wrong angle. He broke out into mournful squawking when he saw Corban and Gar, and demanded to be placed upon Corban’s chest, where he immediately lay down and started cawing softly.

  Coralen looked about the chamber, saw Asroth frozen in black iron, many Ben-Elim still within the chamber, but only dead Kadoshim.

  The battle’s won, Coralen realized. In here, at least. Asroth defeated, Rhin and Calidus slain, vengeance had. But I’d trade it all to have Ban back. Why did we not run, after Gramm’s hold? Just leave, as Ban suggested, and make a new home, a new life? She looked for Cywen and Dath, knew they must be close, now, but she couldn’t see them for the tears in her eyes.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR

  CORBAN

  Corban kicked Calidus in the belly, doubling the Kadoshim up, punched him on the temple, dropping him to one knee, then kicked him in the head, sending him arching back into the air, high, to slam to the grey-cloaked ground. Calidus lay there, his breath ragged, a groan escaping his lips. He flapped his leather-dark wings, but to no obvious effect.

  They were in the Otherworld, and Corban was finishing what he’d started in the world of flesh. They were in a valley with steep-sided cliffs, a flowing river of deep blue beside them, the grass growing green.

  This is where I first came. When I saw Meical speak to the Ben-Elim. This river leads to a lake.

  He shuddered as he remembered his last visit here, and his encounter with the creature that lived within the waters there.

  ‘Get up,’ he said to the Kadoshim now, striding over and kicking him in the ribs, lifting Calidus off the ground. Corban felt a pain in his belly, low, above his hip, but it was a dull, muted pain, one that he could ignore.

  ‘No, stop,’ Calidus spluttered as Corban followed him and kicked him again. Corban didn’t stop. He dragged Calidus to his feet and punched him in the gut, hauled him back up by his braid-bound hair, silver even in this eternal world, though his features were more reptilian here, a scaly quality to his skin. And he had wings.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Calidus said, a line of spittle dripping from his mouth as he pulled away, stumbling back.

  Corban strode after him, drawing the sword at his hip. He looked at it a moment, saw that it was still the sword his da had made him, wolven-pommelled, though it was different here, burning with a cold fire. Calidus held a hand out.

  ‘I’m going to finish what I began on Drassil’s steps,’ Corban said. ‘I’m going to kill you.’

  Calidus choked back a laugh. ‘You can’t,’ he hissed.

  ‘Watch me,’ Corban snarled and chopped at Calidus two-handed. His sword sheared through Calidus, from collarbone to hip, but as Corban’s sword passed through his body the wound healed up, became a raw, inflamed scar, like the wound upon Calidus’ neck.

  Calidus screamed and collapsed writhing upon the ground, but still smiled up at Corban with bloody teeth.

  ‘What I mean,’ Calidus said, gasping, ‘is that it is virtually impossible to destroy a soul. Wounds that would cause death in your world do not have the same effect here . . . We could do this for an eternity.’ He looked up at Corban. ‘You’ve won. Asroth is imprisoned. Our plans lie in ruins, our hosts vanquished. Is that not enough for you?’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Corban growled and raised his sword again, but it hovered at its apex. As much as Calidus deserved an eternity of pain, Corban was not one for torture. A painful death, yes. But torture . . . ?

  Then he had a thought.

  He reached down and grabbed Calidus by a leathery wing and began to drag him across the grass until they reached the lake with the red-leaved tree beside it.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Calidus said, a new edge of fear creeping into his voice.

  Corban put a hand to his mouth and shouted.

  ‘VIATHUN,’ he yelled, and waited.

  ‘What?’ Calidus said, the fear in his voice rising a level. ‘What are you doing? Not hi—’

  Corban punched Calidus in the gut again, dropping him to his knees.

  The waters of the lake bubbled and boiled, and a figure appeared: a man, wrapped in a black flowing cloak. He rose out of the lake, visible to the waist, and began to speed towards them, as if the water were carrying him on a great wave. He stepped onto the lakeshore and approached them, oil-dark hair, his skin grey-mottled and dark-veined, cloak swirling around him like a living thing.

