Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  The cord around Fidele’s wrists pulled taut and she was dragged a short way, closer to the sword she’d just seen dropped. She snatched it up as the cord went slack, Lykos leaping back towards her, something huge bearing down upon him.

  He threw himself to the ground, rolled, came up facing the creature that chased him, ducked inside a wild swing and punched his short sword up into its belly.

  Fidele heard a grunt, saw Lykos hammer on the pommel of his blade, pushing it deep, to the hilt, then rip it free, an eruption of blood. The creature dropped to its knees and Lykos grabbed its fur-covered head and ripped.

  A mouth full of bristling teeth opened wide, then tore loose.

  It’s a cloak of fur! An animal skin, a bear?

  Lykos pulled it free, revealing a human face and shoulders, though its features and muscles were slab-like, small dark eyes in a flat, angular face.

  Giants.

  ‘They’re GIANTS!’ Lykos yelled.

  The Vin Thalun rallied. Fidele realized that they outnumbered their attackers, and in a dozen heartbeats more of the fur-cloaked giants had fallen, the rest being pushed back towards the cave.

  Fidele gripped the sword she’d taken and hacked down on the rope binding her to Lykos. He felt the jerk on his waist, turned and saw Fidele with the sword. She swung it at him as he rushed at her, but she could get no strength into the blow with her hands bound and he contemptuously slapped the blade away, punched her in the gut, doubling her over, then again on the temple. There was an explosion of white light in her head as her vision blurred, the world dimming, swaying, the ground rushing up to slam into her face.

  She lay there, dazed, clinging on to consciousness, rolled over. Lykos shuffled forwards, dragging Fidele by the part-frayed rope. He darted in viper-fast to stab at a fur-cloaked giant, then leaped back. Legion slammed into the giant Lykos had just stabbed, grabbed it by throat and groin and hoisted it into the air, impossibly strong for his size, hurling it at a boulder. The giant tried to rise but Legion was upon it in a bound, grabbing its head, slamming the back of its skull into the boulder, again and again, laughing as he did it, flies swarming, buzzing, crawling around, over, into, the shattered skull.

  A haunting sound echoed out of the cave mouth and the other giants retreated into the darkness.

  Lykos shouted a command, halting his men from pursuing, then torches were dragged from packs, flints sparked and dried grass and rushes lit. A few torches were hurled into the cave, flaring bright, revealing no giants lurking to ambush them again.

  ‘Up, you bitch,’ Lykos snarled, dragging Fidele to her feet by her hair. ‘Aegus, Hesp,’ he shouted, and two Vin Thalun strode over, one of them the man with only half a lip. ‘Watch this woman for me,’ Lykos said as he sliced away the rope Fidele had frayed, re-bound her wrists with new rope and handed it to No-Lip.

  Lykos twisted his fingers in Fidele’s hair, dragged her close and kissed her hard on the lips; she squirmed but his grip was iron.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said, part smile, part snarl.

  ‘With me,’ Lykos yelled as he strode into the cave’s jaws, Legion and the Kadoshim prowling after him, the Vin Thalun following more cautiously.

  Fidele looked between the two Vin Thalun. Aegus sneered at her; the other one, Hesp, young, fair-haired, with scars latticing his face and arms, was ignoring her, focused on cleaning blood from his short sword.

  Shouts and screams echoed out from the cave, No-Lip and Hesp were instantly alert.

  ‘They could all die in there,’ Fidele said. ‘Think on that.’

  Aegus yanked on the rope, pulling it tight, burning Fidele’s wrists and making her grunt with pain.

  ‘Just a warning,’ he said. ‘No funny business.’

  Fidele gave him a scornful glance and looked about the glade. It was littered with the dead, crows squawking above, a few of the braver ones already landing for their feast. She looked beyond them, amongst the shadowed trees, thought she saw a movement. Squinting, she strained her eyes. Definitely something moving far down the slope, deep within the trees. Shadows, many of them, though one was closer, far ahead of the others. It coalesced into a man, and he was running up the slope and her heart leaped.

  Maquin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  MAQUIN

  Maquin ran, not really feeling the pain in his legs that he knew must be there, or the burning sensation in his lungs as they laboured for air, his body pushed to its limits. He did not feel the ache in his shoulders and back, arms and legs, from the swim from lakeshore to island, nor did he notice the weight of his dripping clothes.

  All he knew was Fidele.

