Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  The bear was a patchwork of wounds. A great flap of flesh hung loose above its shoulder, more a tear than a cut. Half the length of its side had been opened with what looked like a sword-cut, ribs shattered and flakes of white bone sprinkled amongst the red ruin.

  ‘Corban,’ Coralen said as she pointed to the sword-wound in the bear’s side.

  ‘That’s not what killed it,’ Farrell said, pointing away from the gaping slash in the bear’s side. ‘That is.’ The bear’s throat had been opened, the flesh lacerated and hanging. They’d all seen that type of wound before.

  ‘Storm,’ Gar said.

  ‘This is where we found them,’ Pax said, his voice raw with grief. ‘Where da speared the giant.’

  ‘Describe this giant,’ Gar said.

  ‘Fair-haired, the colour of fresh straw. A war-hammer. He looked . . . regal. In charge. And he was talking to Corban.’

  ‘Could it be Ildaer?’ Laith said.

  Coralen felt a pulse of anger at the name, saw Gar stiffen. Ildaer was the Warlord of the Jotun. He had slain Tukul, Gar’s father, at Gramm’s hold and broken Gar’s ribs when he had tried to avenge his da’s death.

  The ground showed the signs of more bears – at least another four, maybe more – as well as other giants on foot. Tracks led northwards into the forest, away from Drassil.

  Ildaer and the Jotun had fought alongside Jael of Isiltir, who in turn was allied to Nathair, so the logical conclusion was that the Jotun would have taken Corban to Drassil, would have joined the battle. But their tracks headed north.

  ‘Where are they going?’ Coralen asked.

  Dath moved first, breaking the spell the dead bear had put upon them. ‘Don’t know, but we won’t find them or Ban by standing here,’ he said.

  ‘When did this happen?’ Gar asked.

  ‘Yesterday, after highsun,’ Pax replied.

  ‘We’ve seen no sign of a camp,’ Coralen said. ‘No cook-fires, nowhere slept upon – little spoor. My guess is they set off after capturing Corban, so there must have been enough light to make a good start. If we follow their trail, see how much ground they covered before making camp, we’ll get a better idea of how far ahead of us they are.’

  Gar grunted an agreement and together they moved up a steep slope, entering an area of dense vegetation.

  The hill levelled out and opened up, sunshine breaking through the canopy above. It was past highsun, the day beginning its slow crawl towards night. To the south Coralen could see Drassil, pillars of smoke spiralling from it. She looked back to the hill she was standing on, at the bear and giant tracks that led down the hill, north, away from Drassil.

  The sound of movement drew Coralen’s attention, a rustling. Immediately her sword was in her fist and she was seeking cover, the others following suit, Dath with an arrow nocked. Laith pulled one of her throwing knives, as big as a sword, from the leather belt strapped across her chest. Gar signalled to the Jehar before and behind them, and then they waited.

  Beyond the peak of the hill the forest was shrouded in shadow, hindering Coralen’s vision, but the crunch of forest litter and approaching rustle amongst the foliage spoke of many feet. A figure appeared, crouched, moving carefully, dark shadows taking form behind it. Iron glinted. Then Gar was stepping from behind a tree, sheathing his sword and striding down the hill.

  ‘Well met,’ he said to Tahir, the shieldman of Haelan, boy-King of Isiltir. The warrior gave a lopsided grin of relief and took Gar’s forearm in the warrior grip. He was not overly tall, but was broad and thick-muscled, his arms looking too long for his body. Dark hollows ringed his eyes, and there was a long tear across the shoulder of his chainmail shirt, blood caked around it.

  ‘Been looking for you,’ Tahir said.

  ‘And you’ve found us,’ Gar said. ‘How did you know where to search?’

  ‘One of my lads saw Meical defending the door to the northern tunnel. You don’t defend a door for nothing. We retreated out of the main gate, made it to the forest and started circling this way.’ More men appeared behind him: forty, fifty, others hidden in the forest gloom, most wearing the red cloaks of Isiltir. ‘Taken us all night and half the day, forest was crawling with Kadoshim and Vin Thalun. Think we’ve taught them to fear the forest better, though.’ A rumble of agreement spread through the warriors behind him.

  ‘Where’s Haelan?’ Gar asked, and Tahir’s face dropped.

