Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  Brina said it is a tool, not an evil of itself. It is how I use it that’s important.

  She became aware of a sound, a soft snuffling, from out of the window. Leaves rustled.

  Something in the herb beds.

  Slowly, as quietly as she could manage, she peered up over the window’s edge and looked out.

  Something was moving through the herb garden, nose to the ground, moving steadily towards the hospice. It paused, its white form reflecting moonlight, and looked up at Cywen.

  It’s the dog from earlier – Haelan’s ratter.

  The dog turned in a circle and jumped on the spot. Cywen was scared that it would start barking. Then movement caught her eye, further back in

  a shadowed recess on the far side of the herb garden. A solid patch in the darkness. It whined, moved into the moonlight.

  Cywen’s breath caught in her chest.

  Buddai?

  Without thinking, she jumped from the window, dropping into the soft earth of the herb bed. Before she had righted herself, Buddai was bounding across the soft earth, hurling himself against her, rough tongue licking her face, whining.

  ‘Shhh,’ she whispered, tears blurring her eyes as she kissed his muzzle. He didn’t listen to her, sloppily licking her face.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she whispered, scratching him behind one floppy ear, running her other hand along the thick muscle of his neck.

  Been feeding all right, by the look of you.

  Something was tied around him. Cywen lifted it and inspected the long strip of leather.

  A leash?

  Then another sound caught her attention, a rustling close by in the herb bed, amongst the thick leaves of the basil and peppermint. She squinted, narrowed her eyes, saw someone appear from between the greenery. A face, small and pale, dirt-stained.

  It was Haelan.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  UTHAS

  ‘Ravens and crows,’ Uthas muttered as he trudged through the marshland, eyes looking skyward. He stumbled, his foot sinking with a splash into a patch of soft ground and he leaned on his spear to lever himself upright. Salach his shieldman reached out a steadying hand from behind him.

  Marshland is not a good place for a giant to walk.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rhin said. She was sitting in the stern of a large boat, surrounded by a score of warriors as well as half a dozen rowers. Uthas was picking a path alongside the banks of the waterway she was being rowed down, a line of Benothi giants spread out along the bank behind him.

  ‘Ravens and crows,’ Uthas repeated, stopping and pointing up at the sky, to where a black shape spiralled high above them.

  ‘What about them?’ Rhin asked. She was in an unusually good mood this morning, the first that Uthas had seen since she had learned of her warband’s defeat in the marshes, and of the death of her huntsman, Braith.

  ‘I don’t like them,’ Uthas grumbled, thinking of Fech, Nemain’s treacherous raven.

  Rhin stared up at the speck in the sky. ‘I’ve always rather liked them,’ she said. ‘And I suppose this one suspects that we’ll be providing its dinner.’

  Uthas scowled up at the bird.

  Aye. As long as it’s not our eyeballs and innards that it is feasting upon. He looked around him. More boats filled the waterway, bursting with over a thousand warriors.

  Not likely that we’ll be losing this battle, he thought, looking at the grim faces of men in every boat, bristling with iron, and the fifty Benothi warriors behind him. More than enough to put down this little uprising. But since they had left the tower at the marshland’s edge a dour mood had fallen across Uthas’ shoulders like a heavy cloak, and he could not shake it.

  We should be getting on with the important business of finding Evnis and the necklace. That is all that matters.

  Because when they found Nemain’s necklace, one of the Seven Treasures, then Uthas would be one huge step closer to achieving his dream.

  King of the Giants. No more clans, no more divisions, just my kin behind me.

  But first, I must find the necklace. Then it is to Domhain and Dun Taras, to find the cup. And then . . .

  He saw Rafe appear up ahead, moving smoothly across the ground, his two hounds with him. He ran across the marshland towards them, hardly glancing at where he was putting his feet. Everything about the lad screamed vitality.

  Uthas rubbed at the small of his back and frowned.

  There is something about him, Uthas mused. Different. He hides something.

  ‘Rafe comes,’ Uthas said across the water to Rhin. She held up a hand. The rudder-man of her boat guided them towards the bank, the rowers slowing. All along their convoy men did the same, the boats rippling to a halt like a long, sinuous water-snake.