  He could see her, bathed in sunlight, hands bound, one side of her face red and starting to bruise. As his eyes shifted to the two Vin Thalun with her he felt his lips curl in a snarl. They hadn’t seen him yet. He pulled a knife from his belt, another from a sheath buckled across his ribs, then he was bursting from the trees into a scene of slaughter, the piled meat of the dead all about.

  The Vin Thalun heard him now, both twisting and staring, a moment of disbelief. A strangled cry of fear.

  ‘The Old Wolf!’

  He leaped a body, had a frozen moment to see his enemies clearly, one fair-haired, one with a scarred face, then he was on them. Fair-Hair swung his sword, a short horizontal chop at Maquin’s waist, a wise blow, unlikely to miss, except that it did because he was too slow, had not gauged Maquin’s speed. He was running at full sprint, no slowing, no hesitation, and before Fair-Hair’s blow was halfway to Maquin’s waist there was a knife hilt buried in his groin, ripping up as Maquin crashed into him, rolled around him, spinning away.

  ‘I’ll kill her,’ Scar-Face shouted, unable to hide the tremor in his voice, and lifted the rope attached to Fidele, only to find a severed end dangling in his hand. Maquin had slashed at it as he’d collided with Fair-Hair.

  ‘Come on then,’ Scar-Face snarled, did not wait for Maquin but lunged forwards, stabbing at Maquin’s gut.

  Maquin parried, sword grating as he swept Scar-Face’s blade wide, Scar-Face’s buckler punching at his face, Maquin ducking the blow as if it were all in slow motion, the blooded knife hooking behind his attacker’s knee, stabbing deep, slicing up through muscle. The warrior was falling backwards, Maquin’s knee dropping onto his enemy’s chest, his other knife at the man’s throat, slashing through flesh, cartilage, vertebrae.

  He stood over his enemy, blood-spattered, nostrils flaring, chest heaving.

  Then Fidele was in his arms, their bodies tightly pressed, moulding into each other, Maquin wiping hair from her face, Fidele whispering words in his ear, and they were fiercely kissing.

  ‘You found her, then,’ a deep voice said behind them. It was Alcyon, smiling, breathing hard.

  Maquin saw his expression change as he looked around the glade and saw giants amongst the dead.

  ‘What?’ He crouched beside one, staring into his face.

  ‘Are they your clan? Are they Kurgan?’ Maquin asked him.

  Alcyon shook his head. ‘I do not know. I don’t understand.’

  Others were emerging from the trees, now – Teca, Javed and a handful of pit-fighters, Alben, Spyr and the men of Ripa – all staring around at the blood-soaked glade.

  Maquin looked into Fidele’s eyes, held her cheeks gently.

  ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘Nothing worse than this,’ Fidele said, touching the side of her face that was swollen and bruised from Lykos’ punch. She swayed, eyes fluttering and Maquin caught her, lowered her to the ground, crouching beside her.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Fidele said, trying to rise and failing, then leaning over and vomiting onto the grass.

  ‘Some water,’ Alben said, crouching beside Maquin. ‘Hello, my lady.’ He smiled as he helped her drink from a skin, looked into her eyes, asked her to track his finger. ‘Rest a short while, you’ve had a blow to the head. It will pass.’

  ‘Is this real?’ Fidele said, touchin
g Maquin’s face, squeezing Alben’s hand.

  Shouts, screams, the din of battle echoed from the cave mouth.

  ‘Lykos,’ Maquin snarled.

  ‘The starstone torc,’ Alben said.

  Maquin stood. ‘Spyr, pick a few lads, guard Fidele. When she’s able, get her down to the boats. We’ll be taking them home. Lykos won’t be needing them where he’s going.’

  Fidele grabbed Maquin’s hand. ‘Kill him,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘I intend to,’ Maquin growled.

  ‘And be careful,’ she added. ‘There are Kadoshim with him.’

  Maquin sheathed his knives, drew his two short swords. ‘You hear that?’ he said to the small warband. ‘Kadoshim. You have to take their heads.’

  Alcyon drew his two axes, other men their swords, Teca looked at her bow. ‘I’ll settle for Vin Thalun,’ she said.

  Maquin bent and brushed his lips against Fidele’s cheek. ‘I’ll see you after,’ he said, and then he was stalking into the tunnel, Teca a half-step behind him, bow loosely nocked. Alcyon and Tain followed, Javed, Alben and their men spreading behind them.