  ‘I don’t know. I tried to find him.’ Tahir’s mouth twisted with something between pain and shame.

  ‘He’s a resourceful lad,’ Gar said. ‘I’d wager he’s found a hole to hide in.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Tahir replied, a tremor in his voice.

  ‘How many with you?’ Gar asked him.

  ‘Hundred and forty-six swords that can fight,’ Tahir said, ‘another dozen wounded.’

  ‘You’ve done well, saving so many,’ Gar said.

  ‘Aye, well. Slow and steady wins the race, as my old mam used to say.’ Tahir looked around. ‘Where’s Corban?’

  ‘Taken, by the Jotun. We have just found his trail.’

  Tahir scowled and spat. ‘Giants,’ he muttered, then looked back to Gar. ‘So. What do we do now?’

  Gar looked at him and blinked.

  With Corban and Meical gone, Gar is our natural leader, now. And not just for us, but for all who fought at Drassil. He is Lord of the Jehar and Corban’s first-sword. All Coralen wanted to do was find Corban, but with survivors scattered throughout the forest, Gar had more to consider.

  ‘I am going after Corban,’ Gar said and turned away to stare at the trail that led northwards.

  Tahir gripped his arm. ‘What about us?’ he asked.

  ‘You and your warriors will rest a while, drink, eat, tend to your wounds.’

  ‘I don’t just mean us,’ Tahir said, waving a hand at his men. ‘I mean the warband of Drassil. Many still live – can you not hear them still fighting? For Corban. You cannot just abandon them.’

  Gar stared at him, face twitching.

  Coralen crouched beside the burned-out fire and brushed the ash with her fingers. It was cold, not even the memory of heat lingering within it. She glanced up, saw Dath at the edge of shadow poking at a mound of bear dung.

  It was sunset; the forest was slipping into layers of shadow. After talking with Tahir, Gar had sent out scouts to see if the survivors of Drassil could be brought together. Coralen had left with Dath and Kulla to find the giants’ camp.

  She sprang up and ran from the site, easily following the path the giants had left.

  They are overly confident, are making no effort to hide their passage. They would not think that we were hunting them. If only I could reach them, it may be possible to steal Corban back in the darkness . . .

  ‘It’s too dark – we’ll lose their trail,’ Dath called after her but she ignored him, just ran on into the forest, following the tracks up a steep incline. She climbed it and stopped, kicking at a moss-covered stone, her heart sinking as she realized the implications of what she could see.

  ‘The old giants’ road,’ she said to Dath and Kulla as they joined her. It had been rebuilt by Jael’s warband. ‘And they’re moving fast.’

  ‘Aye,’ Kulla said. ‘Wherever they’re going, they want to get there quickly and are not worried about any pursuit.’

  ‘Probably think we’re all a bit busy with Nathair in Drassil,’ Dath added. He looked at Coralen. ‘How far ahead do you think they are?’

  ‘A day,’ Coralen grunted. ‘If they stick to that ruined road, maybe ten, twelve leagues.’

  ‘We’ll not catch them this night, then.’

  Coralen sucked in a long breath. ‘No,’ she growled.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Dath asked her.

  I want to keep running, keep moving until we find them. Find him. But there would be no quick rescue now. They would be fortunate to catch them in half a ten-night. Probably longer, if their bears have an open run.

  ‘Back to Gar,’ she
said.

  They had made it back to camp in good time, considering they were travelling almost blind, the moonlight little more than a shimmer above the forest canopy.

  Warriors were everywhere, clustered around small fires that had been surrounded by wicker panels to hide their glow. Coralen saw Gar standing beside a larger fire with a group around him; Tahir was there, as well as others whom she was pleased to see: Wulf in his bear pelt, a notched axe resting across his shoulder, Javed the pit-fighter, small and wiry, a giant outlined behind them.

  Gar saw her enter the glade and their eyes met. Coralen nodded, signalling that she’d found the giants’ camp.

  ‘We should strike, attack Drassil now,’ Javed said. ‘They’d not be expecting that. The Vin Thalun are in there.’ There was a barely contained rage edging his voice. ‘Lykos is there; the man who gave me this.’ He twisted to show the scar burned into the back of his shoulder, a twisting spiral. ‘He and his kind did this and worse to many of us,’ Javed said, waving a hand at his warriors. Angry murmurs spread amongst them.

