Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  But that is what Lykos wanted. To break me, to strip away my loyalties, to make me less than human. I will not be that man again.

  The main attack was to be led by Krelis, his first objective to clear the new road of all resistance; it was there that their scouts had reported most of Gundul’s warband were to be found. Once the road was clear Krelis was to assault the camp, which was the signal for the others. Maquin and Alben were leading smaller groups hidden to the west and south of the camp; the plan was to meet Krelis and his force at the command tent situated on a hill close to the camp’s centre.

  At the thought of it Maquin’s eyes drifted to the tent on the mound. Men were appearing from its entrance, standing and staring at the commotion that Krelis was causing.

  Gundul – it must be.

  Two other men emerged from the tent, hanging back from the rest. One of them seemed . . . familiar, in the way he walked, his posture, a confidence.

  Then dark-clothed figures were appearing from around the hill, drawing tight about those who had emerged from the tent. Even from this distance there was something clearly different about them.

  Kadoshim. Damn it. We’re outnumbered as it is, without those hell-spawn to complicate things. He shrugged to himself, knew they were committed now and there was no turning back. And this whole attack was my idea. So I’d best be getting to that tent and making sure we win this thing.

  He looked back to the road and saw Krelis’ warriors pouring down the embankment and into the camp.

  Good.

  With a battle-cry he exploded into motion, bursting from the treeline, drawing a knife in each hand as he sped towards the guards spread between him and the camp. A few paces behind him his hundred followed. He heard a distant roar from the west, knew that Alben and his warriors were doing the same.

  Maquin ducked a spear-thrust and crashed into the man holding it, one of his knives punching through leather into flesh, ripping it free as his momentum carried him on, leaving the man on his knees, hands clutching at his belly. In moments the guards along the camp’s edge were either dead or fleeing, the sudden onslaught of Maquin and his warriors too much for them.

  Maquin gathered his warriors and charged into the camp, kicking at fires, smashing gates open, freeing cattle, hacking and slashing at anyone who got in their way. In heartbeats flames were licking at tents and smoke was billowing; stampeding cattle knocked men flying, the whole world seemed to dissolve into chaos. Maquin turned a corner and almost ran into a dozen warriors, the ensuing combat savage and short, Maquin’s knives finding throats and arteries as he slipped through them like a violent wind, the men following him crashing upon those still standing.

  He sped through the camp, a knife dripping blood in each hand, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. As he travelled deeper, any kind of resistance melted away: those he came across ran from him, and he was happy to let them go. For the most part they were not Gundul’s warriors, but merchants, smiths, tanners, cobblers, drovers, whores and bairns. I may be a killer, but I’ll not slay the innocent.

  Soon the initial red mist of battle began to fade and he glanced behind, saw the black and silver of Ripa’s warriors following him.

  Not used to leading men these days, or being in a fight this big. Mustn’t forget they’re with me. Mustn’t forget the plan.

  Pausing, he gave his men a chance to gather behind him as he tried to get his bearings. Screams and the concussive clash of iron drifted down from the north.

  Krelis sounds closer. Best get to that command tent. Gundul must die for this to succeed, and to do that we must carve a way through his Kadoshim. He reached up to his shoulder and felt the hilt of a short sword, one of a pair strapped across his back. Maquin preferred using his knives, but taking heads from Kadoshim was sword work.

  He set off again. Close-packed tents suddenly gave way to an open space – cook-fires spread about it, tents forming a loose circle. Weapons racks were rowed along one edge; a mass of men were pulling spears from stands, strapping on helms, hefting shields. Maquin skidded to a halt, realizing what he had stumbled upon.

  A barracks for the warriors of this warband.

  With a snarl he ran at them.

  He hit a knot of men before they had any time to react, his knives tracing a red ruin across their bodies. In moments he was through them and hurling himself at a new wall of men. Weapons thrust at him, but the battle-rage was upon him, the world seeming to slow and he twisted and flowed around every blow aimed at him, his knives licking out to slice throats, puncture groins, cut hamstrings. Dimly he heard the clash of arms behind him, knew his men were following. Faces appeared before him, grim, fearful, shocked; all fell to his twin blades.

