Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  Another arrow nocked and loosed, the enemy close enough now that Camlin was confident his arrows would pierce a cuirass and mail beneath, no longer taking his time, just nocking and loosing as fast as he could.

  When he could see the whites of men’s eyes he realized that they weren’t going to swerve away.

  Another arrow loosed and he was thinking about moving, even though the plan had been to stand their ground; being trampled to death by a horde of terror-stricken men didn’t feel like the best end to the day.

  ‘Dath,’ he shouted over the din.

  ‘Trust the Jehar,’ Dath shouted back.

  You’d have to say that, you’re wed to one.

  One more arrow plucked from the soil, nocked and loosed, a man falling only forty or fifty paces away, and Camlin was reaching into his quiver for his next arrow.

  Though I might be flat on my back with someone’s boot on my face before I’ve loosed this one.

  Then behind him Camlin heard the hiss of swords drawn, the drum of feet, and over a hundred Jehar were running through the gaps between the archers’ line, swords held high in two-fisted grips, all screaming the same battle-cry.

  ‘TRUTH AND COURAGE.’ The shout echoed off the wall of warriors running at them, and then the Jehar were carving into the enemy, blood spraying in a hundred arcs, heads and limbs flying, men falling before them like scythed wheat.

  The archers drew in tighter formation and began loosing higher, arrows arcing over the Jehar’s heads before they descended into the bulk of the enemy warband. It was tricky shooting, avoiding low branches while still getting enough height to drop down upon the enemy.

  Then came a pounding vibration through the ground and a roar that made Camlin pause and stare in disbelief at the massive shape punching through the fleeing warband. A creature with long teeth and scythe-like claws, bellowing its fury, a man clad in silver and black sitting upon its back, striking about him with a long sword.

  Camlin stood frozen for a dozen heartbeats as this beast smashed a way through all before it like a battering ram, then powered on into open space, straight at Camlin.

  Suddenly Dath was leaping, crashing into him, throwing him out of the way of the onrushing creature and its rider and they were both tumbling across forest litter, other men and women jumping and scrambling out of the way, some too late, hurled through the air with bone-crunching force.

  The beast hurtled past them and disappeared into the forest, hundreds of surviving warriors following in its wake, most dressed in the black and silver of Tenebral, but with a scattering of white-cloaks amongst them.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Camlin said as he climbed to his feet.

  ‘That was Nathair and his draig,’ Dath said, spitting leaves from his mouth.

  The surviving Jehar were coming back to them now, most of the remnants of the enemy warband gone. Kulla found Dath; she had a long scratch over one of her eyes.

  Akar joined them, looking as if he hadn’t been touched in the battle. He was gazing after the bulk of men who were fleeing raggedly into the forest, far fewer of them than there had been running at them not so long ago. It was hard to tell in the gloom and trees, but Camlin was certain that there were a lot less than four thousand men left in that warband.

  Smoke rolled over them, the crackle of flames in the distance, and then Camlin saw the ants sweeping towards them, a black scuttling carpet of mandibles and legs, a good few hundred paces away. They clustered on the dead that had fallen to the Jehar or lay with arrows protruding from their bodies.

  I was planning on cutting a few of those arrows out and taking them back, but I don’t think I will now.

  The ants were slowing, feasting on the recently dead, but they were still too close for Camlin’s liking.

  ‘We need to go,’ he said.

  ‘Which way?’ Akar said, looking between the fleeing warbands. The larger one, led by Lothar, was still running wildly into the forest, the smaller one was following the draig.

  Camlin and Dath looked at each other, then at the carnage the draig’s passage had caused.

  ‘Best get after Nathair and his beast,’ Camlin said.

  ‘Aye,’ Dath agreed.

  Because they both knew that it was heading straight for Drassil.

  CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

  VERADIS

  Veradis leaned into his shield, felt the scrape of short swords against it. A low blow glanced off the iron strips on his boot and he stamped on the blade, chopped down to hear a muffled scream.

  The man beside Veradis fell, a short sword slicing high over the top rim of his shield, into the man’s mouth. He was the third warrior to die that side of Veradis; another quickly filled the void.

  Hardest shield wall battle I’ve ever fought. It was easier against giants.