  ‘Kick a stone in anger, you’ll hurt your foot,’ Tahir said.

  Javed just stared at him. The giant behind them laughed, a low rumbling like drums.

  ‘Just something my old mam used to say,’ Tahir muttered.

  ‘And what the hell does it mean?’ Javed scowled.

  ‘That acting from anger will get you killed,’ Gar said. ‘Anger is the enemy.’ He turned to the group close to him. ‘Fachen of the Benothi,’ Gar continued. ‘What would your clan advise?’

  The giant stepped forwards into the firelight, a double-bladed axe silhouetted across his shoulder.

  ‘Balur One-Eye is wounded, on the edge of life and death. Ethlinn will not leave him. We will not fight without her.’

  Gar nodded thoughtfully. ‘How many of your kin are with you?’

  ‘A score. Perhaps more are scattered in Forn.’ The giant shrugged.

  ‘I will send Brina with you when you return to them.’

  ‘Good. Ethlinn bade me ask for her.’

  ‘We cannot just do nothing,’ Javed snapped.

  ‘I do not intend to do nothing,’ Gar said.

  Other voices joined in, each proposing a different way forward – attacks, ambushes, strategies.

  This could go on all night.

  Coralen slipped across the glade, moving beyond the small council to the side of the glade. A makeshift rope-ladder hung over the edge, another fire flickering below, by the river’s bank. Coralen climbed nimbly down to find Brina with Storm. Farrell was there too, sitting with his back to the slope, eyes closed, a big hand resting upon Storm’s shoulder.

  ‘How is she?’ Coralen asked.

  Brina looked at her with sad eyes, tears glittering in the firelight.

  ‘I fear she will not win this fight,’ the healer said.

  Coralen’s heart lurched in her chest. But she used magic, said a spell. ‘But, what you did . . . ?’

  ‘It has helped,’ Brina said, ‘given her strength, but her wounds . . .’ She looked at Farrell, then lowered her voice to little more than a whisper. ‘And I used giant’s blood. Another wolven or something closer to her own species would have more power.’

  ‘There is a dead bear half a league from here,’ Coralen said. ‘One of those that the Jotun giants ride.’

  Brina reached into her cloak and removed an empty vial. ‘Fill this with its blood,’ she said, taking Coralen’s hand and closing her fingers about it. She glanced at Storm, at the wolven’s shallow breathing. ‘And be quick about it.’

  Coralen was.

  Most of the camp was sleeping when she returned from her grisly task. Gar and the other leaders were still in deep conversation.

  Brina was alone with Storm, the small fire crackling, casting shadows across the healer and wolven. Without a word, Brina took the vial and massaged the fluid into Storm’s gums and tongue.

  ‘Fuil namhaid, a thabhairt as shlainte agus neart,’ Brina muttered, over and over, her voice sounding like a stick scratching on slate. Coralen’s flesh goose-bumped. The fire seemed to dim and then flare; a twig popped. The wolven stirred, lifting her head to regard Brina with her amber wolven eyes.

  ‘Come back to us,’ Brina whispered. ‘Corban needs you.’

  Storm’s legs twitched and she gave a weak rumbling growl, then with a sigh she laid her head back on the turf.

  ‘Thank you,’ Brina said to Coralen, looking weary.

  Dirt skittered about them and Dath, Kulla and Laith appeared out of the darkness, waking Farrell.

  ‘How is she?’ Dath asked.

  ‘A little stronger,’ Brina said.

  ‘We’ll take it in turns to watch over her,’ Farrell said. ‘Even you must need to sleep.’

  ‘Well, for once you may be right,’ Brina muttered. She curled down beside the fire, pulling her cloak over her head. ‘Wake me if there is any change. And no going to sleep on watch.’ A bony finger poked out of the cloak and wagged at them all.

  Within moments Brina’s breathing changed, became slower and deeper.

  ‘So,’ Dath whispered to Coralen once they were all sure that Brina was soundly asleep. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Coralen asked.

  ‘You’ll be going after Corban. We’re coming too.’

  Coralen had decided to leave a little before first light, to slip away before the camp woke and started asking her questions. She needed to use every moment of daylight possible. Perhaps leave a message for Gar. It was clear that he was needed here, that his duties would force him to stay and oversee the fight against Nathair.

