Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  ‘I am for Drassil,’ Alben said.

  Fidele looked around the fire-pit, saw all lost in their own deliberations. I would go to Drassil, she thought. To save my son and for vengeance upon Lykos. But Krelis speaks wisdom.

  ‘What of you, little brother?’ Krelis asked. ‘Are you for the great tree, or for home on the bay?’

  Veradis finally raised his head and regarded them all with his dark, serious eyes. ‘I have been a fool, been deceived, and committed dark deeds in the name of good.’ His face twisted with a bitter grimace as he looked at his open palms.

  Much blood those hands have spilt, for Calidus.

  ‘I would do what I can to put that right,’ Veradis continued. ‘But how?’ he mused. ‘My heart says Drassil, my head says home. Krelis is right, we do not know what awaits us at Drassil, though I do know this: Calidus has charged Jael of Isiltir, Gundul of Carnutan and Lothar of Helveth to build roads to Drassil, and with them they bring the full might of their realms. If we managed to make the long journey through Forn we would face impossible odds at the end of it.’

  ‘Not if Meical and the Bright Star still stand,’ Alben said.

  ‘And if they have fallen?’ Krelis said. ‘You are advising us to do the opposite of all you have taught. “Know your enemy, choose your ground.” That’s what you’ve always told me.’ Krelis shook his head.

  ‘I know,’ Alben admitted.

  ‘What of you?’ Krelis asked, shifting his gaze to Alcyon and the giants. Raina was cutting Alcyon’s hair with her knife, leaving the top long and thick, the sides shaved to the skin.

  What is she doing to him? He looks more fearsome now than ever before.

  ‘We will travel with you, whichever way you go. If you will have us,’ Alcyon said.

  ‘And why would you wish to join us?’ Krelis asked, eyes narrowing. ‘Why not just leave now and go back to your clan?’

  ‘Two reasons,’ Alcyon said, his voice like gravel. ‘A blood-debt –’ he glanced at Veradis – ‘and a blood-feud.’ As he said the last his fists clenched, knuckles popping. ‘Calidus made me a slave. Kept my family prisoner. I would even that score. Fight him now, fight him later.’ Alcyon shrugged. ‘As long as I fight him, I care not.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ Krelis added to Alcyon, ‘why the new haircut?’

  Alcyon rubbed the side of his head, stubble rasping on his palm, the hair on the top of his head a thick wedge.

  ‘This is my clan’s tradition. When Calidus caught me and bent me to his will I was Kurgan no longer. I did not deserve the mark of my clan. But now I am Kurgan again.’ He smiled viciously.

  ‘Neither course is clear,’ Fidele said, ‘though wisdom suggests we retreat. Are there any other options?’

  ‘We could fight now,’ Maquin said.

  All eyes turned to him. The grizzled warrior looked at his hands, turning them over. Fidele beside him saw the calluses and scars.

  ‘In the pit I have faced one foe, and I have faced many foes. It is always easier against one.’

  I saw him fight four men, and slay them all.

  ‘Against many I strike fast, before they have a chance to join against me, and I strike hard, to kill with one blow.’

  ‘Aye, but this is no pit. This is Forn Forest, and our enemies are not lining up before us,’ Krelis growled.

  ‘They will be, if we allow them to. But one of them is close to us, cut off from the others. Gundul and the warband of Carnutan are out there, close, building a road, distracted, spread out, with their backs to us. We’ll likely fight him one day, though next time we see him will probably be with half the realms of the Banished Lands at his back. Whether we go to Drassil or walk away, I say we have an opportunity here to even the odds a little. An opportunity we’d be fools to miss. And besides,’ he added, ‘there’s nothing like a good fight to clear the mind.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  JAEL

  Jael stumbled and almost fell, swearing under his breath as he reached out to grab a thick branch.

  I hate this forest.

  He steadied himself, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow and catch a few breaths. His huntsman Dag was somewhere up ahead, setting a gruelling pace as they marched through Forn Forest.

  How many nights have we lived in this twilight nightmare? Twenty? Thirty? A hundred? Will it ever end?

