Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  He looked back into the chamber, saw Maquin pulling another knife from a sheath.

  Time to go.

  He turned and ran, a handful of survivors with him. They pounded up the slope, spiralling higher, then one of his lads stumbled and fell, an arrow sprouting from his chest. Up ahead a woman was pulling another arrow from a quiver, nocking it.

  He gritted his teeth and ran at her, but she stayed calm, loosed, the arrow sending the man beside him spinning to the ground, rolling back down the slope. Before she had another arrow ready, Lykos was upon her, slashing with his sword, but she ducked, hit him in the side of the head with her bow, sending him stumbling. He kicked out, caught her hip and she staggered back, one foot slipping over the edge of the slope. For a moment she teetered there, as if suspended, arms windmilling, then with a cry she fell. Lykos wasn’t sure how far the fall was, didn’t care, as long as she was out of the way. He ran on, only three men with him now.

  It’s going to be a race for the boats. Could do with more than this to help me row all the way back to Drassil.

  He paused, looking back down into the chaos below.

  Fire had spread, engulfing almost half of the chamber, the other half filled with battling bodies. He couldn’t see many of his men left; a handful were trying to get to the slope. Of the ten Kadoshim that had walked into the cave, Lykos could only see three – one of them Legion, who was still slaying with a joyous abandon. They seemed to be keeping the enemy more than busy.

  They’ll come if they can.

  Lykos shrugged and continued up. Soon, seeing daylight ahead, he ran faster, wanting to be away from here, though there was one other treasure he wished to find before he left.

  Fidele.

  He burst into pale sunlight, blinked as his eyes adjusted, saw the backs of three men heading into the trees and smiled, because between them was a figure he’d recognize anywhere.

  ‘Pick your man,’ Lykos said to the men with him, focused on a grey-haired warrior to Fidele’s right, and charged.

  Lykos gave no battle-cry but the group heard him coming and spun to face him. He glimpsed Fidele’s face, pale-skinned, eyes wide, then Grey-Hair was moving at him, striding out of the trees back into the glade, a spear held low, two-handed, levelling at Lykos’ belly.

  Lykos saw the warrior’s muscles bunch, begin the thrust intended to skewer him. He twisted right, swung at the same time, felt a line of hot fire rake his ribs, hacked down at the spear shaft, splintering it, and slashed his sword deep into the warrior’s neck.

  Lykos kicked the body off his blade.

  One of his men was down, two were circling around Fidele’s remaining guard, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then Lykos heard footsteps behind him, leaped without thinking, saw a sword lunge into the space he’d just occupied, Fidele on the end of it.

  He grinned at her.

  ‘Thought you’d seen the last of me?’ He swatted her sword away, and she back-stepped into the glade, holding the sword in front of her, its tip trembling. Lykos advanced, smiling, and she stabbed at his belly, but there was little strength in the thrust. He knocked it away and continued advancing as she shuffled further back, towards the glade’s edge. She looked unsteady on her feet, her eyes unfocused.

  Still feeling the punch I gave her?

  She stopped at the edge of the cliff, stones rattling down to the lake far below.

  ‘Nice view,’ Lykos said conversationally, still moving closer. His sword slammed onto hers, a twist of his wrist and Fidele gasped, a cut appeared on her forearm, her sword dropping to the grass. Behind him Lykos heard the clash of blades, a man grunt in pain, a thud as his lads finished off Fidele’s last guard.

  ‘Enough of this,’ Lykos said, holding his hand out to Fidele. She glanced behind her, down at the long drop to the rocks below.

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ Lykos said. ‘Come with me, live. Who knows, you may escape again.’

  Fidele threw herself at him, spitting and snarling and they reeled close to the edge, Fidele punching him in the head a dozen times and raking bloody grooves in his face with her nails before Lykos had caught her wrists. He slapped her across the cheek, hard, shook her, and her eyes spun, her colour draining.

  She’s still concussed. Good. Should make her more manageable.

  ‘Stop this foolishness. You’re coming with me,’ he growled at her.

  He heard the thud of feet behind him.

