Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  She was too scared to think coherently, just ran.

  It’s in the tunnel, right behind me.

  Somehow her legs pumped faster. She felt the draig closing in on them, heard a crunching just behind her head as jaws snapped at her.

  They turned a long bend in the tunnel, bursting into another chamber-like room. Arcus sprinted straight through it, disappearing into the only tunnel at the far end, Hild and Swain half a step behind him. Haelan stumbled ahead of Cywen with the cubs and Pots. Cywen and Buddai were last through, the sound of the draig thundering up behind her filling her with terror.

  Then she saw light ahead.

  It was pale and weak, a pinprick in the distance, her companions black silhouettes before it. She felt hope lurch in her chest and moved faster, at the same time realizing that she wasn’t going to make it. The draig behind her was so close she could feel its breath. She reached inside her cloak, tried to remember which pockets she’d put which vials in, grasped one, two, hoped they were the right combination, yanked them free, hurled them behind her, down at the ground, heard the glass smash.

  ‘Fola agus lasair, comhlacht agus tine,’ she yelled.

  There was a sucking sound behind her, as if the tunnel took an indrawn breath, and then a whump as fire ignited, the force of it hurling her on. The draig roared, pain and rage blended. Cywen risked a glance back, saw a wall of fire filling the passage, glimpsed sharp teeth and leathery skin through the flames.

  Cywen ran on, stumbling, one hand reaching out to the wall, only then noticing she still had Corban’s wolven gauntlet strapped on her arm. With each step the light ahead grew brighter and bigger, and then Cywen was flying out of the tunnel, her companions spilling onto a slope that rose up before them.

  Cywen looked behind her, back into the tunnel, saw her flames still burning, though even as she watched a draig burst through them, snuffing them out.

  ‘It’s coming!’ Cywen yelled, scrambling up the slope, almost on all-fours. She burst over a lip and saw the forest spread out before her. It was day; after the darkness of the tunnels the usual half-light of Forn was unbearably bright, trees rearing above her, and there were more dung hills, scattered in a loose arc around the rim, stretching back into the trees like a field.

  Behind Cywen the ground trembled, the draig surging up after them. She caught up with Haelan, reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him on. The draig was closing the gap at a terrifying speed, crashing through the undergrowth, jaws opening.

  Cywen leaped, dragging Haelan with her, sending both of them smashing into a mound of dung, faeces exploding around them.

  The draig skidded past them, great talons raking the ground, sending earth and forest litter spraying through the air. Cywen came to her hands and knees, clawed dung from her eyes and nose and mouth, retched. Haelan fought in Cywen’s arms, spluttering and choking, the stench of dung thick as sea fog about them both.

  Then the draig was before them, head bent low, tongue flicking, so close that Cywen could see the saliva dripping from one long, curved tooth. She froze, absolute and utter terror stealing everything from her, and she found herself unable even to scream. Judging from Haelan’s frozen expression he felt something very similar.

  The draig’s head swayed on its powerful neck, its bulk filling her entire world. It seemed confused, searching for something it couldn’t find; it shifted its weight, one of its clawed talons scouring the earth a handspan from Cywen’s foot.

  It can’t smell us, Cywen understood, because of the dung. But why can’t it see us? Is it because we’re not moving? Just make no noise, no noise.

  There was shouting, in the distance, Hild was stepping out from behind a tree, Arcus and the others with her, waving their arms in the air, crying out.

  Trying to save us, Cywen realized.

  The draig gave an angry rumbling growl and thundered into motion, away from Cywen and Haelan, after their companions.

  ‘Run,’ Cywen hissed, dragging Haelan to his feet by the scruff of his neck and chasing after the draig.

  They followed the draig’s trail of destruction, speeding through the forest. Undergrowth was being torn and scattered, the rhythmic pound and scrape of the draig’s claws ripping through all in its way. Cywen caught a glimpse of the draig’s whipping tail, beyond that the silhouettes of her friends fleeing, saw the flash of fur, the cubs darting through the undergrowth.

  The draig didn’t see me or Haelan when we were covered in dung and motionless. Smell must be its primary sense, which makes sense, living in those tunnels. And what about sight? It definitely sees us when we are moving. What if we all just stood still?