  A line of warriors were strung before and behind him: a few hundred men, the only survivors of his warband that had marched so proudly to the gates of Drassil.

  Thousands strong, the might of Isiltir, now broken, slain or scattered. And a third of those who fled with me have fallen since then to the forest, and to its inhabitants. He shuddered at the memory of finding guards grey and lifeless, their blood drained like juice from a ripe fruit, nothing much more left of them than skin and bone.

  How did it come to this? Victory was so close, Drassil almost mine. How did that boy defeat Sumur? He ground his teeth at the memory of Corban taking the Kadoshim’s head in single combat. It had been a blow, he could not deny, and it had done little for the morale of Jael’s warband. So Jael had ordered his finest warriors, his personal guard, to swarm Corban and slay him. Sure victory had seemed mere heartbeats away. But then the gates of Drassil had opened, that devil-wolven and the stallion galloping out ahead of a host of giants and sword-waving lunatics.

  It had all gone downhill from there.

  That had been when Jael had made the decision to retreat.

  Retreat, not flee. A strategic withdrawal. Better to retreat and live to fight another day. And that is what I shall do here. Retreat to Isiltir, raise a fresh warband, fight to hold on to what I have achieved.

  ‘My lord,’ a voice said behind him. A sweat-soaked warrior was giving him a concerned frown.

  ‘What?’ Jael snapped irritably.

  ‘The line, my King,’ the warrior said, jerking his head forwards.

  Jael realized the warriors he’d been following were still moving, disappearing into the foliage and shadows. Fear jolted him into movement, the thought of being stranded in the forest without Dag to guide him was a horror he had no wish to endure. He hastened on, limbs heavy and leaden, catching up with the men ahead, then he was settling back into the monotonous march, his eyes fixed on the heels of the man in front of him.

  Whispering ahead caused Jael to look up from the ground. Dag was moving back down the line, patting a shoulder here, pausing to say a few words there.

  Never thought of him as leader material. For some reason the thought irritated Jael. Always seemed like a loner. And those scars on his face don’t make him more pleasant to be around.

  The huntsman eventually reached Jael.

  ‘You have news?’ Jael asked, ashamed of the desperation and hope that he tried to keep from his voice.

  ‘Aye,’ Dag said. ‘There’s men up ahead.’

  Jael peered through dense undergrowth, for a moment struggling to understand what he was seeing.

  Only a dozen or so paces away, the undergrowth ended. A man-made clearing dotted with cut tree stumps led towards an embankment. Men, hundreds of them, were swarming over the embankment, which stretched as far as he could see in both directions. They were working, many wielding long-handled axes, and hammers were rising and falling, the rhythmic thud of their blows drumming through the forest.

  They are building a road.

  It must be Lothar or Gundul, still building to reach Drassil and win the race that I had already won.

  Just looking at the industriousness of what could only be his allies, even if they were also rivals in Jael’s mind, he began to feel something of his old confidence returning.

  I am safe. Safe from the forest, safe from pursuit.

  ‘With me,’ he said to Dag as he pushed his way through the undergrowth. He paused a moment, stood straighter and adjusted his tattered cloak, allowing his men to gather behind him, then marched across the clearing towards the embankment. The alarm was sounded when he was spotted, and warriors
rapidly appeared, clad in mail and brandishing swords and spears. Cuirasses and banners bore the emblem of a burning torch upon a pale field.

  Gundul’s warband, then. Excellent. He is far weaker than Lothar, and much easier to manipulate.

  Jael strode to a warrior standing amidst what was rapidly becoming a bristling hedge of sharp iron, already imagining that they were his warriors. His warband.

  ‘Take me to your King,’ Jael demanded imperiously.

  Jael paused for a moment on the road down which warriors of Carnutan were leading him. He’d walked a good half-league away from the forefront of this new road, built upon a fresh-piled embankment with the forest stripped back to either side. Wains were moving up and down the road, warriors lining it. Gundul’s camp appeared: a sprawling mass to the south of the new road, at its centre a huge tent upon a low hill.

  ‘How many?’ he whispered to Dag, who strode a step behind him. The rest of his tattered warband had been left at the side of the road.