  He’d put three men down that he was sure of, and hobbled another, severing tendons in his enemy’s ankle, but beyond that he did not know how the battle was going, only that a ripple of flame had washed over him some time ago, signalling the coming of the ants. And he’d thought he’d heard screaming, further away, but he couldn’t be sure, the din of battle a fog about him.

  The only other thing he knew, and the most important, was that he hadn’t moved, and nor had his men about him.

  We’ve held them. Held the Draig’s Teeth. Feels like we’ve been here for three days, but we’ve held them.

  Veradis glanced over his own shield, saw a face he recognized wielding the sword that had just put the man on his left down, his face bloodied and pale behind the linden and iron.

  Caesus.

  Veradis snarled at him and slammed shields with the young warrior, stabbed below the rim of his shield, seeking to slice through leather and tendon, but felt his blade grate on iron-stitched boots like his own. He pulled back just as a sword stabbed at his hand, and instead went quickly over the top of his own shield, stabbing at Caesus’ eye, catching his cheek instead, leaving a red weal of blood.

  There were screams, growing louder, a ripple through the shield wall, and abruptly he was stumbling forwards. He fell to one knee, saw that Caesus was falling away, running, the wall about him disintegrating. Veradis glimpsed Balur to one side, other iron-wrapped giants with their long axes hacking into the flanks of the eagle-guard, and behind them a wall of flame.

  The Draig’s Teeth have broken. Held at the front, giants on their flanks, flames at their backs.

  Hard men. But still only men.

  He glimpsed eagle-guard fleeing through the trees to both sides, saw Storm leap on one, rolling, blood spraying as she came to a halt and stood upon her prey. Corban emerged from the treeline, his sword bloody, Farrell with him, his war-hammer matted with bone and hair. Corban offered Veradis his hand and pulled him back to his feet.

  ‘Nathair?’ Veradis asked.

  ‘He fled east, on his draig.’

  ‘It worked, then? The fire, the ants?’

  ‘Aye,’ Krelis said, emerging from the trees, dragging an eagle-guard by the scruff of his mail shirt and throwing him at Veradis’ feet.

  It was Caesus.

  ‘You ready to fight for us, lad?’ Krelis asked him.

  ‘I serve only Nathair,’ Caesus said, glaring up at Veradis.

  ‘Say one thing for Nathair,’ Krelis said, ‘he does inspire some loyalty in his lads.’ He gave Veradis a knowing look. ‘Got more than a few like him running around in the woods,’ Krelis continued, looking back to Caesus. ‘Doesn’t feel right putting a sword in them when they’re not fighting back; they’re men of Tenebral, after all, but we can’t have them wandering around behind us, and we can’t spare the men to watch them.’

  ‘Break some bones,’ Corban said. ‘A good man gave me that advice once. Break the bones in their sword hand. They’ll not take the field against us again today.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Krelis said, nodding. ‘I like it.’ He looked down at Caesus and grinned.

  Coralen emerged from the trees, three eagle-guard walking befor
e her sword-point, and she deposited them alongside Caesus. Wulf stepped from the gloom, and his men about him. It had been they who had lit the fires behind the ant colonies and guided them east into Nathair and Lothar.

  ‘Worked a treat,’ Krelis said to them, grinning broadly. ‘But that was the easy part.’

  ‘Aye,’ Corban agreed. ‘Now for Drassil, for Rhin and for Calidus.’

  CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

  UTHAS

  Uthas stood upon the battlements of Drassil. Up above him the leafless branches of the great tree clawed at the sky, and above them heavy clouds shrouded the world, slate-dark and oppressive. The gates of Drassil faced west onto the wide plain, beyond it the trees of Forn a wall of shadow. A cold wind tugged at his cloak and warrior braid, sending a shiver through him.

  Salach stood to one side of him, battle-axe sharp and ready, his face as sullen as the sky.

  To Uthas’ other side stood Rhin, regal in her black and gold, a thick sable cloak about her, silver hair gleaming. And beside her Calidus and Lykos, both clad in shirts of mail, leather-bound, grim-faced. Stretching either side of them all were a line of black-eyed Kadoshim, and beyond them, lining the walls of Drassil, were his Benothi kin: a grim line of giants, their thick-muscled torsos swathed in leather and chainmail, tattoos of thorn and vine swirling up from their wrists, each one their own sgeul, the Telling, testament to the lives they’d sent across the bridge of swords.