  Corban remembered it well, and hoped that he wasn’t making a mistake.

  Viathun stopped a score of paces before them and looked first at Calidus, upon his knees, and then up at Corban.

  ‘Welcome back,’ Viathun said. ‘A surprise.’

  ‘Aye. For me, too,’ Corban said. ‘I am hoping that this visit will be more mutually beneficial than the last one.’

  ‘Well, the Ben-Elim tried to poke me full of holes last time, so that shouldn’t be hard.’

  ‘Aye, and you tried to eat my soul,’ Corban said.

  ‘We all have our appetites.’ Viathun shrugged.

  ‘Are you hungry now?’ Corban asked.

  Calidus whimpered, tried to flap away, but Corban held his wings tight.

  ‘Always,’ Viathun grinned, revealing the tips of very sharp teeth.

  ‘Well, here you are, then,’ Corban said, hurling Calidus forwards, ‘though I don’t imagine he tastes very nice.’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ Viathun replied.

  Calidus tried to run, but he was weak and feeble, and Viathun’s cloak was viper-fast, oily tendrils whipping out and wrapping around Calidus’ ankles and wrists, around his throat, coiling and flexing tight.

  ‘What do you want in return?’ Viathun asked.

  ‘I want to go home,’ Corban said. ‘Back to my body in the world of flesh.’

  ‘That’s a trifle,’ Viathun said, ‘not a fair trade, really.’

  ‘Well, then let’s say you owe me.’

  Viathun grinned then, his mouth suddenly too big for his face, teeth long and sharp and glistening.

  ‘We have a pact,’ Viathun said.

  ‘You can still stop this,’ Calidus said. ‘Please, I can help you. You and I, we could achieve great things together, Corban, PLEASE.’ The last word was screamed, as Viathun’s cloak began to drag Calidus down the lakeshore.

  ‘This is called justice,’ Corban said to him, face hard as stone. He turned and began walking away.

 
‘You pathetic excuse for a man, you have not won here, you can never win,’ Calidus spat after him. ‘Your mother screamed when I killed her, do you remember the blood on her lips?’

  ‘I do,’ Corban whispered, and carried on walking. He heard Viathun whispering words as he dragged Calidus into the lake, Calidus’ screaming rising in pitch, the sound of water splashing, cascading, Calidus’ yells becoming a choking splutter as the Otherworld faded around Corban.

  Corban took a great, shuddering breath, feeling as if his lungs had been emptied of all air. Pain throbbed in his torso, above his hip, an explosion with every breath. And people were all around him.

  I was stabbed in the belly.

  There was a weight upon his chest, but as he sucked in lungfuls of air, gasping as if he’d just sprinted a league, he felt the weight move, a fluttering of feathers in his face, and Craf was squawking joyfully. And a rough tongue was licking his ear, his cheek, Storm making snuffling noises. She bounded away, spun in a circle, making people jump and shout, and leaped back, resumed licking his face. Corban tried to sit up.

  The first face he saw was Coralen’s. She was smiling at him, such a beautiful smile, it made his heart feel it had melted to mist.

  There were tears on her cheeks.

  ‘You’re crying,’ he said, though it came out a croaked whisper.

  ‘Well, you were dead,’ she answered, and started kissing him.

  Voices rang out, other faces drifting into focus, all standing around him in a great circle. He glimpsed Balur One-Eye, Edana, a Ben-Elim with its white-feathered wings furled. Again he tried to move but pain stopped him. He felt pressures upon him, one of them around his wound, knew that Calidus had put a sword through him, which couldn’t be good. He was surprised to see the sword was still there, though, hilt and some of the blade standing proud of his torso. Cywen was there, crouching beside him, her cheeks still bloodstained, though there seemed to be more tears now. She’d cut away his clothes around the wound and she was looking at him with an expression somewhere between incredulity and joy. She reached out a hand and stroked his cheek.