  ‘Let her go,’ a voice snarled.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  MAQUIN

  Maquin froze for a moment as he emerged from the cave tunnel, eyes adjusting to the sunlight. He gripped his two short swords, both red to the hilt; he was splattered from head to toe in his own blood and the blood of his enemies.

  He scanned the glade, filled only with the dead. Then he saw them.

  Two figures at the rim of the glade.

  Lykos, holding Fidele by one hand, dangling her over the cliff edge.

  ‘Let her go,’ Maquin snarled, stalking towards them.

  ‘That’s a poor choice of words,’ Lykos observed. ‘Are you sure?’ He jerked a wrist, setting Fidele wobbling, only her toes on the cliff edge, back arching over into thin air.

  ‘Pull her back,’ Maquin said, closing the distance between them.

  ‘Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t,’ Lykos said. ‘But what is going to happen here is this. You’re going to STOP!’ He screamed the last word, spittle flying. Fidele swayed and Maquin froze.

  ‘Good,’ Lykos muttered. ‘That is good. We need some rules here. The most important one is that I will be telling you what to do, not the other way around.’

  ‘You are trapped,’ Maquin said. ‘Finished. If you stay there, more of my friends will be joining us, any moment now. If you let her fall, I will kill you.’ He shrugged. ‘Let her go.’

  ‘That one’s not going to work on me,’ Lykos said, grinning and shaking his head. ‘I’ve tasted something of her charms, know the effect she has on a man. Please don’t insult me by pretending she doesn’t matter to you.’

  Shouts and screams echoed from the cave mouth, sounding close. Lykos glanced that way, then back to Maquin.

  ‘I think I need to be going, so this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to take one of your many knives and cut your own wrist, right here, right now. I’m going to watch you bleed out and die, and then I’m going to leave, taking Fidele with me. If you don’t do that, then I’m going to throw Fidele over this cliff and take my chances with you and whoever comes out of that cave mouth.’

  ‘No,’ Fidele gasped.

  ‘One of you is going to die here. You get to choose, Old Wolf.’

  Maquin stared at Fidele, a long, timeless moment.

  The clamour of battle rang from the cave, closer again. Lykos’ head snapped around.

  ‘If I’m going to die, sure as Asroth lives, she’s going to die too,’ Lykos snarled. ‘You think I won’t?’ His face twisted, a mask of rage. ‘No. If I cannot have her, then no one will.’ He shifted his weight, face set in determined, hate-filled lines.

  ‘No,’ Maquin cried. He dropped his swords, drew a knife from his belt, rested it against the vein in his wrist.

  ‘Maquin, please, no,’ Fidele said to him. She was crying. ‘If you die, he wins, and I am worse than dead. You know what he will do to me . . .’

  ‘I . . .’ Maquin said, knife blade trembling at his wrist, a trickle of blood where it had broken the skin. The thought of her dying was unthinkable, unbearable.

  ‘It is you that has to live,’ Fidele said. ‘You have to kill him.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ Lykos snarled, eyes flitting from Maquin to the cave mouth. ‘She’s getting heavy.’

  As long as she lives, there is hope for her. Alben, Alcyon, they are coming . . .

  ‘Maquin,’ Fidele cried. Again, desperately. ‘Maquin, look at me.’

  He met her eyes. Tears ran down both their cheeks.

  ‘If one of us lives, then so does something
of the other,’ Fidele said. ‘I love you,’ she whispered, and jerked her hand free of Lykos’ grip.

  For a long moment she seemed to hang suspended in the air, eyes locked fiercely with Maquin’s. Then she was gone. Lykos lunged at her, but his hand clasped nothing but air.

  Maquin opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. He felt as if a fist had clamped around his throat, a vice drawn tight about his chest. He stumbled forwards, arms outstretched, dropped to his knees, gave a great wracking sob, his vision blurred with his tears.

  ‘Well, that was a waste,’ Lykos said, staring over the ledge.

  Maquin stood, blinking tears from his eyes. ‘Now you die.’

  Fear danced across Lykos’ face, but it settled into anger. He stepped away from the edge and drew his own sword.

  ‘We’ve all got to die sometime,’ he growled.

