Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  ‘Aye. Unless they’ve taken him across the river into the Desolation,’ Coralen said.

  ‘But there are so many giants here, I can’t believe there are any left north of the river,’ Dath said. ‘So why would they want to take Ban north, when it looks like they’ve all come south?’

  ‘That’s strange,’ Laith said thoughtfully. ‘The Jotun do not normally leave the safety of their homeland.’

  ‘Tell me of the Jotun,’ Gar asked.

  ‘I am young,’ Laith said, ‘but our lore always spoke of the Jotun as fleeing into the Desolation after the Scourging, hiding themselves away. Their king – Eld, I think – preferred to run instead of face conflict.’

  ‘Perhaps he was just prudent,’ Gar murmured.

  ‘He also had a reputation for adhering to the old ways: tradition, honour, our lore.’

  Gar rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful.

  ‘How many of them at Gramm’s?’ Farrell asked. He’d got his wind back from all the running now and looked much more fearsome for it.

  ‘There’s at least a thousand giants living on that hill,’ Dath said. ‘Probably more.’

  ‘So killing them all’s out of the question, then,’ Farrell grunted. ‘That’s the end of the first plan.’

  ‘What was the second plan?’ Dath asked.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Gar said.

  Coralen rose before dawn, standing and stretching, then making her way to the copse’s border where Gar was staring into the darkness. Coralen came and stood silently beside him, both of them watching as the sun appeared on the edge of the world, washing Gramm’s hold with rosy fire.

  ‘All my life, it feels, that boy has been my sun. The centre of my world.’

  ‘He’s not a boy any more,’ Coralen said gently.

  ‘To me he always will be,’ Gar replied quietly, little more than a whisper. ‘More than that. He’s my boy. The son I never had.’

  ‘We’ll see him, today. Have him back with us,’ Coralen said, feeling tears mist her eyes.

  Gar had explained his plan to them last night. It was insane. They didn’t stand a chance. But it was all they had.

  ‘Aye,’ Gar grunted. ‘And heaven help the man, woman or giant that tries to stop us.’ He smiled down at her, a sight that Coralen had rarely seen, then reached out and squeezed her hand.

  The others were up now, Farrell examining the head of his war-hammer, Laith oiling her throwing knives. Dath was checking arrows, running his fingertips over fletchings.

  Gar took a step out of the copse and then paused, looking back at them all.

  ‘Let’s go and get Corban,’ he said.

  Or die trying.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  RAFE

  ‘What have they done to my tower!’ Morcant screamed.

  It had taken them a ten-night to extricate themselves from the marshes, half of Rhin’s warband was disembarking just now and marching up onto the meadowland that circled Morcant’s tower, or what was left of it.

  Which isn’t much.

  The tower was a skeleton of charred timber, the palisade mostly collapsed; what was left of it looked like the blackened and rotting teeth of a hag.

  Behind him he heard a female voice standing out from the murmur of men, a rare thing in this warband. Part of him noted that not so long ago he wouldn’t have heard such a subtle sound.

  I am changed, since I drank from that cup. Never felt more alive. I am stronger, faster, and I can hear things, smell things better than I could before.

  The voice belonged to Roisin, the only living person they had found at the ruins of Dun Crin. She stepped out from a boat onto a wooden jetty, warriors lining up to help her.

  For a prisoner, she’s mighty popular, Rafe thought, though he could understand why, as he stood and stared at her, enjoying the arch of her ankle, the curve of her hips, skin pale as cream, black hair somehow still lustrous, even after a journey through the marshes.

  Not that I think Rhin’s very impressed with the attention Roisin’s getting. She’s lucky Rhin thinks her useful, else she’d most likely be face-down in a marsh stream by now.

  ‘They’ve split up,’ Rafe reported. ‘Three warbands went in different directions. East, west and north.’

  ‘What’s the little bitch playing at?’ Rhin spat. She was reclining in her chair, skin sweating and flushed, silver hair bedraggled.

  Uthas the giant shifted behind her, made a sound in his throat.

  ‘What?’ Rhin snapped. ‘If you’ve something to say, come out and say it, instead of lurking behind me, sighing and swaying like a stuttering tree!’

  Definitely not at her most patient, then.