  ‘You can’t come,’ Coralen said, ‘Farrell and Laith’ll be too noisy, too slow.’

  Farrell leaned forwards. ‘Ban’s my friend. More than that. Closer than kin. I’m going after him, with you or without you.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d rather we travelled together. But I’ll not be staying here.’

  Coralen looked at them all, saw the resolve in their eyes.

  ‘All right then,’ she said. ‘Before dawn.’

  Morning came grey and damp, false dawn giving a half-light that helped Coralen to see beyond the fire-glow they’d kept crackling all night to give Storm a little warmth. Farrell, Dath, Kulla and Laith had all stayed, taking it in turns to watch over Storm. Now, silently they all stood, checked weapons and packs.

  ‘I would come with you, if not for Storm,’ Brina said as she stirred within her cloak.

  ‘We know,’ Coralen answered.

  Brina checked on the sleeping wolven. ‘Her heart beats stronger,’ she said.

  ‘That is good news,’ Coralen grinned. She crouched beside the wolven and ran her fingers through the thick fur of her neck, then leaned forwards and kissed Storm’s head.

  ‘I’ll be back, with Corban,’ she whispered.

  ‘Bring him back,’ Brina said watching them leave.

  I mean to, or die in the trying.

  The camp in the glade above was still and silent. Coralen and the others picked their way through the sleeping figures. As they slipped amongst the trees a figure stepped out in front of them.

  Gar.

  He had a pack slung across his back, a grim look upon his face. He nodded as he looked fiercely at the small gathering.

  ‘Good. Let’s be after him, then.’

  ‘We thought you were needed here, that you would have to stay,’ Coralen said.

  He gave her a withering look.

  ‘Only death would stop me from going after Ban.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CORBAN

  Corban woke to pain. He opened his eyes, stared up at a dappled canopy of leaf and branch, grey light leaking through it. It was passing him by, like clouds scudding across the sky.

  No, not the trees. It is I that am moving. And I am in Forn, he realized. Still in Forn. He felt relief at that. Being in Forn was not such a bad thing; he liked the forest, and it also meant that he was not a thousand leagues from Drassil and h
is friends, if any of them had survived. But the constant rocking, bumping motion wasn’t such a good thing, making his chest spike with pain and exacerbating the deep, dull throb in his knee, pulsing out in time with his heartbeat. Also, there was a terrible stink in his nose, musky and stale, making him want to gag.

  Time passed in something of a haze. His mind drifted and he thought of the Otherworld, of his meeting with Meical.

  He used me, manipulated me. Lied to me. But his words had also rung true. He needed to find his friends, to be at their side.

  How? That is the question. When I am broken and battered. A prisoner, travelling Elyon knows where.

  He moved his head slowly, from side to side, saw that he was on a makeshift litter that was being dragged through the forest. Behind him a huge figure loomed, thick with fur, a black snout and muzzle, yellowed teeth edging its jaw.

  A bear. One of the Jotun’s bears.

  A face reared over him, pale and blond-haired, a long braided moustache drooping down almost to Corban’s face. Corban recognized him as one of the giants that had dragged him away from Storm. ‘I’ll kill you,’ Corban hissed, instinctively reaching for his sword. When his fingers reached the empty scabbard he remembered that he’d left it in the body of a giant, back in the glade where he and Storm had fought and slain three of this giant’s kin.

  The giant’s eyes watched Corban’s gasping breathlessness and grunted.

  ‘You’ll not be killing any more of us Jotun today,’ the giant said in stilted speech. ‘But I like your spirit.’ He chuckled. ‘There’s fire in this pup’s belly, yet. Hala,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘seems you’ll make a healer, after all.’

  ‘I’ve been one for four hundred years, you idiot,’ a voice called back.

  The giant looked back at Corban and checked the binding of his leg splint, sending jolts of pain through Corban.

  ‘Don’t go dying on us,’ the giant said. Another giant face appeared beside it, this one red-haired and glowering.

  ‘He and his wolven killed Hronn, Rulf and Lut,’ it rumbled, reaching round with a hand the size of a shovel and cuffing Corban across the head. Just the blow was painful enough, but the fire it ignited in Corban’s chest was like a hammer strike and he screamed, the world fading to darkness. The last sound he heard was giant voices yelling at each other.