Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  ‘The Jehar!’ Hala said. ‘I thought that ancient order had disappeared an age ago.’

  ‘They rode out to make a stand against Asroth,’ Corban said.

  ‘The Benothi?’ It was the shield-maiden who spoke this time.

  ‘Balur One-Eye, his daughter Ethlinn, the other survivors of Murias.’

  ‘Balur,’ sneered Eld.

  ‘Ethlinn,’ whispered the shield-maiden.

  ‘It is too late for any of that, Sig,’ Eld snapped at the giantess. ‘We live in the now, not the what-might-have-been.’ She frowned.

  ‘We should gift Corban to this Calidus,’ Ildaer urged. ‘It will buy us favour with the winning side.’

  ‘Aye, mayhaps it would,’ Eld mused, ‘but it will also bring the Jotun much closer to this God-War than I like. I have spent a thousand years protecting my clan from this war, and yet now . . .’

  Eld sucked in deep, muttering under his breath.

  ‘This is my judgement,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Ildaer; you will take this Corban into the Desolation and there you will kill him and cast his body into some pit. He was never here.’

  Corban felt a jolt of fear shiver through him.

  ‘Why not kill him here?’ Mort frowned.

  ‘The fewer eyes that see, the fewer tongues to wag,’ Eld snapped, ‘and sooner or later Calidus will be searching for him.’

  Mort nodded.

  Eld looked around, at the newly crafted building. ‘And we must leave this place.’

  ‘What?’ Ildaer barked.

  ‘We are too close to this war. We must be far from here when it happens. We must head back into the Desolation, travel further north, back to the Bonefells or even beyond.’

  ‘No,’ Mort cried. ‘We cannot. We have achieved too much—’

  ‘Silence,’ Eld snarled, spittle spraying from his lips. ‘Ildaer, keep your whelp under control, else Sig will reason with him.’

  ‘This is my judgement,’ Eld said, harsh as a winter wind. ‘Corban is taken from here and executed, and he goes now. The sooner he is away from my clan, the better. Ildaer, I was soon to name you my heir, as reward for the good you have sought for the Jotun, but you have been rash, foolhardy, and I have been unwise to bring the clan south. I will think more on you, and the freedom I have permitted you.’ He shook his head, a parent scolding a wayward child.

  Beside Corban, Mort tensed, and he saw Ildaer’s knuckles bunch white.

  As he spoke, Eld’s hand gripped the dagger again, fingertips tracing the hilt, across the dark iron of the cross-guard.

  Corban frowned.

  ‘Your dagger,’ Corban said, ‘the metal it is fashioned from . . .’

  Then he knew.

  ‘It is the starstone dagger,’ he whispered.

  ‘Take him from here, Ildaer,’ Eld snapped, flicking his wrist towards the hall’s entrance. ‘Now. Carry him into the Desolation, as fast as your bear will carry you.’

  Ildaer grabbed Corban by his collar, started pulling him backwards. Corban fought in his grip.

  ‘It must be destroyed!’ Corban shouted, struggling in Ildaer’s grip.

  Eld shook his head, snarling. ‘The dagger is mine.’

  ‘You cannot escape, cannot hide – nowhere will be far enough,’ Corban yelled. ‘Calidus will come for you, hunt you to the ends of the earth for that dagger.’

  ‘Be gone,’ Eld snarled, a wave of his pale flaking hand. ‘The sooner he is dead the better.’

  ‘The first command that I do not dislike,’ Mort whispered to Ildaer, and then Corban was being dragged through the hall, fighting and shouting. Mort punched him in the gut; Corban retched bile. He gasped and spluttered, saw Mort grinning at him, Varan frowning as he followed behind. A last glimpse before he was dragged from the hall showed Eld sitting in his chair, staring at Corban.

  Mort pulled Corban into the sunlight and across the courtyard. Corban managed to get his feet under him as he recovered from Mort’s blow. Ildaer was a few strides ahead. Mort was talking in whispered hisses to giants gathering close about him, and then they were moving off in different directions. Corban saw giant faces staring at him as he was dragged towards the bear pens; he felt the heat rolling out from the doorway of the forge.

  They’re going to kill me!

  ‘Hold him,’ Ildaer said and disappeared inside the bear pens.

  Mort threw Corban onto his face, giving him a mouthful of mud.

