Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  Don’t want to get too close to that, the beast has got a bite on it.

  Balur and his kin were doing a fine job, though, slamming axes into the flank-men of the wall, hooking and skewering shields, dragging men out of formation and into the open, hacking them to death in a matter of moments.

  Don’t think I’m much use against that – can’t see too many arrows getting through all that wood and iron. Think I’ll see if I’m needed elsewhere.

  He scanned the battlefield, but nothing was clear apart from a lot of death and dying, with smoke starting to roll thick across it from out of the forest. For a moment the enormity of it struck him, a scene like nothing he’d ever witnessed before, so many disparate peoples from across the Banished Lands, all trying to end each other.

  He glimpsed a knot of Ardan’s grey, to the north, mounted, battling against men in black and gold.

  Edana’s where I should be, and killing Rhin’s men seems like a good idea to me, he thought, and set off at a loping run, the crew of archers following him.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

  UTHAS

  ‘ONE-EYE,’ Uthas heard Salach bellow, as he rammed his spear into a warrior clothed in black and silver.

  My sgeul is growing this day.

  Uthas had led his Benothi into the flank of a mass of warriors, most of them clothed in black and silver, some red-cloaks amongst them. But he was not interested in fighting them. He was trying to reach a handful of giants beyond this swirling mass of black and silver, giants of his clan, the Benothi, some of them clothed strangely in great plates of iron, and wielding single-bladed axes on shafts as long as saplings. Amongst them other giants ranged.

  They are my people. I do not wish to slay them. Only Balur and Ethlinn; then the rest will bow to me. I’ll let Salach have One-Eye, it’s Ethlinn I will see bleeding into the cold earth.

  And then he saw her, stabbing her spear at a white-cloaked warrior, defending the back of one of the iron-wreathed giants.

  One-Eye fears you, Uthas had said to his shieldman earlier, and perhaps he did, for Salach was a great and renowned warrior amongst the Benothi, a hundred raids to his name, his sgeul many-thorned, and he had slain Sreng, Nemain’s shield-maiden, accounted the greatest blade amongst the Benothi, apart from Balur. But One-Eye’s reputation was a thousand years old, and he was ancient now. Old and slow.

  Still, I doubt that One-Eye fears anyone. And I would rather face Nemain’s get than Balur.

  Uthas waded through the black and silver towards Ethlinn, his spear jabbing, smashing the butt-spike into a face, spinning the weapon and stabbing through a chest, lifting the warrior bodily from the ground and hurling him through the air, onto the next man in his way. His Benothi followed behind him, carving a way through their enemy, Salach screaming Balur’s name with every blow, the battle-rage coming upon him.

  Then Ethlinn saw him.

  She was frozen, staring at him, and then was striding towards him, smiting white-cloaks out of her path to get at him, and he doing the same to those in black and silver foolish enough not to run from his wrath.

  And then space was opening between them, warriors scrambling away from him, and Ethlinn was so close. Behind her he saw a horde of men appear, running along the flank of Nathair’s shield wall, axe-wielding warriors clothed in leather and fur, and the dark-clothed Jehar, swords raised high.

  The few that escaped Murias and the cauldron’s touch.

  Jehar and axe-wielders alike were hurling themselves at the white-cloaks.

  But other figures were appearing behind them. Giants, some wrapped in iron, others clothed as giants in fur and leather. They were all running towards him and his Benothi, and Balur was at their head.

  Uthas felt a jolt of fear, a snake uncoiling in his belly.

  I have drunk from the cup, I am stronger, faster than I have been for five hundred years.

  Aye, but is that strong and fast enough to defeat Balur One-Eye?

  ‘Salach,’ Uthas yelled, ‘your foe comes. Seize your glory, make your name, become the legend who slew Balur One-Eye.’

  He saw Salach running past him, snarling, his battle-axe raised high, and Uthas charged at Ethlinn.

  They will both die now, then the clans are mine.

  He screamed a wordless battle-cry and stabbed his spear at Ethlinn, a two-handed lunge, low to high that would have punched into her gut and taken her from her feet, but she rolled her shoulders and her spear tapped his spearhead wide, slid down the shaft and raked his knuckles, she made her own lunge, which he swayed away from, and instead of piercing his eye it slashed his cheek, blood sluicing into his beard.