  ‘Evnis,’ Uthas said. Rafe detected a hint of something new in the giant’s voice.

  Anger? Scorn?

  ‘You may have forgotten, but we have just spent most of a moon wandering around that stinking swamp trying to find my missing regent. He is either slain or fled; whichever one, he is gone.’

  It was I who went wandering to find him, Rafe thought. You just sat on a boat, giving out your orders.

  Rafe had spent a good long while going over a wide stretch of land that surrounded the northern half of Dun Crin’s lake. There was one set of tracks that ended at the side of a stream; it looked as if they had been joined by another. Rafe could not be sure, but he suspected that something large had been rolled into the stream. He’d poked around in it with his spear, even jumped in, but had found nothing.

  Not that the eels and snakes and Asroth knows what else lurking in those marshes would have left much by then, anyway.

  He’d had no evidence, no proof, but something in his gut told him that it was the place where Evnis had met his end.

  ‘I think he died in the swamp, my Queen.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard your opinion on it – opinion, not fact.’

  Rafe held his silence.

  ‘You are a gifted huntsman,’ Uthas the giant said, startling Rafe. The giant rarely deigned to speak to him. ‘The first of Queen Rhin’s scouts to return.’

  I knew I would be. I am the best amongst them.

  ‘The way you led us to Dun Crin,’ Uthas continued. ‘The way you saw that heron, on the far shore of the lake. The way you found the sets of tracks at Dun Crin, when all of the other huntsmen struggled.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with Evnis?’ Rhin asked.

  ‘Dead or not, Evnis might not have kept . . .’ Rafe didn’t like the assessing way the giant was looking at him ‘. . . it, upon him,’ Uthas finished.

  ‘I know that, but where else?’ Rhin asked. She looked at Rafe now. ‘You grew up in Evnis’ hold, did you not? If Evnis had something of value, something that he treasured, where would he keep it?’

  ‘Like a fine stallion, or a good hound?’ Rafe asked.

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Rhin snapped. ‘Why do you woodsmen always have to think of something that’s living?’

  ‘Oh, like a sword, then? Or silver, or gold?’

  ‘Yes, more like it,’ Rhin said.

  ‘His tower at Dun Carreg, I suppose,’ Rafe said. ‘He spent a lot of time up there, in his chamber right at the top. Didn’t like to be disturbed.’

  Rhin and Uthas shared a long look; a smile returned to Rhin’s face.

  Haven’t seen one of those from her in a while.

  ‘To Evnis’ tower, then,’ Uthas said.

  ‘But what about Edana?’ Rhin said. ‘I can’t have her just wandering around the countryside, stirring up Asroth knows what trouble.’

  ‘Send Morcant after her,’ Uthas said. ‘Let us be on with the important task.’

  ‘But they’ve gone three ways!’ Rhin said.

  ‘So split this warband,’ Uthas said. ‘It’s big enough.’

  He’s right. There are over a thousand men out there.

  ‘If you’re going back to Dun Carreg,’ Rafe said, ‘one of the trails goes that way. Take enough with you to deal with them, and leave enough to let Morcant look a
fter the other two.’

  Rhin looked at him, thoughtful.

  ‘For a huntsman, you do have the occasional idea of worth,’ she said. ‘Why have I never noticed you before? You’re starting to remind me of Braith.’

  Rafe noticed Uthas leaning forwards and staring at him, bushy brows knotting together.

  Rhin looked Rafe up and down, slowly. ‘I wonder if the similarities stop there.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CORBAN

  Corban woke early and rose, pacing his stone room. He tested his injured leg, stretched and loosened his limbs. His leg was better again than yesterday, almost felt normal.

  He felt tense, his conversation with Varan from the previous day heavy upon his mind. He’d hoped that Ildaer and Eld would have sent for him last night, but that hadn’t happened.

  Today. It will happen today. Or so he tried to convince himself. Five nights, now, since Eld arrived. He’s certainly not one for rushing things. He sighed in exasperation.

  If I could only convince him to side with us. To fight against Asroth.

  Corban opened his door and strode through the courtyard, heading straight to the pile of iron rods, the silent bulk of Mort shadowing him. Taking one of the rods, he marched to the top of the hill, where Mort assumed his customary position, leaning against a pile of building materials, a sneer fixed upon his face. A handful of giants with the swagger of young warriors joined him, exchanging greetings.

