Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  What is wrong with him?

  Meical drew in a shuddering breath.

  ‘Thank Elyon,’ Meical said. ‘You still live in your world of flesh. If your spirit is here, then your body has survived.’ Meical seemed to struggle with this speech, as if each word took an effort of pain and will. ‘Otherwise your spirit would have crossed the bridge of swords.’

  Corban blinked.

  Meical reached out, beckoning Corban to come closer.

  Corban flinched away.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ Corban snapped, remembering the great hall in Drassil.

  The great lie.

  Corban heard a hiss of outrage ripple through the room behind him. Meical held a hand up.

  ‘Peace,’ Meical said.

  ‘But,’ one of the Ben-Elim spluttered, ‘this creature of flesh, he gives insult to you, our high captain, second only to the All-Father.’

  ‘He has good cause,’ Meical said, lowering his head. He leaned back in his chair and gestured for Corban to stand. Corban saw that Meical was paler than he had ever seen him. Around his neck was a red wound, raw and angry. It was leaking some clear, ichor-like substance.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Corban said.

  ‘Sometimes, if the wound is bad in the world of flesh, we bring a shadow of it with us back to the Otherworld.’

  Corban’s hand went to his chest, the dull ache he felt with every breath, and understood that it was an echo of his broken ribs.

  ‘So, what is that a shadow of?’ Corban said, pointing to Meical’s wound.

  ‘I was beheaded, in Drassil,’ Meical said.

  ‘What!’ The horn blasts, the sounds of battle that I heard. A seed of dread unfurled deep in Corban’s gut.

  ‘Calidus, Nathair. They attacked.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The tunnels,’ Meical said wearily.

  ‘What of my friends and kin? My people . . . ?’

  ‘Some escaped,’ Meical breathed. ‘Gar led a retreat down the north tunnel. I held the Kadoshim, as long as I could.’ He shook his head. ‘Drassil is taken.’

  The fortress fallen, taken by Nathair and Calidus . . .

  The implications hit Corban like a stone fist.

  My warband defeated; those that followed me, trusted me – dead. My friends . . .

  ‘See what your scheming has achieved,’ he snarled and launched himself at Meical. His attack was so unexpected and so fast that he had his fingers clamped about Meical’s throat before anyone could move. Then there was an explosion of activity behind him: shouting, hands grasping him, wings flexing, beating. Blows rained upon Corban but he shrugged them off, continued squeezing. Meical did not fight back, just sat within the great wings of his throne and stared into Corban’s eyes as he cried tears of grief and rage.

  ‘You’ve murdered my friends,’ he yelled, a red rage swallowing him, replacing his despair. Something crunched into his head and the world disappeared for a moment in a white explosion. He felt his fingers slipping from Meical, tried to hold on, but then more hands were gripping him, dragging him back, pressing him onto his knees.

  He looked up to see weapons raised over him and angry faces encircling him. A spear was speeding towards his heart.

  ‘No,’ Meical said, and the spear froze, a handspan from Corban’s chest. Angry voices called out; Corban heard words like punishment and sacrilege.

  ‘No,’ Meical repeated, and the crowd parted before Corban to reveal Meical still sitting upon the throne. He regarded Corban with his emotionless face back in place, though Corban thought he saw cracks within it. ‘He has cause to be angry with me.’

  ‘Angry . . . ?’ Corban shook his head. ‘You lied to me, to all of us in Drassil, used us as bait, as pawns. All of you,’ he added, glaring at the Ben-Elim gathered around him. Most of them were glaring back at him. ‘And now it seems that your plan has worked a little too well. You certainly brought Calidus running to Drassil. Tell me, Meical, was it also part of your plan for Drassil to fall, for my friends, my kin, my people to be slaughtered . . . ?’ He ground his teeth, swallowed. ‘Or for you to be beheaded?’

  ‘No, it was not,’ Meical said with a slow sigh.

  The war is lost before it even began. The Banished Lands conquered, all those whom I love slain or scattered. Despair rose up in him then, draining all energy from his limbs. He slumped in his captors’ grip.

  ‘It is not over,’ Meical said. It took a few moments for his words to seep through the fog of misery and hopelessness that engulfed Corban.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Corban whispered.