  ‘Three, four thousand swords,’ the huntsman said with a shrug. ‘Hard to tell with all the other hangers-on.’

  They weaved through the camp, a host of sounds and smells assailing Jael as he was guided through a maze of tents and cook-fires; cattle lowed from paddocks, the stink of human habitation wafting towards him. After being a refugee in this otherworldly and oppressive forest for so long, he felt almost overwhelmed by it. The tent Jael had spied from the road rose up before him, larger than it had at first appeared. His escort of a few score warriors led him purposefully towards it.

  Gundul.

  A circle of pale-skinned and black-eyed warriors stood guard about the tent, clothed in dark mail and leather, curved swords arching over their shoulders.

  Nathair’s Jehar. A score of them had marched with his own warband, with Sumur as their captain. He remembered Sumur’s skill in battle, the fury of the others as they had charged into battle. And the winged things that poured from them like poison when they fell. His skin crawled.

  Whatever they are, they are not men. But whatever they are, they still died, still failed me. So much for Nathair’s great warriors. He felt an irrational anger about that, even as he felt fear and revulsion crawling across his skin. He regarded the Jehar before him suspiciously.

  What are you?

  Respect them, don’t fear them, he reminded himself. They die the same as the rest of us – Sumur fell to Corban, and the rest no doubt during the battle before the gates of Drassil.

  A pair of warriors parted before Jael. One opened the tent flap and Jael entered, Dag still a step behind.

  The tent was luxuriously furnished, thick furs carpeting the ground and gold-trimmed tapestries draping the walls. Perfumed candles burned, their scent thick and heavy in the air.

  Gundul was sitting on a wide-backed chair, one leg draped across the chair’s arm, women clad in diaphanous silk feeding him from various platters. A handful of young men lounged about him, their hair and beards slick and shining with oil; all of them were immaculately dressed in velvets and soft skins.

  Look at them, fawning sycophants gathered about the pot of gold. Not a single one of them looks like they’ve held a blade in battle.

  Jael suppressed a sneer.

  ‘Well met, Gundul,’ he said as he strode forwards.

  Gundul studied him, a blank expression replaced slowly with recognition. He shifted in his chair, but did not rise.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Jael of Isiltir,’ Gundul said, a flaccid smile spreading across his face.

  King of Isiltir, Jael silently corrected as he returned a forced smile.

  ‘I did not recognize you,’ Gundul said, taking a long moment to look Jael up and down. Jael was abruptly aware of his appearance. When he rode to the gates of Drassil he had been dressed in his finest war gear: a coat of gleaming chainmail, sable cloak trimmed with fur, breeches and boots of doeskin. Now his cloak was mud-crusted and in tatters, his chainmail smeared and rusting, his face and arms grimy and scratched beyond counting.

  ‘What a wonderful surprise,’ Gundul said with a barely disguised smirk. ‘I had heard that you were lost, presumed dead, after your defeat by the rabble at Drassil. I rejoice that you live.’

  Then why do you look so disappointed? Already planning the annexation of my realm, I’d guess. Nothing made Jael angrier than the thought of someone else stealing the realm he had so recently stolen for himself. He suppressed the urge to wrap his fingers around Gundul’s throat. If he thinks he can take Isiltir from me I will make him eat his own intestines.

  ‘A sentiment I share, I can assure you,’ Jael said, strapping his smile upon his face. ‘The enemy at Drassil used fell magic against us. Alas, brave hearts and strong arms were not enough against the dark powers of Asroth’s Black Sun.’

  ‘Really?’ Gundul said, a more genuine smile twitching his lips. He sat straighter in his chair. ‘Nathair had little trouble against their fell magic.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jael asked.

  ‘King Nathair took Drassil over a ten-night ago. The enemy are broken and scattered.’

  ‘What? The war is over?’

  ‘Well, from what I hear, there is some resistance still, but little more than the death throes of a foe that has not realized its already lost.’

  The war over, and my own warband defeated? I had hoped for more time, to return to Isiltir and raise a new warband, fresh battles and win some glory, before the war was ended. But now . . .