  ‘I’ll not lie,’ Mort said, standing over him and flipping him with the toe of his boot. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  He reached down and grabbed Corban’s tunic, hoisting him up from the ground.

  As he did, Corban kicked out, his boot crunching into Mort’s groin. The giant crumpled, Corban rolling free.

  Corban looked frantically about, saw giants everywhere; Mort was grimacing, rising unsteadily back to his feet.

  No way out of here. Corban saw the pile of iron rods that he’d been using in his sword dance and snatched one up.

  ‘Good,’ the giant said, gripping the axe from his back. ‘Now I can defend myself. If you die . . .’ He shrugged.

  Ildaer’s bulk filled the bear pen doors. A glare as he took it all in. Corban shuffled away from them both, trying to keep them in front of him. He glimpsed other giants moving in.

  They’re going to kill me anyway – better to make a fight of it.

  Panic had been racing through him, but with that last thought he felt a calmness descend.

  I’d rather have been standing with my loved ones, but if this is where I die . . . He looked around, everything suddenly felt sharper, brighter.

  Then so be it. And let’s see who I can take with me.

  He set his feet and lifted the iron rod into stooping falcon.

  Begin, he heard Gar’s voice in his ear.

  ‘Come on then, and I’ll send you to meet your brother,’ he said to Mort.

  The giant didn’t seem to like that. He strode in at Corban, whirling his axe above his head, face twisted in rage.

  Anger is the enemy, Gar’s voice whispered.

  Corban remained utterly still, remembering sparring with Balur on the weapons court at Drassil. The axe came out of its spin, began its descent, the intention of the blow to carve Corban in two from skull to groin. Still Corban did not move.

  Then he was sidestepping, just half a foot, at the same time swinging his iron bar, nudging Mort’s axe-blade away, not meeting it full-on – that was the quickest way to shattered wrists – the blade careened wide and hacked into the ground with an explosion of dirt. Corban swung the bar and crunched it into Mort’s knee. The giant howled in agony and dropped to the ground.

  Corban saw Varan on his right and pointed his iron bar at him. Varan lifted his hands and retreated. Other giants were closing.

  They’re going to rush me.

  One giant lunged in and Corban swung the iron bar, connected with a wrist, heard bones crunch, the giant falling away, another stepping in, grabbing Corban’s arm, but the bar glanced off its head, the giant collapsing. A spear shaft darted in at Corban and he knocked it away, connected with another jaw, the giant spiralling to the ground. Corban edged towards the gates, giants circling him. Suddenly Ildaer was there. Corban waited for him, a circle of fallen giants about him. Ildaer lunged, Corban’s bar connecting with his shoulder, sending the giant stumbling, but other hands were gripping Corban, pulling the iron bar from his hands. He punched, twisted, bit, but within moments he was caught tight. Panic had him then and he bucked and kicked like a wild thing, for a moment felt the grip upon him loosening, something crunched into his head and there was an explosion of stars, his vision blurring, the world lurching out of focus as he fell.

  Then, voices, shouting, from somewhere beyond.

  Giant voices, raised in command, in question. And another voice, somehow familiar.

  ‘What the . . .’ Ildaer growled, and then Corban was being hoisted onto his feet.

  The strangest sight gr
eeted him.

  A man was walking through the gates, dressed in black chainmail and breeches, a scabbarded sword held high over his head. Giants were standing around him, weapons aimed at him, but they were letting him through, almost appeared to be escorting him.

  The man was shouting, the same phrase over and over again, but at first the words were incoherent to Corban, he was too busy staring at the man in black, a torrent of emotion sweeping him.

  Shock, joy, fear, love.

  Because it was Gar.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CORALEN

  Coralen paused behind an old fence post and looked up at the settlement on the hill. Ahead of her she saw Gar enter the new-built gates, giants surrounding him. To her immense surprise he wasn’t dead.

  Yet.

  So far so good.

  To her left, Coralen caught a flicker of movement: Dath and Kulla, doing the same as her, creeping through the long grass. Farrell and Laith had taken a different path, using the vegetation along the riverbank as cover. If their timing was right they should be near the settlement.

  ‘No changing it now,’ Coralen muttered to herself. As she scanned the walls of the settlement the giants patrolling it disappeared from view.

  Getting a closer view of Gar’s entertainment, no doubt. Unless they’ve decided just to execute him, that is.