  From Ildaer’s warband, then.

  He breathed deeply and stepped into stooping falcon.

  Begin, Gar’s voice said in his mind.

  When he was done he stood on the brow of the hill, sweating, aching, chest heaving, the peace that the sword dance brought him seeping through him, though unfortunately it felt as if it began leaking out of him almost immediately, drop by drop as the frustrations of the real world crowded their way back in.

  He felt useless and at the same time infuriated. He looked around at all the giants: so many of them going about their daily routines, others building, labouring hard.

  Can they not see how meaningless this is? If Asroth becomes flesh no one will escape his wrath; all this will be dust and ruin. I must get out of here. I must find Cywen, Gar, Coralen, Farrell, Dath.

  His gaze fell upon Mort.

  ‘Would you spar with me?’ Corban asked the red-haired giant, who was standing a dozen paces away, leaning against a pile of timber.

  The giant looked surprised, glanced at those gathered about him, all warriors with hammers and axes slung across their backs.

  ‘Spar? No, little man. When I fight you, it will not be pretend.’ He reached up and patted his war-axe. The giants around him murmured their approval.

  Shame. I need to hit someone.

  ‘Any of you, then?’ Corban asked the others.

  The thud of footsteps drew his attention. Ildaer was marching towards him, Varan at his shoulder.

  ‘Follow me,’ Ildaer said to Corban. ‘It is time for you to meet our king.’

  The new hall was vast, built over the old one, but wider, deeper, taller. Stone columns rose high, twisting spirals etched with runes. The roof was still unfinished, a skeleton of timber struts framing a pale blue sky.

  Eld sat at the far end of the hall on a raised dais, tall as all giants, but as Corban drew nearer he thought that there was something vulnerable about him. His skin was pale, dotted with dark spots and looking paper thin; his hair was pale and tenuous, fine as old cobwebs, his moustache wisps that draped down to his chest. He was richly dressed in wool, polished leather and a cloak of white fur, with rings of gold upon his fingers. Corban saw that he bore no weapons, except for a dagger on his belt. The hilt was wrapped in sweat-stained leather, pommel and guard a dark iron that struck Corban as unusual. Eld studied Corban with small black eyes as he was marched along the length of the hall. Standing either side of the King were two giants. One was Hala the healer, dressed simply in wool and leather. The other was a female warrior, her fair hair bound in a single thick warrior braid that curled across one shoulder like a pale serpent, the hilt of a longsword jutting over her other shoulder. A tattoo of vine and thorn curled up from her wrist and disappeared into the sleeve of her mail shirt. She watched Corban with flat indifference.

  ‘So, this is your man-prize,’ Eld said, his voice old and cracked, a hiss like the wind upon shingle.

  ‘It is, Great King,’ Ildaer said, bowing his head.

  Corban stood before Eld, King of the Jotun, staring like a bairn at the spring fair. Eld looked so old, as if his skin would float away like wisps of smoke if he moved too quickly.

  Ildaer whispered something to Mort and the red-haired giant cuffed Corban across the back of the head, sending him staggering forwards onto one knee.

  ‘Kneel before the Great King,’ he growled.

  Corban had been on the edge of doing just that, or at least bowing, but the anger that recently seemed a constant presence within him overflowed. He rose to his feet, glared first at Mort, and then stared at the giant king.

  ‘Well met, Eld, King of the Jotun,’ he said, looking the giant in the eye.

  Mort lifted his arm for another blow.

  ‘Hold; he is our guest,’ Eld said, meeting Corban’s gaze. ‘Things will be done right, now that I am here.’ He gave a disapproving look to Ildaer, held Mort’s gaze a long moment, then finally looked at Corban. ‘So, Ildaer tells me that you slew three of our kin.’

  ‘I had some help,’ Corban answered.

  ‘Aye. I have heard tell of the wolven. Dead now.’ He chewed at a lip. ‘Even so,’ he continued, ‘three of our kin, and two of the death wounds were by blade, not tooth or claw.’

  ‘It was a hard fight,’ Corban said with a shrug, thinking of his broken ribs and shattered knee.