  Just beyond the entrance, torches were guttering on the ground, sending shadows dancing wildly as Maquin strode past them. He was on a wide path, sloping and spiralling downwards. After the first bend there were iron sconces hammered into the rock walls, flames flickering, shedding light on still forms scattered on the slope: Vin Thalun, two more giants in their bear-skins. The din of battle grew louder as the tunnel opened up into a great chamber below them. And in the chamber battle raged, flames in great bowls of oil illuminating the violence between men and giants.

  At the far end of the chamber wide steps led up to a raised dais, and upon it was a stone chair, a giant sitting on it. Even at a glance, though, this did not look like an ordinary giant. He was tall, but had little of the bulk of the other giants in the room, his frame withered, skin hanging from his arms and cheeks in wrinkled folds, his scalp all but visible through wispy white hair. A thick torc of dark iron was draped about his neck, looking too heavy for the giant to bear. A handful of giants stood protectively in a half-circle about him, swinging at any approaching Vin Thalun.

  Even as Maquin saw this, a Kadoshim charged the group around the throne, sword high, a flurry of blows clanging off a hammer-shaft, a giant reeling as a blow cut through his defence. At a glance it was clear to Maquin that Lykos and his Vin Thalun were going to win this fight.

  Not while I’m still breathing.

  He launched into a loping run, spiralling down into the maelstrom. Behind him he heard the thud of feet, the thrum of Teca’s bow, saw a Vin Thalun drop with a feathered shaft in his neck.

  A great roaring cry filled the room, echoing, filling Maquin’s ears.

  It was Alcyon. He had paused, twin axes raised over his head, and he was yelling, ‘KURGAN!’

  Many in the chamber stopped, stared up at him. Some of the giants called back to him in guttural voices. Alcyon grinned, a fierce thing, and then he leaped from the path, down into the chamber, scattering a dozen Vin Thalun that were hacking at a giant fallen to one knee. A Kadoshim rushed at Alcyon as he rose from the ground and Alcyon’s axes swung, great looping circles, the Kadoshim’s head soaring through the air in a welter of blood. Its body crashed to the ground, a gush of black vapour pouring from its neck, forming night-black wings, two red eyes, screaming hatred, then it was fading, smoke in the wind.

  That’s how you do it, Maquin thought, feeling the battle-joy rising up within him. He burst onto the chamber’s floor, gutted one Vin Thalun, buried his blade deep into the armpit of the next, spun, ripping his blades free, chopped into another between neck and shoulder, dropping him.

  ‘It’s the Old Wolf,’ a Vin Thalun shouted; the cry was taken up, rippling around the room. Then Javed was flying into the chamber, his Freedmen behind him, a swirling wave of muscle and iron flowing into the battle.

  The world slowed for Maquin, reduced to the next face, the glint of iron, the spray of blood. He swayed and twisted his way past a dozen blades that were intent on opening his veins, eddying past each blow, Maquin striking back unerringly, opening throats and bellies, cutting hamstrings, stabbing groins, slicing tendons, men falling in a wake of the dead behind him, and all the time he was searching for one thing. One man.

  Lykos.

  Maquin paused, the calm at the centre of his own storm.

  Then he saw him.

  Lykos, on the steps to the dais, his buckler dented, short sword dripping blood, a snarl on his face. He had Vin Thalun about him, Kadoshim as well, and they were storming the few giants left upon the dais, protecting the ancient one.

  ‘LYKOS,’ Maquin bellowed, and the Vin Thalun turned and saw him.

  Hatred and fear chased across his face.

  Maquin ran at him, swung at a Vin Thalun in his way, cut deep into his thigh, kicked him to the ground, then a Kadoshim was running at him, a woman, curved sword high in a two-handed grip. Maquin spun as the blow descended, chopped a backswing at the Kadoshim’s neck, bit deep, her head tilting at an unnatural angle. A manic grin twisted her face, black eyes boring into Maquin as she came at him again. Maquin swayed away, too slowly, a red line opening from shoulder to elbow, then hands were grasping the Kadoshim, across her forehead, yanking her head back, and a curved knife was sawing at her throat, the head falling away, demon-mist hissing from its neck, raging its malice for a moment before it was evaporating.

  Javed kicked the headless body to the ground, grinned at Maquin, who nodded his thanks, then Javed disappeared into the carnage.

  Maquin searched for Lykos, saw him and a Kadoshim on the top step, hacking one of the last giants to pieces.

