Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  He walked up the hill, alongside the new hall that was being built. When he reached the peak he stopped and took in a deep lungful of air. It was early, the sun a fiery globe balanced upon the rim of the world. Mist curled lazily from the river below him. He closed his eyes, pushed a hundred clamouring thoughts and worries out of his mind, and stepped into the first position of the sword dance, raising the iron bar two-handed over his head.

  Stooping falcon.

  The iron bar was far from ideal, but as he moved through the dance, holding each stance until muscles burned and complained, he felt the world slipping away. He finished with the boar-snout, stabbing upwards two-handed, ripping his imaginary blade high, free, controlling it down, rolling his wrists, finished in mid-guard, feet planted wide, iron bar diagonal, across his body. Muscles ached, wrists and shoulders throbbing, his recovering leg pulsing with the effort. He closed his eyes and without pausing began again, this time flowing from first stance to the next, and then the next, and the next, finding the speed and rhythm that allowed him to control the movement, willing himself to master the dull iron in his hands, and not to be mastered by it. He moved through the dance that Gar had drilled into him so many times, over so many years, adding the forms that Halion had taught him and tested him with on the day of his warrior trial, and more, including all he had learned since leaving Dun Carreg: ankle-hooks and headbutts, elbows, knee to the groin, the shrugging off of a heavier blade, the minutest rolling shift of wrists, shoulders, feet, that would knock an opponent off balance, all taught to him by a host of trainers, Gar, Halion, Conall, Coralen, Tukul, Tahir, Balur One-Eye, linking them all together with hardly a pause, just one long, fluid dance, as if he were ringed and beset by a host of foes.

  When he stopped there was silence, just the rasp of breath in his throat, the thumping of his heart in his chest, distantly the murmur of the river. He wiped a forearm across his eyes and looked about, slowly coming back to the real world.

  Giants were staring at him, scores of them, all paused in their work, some mid-hammer stroke, arms still poised. Mort was frowning at him, arms folded across his massive chest.

  Corban shuffled his feet, abruptly self-conscious, and took the iron bar back to the pile where he had found it. Mort was following him, if anything looking angrier and less happy about being Corban’s guard than he had before.

  ‘Do you not train or spar?’ Corban asked the giant.

  He just received a stony look.

  Corban walked around the settlement, seeing signs of the greater number of giants now that the new arrivals had settled in. Smoke rose from smoke-holes in new buildings that had been empty, gangly-limbed giantlings were running around, chasing dogs, laughing, others beating wet clothes hung on racks, or sitting on chairs in front of doorways, sharpening axes, gutting fish, stitching linen and leather.

  They are not so different to us.

  The sound of hammering and a flush of heat rippling from an open gateway drew Corban’s attention. He approached the building, the smell of hot iron calling him. Memories of his da flooded his mind, of so many days working in the forge, holding glowing iron with tongs for his da to hammer, dousing iron, changing the oil, banking the furnace, then being taught the art by his da: how to draw out impurities, with fire and oil and sweat. His da’s big hand over his, teaching him grip, how to keep his wrist loose, laughing when the furnace spat fire at them, singeing the hairs on both their arms. So many memories came all at once, they threatened to overwhelm him for a moment. When he looked up he saw a giant wearing a thick leather apron and holding a hammer in his hand. It took him a moment to realize it was Varan.

  He has more than one job in this warband, then. Not just a healer’s apprentice. I know the feeling.

  He was tapping at something on the anvil, a smaller section of something huge, his movements controlled, almost delicate, then Corban realized what it was the giant was working upon.

  A coat of mail. It’s an odd shape, though.

  Varan glanced up, saw Corban, his eyes almost instantly going back to his job. He was attaching wide leather straps to the coat of mail, fixing and clamping the iron rings that held it in place, riveting the leather.

  ‘What is that?’ Corban said over the sound of hammer-blows and the constant crackle of the forge fire.

  ‘A mail coat for a bear,’ Varan said, not taking his eyes from his handiwork.

  A bear!