  No, it would still smell the others.

  Screams echoed through the forest. Fear spread its wings in Cywen’s chest. She ran faster.

  The draig was poised over Hild and Sif, Arcus standing over them, sword red to the hilt.

  Cywen yelled wordlessly and reached inside her cloak.

  The draig’s tail slammed into her as it twisted to look and she was flying through the air, weightless, spinning, then crunching onto the ground, rolling, snared in clinging vine. She came to a stop, her back and chest on fire, gasping for breath. She rolled over, saw the draig looming over her, jaws open wide.

  Then Buddai was crashing into it, his teeth snapping at the draig’s neck, scoring red gashes but unable to penetrate deep into the beast’s flesh. He fell to the ground, leaped away from a slashing claw that would have eviscerated him.

  Cywen dragged herself to her knees, staggered upright, hand reaching into her cloak.

  Then Arcus was running at the creature, stabbing at its belly. Blood gushed as his sword sank deep, the draig bellowing in pain, jerking away, ripping the sword free of Arcus’ grip, tail whipping around and smashing the warrior full in the chest. He flew, crashed into a tree and slid to the undergrowth, the draig following, front paw landing on Arcus’ torso, pinning him to the ground. Its head dipped, jaws fastening upon Arcus’ head. A twist of its neck and blood was jetting from Arcus’ shoulders, his head in the draig’s jaws. It crunched through bone and swallowed.

  Sif screamed, hands clasped over her mouth, again and again. The draig saw her. Hild ran for her daughter, who was standing frozen, shrieking hysterically. Cywen staggered after the draig as it pounded towards Sif. Movement flashed from different directions, converging upon the draig – the cubs, Shadow leading, the others close behind, all of them leaping at the beast, snapping, tearing at its thick scaly hide, Buddai hurling himself at the draig again, this time sinking his teeth into one of its back legs, dark blood welling, splattering upon the ground. Pots appeared and jumped on one taloned foot, biting and snarling.

  The draig ignored them all, as Cywen would ignore flies. Its jaws opened above Sif, then another figure was flying at it: Swain, jumping and hanging from a long tooth in its lower jaw, legs wrapping around its neck, as he’d cling to a branch. He had his knife in his hand, stabbed it into the soft tissue of the draig’s mouth, fast and furious, again and again; blood and saliva mixed, the draig rearing up onto its back legs, shaking its head. Hild reached Sif, swept her up into her arms and kept on running.

  The draig crashed back to the ground, making the earth tremble. It opened its mouth and roared, filling the world with its rage.

  Swain had somehow kept his grip on the draig’s tooth, though his legs had left the ground, and he was swinging beneath the creature’s lower jaw. He stabbed again with his knife, this time into its neck. The draig gave a massive shake of its body, like a hound after a swim in the sea, Swain, Buddai, the cubs and Pots were all sent flying in all directions.

  Cywen skirted the rear end of the draig, ducked as a cub flew past her, gripped two vials she’d pulled from her cloak and raised her arm. She hesitated, seeing how thick the creature’s hide was, waiting to get a shot at its head, where its vulnerable parts seemed to be – eyes and the soft tissue of its mouth.

  The draig clawed its way towards Swain, who was scrambling
to his feet and running after his mam and sister. The draig’s head snaked out and the jaws snapped, clamping upon Swain’s leg, dragging him back, lifting him into the air.

  Swain screamed, high and piercing. Hild skidded to a stop.

  Cywen gave up trying to get a clear shot at the draig’s head and threw the vials, muttering her words of power as glass smashed upon the draig’s scaly back, the two liquids mixing, combining, igniting in a flash of incandescent light, flames spreading over the beast’s body.

  It bellowed its pain, dropping Swain. Haelan and a handful of the cubs appeared from the undergrowth, running to Swain, dragging him away. Swain cried out, blood pulsing from his torn leg, and the draig, mad with agony as the flames licked its back, lashed out wildly with a taloned foot. Haelan hurled himself flat to the ground, the cubs leaping away, but the draig’s claws caught one, sliced it to bloody ruin in a heartbeat.