  ‘No. Not while you live. Not while Calidus still seeks the Seven Treasures. He needs them all to fulfil his plan, and until then Asroth is bound here, in the Otherworld.’

  ‘There is no way back from this . . .’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Meical said. ‘Gar led many from Drassil. They may still live. There are those who would still stand against Nathair and Calidus. There is still hope.’

  Corban’s head snapped up, locking eyes with Meical. ‘Do not speak to me of hope, you who have fed me lies all my life. You are no better than Asroth and his Kadoshim; a liar, a deceiver, and I wish I’d never met you.’

  Angry words rippled around the chamber.

  Meical’s gaze hardened. ‘I have allowed you the courtesy of expressing your anger, but do not go too far. There is more at stake here than your hurt feelings. You are behaving like an angry child.’ He paused, visibly sagged in his chair, passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Your whole world lies in the balance. It is not over yet; there is still hope, a fighter’s chance.’

  ‘There is no chance – nothing that I can do. Back in the Banished Lands I am a captive of the Jotun, wounded, my bones broken. And Storm is dead . . .’ His voice choked in his throat, a fresh wave of emotion swelling in his chest.

  Meical lowered his head. ‘Another grievous blow,’ he muttered. ‘Storm was a better guardian than a score of shieldmen.’

  ‘She was more than my guardian,’ Corban snarled. ‘She was my companion. My friend . . .’ He rubbed his eyes, angrily brushed away his tears. ‘Your lies have caused the death of my kin – my da, my mam, my friends, and so many others. All of them dying for a hope that never existed. All of them dying for me. And because you underestimated Calidus, you have left us with no chance—’

  ‘While there is breath in your body there is a chance!’ Meical shouted, leaning forwards in his chair, hands gripping the armrests. For a moment his cold face melted away. ‘And if there is no chance of victory, then what of vengeance? Do more than talk and whine: seek your vengeance for those fallen. Or would you rather wallow in self-pity than try to save your loved ones?’ He sagged, the effort clearly draining him.

  I will not be told what to do by him. I will be controlled and manipulated by him no longer. Nevertheless Meical’s words affected him, images of Gar and Cywen, Coralen, Farrell and Dath, Brina, Edana, so many others that he had met during the long hard journey from his home in Dun Carreg to Drassil. And the thought of them without him, perhaps fighting, maybe dying . . .

  For a moment all he wanted was to get back to them, to be at their side.

  I will not abandon them to death or torment, let them face the end alone. I must go back. If there is a chance to help them.

  He looked up at Meical, felt his fists clenching. ‘I will go back, but not for you. Not for any of you. I am your puppet no longer. I go to help those that I love.’

  Meical stared at him for long, silent moments, then nodded his head. ‘I will help you all that I can, though I am bound to the Otherworld now. I cannot return to the Banished Lands—’

  ‘I don’t want your help,’ Corban growled.

  Meical finally nodded. ‘Good,’ he whispered. He approached Corban and placed a palm over his eyes, whispering words that Corban could not hear. He opened his mouth to say something, but then the world seemed to fade about him . . .

  CHAPTER FIVE

  RAFE

/>   Rafe felt something wet and rough scratching across his cheek. He wanted to move but found he lacked the ability. Even opening his eyes was too much of an effort. So he just lay there, allowing his other senses to wash over him. He ached; his muscles, joints, his very bones seemed to throb, but even as he became aware of the sensation it began to fade, transforming into something else – a sense of relaxed exhaustion, like lying in a hot bath after a long hunt. He could hear birdsong, the ripple of river-water and the hulls of moored boats nudging into one another. Beyond that the drum of hooves, many feet. Voices.

  He did not know how long he lay on the ground like that, but at some point the rough wet scratching on his face came back. A dog’s tongue licking him. A smile cracked his lips and he opened his eyes. An explosion of light burst upon him, feeling as if rays of the sun had pierced his skull, lancing through his head. He screwed his eyes shut, the pain dimmed. He tried again, slowly this time. He saw a black nose snuffling, fur tickling his chin.

  ‘Hello, Sniffer,’ he croaked, his voice raw and cracked. Ignoring the pain, he pulled himself to his knees, then to his feet. He staggered and braced himself against the wide trunk of a tree.