  She sucked in a deep breath and ran, breaking out of the long grass and sprinting for the wall. She glimpsed Dath and Kulla breaking from cover on the far side of the gate and doing the same. Kulla was faster than Dath, hitting the wall before even Coralen. Then they had disappeared from view around the curve of the wall. She crunched into stone, looked up and froze as she waited for a giant’s face to appear. None did. She dragged in a few deep breaths, unhooked a rope from her belt, looped and knotted the end, then cast it. It caught first time, hooking around a stone piling. She leaned on it, testing how well it had caught, then started to climb, feet against the rock.

  A dozen heartbeats and she was at the top. Gar’s voice was ringing out, giants shouting, clamouring.

  Let’s do this, then.

  She pulled herself over the top, rolling over, dropping to the roof of a building below, half-expecting to crash right into a giant. She didn’t; her feet thumped onto thatch and then she was crouching low and slipping onto her belly. A quick glance showed the wall was empty, a few giants halfway down a stairwell that led to the courtyard. Off to her left she saw Dath appear on the wall, dropping quickly down, crouching in the shadows and drawing an arrow from his belt-quiver. Kulla landed lightly on her feet beside him. Coralen crawled to the edge of the building she was on and looked over.

  A new half-built hall towered at the peak of the hill, a wide courtyard before it, full with hundreds of giants, all gathered about Gar, who was standing with his scabbarded sword held high over his head and shouting out his challenge, time and time again.

  Where the hell is Ban in all of this?

  Her eyes swept the enclosure, and then she saw him, her heart feeling like it had just leaped into her mouth. A rush of fierce joy.

  He’s still alive. For now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CORBAN

  Corban stared, not quite believing his eyes.

  It’s Gar. He’s here, standing fifty paces away from me.

  He wanted to run to his friend, to embrace him, to yell at him to flee. Nothing good could come of him being here. Then he felt a rush of guilt.

  He’s come here for me, and he’s going to get himself killed.

  ‘I am Garisan ben Tukul, Lord of the Jehar,’ Gar was yelling, ‘and I challenge Ildaer, Warlord of the Jotun, by right of blood-feud.’ He was repeating that sentence over and over, walking through the throng of giants. For some reason they hadn’t killed him yet, were in fact parting for him, letting him through.

  Ildaer was straightening, a deep frown etched on his face as he turned away from Corban.

  ‘I know you,’ Ildaer said, marching towards Gar.

  ‘Aye, you do,’ Gar said; the two of them were close now, Ildaer halting a dozen paces from Gar.

  The crowd of giants parted and Sig appeared, behind her Eld and Hala.

  ‘What is this new madness you bring upon us?’ Eld said to Ildaer.

  ‘I am Garisan ben Tukul, Lord of the Jehar, and I challenge Ildaer, Warlord of the Jotun by right of blood-feud,’ Gar said.

  ‘Yes, I think we’ve all heard you by now,’ Eld snapped. ‘Explain why you are here.’

  ‘Ildaer slew my father.’

  ‘Ahh.’ Eld’s head turned to Ildaer. ‘Is this so?’

  ‘It is,’ Ildaer shrugged. ‘I also fought this weakling, and defeated him. I would have finished the task, but that one –’ he pointed back at Corban – ‘stood over him, summoned his warband.’

  ‘You ran from Balur One-Eye,’ Corban yelled.

  ‘None of that is important,’ Gar said. ‘All that matters is that you fight me. You must fight me. It is a blood-feud, and the Jotun hold to the honour of the old days.’

  Ildaer’s eyes flickered to Eld and Hala, then returned to Gar.

  ‘I am Ildaer, Warlord of the Jotun; I have taken this land for my clan. You are a maggot, and will be squashed like one. Mort, take him from my sight and teach him the meaning of pain.’

  ‘Hold,’ Eld said, looking between Gar and Ildaer. ‘We are the Jotun. All other clans may have turned from the old ways, but we have not; he claims the right of blood-feud.’

  ‘You are not serious,’ Ildaer sneered. ‘He should be exterminated like the vermin he is.’

  ‘He speaks true,’ Hala said. ‘You have confessed to killing his father. He has the right to claim trial by combat.’

  ‘This is madness, a waste of my time,’ Ildaer rumbled, glowering at Eld.