  Haelan screamed horror and rage, then he was back on his feet, pulling his hatchet from his belt, leaping at the draig, latching on to its foreleg, one arm rising and falling in furious motion, chopping maniacally at the creature’s knee-joint.

  Cywen ran at it, punched her wolven claws into its tail, ripped them out, scored a long line as the tail whipped furiously, the draig turning on Cywen, with Haelan still clinging to its foreleg. Cywen leaped away from a slash of the draig’s talons, Buddai bounded in again, worrying at its belly, his jaw coming away blooded, more cubs returning to the attack, a white streak as Pots jumped at the leg Haelan was attached to.

  The draig was mad with fury and pain. The last of Cywen’s flames was flickering across its back, leaving the skin there blackened, and the beast swung its head, caught Cywen in the shoulder, teeth slicing across her. A line of burning pain sent her spinning, falling, the draig lumbering after her. Buddai flew at its head, jaws clamping onto the draig’s cheek and the bone of its heavy brow, but a furious jerk of the draig’s neck sent Buddai spinning up into the air, crunching to the ground a dozen paces from Cywen. She heard bones break and half crawled, half dragged herself to her beloved hound’s side, saw the draig rearing over both of them, open jaws bearing down upon them.

  We’re all going to die.

  She wrapped an arm around Buddai, the hound whining as he tried to move, settling for licking Cywen’s face.

  There was a whirring sound, a thunk, like a slap, and a white-feathered arrow was suddenly sprouting from the draig’s neck.

  And then another.

  Then there was a louder whistling sound and a dagger hilt was protruding from the draig’s side. The draig bellowed its challenge and frustration as a crashing, splintering onrush of power tore out of the forest.

  Storm, hurtling from the shadows, a thunderbolt of muscle, teeth and fur, leaping and slamming into the draig, huge jaws clamping about the muscled neck, canines sinking deep, the two creatures rolling, forest litter and earth exploding in great gouts as the draig thrashed, talons and tail wreaking devastation.

  Then, a war-cry.

  ‘TRUTH AND COURAGE!’ and Corban was charging out of the undergrowth, his sword held high, Gar one side of him, Coralen the other, and behind them the bulk of Farrell, long-shafted war-hammer in his hand, Laith beside him, bristling with daggers, the smaller figure of Kulla, adding her voice to Corban’s. They struck the draig in two waves, Corban, Gar and Coralen first, swords carving through the beast’s thick hide, leaving long bloody gashes in their wake, then spinning away, after them Kulla and Farrell, sword and war-hammer swinging, Laith standing back and hurling dagger after dagger at the great beast.

  It reared up, clawing at Storm upon its back, tail whipping at its new assailants. Corban leaped over the tail, surged forwards and buried his sword two-handed into the draig’s softer belly, pushing deeper, leaning into the blow, then twisting his grip, shifting his weight and ripping his blade free, an eruption of near-black blood and the draig was roaring, collapsing, slamming to the ground, an explosion of leaves and dirt, its neck and head flopping and then, with a shiver, it died.

  Corban stood over Cywen and held his hand out to her, Storm snuffling and nuzzling at Buddai, the hound’s tail wagging, thumping the ground.

  Cywen gripped Corban’s wrist and he pulled her upright.

  ‘Still getting yourself into trouble, then,’ he said, a grin splitting his face as he pulled her into an embrace.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  MAQUIN

  Maquin awoke to bright light and pain in his head. He rolled over, expecting to see Fidele lying beside him, but he was alone, the wool and furs on her side of their bed cold to the touch. It was a little past dawn, a chill in the air, mist curling up from the stream close by.

  He sat up slowly, memory returning of last night, a smile spreading across his face as he remembered her words to him.

  This, us, is for always. His grin widened. He saw the empty skin of mead close by and rubbed his temples.

  I must be getting old, he thought, his head feeling full of fog. A few cups of mead and I sleep the night away.

  With some effort he knelt before the stream, dunked his head up to his shoulders and came up gasping, the water ice cold and invigorating. Sounds of celebration drifted down to him, and he frowned, remembering Fidele telling him of Veradis’ impending rescue attempt.

  I was going to volunteer for that. By the sound of the cheering I wasn’t missed, though I may have missed out on a fight worth a song.