  A horn blast rang out in the hall, echoing, vibrating, growing louder. The ancient giant had risen from his chair and had a horn to his lips. Maquin shuddered to a halt, clasped his hands over his ears, saw all about him doing the same thing.

  The horn sound faded, though still echoing in Maquin’s ears, and he struggled to move, to do anything except keep his hands clasped to his ears. The ancient giant looked around at them all, a mixture of horror, grief, disgust upon his face.

  ‘It was not supposed to be like this,’ the giant said, his voice like parchment scraping together, yet carrying through the chamber. ‘Has nothing changed in all the long years? Who are you all? Where is Ethlinn ap Balur?’

  ‘What are you talking about, old man?’ Lykos grated, hands still at his ears.

  The giant regarded Lykos as Maquin would an annoying fly. ‘I am talking of Ethlinn, child of Nemain, heir to the giant throne, who else? She should have claimed the spear, opened the door. Then come to me here. Where is she?’

  ‘She is fighting these Kadoshim that hold Drassil,’ Alcyon said, taking a step forwards.

  ‘Kadoshim.’ The giant looked at them all, stared at the one close to Lykos, the one with a swarm of flies swirling around him. ‘Ach, when will it end?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Alcyon asked.

  ‘I am Halvor, Voice of Skald,’ the old giant said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Alcyon, last of the Kurgan.’

  ‘Alcyon?’ another voice said. One of the giants in bear-skins took a step forwards. ‘Alcyon ben Dayir? Alcyon who ran?’

  Alcyon stared, frowned, ‘Cota?’

  The Kadoshim surrounded by flies lurched forwards, staggered up the steps to the dais.

  ‘You talk too much, old man,’ he said, and rammed his sword into Halvor’s belly, up to the hilt. With his other hand he grabbed the torc around Halvor’s neck and ripped it off, holding it high.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  LYKOS

  Lykos ran for the slope leading from the chamber, calling Vin Thalun to him. He heard Legion laughing behind him and a quick glance over his shoulder showed the Kadoshim looking as if he was enjoying himself. He’d thrown Halvor to the ground, still alive by the look of his feebly moving limbs, and Legion was beating him to death with the iron torc.
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  They were surrounded by enemies. He glimpsed the Old Wolf, trying to head him off, saw men in black and silver, others clothed like pit-fighters, a handful of them leaping in front of him.

  How the hell did they get here?

  He kicked the rim of a fire-bowl as big as a shield, spilt oil and flame over a warrior charging towards him, saw him ignite like a torch. The man’s screams were terrible as Lykos swerved around the flames, leaped at the rock wall of the chamber and started hauling himself up. Then hands were grabbing his ankle, pulling him back down. He felt a hot line slash across his belly, saw a face grinning viciously at him, knife in hand.

  It was Javed.

  ‘How does it feel to be in the pit with the rest of us?’ Javed snarled, stabbing at him. Lykos rolled, threw his buckler at Javed’s face, making him sway to avoid it, then Lykos was back on his feet, slashing at Javed.

  The pit-fighter spun around his sword, somehow, and then he was inside Lykos’ guard, punching him in the face, stabbing again, but Lykos managed to twist out of the knife’s way, grip Javed’s arm, tried to bring his sword round.

  Pain exploded in his nose, an explosion of white light as Javed headbutted him. He staggered, saw Javed’s knife pulling back, knew he could not stop it.

  Then an arm snaked around Javed’s neck. Legion’s grinning face appeared, yanking Javed back, biting into his neck. Javed screamed as the Kadoshim ripped a chunk of flesh from Javed’s body.

  ‘Guess you lose,’ Lykos said as he plunged his short sword into Javed’s belly, twisted it, sawed it upwards.

  Javed’s scream rose in pitch, trailed off to a gurgle.

  The chamber was heaving with battle again. Lykos ran back to the rock wall, leaping and scrambling for purchase. He dragged himself up onto the slope, hauled up the Vin Thalun behind him, and yelled for Legion, who had become distracted with killing again.

  Legion finally saw him and hurled the torc to him. It spun through the chamber, flames glinting on it, and Lykos plucked it out of the air. It was cold to the touch and heavy, far heavier than it looked. He placed it around his neck, thought for a moment he heard the whisper of voices in his ear, then they were gone. Crouching, he pulled another of his men up the chamber wall onto the slope, felt air whistle over his head, heard a gurgled yell behind him, and one of his men was dropping with a knife in his throat.