  ‘Come, I’ll show you,’ Varan said, hanging his tools up meticulously. He shook the mail coat out and slung it over one shoulder. As he made to walk out of the forge Mort stepped in front of him, saying something in giantish. Varan answered. For a moment they stood facing one another in silence then, with an all too familiar scowl, Mort moved out of the way. Soon the three of them were in a long building, its vaulted ceiling held high by timber beams thick as trunks.

  Bear pens.

  Each pen was huge, three or four times the size of the stables at Dun Carreg. Varan walked along them, Corban following, peering in to see some empty, others housing bears.

  Varan stopped at a gate and gave the coat of mail to Corban. He reached down into a tall barrel, pulling out a whole salmon, then slid the bolt across and opened the stable door wide.

  ‘Dia duit mo fiacail fada stór,’ Varan said. The bear inside was huge, its fur a dark brown flecked with black. One long canine poked from beneath its upper lip, the opposite canine was broken about halfway down. Corban recognized it as Varan’s bear, the one he had ridden on for most of the long journey from Drassil. Varan tossed the salmon in the air and the bear lunged forwards, startlingly fast, snatching the salmon into its wide mouth. With a crunch the salmon was gone, then the bear was nuzzling Varan with its broad head. Varan was smiling, rubbing its ears, the bear’s lip curling to reveal more sharp yellowed teeth.

  That doesn’t look right, Corban thought, eyeing the bear suspiciously, but then I suppose people said the same thing about me and Storm.

  At the thought of Storm Corban felt a twinge of pain in his belly, like a sliver-thin knife being twisted. He’d tried hard not to think of her – the pain of her loss was too hard to face.

  Varan shook out a blanket of fur and placed it over the bear’s back, then beckoned for Corban to hand him the mail coat, which Varan slung over the bear, reaching under its belly. He indicated for Corban to help, and together they buckled and tightened the girth, then worked around the legs, threading buckles, with Varan finishing at the bear’s neck, where the mail coat was riveted to a thick leather collar. When it was done Corban stood back and took a long look.

  The bear had looked formidable before; now it looked like a weapon, fashioned from tooth and claw, fur and iron.

  ‘It’s not too heavy? Won’t shift with movement?’ Corban asked.

  Varan slapped the bear’s muscled shoulder and chest.

  ‘Long Tooth could carry three of me,’ Varan said, rubbing the bear’s neck affectionately. ‘The mail is heavy, but not as heavy as me. He’ll get used to it quickly enough. And no, if it’s fitted and buckled right, it won’t slip.’

  ‘I wish that I’d had one of those for Storm.’ Corban felt a lump in his throat at the memory of her. He blinked away tears, saw Varan regarding him with serious eyes.

  ‘Life is loss,’ the giant said.

  ‘Aye, that it is,’ Corban said. ‘But I’d wager some of us have lost more than others.’

  ‘In the end, it’s all the same,’ Varan said. ‘We all face death alone.’

  Corban nodded. ‘To my thinking, though, it’s what happens before death that’s important. All of us die. How many really live?’

  Varan cocked his head, eyes fixed intently on Corban.

  ‘I find you . . . interesting,’ Varan said. ‘Not what I expected.’

  ‘Well, we judge things we’ve never seen. I judged giants, believed them wicked monsters that lived in the shadows. Now that I’ve met some of your kind –’ he shrugged – ‘I see you’re just like us. Uthas slew
Nemain, is a murderer; yet Balur and Ethlinn – I’d trust either one of them with my life. And even here, I’ve seen differences amongst you. Take you, for example. You’re a lot more talkative than Mort,’ Corban said, gesturing to the red-haired giant behind him.

  ‘I see no harm in talking to you,’ Varan said, ‘I do not think you could escape.’

  We’ll see about that.

  ‘But as for Mort, well, you did kill his brother, in Drassil.’

  That would explain a lot.

  ‘Agus beidh mé tú a mharú,’ Mort said from the shadows.

  In my defence, his brother tried to kill me first,’ Corban said. ‘And Mort is supposed to be my guard here. Is that wise?’

  ‘Mort is Ildaer’s captain. He is being prepared for leadership. Guarding you teaches him self-control.’

  Corban looked at Mort, who was glowering at him.

  ‘I don’t think it’s working.’

  ‘You still live,’ Varan pointed out.