  He pulled on his boots, a wool tunic and his leather vest, slung his sword-belt over his shoulder and headed towards camp.

  He saw Veradis first, walking alongside Krelis. They were leading a long column: Balur, Alcyon and what looked like the full strength of the Benothi clan striding with them. Amongst them were a mix of warriors, mostly men of Ripa, clothed in the black and silver of Tenebral. Many of them were discarding cloaks and helms, being greeted by warriors of Isiltir, Wulf’s men, Javed’s Freedmen – all were out to welcome this warband home. People were embracing, laughing, crying.

  He did it, then, Maquin thought, looking at Veradis. I imagine that was quite the tale, and I look forward to hearing it.

  First things first, though. Where’s Fidele?

  A young warrior, dark-haired, a man of Ripa approached him. Maquin recognized him as one of those who had become part of Fidele’s unofficial honour guard.

  ‘This is for you, my lord,’ the warrior said, holding a rolled parchment out. He didn’t meet Maquin’s eyes.

  ‘I’m no one’s lord,’ Maquin muttered as he took the scroll, saw the wax was sealed with Fidele’s ring. Something shifted inside him, like a chill wind on a summer’s day.

  I have gone to seek Nathair, the parchment began. I gave you a sleeping draught last night, knowing that you would seek to dissuade me, or failing that, you would accompany me. I must speak with Nathair alone. I know there is goodness in him yet, but I need an opportunity to draw it into the light.

  All of last night is true. What we did, what I said to you, meant with all that I am. But I must do this alone.

  He is my son.

  Please forgive me.

  And then her signature.

  Maquin bowed his head, crumpling the letter to his chest.

  A whirlpool of emotions – he was hurt that she didn’t trust him with this, that she’d deceived him. He was angry that he’d been tricked, fooled. But most of all he felt scared, a worm of fear squirming in his belly.

  Forn is dangerous. The journey alone . . .

  ‘When did she leave, and how many went with her?’ Maquin asked the young warrior.

  ‘I was told to bid you wait, my lord,’ the warrior said.

  ‘Might as well ask the sun not to rise,’ Maquin growled, stepping close to the warrior. He returned Maquin’s stare.

  Brave lad, but I don’t have time for this.

  Anger swelled, fuelled with fear for Fidele. His fingers twitched.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Spyr, my lo—’ the warrior answer
ed.

  ‘Stop calling me that,’ Maquin snarled. ‘I commend your loyalty, Spyr,’ he said, ‘but that won’t stop me emptying your guts all over your boots.’ He didn’t move or touch a weapon, but the warrior took a step back.

  ‘She’s chasing after Nathair, you fool,’ Maquin said to him, quietly. ‘A ten-night’s travel through Forn, and then she’ll walk into our enemy’s camp. Do you think Nathair will let her just walk back out again? The man who has betrayed his kin, his realm, the whole Banished Lands?’

  He held Spyr’s gaze.

  ‘Now, I’ll ask you one more time. When did she leave, and how many went with her?’

  ‘Six,’ Spyr said, looking at the ground.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night. They left when Veradis led his warband to Drassil.’

  Clever. Cover to mask her leaving.

  He thought a moment, then spun on his heel and strode back to the stream, filled a couple of fresh water skins, stuffed dried biscuit into his pack, checked his kit-box was there, slung it over his back. Checked his knives. Then he was striding through the camp, skirting the celebrations. On his way he saw Teca and changed his direction, approaching her.

  ‘I need your help,’ he said to her. He knew she was the best tracker in their warband. ‘Fidele has run off on a fool’s errand, and I need to catch up with her before she gets herself, and this warband, into a lot of trouble.’

  Teca took a long look at Maquin’s face.

  ‘All right. Let’s be after her, then.’

  They left immediately. Maquin heard footfalls behind and he glanced back to see Spyr following him, shamefaced.

  Lad was only following orders, he thought. He nodded as Spyr joined them, and the three of them made their way through the forest, following the path that Veradis, his hundred and more than a score of giants had trampled last night. It wasn’t long before Teca stopped, looking at the broken leaves of a red fern, then crouched, studying the soft forest litter. Abruptly she rose and headed into the undergrowth, away from the wide trampled trail of destruction that Veradis’ lot had left.