  ‘Is he alone?’ Rhin asked as Uthas took her hand and helped her step from the boat.

  ‘Aye.’

  Rafe had been given a score of woodsmen to help him scout out the ruins of Dun Crin, not that he seemed to need help.

  ‘Be careful,’ Uthas said. ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘I don’t trust anyone,’ Rhin replied with a scathing look and fixed her eyes on Rafe as he approached them. His two hounds reached them first, prowling a circle around Uthas, which he didn’t like. Rafe sprang across a stream and pulled to a halt, dipping his head to Rhin.

  ‘My Queen,’ he said.

  ‘Well?’ Rhin snapped.

  ‘Dun Crin is ahead.’

  A smile touched Rhin’s mouth.

  ‘It is abandoned.’

  Well, he wasn’t lying, Uthas thought as he stepped around a long-branched willow and saw the ancient fortress towering out of the lake. He heard Salach mutter a curse behind him. His shieldman had not seen Dun Crin before, and it was a tragic sight: the once-proud fortress laid low by time and circumstance. Dark walls and towers reared from the lake’s water like the submerged boughs of a rotting tree, reed and slime hanging from the decaying battlements.

  A great work brought down. When I am king I will restore the glory of my kin.

  Ahead of him Rhin hissed in frustration.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ Morcant said.

  ‘Your powers of observation are staggering,’ Rhin said, barely contained rage dripping from each word.

  A strange sound rang out overhead, making Uthas jump. He looked up and saw a scruffy-looking crow sitting in the branches of a willow. It was making a clacking sound, almost like laughing. Uthas gave it a dark look. Still making the odd noise, the crow winged into the air, spiralled up and flew away.

  Warriors were disembarking from boats to stand all along the lakeshore. Others had rowed out to the waterlogged fortress, men climbing up onto the ancient battlements.

  Uthas tugged on one of the wyrm teeth set in his necklace as he stared at Dun Crin, eyes sweeping the lakeshore, the willows and alders that lined it. The signs of recent life were all about: abandoned shelters, woven willow fences, cold fire-pits, fishing-nets hanging. A pile of burned clothing – old boots and belts, some twisted war gear, nothing of much use.

  ‘The far shore,’ he said to Salach and Eisa beside him. They have younger eyes than I. ‘Men could be hiding there.’

  ‘Can’t see anything,’ Salach rumbled. He was disappointed, Uthas could tell. His shieldman had been looking forward to a fight. ‘But, it’s far . . .’

  ‘No one there,’ Rafe said from a dozen strides away, his back to them. He was standing staring at the far shore.

  ‘Your eyes are good?’ Uthas asked.

  ‘I can see a heron standing in the shade of that willow,’ Rafe said, pointing. Uthas squinted but could see nothing. Neither could Salach. Then there was a distant splash and a heron rose from deep shadows flapping into the air.

  Rhin barked orders and warriors began to sweep around both arms of the lakeshore, searching for hidden men, wary of traps. Word of the last campaign against this fortress was in everyone’s mind.

  ‘Why have they left here?’ Morcant asked no one
in-particular.

  ‘To avoid you, I would suspect,’ Rhin said.

  Morcant nodded at that, thinking it a perfectly reasonable answer. ‘Well, we must chase them, then,’ he said.

  ‘A fine idea,’ Rhin muttered. ‘Or, maybe not. What do you think, Rafe?’

  The young huntsman frowned at that, was silent a while. ‘I can track them for you, my lady,’ he eventually said, ‘but I don’t think it would be wise for your whole warband to give chase. We could be led straight into another trap like last time, or worse. Here we know the land, now, and your numbers would tell. Out there –’ he gestured at the stinking marshland – ‘who knows?’

  Calls were drifting over from the fortress, men signalling that the ruins were empty. Other men started adding their voices from the lakeshore as they circled around.

  ‘They are fled,’ Salach rumbled.

  ‘Yes,’ Rhin agreed sourly. ‘But the question is not why, but where. Where are they? While we are stuck in the heart of Dun Crin, where are they? And what are they doing?’