  Good point. But for how long?

  ‘I saw you earlier, on the hill,’ Varan said, changing the subject. ‘With a rod of iron.’

  ‘Oh aye. It helps,’ Corban said, tapping his head and heart. ‘Being a captive here, knowing my kin and friends may be fighting for their lives.’

  ‘You were quite the sight,’ Varan continued with a sidelong glance, almost a smile. ‘And are all your enemies dead, now?’

  ‘Only in my head,’ Corban grunted. ‘I’ve amassed more than my fair share, you see. So there are still a few to go.’

  ‘What you said, to Ildaer,’ Varan rumbled, ‘about choosing a side.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It’s made me think.’

  Good.

  ‘Ildaer seems cautious,’ Corban said.

  ‘The Jotun are cautious,’ Varan replied. ‘For a Jotun, Ildaer is not cautious.’

  ‘Ildaer is the best of us,’ Mort said fiercely, studying them both with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Ildaer has led us well, is a brave battle-leader. He has gained much for the Jotun,’ Varan agreed.

  ‘And your king?’ Corban prompted.

  ‘Eld, our king, has lived a long life. He is cautious,’ Varan said.

  Mort snorted in the shadows.

  Eld, so that is his name.

  ‘Eld witnessed the Scourging, saw the destruction it caused the giant clans,’ Varan explained. ‘At that moment he withdrew from the fight, and instead he led the Jotun north, to safety. That is where my clan has dwelt, for nearly two thousand years. Caution has kept the clan alive, and helped it to grow. I doubt the other clans have prospered so well.’

  ‘How many of you are there?’ Corban asked, thinking of the host he had seen crossing the river. A thousand? Fifteen hundred?

  ‘Enough,’ Varan said. ‘More than any other clan can boast. Because our king has led us well.’

  ‘So why has he come south now? When the God-War is upon us again?’ Corban asked.

  ‘There are, I do not know how to say it in your tongue – grúpaí, faicsin? We do not all think the same within the clan, especially the young, born after the Scourging. There are different opinions. Some long for honour and glory, for battle-fame, others still counsel caution, the safest path. Ildaer rose up amongst us, strong, proud. He wanted to come south and take back the land we had lost. The Desolation is not a fertile land, you understand. Life is hard there.’

  ‘So Ildaer led a rebellion? An uprising that Eld crushed and banished south?’

  ‘Ach, no,’ Varan said, ‘Eld clings to the old ways, the ways of tradition and honour, of blood-feud and guest-right, and he has ingrained those values upon all of us Jotun. That is why Ildaer treats you with respect, not as a prisoner. He remembers the guest-right that Eld taught him. Eld believes the old ways have kept the Jotun alive. And because many rallied to Ildaer’s call, instead of treating Ildaer like a rival or an upstart, Eld named him Warlord of the Jotun and allowed him to take a warband south. No one thought he would achieve so much, and the cynical amongst us may whisper that Eld thought Ildaer would get himself killed, perhaps even hoped for that . . .’ He gave Corban a smile. ‘But now Ildaer has land.’ Varan said the word like it was the greatest of Treasures. ‘Ildaer has earned much honour amongst the Jotun, his name often upon everyone’s lips, and so now people are saying, maybe Eld is too old, too cautious, it is a new time, a new age, time for the Jotun to rise up, to take back what they have lost. That is why Eld has come.’

  ‘And what do you say?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Me? I came south with Ildaer, I was one of the young voices clamouring for battle-fame and glory. But I was apprenticed to Hala, and she is Eld’s eyes and ears within Ildaer’s warband. She is very wise, but also cautious. Sometimes caution is wisdom, but sometimes it is fear, and fear is not wise. Perhaps she has rubbed off on me a little.’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘Truth be told, I do not know what I say, what I think. I believe the Jotun will fade in the north, and besides, there is no life in the Desolation. As you say, all will die, but not all live.’

  ‘So, a cautious warrior, and yet you forge battle-mail for your bear.’

  ‘I do,’ Varan smiled. ‘You see much.’ Again he shrugged. ‘As you say, it is the God-War. Some battles find you, no matter how cautious you are.’

  I fled across all the realms of the west, and the God-War still found me.