  Maquin heard the thud of feet, began to turn, but something slammed into his back, sending him flying through the air, crunching to the ground, swords gone as he rolled. His vision blurred, came back into focus and he saw a black-clothed warrior, maggot-white face, dark veins threading the skin, black eyes regarding him through a cloud of flies.

  ‘Legion!’ Lykos called. ‘I have never been happier to see you!’

  Other figures were emerging from the smoke-filled cave: more Kadoshim, a handful of Vin Thalun, then Javed’s Freedmen, the black and silver of Ripa. A giant in bear-skins. Another giant ran from the cave, screaming, his body engulfed in flames. He stumbled and fell. Was silent.

  Maquin pushed himself up, felt the world spinning, looked for Lykos.

  Kill him. She asked me to kill him. Kill him. Kill Lykos.

  His hand found the hilt of a sword, the other gripping a knife hilt at his belt.

  ‘To the boats,’ Lykos yelled at the creature he called Legion.

  ‘Soon. After I’ve tasted the jelly of this one’s eyes,’ the Kadoshim called, striding after Maquin.

  Lykos shrugged and ran as more men and giants spilt from the cave, a running battle.

  Maquin launched himself at Legion and buried his knife hilt in the Kadoshim’s jaw, punching up until the tip scraped against bone.

  The Kadoshim grinned and grabbed Maquin by the jerkin, backhanded him, sending him spinning through the air, tumbling across the ground, losing the grip on his sword again. As he came to his feet he saw Legion grab the knife that was rammed up through his jaw and slowly pull it free. Maquin heard bone grating.

  ‘It’s always better when you put up a fight,’ Legion said as he stalked after Maquin. Maquin danced backwards, knives hissing into each hand, one slashing at the outstretched fist, and severed fingers spun away.

  ‘Come here,’ Legion snarled, leaping at Maquin.

  Maquin ducked, flies filling his vision, and pivoted away.

  Stop fighting on instinct – that’s a Kadoshim. I have to take his head, and knives aren’t the tool for that job. And those flies aren’t helping.

  Maquin turned and ran, jumped over the flaming body of a dead giant, fist closing about an edge of cloak that wasn’t on fire. He swung it about his head and hurled it at Legion like a flaming net. Flies buzzed as they were seared into charred ash.

  ‘Better; I can see you now,’ Maquin said, reaching down and plucking a sword from the grass. ‘And I’ll need to see you if I’m going to take your head.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Legion said, charging at Maquin, ‘though I doubt you’ll be so bold when I’m sucking the marrow from your bones.’

  Maquin swung a savage overhead blow, the Kadoshim’s left hand went spinning through the air.

  ‘I’ll take you down a piece at a time if I have to,’ Maquin growled, bent and snatched up one of his short swords.

  ‘You’ve made me angry, now,’ Legion growled, and reached his remaining hand over his shoulder to draw his Jehar sword.

  Their blades met, a harsh clash of sparks, a score of blows as Legion struck at Maquin, faster than eyes could track. Legion’s onslaught forced Maquin back, the speed and savagery of it overwhelming, until Maquin had his back to a tree.

  ‘I will feast on your flesh, rip your guts from your belly while you still breathe,’ the Kadoshim grunted as he swung his sword. Maquin ducked low, Legion’s sword thrumming deep into the tree as Maquin dived and rolled, saw a spear-blade in the grass, grabbed it and hurled it at Legion as the Kadoshim ripped his sword free and turned.

  The spear pierced Legion’s belly, punching through iron rings, leather and flesh and pinning him to the tree. The Kadoshim began to pull himself bodily along its length, then Maquin was running at him, screaming a wordless battle-cry, swinging his sword two-handed, chopping into the Kadoshim’s neck, slicing through flesh, cartilage and bone into bark, splinters spraying. Legion’s head toppled to the ground, his body held upright by the spear.

  A torrent of black mist poured from the Kadoshim’s neck, swirling into the air above Maquin. It boiled above him, separating into a host of winged forms, spreading through the glade, blotting out the sun, myriad coal-red eyes glaring down at him. A multitude of wings beat their fury, a great pulse of air buffeting Maquin. As one, the winged demons shrieked, Maquin and all else in the glade clutching their ears, rocking as if they had been blasted with a great wind.