  They are an impressive sight, and their sgeuls will grow this day, Uthas thought with pride.

  All of them stared southwards in silence, at the plain of Drassil and dour Forn beyond.

  Where are they?

  It was halfway to highsun now, a pale gleam marking the sun’s journey, and for some time a mixture of sounds had been drifting out from the murky green of the forest. Screams, and more recently clouds of smoke filtering up through the canopy to be frayed by the cold wind. Uthas saw a blush of orange and red as flames bloomed, deep within Forn, at least a league away, maybe further.

  And the screams were spreading, expanding through the forest.

  Not a good sign. They should be getting closer, moving along the line of the road. That is what we expected, for Nathair and Lothar to push Corban and his rabble back.

  Uthas looked back at the courtyard, which was full to overflowing with Conall and his warband, close to fifteen hundred men, horses and riders, most of them standing with their mounts. Rammed into the streets behind them was Geraint and his warband of four thousand men. All waiting.

  They should have ridden out long ago. All is clearly not going well for Nathair and Lothar; they need our help.

  But when Uthas had suggested this to Calidus he had snarled a refusal: And send more men into ambush and death within those trees. No. We will wait until we can see our enemy.

  ‘Any sign?’ A voice shouted up to them – Conall, close to the gates of Drassil, stamping his feet and blowing into his hands.

  ‘No,’ Rhin called down to him.

  ‘We could ride out onto the field, prepare a line.’

  ‘You cannot ride out to fight a foe that isn’t there,’ Rhin snapped. ‘Wait.’

  ‘I hate waiting,’ Conall muttered, though he said no more, just went back to blowing into his cupped hands. Uthas noticed that Rafe the huntsman was standing near him, holding the reins of a horse.

  A hiss from Rhin drew his attention back to the horizon.

  Shadows were shifting in the treeline to the west, directly before Drassil’s gates, and then figures were emerging. First came a lone warrior and a wolven, big as a horse, padding at his side. Its coat rippled and shimmered like molten silver. Then more came: a handful of men, a trio mounted on horseback, more and more spilling from the forest, an array of warriors. Uthas saw many in the black and silver of Ripa, but there were many others, red-cloaks of Isiltir, a knotted clump of men wrapped in leather and fur, clothed like miniature giants, and then behind them real giants, forty, fifty, still more coming.

  Most of the rabble halted a dozen or so paces from the forest, clinging to the treeline.

  ‘Where is Nathair?’ Uthas heard Calidus mutter. ‘Where is Lothar?’

  A handful of the new arrivals carried on, approaching the gates of Drassil.

  The warrior and wolven walked at their head. Uthas remembered them from Murias, though he had had only scattered glimpses. He had been fighting for his life, after all. They had both grown, that was clear enough, Corban – for that was who it must be – though young, strode with a warrior’s grace and confidence. He was dressed simply, in mail shirt and leather surcoat, a four-pointed star on his chest. The wolven beside him was huge, even for its species, and its coat rippled like liquid. Uthas looked closer and saw it was wrapped in chainmail. As he stared at it, the beast looked up at him and he saw its lip curl back in a snarl, amber eyes and dripping fangs full of malice. He had to stop himself from taking a step back.

  Behind them he saw a diverse collection. A man clothed in the black and silver of Tenebral, a bright eagle on his cuirass. A Jehar warrior, sword hilt jutting over his back; beside him a warrior as broad as a bull, hefting a war-hammer as if he were a young giant; one rider upon a horse – Edana, wrapped in mail and a grey cloak, her fair hair braided into a thick warrior braid, a circlet of gold entwined about her head.

  A crown! Rhin won’t like that. She won’t like that at all.

  And three giants. His breath caught for a moment as he focused on them, and he felt Salach stiffen beside him.

  Ethlinn walked at their head, and no longer did she look like the frail dreamer that he remembered. She was straight-backed, dressed for war in leather, fur and iron, a spear in her hands. Behind her strode another giantess, muscular and strong. She was not Benothi, the sides of her skull were shaved clean, a thick mass of dark hair limed and braided down the centre of her hair.