  ‘Yes,’ Corban agreed. ‘That has been my experience. And Eld, will he join the war? Fight against Asroth?’ He said it with a trace of hope, looking along the bear pens filled with the great beasts.

  A lot of bears, and giants who ride on them. A warband like this could turn a battle, could win a war . . .

  ‘That is for him to say.’

  ‘I must speak to him,’ Corban said.

  ‘You’ll get that wish soon enough. Ildaer is with him now, and no doubt he will want you brought before Eld.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To decide your fate.’ He gave Corban a flat stare. ‘Eld’s word is law.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CORALEN

  Coralen ran between the trees, her feet a whisper across the forest litter. Unlike some of those behind her.

  Farrell and Laith are like two lumbering auroch!

  She gritted her teeth and looked back at them. They were on Jael’s road, a score or so paces behind her. Coralen didn’t like running on the road, it felt too exposed, but she admitted that it was the quickest, most direct route out of Forn.

  Thank you for that, Jael, though I doubt you built it as an aid to us.

  Farrell and Laith didn’t share her misgivings about using the road. Farrell was first, red-faced, his hair dark and slick with sweat. His war-hammer jutted over the slabbed muscle of his back. He nodded at her, the most he could manage. Behind him Laith loomed, looking in slightly better condition than Farrell, but only just. She just stared at the ground in front of her, resolute. They were crushing anything in their path – logs and branches snapped, vine was torn from the ground, undergrowth barged through. Coralen resisted the urge to hiss some abuse at them.

  No point, I’ve tried that, and it hasn’t worked. To be fair, we’ve run all the way from Drassil to the edge of Forn Forest, and they’ve kept up.

  Coralen had set a fast pace, every day rising before dawn, following the bear tracks through the forest until the last trace of light faded and they were forced to stop. Over a moon of it, mostly running, and still they had steadily slipped behind.

  Those bears are too damn fast.

  The forest had been thinning about them for a while now, the river widening to their north as it flowed into more open plains.

  Keep on like this and we’ll be seeing Gramm’s hold in a day or so.

  Even as Coralen considered that, she moved into an open space where tree trunks had been harvested like grain, only their stumps remaining. To her left she saw a flicker of movement; Gar appeared from the treeline, to her right Dath and Kulla were stepping into view.


  Now those three I don’t need to worry about. They could probably sneak up on Storm. Her heart jumped at the thought of the wolven; she’d last seen her at the edge of death. Coralen whispered a prayer for her; not that she was normally the praying kind, but if anything would help . . .

  Her thoughts returned to Corban: how she’d felt so angry with him before the battle at Drassil.

  I kissed him, and what did he do! Nothing! Well, he did kiss me back, at the time, which was nice enough. But afterwards . . . Well, time enough to talk to him about that once we’ve pulled him out of his latest troubles.

  She crested a slope and saw meadowland opening up before her. In the distance was a hill, to its north the river glistening darkly in the sunlight. She waved a signal and the others veered in towards her, all of them meeting a little below the slope’s crest. Farrell spent a while puffing, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

  ‘Gramm’s hold has some new tenants,’ Coralen observed, looking at the pillars of smoke rising from the hill. She looked sidelong at Gar, remembering the last time they had seen this place. She felt Tukul’s loss anew.

  His father was a rare man, and no mistake.

  Gar’s face was stony, betraying nothing of what was going on within.

  ‘Onwards,’ he said. ‘Standing around here isn’t going to get Corban back.’

  Farrell wheezed, and then they were off again, following the bear tracks that were clear for any to see, moving down the slope and across the meadows, heading unerringly towards the hill that had been Gramm’s hold.

  ‘He’s in there,’ Coralen said to Gar.

  They had made camp about two leagues from the hill, in a small copse, a suitable place to remain unseen while they planned.

  The six of them stood staring at Gramm’s hold as the sun sank into the west, making a black silhouette of the settlement on the hill. Figures small as ants occasionally went up the hill, and every now and then the deep rumbling bellow of a bear would drift down to them on a cold wind.

  ‘You’re certain?’ Gar asked.

  Coralen, Dath and Kulla had spent a day scouting the hill.