  And where is Evnis? Uthas thought. He is the real prize. The only man with knowledge of where Nemain’s necklace is. All else is smoke on the wind.

  Voices shouted from further along the lakeshore, a different tone and cadence . . . Men appeared, with someone definitely unwarrior-like between them.

  She was brought before Rhin, a woman of exceeding beauty, Uthas surmised, beneath the starvation and grime that coated her. She was dark-haired with green eyes. As she was held before Rhin Uthas saw a host of emotions sweep this new woman’s face. Pride, fear, hatred. Hope.

  Rhin stared at her, then began to laugh.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CAMLIN

  ‘Torch it,’ Camlin said, lifting his bow. A flaming arrow leaped into the air, followed by twenty more, all rising high into the blue sky, then arcing and falling towards the wooden tower and surrounding walls.

  ‘Again,’ Camlin ordered as the first volley slammed into the wooden palisade, gates and buildings beyond. Meg dipped her torch into an iron brazier crackling with fire and ran along the line, igniting the arrows of Camlin and the twenty other archers.

  They were standing on a shallow slope between the marshes and Morcant’s tower, Edana’s warband spread in a loose circle about it. On a plain to Camlin’s right stood the remains of an abandoned camp: trampled grass, fire-pits, torn tents, the stench of midden.

  A lot of men filled that space. Rhin’s not underestimating us this time, though she’ll be finding out soon that we’re not playing by her rules.

  Camlin held his arrow-tip in Meg’s torch, the pitch and kindling catching with a hiss, and then he was aiming high and loosing, his arrow rising and falling amongst the others, disappearing beyond the wall of Morcant’s tower. Already black smoke was billowing into the clear sky.

  ‘They’ll see that for a fair few leagues around,’ Baird said behind him, grinning as if he was at a midsummer’s fair. He was stood to one side of Edana, Halion and Vonn close by, as well as Lorcan and his shieldman, Brogan.

  ‘That’s the idea,’ Edana said. She was sterner. ‘Too long Rhin has had this war her own way.’

  Aye, this is a message as much as anything else. Well, we’ll not be dancing to Rhin’s tune any longer.

  Camlin held out another arrow for Meg to light.

  The gate tower was a crackling torch, now, Morcant’s tower beyond catching, bright flames licking one side. Figures were running along the wall, buckets of water were being thrown, but it seemed to be having little effect.

  Too few of them, Camlin thought. Can’t be more’n thirty men in there. Rhin’s taken everyone else into the marshes, looking for us. A broad smile cracked his face as he thought of Rhin’s expression when she heard about this.

  ‘That should do it,’ he said, slapping men on shoulders, and the row of archers lowered their bows.

  ‘Now what?’ Edana asked.

  ‘Now we wait,’ Camlin said. ‘Shouldn’t take long.’

  He was right, it didn’t. Soon enough the palisade and enclosure were burning like a forest fire. One desperate man leaped over the palisade, apprehended immediately by Pendathran and his men, followed shortly by others. Soon after the gates creaked open, black clouds of smoke billowing out, and a huddle of men appeared, stumbling and coughing out onto the slope. Some collapsed to the ground, others stood with their arms raised in surrender as Edana’s warriors closed in. Pendathran herded the gathered prisoners down the slope.

  Camlin glanced at Edana as she sighed then strode off towards the prisoners. Camlin and the others followed.

  Thirty-six men were kneeling in the grass before Edana. They all wore the black and gold of Cambren, Rhin’s realm. Edana stood and stared at them a long moment.

  ‘How many of you are Ardan-born?’ she asked.

  Faces looked up at her, some nodding, others raising a hand.

  Twenty-eight, Camlin counted.

  ‘Narvon?’ Edana asked, and Drust stepped out from the warriors at her back.

  Five raised their hands. Drust narrowed his eyes and stared at them.

  ‘Which three are from Cambren?’ Edana asked. Two raised their hands, and Camlin saw one other who was staring fixedly at the grass at his knees.

  ‘Bring them before me,’ Edana said and Halion, Baird and Vonn moved into the crowd, dragging the two who had raised their hands out of the group.