  ‘Kurgan?’ Uthas murmured, a memory from the lore stirring in his mind. Beside her walked Balur One-Eye, wrapped in thick iron. His white hair spilt from beneath his helm, the lattice of his scarred empty eye socket staring straight up at Uthas.

  Fear and rage coursed through Uthas’ veins. He had drunk from the cup and felt young, strong. How dare this ancient old fool stand against him?

  Today you die, old man.

  Corban and his wolven padded to within fifty paces of the gates, then stopped, his unlikely band of allies arrayed behind them.

  ‘If you are here to surrender, we accept,’ Lykos shouted down to them. ‘Lay down your arms, muzzle your pet, and we’ll open the gates for you.’

  Corban and the others just stared up at them.

  ‘No?’

  Another silent response.

  Lykos leaned over to Calidus and whispered loudly. ‘Foreigners, eh! No sense of humour.’

  Even Salach chuckled, shoulders rippling.

  Corban cupped his hands to his mouth and called up to them.

  ‘No surrender. No bargaining, no offer of peace or treaty. I came to tell you one thing, Calidus.’

  ‘And what is that, you arrogant cub?’ Calidus yelled down to him.

  ‘Your death is coming.’

  Corban turned and walked away, the wolven stalking beside him.

  ‘Rhin?’ Edana shouted from horseback.

  ‘I see you, you thieving bitch,’ Rhin called down, ‘and before this day is done I shall rip that trinket of gold from your cold, dead skull.’

  I thought the crown would anger her.

  ‘You will never return to the west,’ Edana shouted up to her. ‘You have run, and now you have nowhere left to hide.’ Before Rhin could answer, Edana turned her horse and cantered after the others.

  Rhin turned a darker shade of scarlet, a string of curses flowing from her mouth.

  I would not wish to be Edana if Rhin gets her hands on her today.

  ‘UTHAS,’ Balur One-Eye cried out, ‘Betrayer, murderer of Nemain; today justice will find you.’

  Uthas felt his own rage bubble up, barely
contained. ‘Fine words,’ he bellowed, ‘from one who slew his own king.’

  Ethlinn rested a hand on Balur’s arm and stepped forwards.

  ‘Warriors of the Benothi,’ she cried. ‘Today I claim my birthright. I am Ethlinn ap Balur, and I am Queen of the Clans.’

  What?

  Uthas had expected her to stake her claim as the Benothi’s rightful leader – but all of the Giant clans?

  That is my place!

  ‘Behind me stand Benothi and Kurgan,’ Ethlinn cried. ‘It is time to become one clan again. Uthas has led you wrong, but I will forgive you and welcome you, if you leave him now. Spill the blood of your kin no more.’

  And then she was turning, striding after Corban, the other giants with her.

  Uthas’ lips quivered with rage, his moustache twitching.

  It is I who will be Lord of the Clans after this day.

  ‘Salach, take her head,’ he hissed.

  ‘I swear it,’ his shieldman growled.

  Where are Nathair and Lothar? Even without them we are unbeatable within these walls, but there were over six thousand swords in Forn. Surely they cannot have been defeated?

  Deep within Forn smoke roiled above the canopy, flickers and flashes of flame now, spreading wider.

  A great fire must be blazing within the forest. Have Nathair and Lothar been trapped and burned?

  Uthas glanced at Calidus, saw doubt gnawing at him.

  Then there was a crashing and roaring to Uthas’ left, to the south of the plain.

  A shape emerged from the southern treeline, a beast upon four legs, low to the ground, wide-chested and muscular, razor-sharp talons on its bowed legs. A draig. And a man sat in a saddle upon its back.

  Nathair.

  The draig lumbered forwards and then paused, gave a booming roar, and behind it warriors spilt from the forest, hundreds of them, both eagle-guard in their black and silver, and Lothar’s white-cloaks.

  The eagle-guard were moving into formation, forming a shield wall in orderly, disciplined lines. Nathair was yelling and gesturing to the white-cloaks, and Uthas saw them gathering into two groups, massing about the shield wall’s flanks like white wings.