  His progress slowed. The men crammed together now, his ability to move and sway hindered by a crush of bodies. A quick glance showed his men behind him, fighting furiously, but they were outnumbered and the enemy was beginning to curl around their flanks. Surprise and savagery had taken them so far, but had not broken their foe.

  Things are about to get messy. Maquin stepped to the right, deflected a thrust aimed at the ribs of one of his men, slashed across the face of the attacker, kicked another in the knee, saw him buckle and stepped close to cut his throat.

  There was a great crash and a concussion that undulated through the hard-pressed warriors.

  Someone else joining this party.

  Maquin glimpsed a giant figure: Alcyon, wielding two woodsman’s axes as Maquin was using his knives, carving a way through the enemy like a scythe at harvest time. Heads and limbs flew through the air in great gouts of blood.

  Alben’s crew. Maquin grinned and leaped at his enemy, new strength powering his muscles. Within moments Gundul’s warriors were wavering, a ripple of doubt and fear spreading through them, and then they were fleeing. Maquin buried a knife in a back, ripped it free and stood over the collapsing figure, gore-covered and breathing heavily. He saw Alcyon decapitate one more fleeing warrior, his wife Raina and their son Tain either side of him, Alben’s warriors spread about them.

  ‘Well met,’ a voice said and Maquin turned to see Alben striding towards him. The old man was pale and had blood seeping from the bandage around his shoulder.

  I told him to stay at our camp. He’d have been better off there, and I’d have been happier knowing someone of his skill was guarding Fidele. He felt a wave of fear for her, as he did every time that he was parted from her, but this was war, they both knew that she could not be here, in the midst of this.

  ‘Well met,’ Maquin replied, sheathing a knife and gripping the old man’s arm. He left bloodstained fingerprints. ‘Think you might just have saved my skin.’

  Alben looked around at the bodies piled about Maquin and throughout the barrack ground.

  ‘I doubt that,’ he said. He glanced up through the rolling smoke at the hill that loomed not far away.

  ‘Gundul,’ Maquin said.

  ‘Aye. Let’s go and find him.’

  Both of their warbands were about them now.

  ‘There’s Kadoshim on that hill,’ Maquin said loudly. ‘They don’t die easily; remember, you must take their heads.’ Alben and others nodded grimly.

  Maquin grinned at them, then ran for the hill.

  Clouds of smoke billowed about him, parted for a moment, and he saw the hill, the huge and gaudy tent upon it strangely out of place in the sombre gloom of Forn.

  Maquin ran faster, the camp a place of flame and shadow, the thud of his comrades’ feet behind him, screams and battle-cries swirling on the eddying smoke, then the ground began to rise and he burst from the haze and tents, Alben, Alcyon and their men only a few paces behind him.

  Men were still on the hill, but they were retreating, at least three score of the Kadoshim that encircled them were herding them north-east, towards the newest part of the road.

  They’re fleeing, running for Drassil. And further along the road there’ll be more reinforcements. Can’t let them reach that road.

 
; Maquin sheathed his knives and drew the two short swords as he ran.

  The space between them narrowed quickly. Maquin and those with him were silent, no battle-cries, only the drum of their feet and the jangle and creak of mail and leather. Abruptly Gundul and the Kadoshim were aware of them, Gundul yelling orders. A score of the Kadoshim peeled away from the group, curved swords being drawn from behind their backs. One fixed its black eyes on Maquin and ran at him, a dark grin splitting its pallid face. Maquin felt a fist of fear squirm in his belly, remembering their ferocity and otherworldliness when he’d encountered them previously. He growled in anger at his own fear and ran faster.

  The first Kadoshim almost took his head, its sword whistling a finger’s width above him as he threw himself into a roll, coming to his feet behind the creature, his own strike at its neck blocked with blinding speed, his second blade slicing through the back of its leg as it spun to face him. Maquin leaped away, the creature stumbling as it tried to follow, its hamstrings cut. Even so it was unnaturally fast, lurching after him.

  It should be on the ground, not still trying to gut me.