  ‘You are Warlord of the Jotun,’ Eld said, ‘do not lose your honour over him.’ Eld gestured at Gar.

  Ildaer stood there a long moment. His eyes flickered to Mort, who was in the crowd close to him. Ildaer nodded.

  ‘Very well,’ Ildaer said, hefting his war-hammer. ‘Come, then, you that are eager for death.’

  ‘And if I win, I walk away from here?’ Gar looked to Eld and Hala as he said it.

  ‘Of course,’ Eld snapped. ‘We are not murderers.’

  ‘And he comes with me,’ Gar said, pointing now to Corban.

  For the first time Gar looked straight at Corban. Their eyes locked – so much communicated in a few heartbeats.

  ‘I think not,’ Eld said. ‘You go too far. You have claimed your right, under the old way of blood-feud, but there is nothing in the lore that says you have a claim to him, or any other prize.’

  Gar shrugged and looked at Ildaer. He unsheathed his curved sword and tossed the scabbard away.

  Ildaer rolled his huge shoulders and set his feet in a wide stance, towering over Gar.

  Gar lifted his sword two-handed above his head, set his feet, waited.

  ‘Ha, I’ve seen that before,’ Ildaer laughed. ‘Him, over there.’ He gestured at Corban. ‘Your father did the same, though it did him little good. You all fight the same. No doubt you’ll die the same.’

  ‘Begin,’ Eld said.

  Gar and Ildaer swung at each other, Gar’s blade ringing out as it struck a glancing blow on the iron bands of Ildaer’s hammer-shaft, knocking it wide. Gar quickly stepped inside the giant’s guard, following up with two short chopping strikes, and Ildaer was staggering backwards, blood dripping from cuts on his face and forearm. Gar pursued, striking high and low, his sword a blur, Ildaer’s war-hammer blocking wildly as he gripped the shaft with both hands, using it more as a staff to defend himself. Slowly Ildaer got his feet under him, using both ends of his war-hammer, the spiked butt stabbing out, the hammer-head blocking, punching at Gar’s head, his chest, feinting, testing. Gar swung and ducked, sidestepped, spun around blows; nothing landed on him. Ildaer retreated slowly, uphill towards Corban, sweat and blood dripping from his face.

>   Gar’s speed seemed to increase, each attack flowing seamlessly into the next one, sparks exploding from Ildaer’s hammer-haft. More wounds appeared on Ildaer, on the back of his hand, across his thigh, his shoulder, Gar was still untouched. He circled Ildaer; the giant was breathing heavily.

  ‘Do you think of your da?’ Ildaer said.

  ‘Every day,’ Gar said and attacked again, another blistering attack forcing Ildaer backwards.

  ‘Was he in pain, at the end?’ Ildaer grunted as he fended off a strike to his throat, sidestepped and swung his hammer two-handed at Gar’s midriff, the blow missing by a finger’s width as Gar leaped away.

  Corban saw muscles twitch on Gar’s face, the grip on his sword tighten.

  Anger is the enemy; control it. Anger is what defeated you last time, and Ildaer remembers.

  Gar surged forwards, feinted high to the left, chopped low, but Ildaer caught Gar’s sword on his hammer-head, turned it, lashed out and struck Gar across the head with the spike. Gar stumbled backwards, legs unsteady, blood sheeting into one eye. Instinctively Corban tried to leap forwards, but the giants held him fast, Corban and his captors were alone on the slope as the crowd followed Ildaer and Gar back down the hill and across the courtyard. For a moment Corban could not see Gar – the crowd was blocking his view – a silent scream filled his head at the prospect of Gar dying only a handful of paces away, and him powerless to do anything.

  There was a thud close by, a grunt, and then, suddenly, the grip upon Corban’s wrists was gone. He held his hands up and stared at them, as if to check. The giant that had been holding them was crumpled on the ground, blood staining a patch on his leather jerkin.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CORALEN

  Coralen saw Corban look in surprise at the giant’s corpse, even as she was leaping on the second one’s back and cutting his throat. Blood sprayed and he collapsed to his knees, toppling forwards onto his face.

  ‘Cora?’ She heard Corban’s voice, looked back at him. He had a purpling bruise on his temple, an angry-looking cut on his opposite cheek, deep hollows about his eyes, and in general looked as if he’d been to the Otherworld and back, but the smile spreading across his face became her world, just for a heartbeat or two.