  And then the black cloud was melting, a ragged, tattered banner pulled apart by a cold wind blowing up the cliffs from the lake below.

  Maquin felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up to see Alcyon standing over him, Tain behind him, with another giant in bearskins. Maquin grabbed a fistful of Legion’s hair and lifted the decapitated head, then staggered to the cliff edge and looked down. Upon jagged rocks lapped by water Maquin could see a body, limbs twisted at impossible angles. A spray of black hair spread across the rock, the bright splash of blood about it.

  Maquin swayed, eyes fixed on Fidele, feeling a wave of grief so huge and raw that he thought his heart would surely stop beating. Wished it would. Time passed and he realized he was weeping, his body shaking, wracked with great sobs. He felt men gather behind him, Alcyon, Alben limping to his side, many others. All stood in silence and stared at the body broken on the rocks.

  Beyond the rocks the lake spread, and upon it Maquin saw a single boat appear, pinprick figures in it rowing frantically, heading towards the river that flowed through grasslands and further, barely visible, into the green bulk of Forn.

  ‘LYKOS,’ Maquin screamed, his voice ringing out, and a body in the rowing-boat turned, looking up at them. Maquin took a step back, swung the decapitated head in his fist and hurled it arcing into the air. It spun high, dipped and fell, eventually hitting the lake far below with a tiny splash, only what looked like a few strides from the boat. Maquin could see the head, bobbing on gentle waves.

  ‘I’m coming for you, Lykos,’ Maquin bellowed through cupped hands, ‘and neither demons from the Otherworld nor flesh and blood will stop me.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  CAMLIN

  Camlin rode out of the tunnel into a world of wonder. There were trees everywhere, which he had expected, but such trees! Wide-trunked, high-branched, and they climbed so high, the canopy above thinning with winter’s onset, light trickling through splayed fingers, diffuse and distant. It was hard to tell, but Camlin guessed that it was somewhere between dawn and highsun. In the Darkwood he’d always loved that sense of space and yet of cover, both above and around him. Here that was magnified a thousandfold. He felt he’d come home.

  He looked down at Meg, who was riding a pony behind him. He smiled at her now, but saw she was too wide-eyed at the forest to pay much attention to him.

  The rest of them were all the same, even Edana, who rode beside him, following their two guides, men clothed in the black and silver of Tenebral. Camlin had almost put an arrow through one of them before Craf had squawked that the men were allies fighting against Nathair and not enemies.

  Says a lot when you’ve come to trust a crow on matters of life and death.
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br />   They rode on a short way and six figures emerged out of the forest gloom before them. Edana lifted a hand and reined in, her warband spilling from the tunnel mouth, two thousand men spreading into the forest behind her.

  A young warrior walked towards them, graceful and confident. He was clothed in forest leather and wool, dark-haired, serious-faced, a stubbly beard, broad at chest and shoulder, like a blacksmith. A silver arm-ring curled around one of his biceps, catching Camlin’s eye, and he had two swords hanging from his belt, one long, one short.

  A smile spread across Camlin’s face.

  A wolven emerged from the undergrowth, bounding out of the shadows and loping alongside the warrior as he stopped before them, looked up at Edana and Camlin and smiled at them.

  ‘By Elyon, but it’s good to see you, lad,’ Camlin said.

  His horse snorted and shied at the smell and presence of a wolven, but he whispered soothing words, stroked its neck and tugged on the reins and it settled.

  ‘Welcome to Forn Forrest, my Queen,’ Corban said, and then he dropped to one knee.

  Edana slipped from her saddle and strode to him. ‘Corban, there’ll be no kneeling between us,’ she said, ‘and as you’re the Bright Star of prophecy, perhaps I should be kneeling before you.’

  ‘But, I swore an oath,’ he said.

  ‘I release you from it,’ Edana said, waving her hand.

  Corban started to say something but then the other figures came forwards.

  ‘Do what you’re told for once in your life,’ a red-haired warrior said, hauling Corban to his feet. Camlin remembered her from Rath’s crew in Domhain. Sullen and argumentative, she had been, and very handy in a scrap.