  All around him his warriors were locked in combat with the Kadoshim. Battle-cries and death screams rang out. He glimpsed Alben take a head, saw that terrible black vapour fill the air. His distraction nearly cost Maquin his life as his attacker launched a combination of two-handed blows at him. He parried two and slipped inside the third, instinctively punching a short sword into its belly. The Kadoshim’s mouth gaped wide, foul breath washing over him as its teeth snapped, trying to fasten on his throat. He headbutted it, pushed away, leaving one sword in its belly, his other blade whistling around to crunch into its collarbone, blood and bone spraying as he wrenched it free and hacked again, this time cutting deep into the creature’s neck. He darted in, swerving away from its curved sword, chopping at its neck to finish the job. Somehow the Kadoshim’s hand snaked out and caught his blade in its fist. A finger flew through the air but still it held on, as it tried to bring its own sword round to bear. Maquin grabbed its sword wrist and for a few heartbeats they lurched together in an ungainly dance. Within seconds Maquin knew he could not win a contest of strength: the Kadoshim’s grip was unnaturally strong. Then, in the blink of an eye, its head was spinning through the air and Alben’s face appeared before him. The Kadoshim’s body slumped, fist still gripped around Maquin’s sword-blade, oily black smoke pouring from the open wound of its neck. A winged creature formed in the air above him and screamed wordless hatred at him, then the wind caught it and it was gone.

  Maquin sagged, Alben’s hand reaching out to steady him.

  ‘There’s no getting used to that,’ Maquin breathed as he yanked his swords free of the creature’s corpse.

  He looked around, saw more of the demon forms appearing in the air above them and then evaporating. At a glance it seemed that most of those Kadoshim that had attacked them had fallen, though many of Maquin’s and Alben’s men were lying still and silent upon the ground. As Maquin watched, Alcyon, Raina and Tain dispatched the last Kadoshim.

  ‘Gundul?’ Maquin breathed.

  ‘Down there,’ Alben gestured.

  Maquin saw the King of Carnutan disappearing amongst the tents, far more Kadoshim still about him than Maquin had hoped to see. Two men were moving with them. One of them paused as the others disappeared from view and looked back, for a moment Maquin’s eyes locked with him. He staggered, felt as if he’d just been punched in the gut.

  It cannot be.

  Maquin’s heart was suddenly pounding in his chest, a wave of shock spilling into fury.

  Jael.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JAEL

  Jael stood and stared at the warriors on the hill.

  One man had emerged ahead of the others, blood-soaked and battle-grim, a short sword in each hand. He was staring back at Jael, and although they were a good hundred paces apart, Jael was certain he saw hatred twist the man’s features.

  There is something familiar about him . . .

  ‘My lord,’ Dag said, pulling at his sleeve. ‘We must keep moving.’

  They were following the Jehar that were shepherding Gundul and his retinue of lackeys to safety, hoping that the Jehar would guard Jael and Dag as well as the others as they passed through the camp. Jael had heard the sounds of battle from the hilltop and paused to watch the bloody work of the handful of Jehar warriors that had remained behind. They had fallen, but then it was a score against close to two hundred, and even so the Jehar had decimated their enemy.

  As Jael stared he saw the man burst into motion, running hard towards him, screaming Jael’s name.

  He knows me!

  Jael took an involuntary step back.

  Doesn’t seem to like me much, though.

  Who?

  Then he knew.

  Maquin.

  He had changed almost beyond all recognition: slimmer than Jael remembered him, his body chiselled, arms and legs a striated mass of muscle, face a place of ridges, scars and hate-filled eyes.

  How is he here? He should be dead, or at least a thousand leagues from here, and in shackles.

  Jael remembered the last time he had seen Maquin, on the bridge at Dun Kellen, chained and being dragged away by Lykos to a Vin Thalun slave-ship.

  The fool had challenged me to the court of swords, insulted me in front of my men. From the look on Maquin’s face, that court of swords was still high on his agenda.

  Jael gulped. If Maquin’s expression did not convince him that it was time to go, the warriors charging down the hill behind Maquin did. There were giants amongst them.