  What has happened to me?

  He stretched, the stiffness in his body melting away. For a while he stood there, feeling his muscles uncoiling, enjoying the sense of energy. Of strength and vitality that flowed through him.

  ‘I feel good,’ he muttered, smiling and reaching to pat Sniffer’s head. He saw Scratcher standing further away, eyeing him suspiciously.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, beckoning the hound. ‘Nothing to fear.’ The hound came to him, ears still flattened, tail tucked low, and he laughed, ruffling the hound’s fur.

  I’m starving.

  Memories filtered back. Of the battle in the swamp against Edana’s warband, his desperate escape, of walking away from Morcant’s tower after his interrogation by Rhin and her giant, Uthas. Then walking along the riverbank, finding a solitary spot beside a tree to drink a skin of wine and eat some cold lamb. He scratched at his chin, felt a thick layer of stubble, which felt strange.

  How long have I been here?

  He looked around, at the marshland trees and bushes, the birds nesting amongst them, blue and orange butterflies flitting, then up at the sky, which was a clear blue, the spring sun warm upon his face. Somehow everything felt sharper, brighter, and clearer.

  I feel reborn.

  He looked down and noticed the shoulder of lamb he’d brought with him from the camp. The hounds had stripped it clean and cracked the bones. Beside it were the broken shards of the box he’d found in the bog near Dun Taras. And next to that was a cup, dark metal, runes carved into its rim. A dribble of wine ran from it.

  And he remembered, like a punch in the gut.

  I drank from it.

  His legs felt weak and he leaned against the tree as he felt for a moment an echo of the pleasure and pain that had racked his body after drinking from the cup. He felt scared.

  What have I done? It is an enchanted cup, it has some kind of spell upon it. But I am not dead. If anything I feel more alive than ever before.

  He took a tentative step away from the tree, reaching down to pick up the bag that contained his kit. For a few heartbeats he stood and stared at the cup, then quickly bent and grabbed it, stuffing it into his bag.

  He picked his way along a twisting trail amongst the tall grass banks of reed, eventually coming across a stream that led him back to the river.

  The river was full of moored boats, the strong smells of newly cut pine, sap and fresh-soaked pitch filled the air. Frames of scaffolding timbers that held half-constructed boats lined the riverbank, skeletal hulls like the bones of flesh-picked whales. Teams of men were working on them. Rafe walked past unnoticed, moving out onto the rolling meadows that spread beyond the marshlands and ended in the north at the fringes of the Baglun Forest. He stopped here, staring, surprised at the difference in what felt like only a half-day, but had clearly been longer. Immediately before him was Morcant’s tower. Wains pulled by shaggy-coated auroch filed in and out of the tower gates. On the meadow about it the tents of Rhin’s warband of black and gold had multiplied. To the west Rafe saw horsemen riding at straw targets, other men on foot sparring with practice swords and spears.

  They are readying for another stab at Edana, then.

  ‘Rafe.’

  Morcant was striding towards him, looking striking in his black cuirass and sable cloak edged in gold trim, hair pulled back, warrior braid freshly bound with gold wire. Two guards walked at his back.

  He looks far better than the last time I saw him – in Rhin’s tent, fresh from the battle, covered in marsh slime and blood and stinking like a stagnant pool.

  ‘Where have you been, boy?’ Morcant snapped at him.

  ‘I, uh, over there. Sleeping,’ Rafe said, pointing vaguely at the river and marshes.

  ‘Sleeping?’ Morcant snorted. ‘For a ten-night?’

  A ten-night!

  ‘I thought you’d deserted – didn’t think you had the stomach for any more battle.’

  ‘I have so,’ Rafe said, bridling at Morcant’s veiled insult.

  ‘Watch yourself,’ Morcant scowled. ‘I’m Lord of Ardan now and can put your head on a spike with a snap of my fingers.’

  Rafe felt a blossoming of anger, hotter and faster than he was used to. With an effort he suppressed it.

  ‘I thought Evnis was Lord of Ardan.’

  ‘Evnis has not returned, is believed dead,’ Morcant said disdainfully. ‘Rhin has appointed me to rule in his absence.’