  The shield-maiden snorted a laugh. Respect or derision, Corban wasn’t quite sure.

  ‘And Ildaer tells me that you are someone of note in the war that is happening.’ Eld’s eyes fixed pointedly upon Corban’s arm-ring. ‘Tell me, who are you exactly, and what part do you play in this war?’

  Time to play my hand, though whether it will save or condemn me, I know not.

  ‘I am Corban ben Thannon. Some have called me the Bright Star, champion of Elyon. I lead the force that stands against Asroth, against his Kadoshim and all those that follow him.’

  There was a heavy silence as everyone stared at him. Hala leaned in close to Eld, whispering. Ildaer muttered something behind him.

  Eld’s face creased into a thing of fury, glaring at Ildaer. He gripped the hilt of his dagger, knuckles whitening, half-drew it; the iron of the blade was dull, almost black.

  ‘It seems, Ildaer, you have snared more than you set out to trap. Did you stop to consider the danger you were putting your own neck into? And dragging the Jotun along with you?’

  He doesn’t sound so frail, all of a sudden. He sounds angry.

  ‘The greater the prize, the greater the reward,’ Ildaer said, jutting out his chin, though there was an edge of doubt in his voice.

  ‘And the greater the risk,’ Eld said. ‘What if Calidus or his champion come looking for the Bright Star? What if they find him here? With the Jotun? Ach . . .’ Eld shook his head, lips twisting with scorn. ‘You will bring misfortune upon us.’

  ‘It is as I said; as I planned,’ Ildaer said. ‘We could make a gift of him to Asroth, to Calidus. It would win us great favour, a place in Asroth’s new world order. And it would keep the clan safe.’

  Ildaer seeks to play Eld’s own fears against him.

  ‘Calidus. Aye,’ Eld muttered. ‘He is a thinker, that one. Perhaps, if we move quickly, we might put right your blunder and keep the clan safe . . .’ He looked down, seemed to realize that he’d half-drawn his dagger. With a rasp he sheathed it again.

  ‘You cannot give me to Calidus,’ Corban said.

  Eld turned his attention back upon Corban.

  ‘You are not the one to tell me what I can and cannot do
,’ Eld said. ‘It is I who shall decide your fate.’ He shrugged, staring hard at Corban. ‘The Bright Star,’ he murmured. ‘How the days have passed.’ He sighed to himself. ‘I must consider the fate of my clan, you understand. Must do what is best for their survival. But while you are with us you will be treated well, with respect. We are a people of honour and will do things the right way. And know this: whatever fate I decide for you, it will be for the Jotun’s good. It is nothing personal.’

  Well, that’s a great comfort.

  ‘You cannot side with Asroth,’ Corban said. ‘You saw the Scourging, you know more of Asroth than any of us. He cannot be trusted.’

  ‘I saw Asroth set giant against giant, ’tis true,’ Eld said in a whisper. His hand went back to stroking the hilt of his long dagger. ‘But I also saw the Ben-Elim fill the skies like a murder of crows, blotting out the sun, and where they flew, death flew with them. They had no mercy, no compassion, no forgiveness.’

  Corban shook his head. ‘We can stop it from reaching that point. Together. You have the power to do something, to ensure that history does not repeat itself, or worse.’

  Eld looked at him, considering.

  He’s listening.

  ‘If you do not stand against Asroth he will enter this world, become flesh, and then we are all dead. I have seen only a glimpse of what the Kadoshim will do, and it is terrible. There will be no hiding, no safe place, no living in peace. You will all be slaughtered. Join me, and together we can halt this tide of darkness.’

  He gazed about the room, saw them all staring at him, conflicting emotions warring upon each giant’s face. He focused on Eld, sitting in his chair.

  ‘And where is Meical in all of this?’

  ‘Meical is dead,’ Corban said without thinking. He saw Eld’s mouth open in a gasp of shock.

  ‘Dead!’ Eld echoed, a trace of fear in his voice. ‘Then this war is already over.’

  I should not have said that.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Corban growled. ‘While there is breath in my body, there is hope. There is more to this war than Meical.’ He felt his anger at his old counsellor course through him. ‘There are the Jehar, the men of Isiltir, the survivors of this hold, the Benothi giants, so many others from throughout the realms of the Banished Lands.’