  ‘This way,’ Dag snapped at him as they entered a maze of tents, banks of thick smoke rolling through it, the shouts and screams of battle drifting and swirling all about them. Footsteps drummed on the turf of the hill somewhere behind him and the Jehar were nowhere to be seen. Panic clenched a fist in his gut.

  ‘JAEL,’ a voice screamed behind him.

  Keep running.

  Then he saw Dag, the huntsman moving fast, head dipped, scanning the ground. Jael followed him around a tent, ran down an empty isle of churned mud and barrels piled high, then turned again and saw the dark figures of the Jehar hurrying ahead of them. Relief swept him and he picked up his pace, he and Dag steadily catching up with Gundul and his protectors.

  They were close to the Jehar now, only a score of paces separating them. A final burst of speed and Jael was at their heels. He tried to shoulder his way between two of them and enter their protective circle, but one turned and fixed him with its black, dead eyes.

  ‘Let me through,’ Jael gasped. ‘I am Jael, King of Isiltir, you must protect me.’

  The Jehar warrior cocked its head at him, then it pushed Jael back, sending him stumbling. Dag reached out and steadied him.

  Shouldn’t have left my men on the roadside.

  ‘Need . . . my . . . men,’ Jael breathed to Dag.

  ‘Think this lot are going that way,’ Dag said. ‘Safer to travel with them.’

  ‘Aye,’ Jael muttered. He saw Dag surreptitiously glance down corridors made by rows of tents.

  He looks as if he’s thinking of slinking off. Would probably do the same if I was him.

  ‘Gold,’ Jael hacked out of his burning lungs. I need this man.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gold, for you. When you get me to Mikil. More than you can carry, more than you’ve ever dreamed of.’

  ‘I’ve dreamed of a lot of gold, in my time,’ Dag said.

  ‘You’ve earned it,’ Jael breathed.

  ‘Reckon I have,’ Dag muttered. A greedy smile crept across his face. ‘I’ll get you to Mikil,’ the huntsman said.

  The sounds of battle suddenly grew louder. A knot of enemy warriors clothed in black and silver appeared ahead of them.

  They look like Nathair’s colours.

  Jael drew his sword as a warrior lurched before him: one of Gundul’s men, his sword wildly parrying a flurry of blows from a warri
or in black and silver. Jael stabbed his sword into the attacker’s side. Ripping his sword free, he pushed the dying man away and leaped over him, eyes searching for Dag, his heart pounding desperately when he could not see him.

  ‘This way,’ Dag called to him.

  Something slammed into Jael’s back.

  He flew through the air, weightless for a moment, then hit the ground, air crushed from his lungs, and he was sliding in the mud, rolling. He came to a stop and rose to one knee, trying to ignore the pain in his chest and shoulder, hand grasping for his sword hilt, looking back to see a lunatic covered in blood rising from the ground.

  Maquin.

  Run! Jael’s mind screamed at him, but he knew he would not make it. Maquin was too close for him to make a safe escape. Jael rose to his feet and hefted his sword.

  I am the finest sword in Isiltir. I slew Kastell in single combat, and he was a great swordsman, in his prime, not old and half-mad like this man before me. He set his feet and raised his blade.

  The world around him faded, the battle raging only a handful of strides away dimmed as a cold focus settled upon him, as it always did when he committed to the blade.

  ‘Come,’ he shouted, ‘and I’ll send you to meet Kastell.’

  He’d thought to anger Maquin, unbalance him with rage, as angry men make mistakes. By the look on Maquin’s face his tactic worked. The man gripped his second blade and launched himself forwards, face twisted in a snarl.

  He’s moving too fast. A smile twitched at Jael’s lips as he stepped forwards to meet Maquin, lunging as he did so, his sword-tip aimed straight at Maquin’s heart.

  His own speed will impale him, the idiot. He’s a dead man.

  But then Jael was stabbing into empty air, Maquin no longer where he was supposed to be. A blow slammed into Jael’s side, crunching into his ribs, white pain exploding in his chest as he dropped to one knee. The sudden urge to vomit almost consumed him.

  He’s broken my ribs, he realized in shock, his hand probing at his side, all the chainmail links bent and broken.

  Move or die.