  Dead? In truth Rafe had lost sight of Evnis when the rebels’ fire had started sinking their boats and Rafe had become too preoccupied with his own survival to worry about anyone else.

  But he would grieve for Evnis if he was dead. He had been his lord for as long as he could remember; his da had served Evnis as huntsman for many years.

  ‘So,’ Morcant told him arrogantly. ‘I am your lord now, and you shall remember it. Now, come with me; Queen Rhin wishes to speak with you.’

  He followed Morcant around the rim of the hill, skirting the palisaded wall as they made their way through lines of tents to a central larger one. Towering like statues, two giants stood outside, alongside a handful of Rhin’s shieldmen. Rafe gazed at them as he waited to be announced. The giant nearest to him was a female. She stood with folded arms, returning his stare, two knife hilts as long as short swords criss-crossing her back. Her brow furrowed as she regarded him.

  ‘Queen Rhin will see you now,’ a shieldman told them and Rafe stepped out of the sunshine into the cool shadow of the tent. Rhin was sat at a broad table, her silver hair braided with golden wire, a bearskin cloak pulled high about her neck. A huge parchment was unrolled on the table. Rafe glanced at it and saw it was a map of the marshlands, their position at Morcant’s tower marked upon it. The marshes were largely a blank, with a circle roughly marking the position of Dun Crin.

  Behind Rhin stood Uthas of the Benothi, gripping a thick-shafted spear, and about his neck hung a necklace made from long, curved fangs.

  ‘Ah, the wanderer returns,’ Rhin cried when she saw him. ‘I thought you dead. Or captured,’ she added, her eyes narrowing. ‘Can I trust you, now? Where have you been?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ Morcant said before Rafe could reply.

  ‘Who with?’ Rhin asked.

  ‘No one. Myself,’ Rafe stuttered. ‘My dogs . . .’

  Rhin raised an eyebrow. ‘No need to be shy – everyone needs some time to relax and indulge in their personal pleasures, else what is life for? But sleeping for a ten-night, a little extreme, don’t you think? And a little unbelievable. Are you lying to me?’

  ‘No, my Queen,’ Rafe mumbled, ‘I drank something . . .’

  Morcant snorted laughter.

  Rhin paused and stared at Rafe, head cocking to one side. ‘Are you well? You seem . . . different.’

  Rafe returned her gaze stead
ily, his eyes drawn to the details of her face: the wrinkles creased around her mouth, tracing a tapestry upwards across the arch of her cheeks to cluster around her eyes. Her skin appeared so fine, almost translucent. His gaze was drawn deeper, the pulse of myriad veins beneath her diaphanous skin a steady and hypnotic beat. His gaze drifted higher, to her eyes, which were a deep, dark blue, like still waters. They transfixed him.

  ‘Answer your Queen,’ Morcant snapped, raising his hand to cuff Rafe across the back of the head. Rafe saw it all as if in slow motion and, before he’d even realized what he was doing, his hand shot up, grabbing Morcant’s wrist and stopping it dead in its tracks. There was a moment of shocked silence, everyone staring at Rafe as Morcant tugged on his arm, unable to break Rafe’s grip.

  ‘How dare you?’ Morcant snarled, as he struggled to free himself, before reaching for the knife at his belt. ‘I’ll carve off your bloody fingers one by one.’

  ‘Enough,’ Rhin said.

  Morcant froze and, with a conscious effort, Rafe suppressed the bubbling anger within him and released Morcant’s wrist. Red marks were already purpling into bruises.

  ‘I don’t like being struck,’ Rafe muttered.

  ‘So we can see,’ Rhin said with a calculating smile. Morcant scowled at him as Uthas leaned forwards, grey bushy eyebrows bunching together in a frown.

  Morcant is Lord of Ardan, now. What have I done?

  ‘I . . . I am, sorry,’ he said, quietly, then rubbed his eyes. ‘I do not know why I did that, or what is happening to me . . .’

  Rhin exchanged a quick unfathomable look with Uthas before turning back. ‘I have need of you, so I shall forgive you, this once.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’ Rafe had the sense to dip his head as he spoke, avoiding the urge to glance at Morcant and smirk. ‘And I am sorry, my Queen,’ he added for good measure.