  ‘That one,’ Camlin said, pointing at the other one, and he was dragged forwards, too, and thrown to the ground before Edana. ‘You are from Cambren,’ she said. ‘You have come here, to Ardan, with Rhin. Invaded my country, killed my people.’ There was a tremor of rage in her voice. ‘You deserve death,’ Edana said, ‘and I sentence you to execution.’

  Edana approached the other prisoners.

  ‘You others. You are Ardan- and Narvon-born,’ she said. Men nodded eagerly. She frowned at them. ‘And yet you wear the colours of Rhin, Queen of Cambren. You have betrayed your countries, served your enemy.’

  Camlin saw fear ripple through them like wind through long grass.

  ‘I will offer you my forgiveness. Once.’

  Think more’n one of them’ll need to change their breeches.

  ‘I will give you a choice. Fight for me, for your countries, or go home. Either way, you redeem yourselves.’ She looked long and hard at their faces. ‘If you go now, I shall not judge you. But if I see your faces again and you’re standing against me, I’ll see you die a death worthy of your betrayal. Make your choice,’ Edana said, and without waiting to see their reactions, she turned and strode away. Only Camlin saw the tears fill her eyes.

  Camlin sat with his back to a tree and watched Morcant’s tower crumble in upon itself, a great cloud of smoke and ash billowing up into the air. He could see the bulk of Pendathran as he led fifty men away to the east, skirting the treeline of the woods. Another group of men were waiting down there for Drust.

  Going our separate ways for a while.

  The plan was to split into three groups, Pendathran, Drust, and Edana each leading a band of warriors, the overall goal of each to make life in Ardan hard for Rhin.

  With a loud crash, the final section of Morcant’s tower collapsed. Camlin grinned, wishing he could see Morcant’s face when he marched out of the marshes to see it.

  ‘A pretty sight, that tower coming down,’ he commented as he leaned forwards and took a skewer of squirrel meat off the fire, tossing it to Meg.

  She took the meat, blowing on her fingers and biting, grease dripping down her chin.

  Will have to talk to her, soon. He was surprised to find he felt sad about that. Strange as it seems, she’s not the worst company.

  The drumbeat of hooves drew his eyes and Camlin watched a dozen riders cantering away in different directions, each with a large bag of silver taken from Morcant’s chest, each one tasked with travelling through as many villages and holds as possible, spreading the word of Edana’s victory at Dun Crin, that she was al
ive and well in Ardan, and that she was fighting. And of course distributing a little silver to show that there was a bit of profit to be had if you rode with Edana.

  We’re moving forwards. Closer to the end, whether that be victory or death.

  ‘We’ll be leaving the marshes behind us, soon,’ he said conversationally.

  ‘I know that,’ Meg said, as if he were stupid.

  ‘Might be best for you if you and I made a trip to the next village along the marshes’ edge, and I found a family to take you in . . .’

  Her head snapped round and she glared at him. ‘No.’

  ‘This is your home, Meg,’ he said with a jerk of his chin. ‘The marshlands, these people. We’ll be leaving here, going back to wood and forest.’ That’s where my kind of fighting works best. ‘We’re going to war,’ he said, ‘and that’s no place for you. You’re eight summers old.’

  ‘War’s here too,’ she said, looking at her feet. ‘What d’you call what happened to my village, my mam . . .’ There was a tremor in her voice now.

  He reached out and squeezed her hand.

  She sucked in a deep breath, stuck her lip out.

  ‘I’ve thought about it already,’ she said. ‘Bad things happen everywhere. My village didn’t go marching off to war, but war still came and found them. You can leave me here, but who’s to say Morcant . . .’ She paused at his name, her sharp-featured face twisting with hatred. ‘Who’s to say the same thing won’t happen again? Warband’s out there.’ She waved angrily at the marshes, staring at him defiantly. ‘And you’d just leave me here and walk away?’

  Well, didn’t expect that.

  ‘Asroth’s toes, but that’s the most words you’ve put together since I met you,’ Camlin said, blowing out a long breath.

  ‘I like it here,’ she added, suddenly vulnerable, a child again. ‘And besides, try and leave me here, or anywhere, I’ll just give ’em the slip and follow you. Done it before.’ She grinned mischievously.