  ‘That is wonderful news,’ Jael said, speaking through a fixed grin. ‘I can see that your road-building is going well. If I could ask one favour . . . ?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Gundul asked, looking suddenly bored with the conversation.

  He thinks me broken, a defeated rival of no consequence. Jael stopped his teeth from grinding.

  ‘Horses, for myself and my men. An escort back to Isiltir.’

  ‘Your men?’ Gundul sniffed, looking disdainfully at Dag, who stood silently behind Jael. One of the young men gathered about Gundul sniggered.

  Calm. Get what you need. Just remember the sycophant’s face.

  ‘Yes, King Gundul,’ Jael said in his most comradely voice. ‘My warband are currently resting after their exertions.’

  ‘How many?’ Gundul frowned.

  ‘Around three hundred,’ Jael said.

  ‘I am not sure that counts as a warband,’ Gundul smiled slyly and Jael’s fingers twitched. ‘But even so, three hundred horses – I doubt I can spare so many. All my resources are going into building this road, you understand. I will reach Drassil before Lothar.’

  So the race is still on.

  ‘Perhaps we can help each other, then,’ Jael said.

  ‘How could you possibly help me?’ Gundul sneered, looking pointedly at Jael’s tattered appearance.

  Jael bit back a harsh response and stood straighter. ‘I am still the King of Isiltir. I could bring fresh workers to build your road – two thousand at least, maybe more.’

  Gundul’s smile broadened and he sat straight in his chair, waving away the servants offering him platters of food. ‘You shall have your horses,’ he said.

  Jael opened his mouth to speak but paused, the faint sound of shouting was filtering through the tent’s opening. Gundul heard it too and held his hand up to a man who was trying to whisper in his ear.

  The noises rapidly grew louder, shouts turning to screams, punctuated with the distinct sound of iron clashing. Jael glanced at Dag, who stood poised like an animal on the edge of flight, one hand upon the hilt of his dagger.

  ‘We need to leave,’ the huntsman hissed to Jael.

  ‘What is that?’ Gundul snapped, standing, fear and worry flickering across his features.

  It is battle, something that I don’t think you are fully acquainted with.

  Gundul strode from the tent, his gaggle of followers tight behind him. Jael and Dag slipped out after them.

  Outside, Gundul was stood on the slope of the hill, staring with a
look of confused disbelief towards the northern fringe of his camp. Warriors were pouring onto the road from its far side, cutting into the milling guards and workers. Jael saw resistance sluggishly forming, warriors from Gundul’s warband attempting to form a defensive line across the road, but before they could organize themselves they were locked in combat with their assailants. Within moments the attackers had burst through the hastily formed resistance and were streaming down the embankment into the camp.

  Asroth’s stones, what now?

  The Jehar on the hillside were drawing close about Gundul, black eyes staring.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ Dag repeated.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Gundul cried, part temper, part hysteria.

  ‘It would appear you were right,’ Jael said, not able to keep the smirk from his face at the sound of terror in Gundul’s voice, even though he felt the coils of fear squirming in his own belly. ‘The enemy that you said did not know they were beaten; they appear to be attacking you.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MAQUIN

  Maquin gazed through foliage at the sprawling camp, feeling his body tense and fingers twitch for his knife hilt as he watched Krelis’ men appear on the road and engage Gundul’s men. Crouched on the far south of the camp, he saw a few dozen enemy guards standing with their backs to him in an open space cleared between the camp and the treeline. They looked unsure of what to do. The man beside Maquin gripped his sword and took a step forwards.

  ‘Wait,’ Maquin whispered, seizing the warrior’s arm. ‘Not till Krelis hits the camp.’

  Maquin had been given the command of a hundred men and they were spread loosely around him, hidden in the shadows and foliage. Only one thing had he said to them before they’d moved into position: ‘When I go, keep with me.’

  Their task was to attack from the south and sweep up through the camp, spreading as much mayhem and panic along the way as was possible. Maquin was unused to leading men. The Vin Thalun fighting-pits had honed his will to survive, teaching him that above all else you fight for yourself.