  To his left he saw Salach attack Balur, the black-haired giant hacking at Balur’s longer-reaching axe, splintering the shaft and charging in close.

  Balur’s finished.

  He backed away from Ethlinn, swaying left and right as she made short stabs at his chest and throat, knocked her spearhead high and slammed the butt of his shaft into her gut, making her grunt. There was a percussive whirl of slaps and sparks as their spears clattered and chimed together, and then Ethlinn was stepping out of range and they began circling one another, the grating clang of iron connecting with iron as Salach chopped at Balur’s chest, sparks exploding from the iron plate that One-Eye wore, sending him stumbling backwards.

  Giants were forming a ring around them, his Benothi, Ethlinn’s followers – Benothi and Kurgan – all grim and silent as they watched Salach and Balur, Ethlinn and him.

  Good. They can watch them both die.

  Uthas feinted a lunge at Ethlinn’s belly, jabbed lower, at a thigh, but she danced around it, stepped in close, holding her spear like a staff and slammed it onto his foot, slashed the blade horizontally at his belly but he jumped back, her spear-tip sparking as it raked his chainmail, tearing a line of links.

  Ethlinn was smiling.

  Uthas felt his neck flush with anger. How dare the frail dreamer mock him? Sweat dripped into the cut on his cheek, stinging. He snarled and stabbed, stepping around Ethlinn’s block and counter, gripped her spear shaft and pulled her off balance, towards him and his spear point, angled at her throat. Somehow she rolled around it and then her fist was slamming into his cheek, rattling his skull, staggering him, and he tasted blood. He stumbled back, swinging his spear wildly to keep her away, but she was just standing a few paces out of reach, watching him.

  ‘Thought me an easy victory?’ she sneered at him. ‘You forget whose blood runs in my veins.’

  They both glanced at Balur and Salach, saw that with one fist Balur had gripped Salach’s axe-haft, stopping it mid-blow, and with his other hand Balur had torn his iron helm from his head and was bludgeoning Salach with it. Uthas saw a spray of blood and teeth.

  Uthas felt a flicker of panic.

  ‘Lasair,’ he commanded, and flame burst up from the ground around Ethlinn’s feet, Uthas lunging forwards at the same time.

  ‘Sioc,’ Ethlinn said contemptuously and the flames crackled into glittering frost. She spun away from Uthas’ lunge, her spear whipping around, the butt cracking Uthas in the back of the head. He staggered forwards, turned, desperately fending off the blows as Ethlinn attacked in a constant assault.

  There was a hot pain in his hand, a strange numbness, and he looked down to see his fingers scattered upon the grass. His spear fell from his grasp just as Ethlinn’s spear-butt crunched into his jaw, sending him stumbling backwards. He felt hands hoisting him up, saw that it was Eisa behind him.

  ‘Help me,’ he croaked, but she only stared at him in stony silence.

  She shook her head. ‘You murdered Nemain.’

  Then hands were pushing him back into the circle to drop on his knees before Ethlinn.

  Something thudded onto the ground beside him. Salach’s head, dark hair matted with blood, one side of its face a bloody pulp.

  Balur came to stand at Ethlinn’s shoulder.

  How can it come to this? It cannot be ending like this. I have
drunk from the cup.

  ‘Mercy,’ he cried.

  Ethlinn’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t deserve it.’

  Then her spear-blade lunged forwards, and he saw it sink deep, dark heart’s-blood welling. He took a rattling breath that didn’t seem to work, and then the world was growing dim, narrowing to a tunnel of light, Ethlinn’s grim face at the end of it, and he was falling . . .

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

  CORBAN

  Corban looked up at the hole in the tunnel’s roof. A thick root had bored through, earth falling away to form a ledge and, from there, a twisting passage to Drassil.

  They were gathered in a huddle, drinking from a water skin, gasping and sweating from the long run through the stifling tunnels. Haelan had led them unerringly through the maze of passages, though Corban had lost all track of time.

  ‘Well, that was quicker than before,’ Cywen said.

  ‘We didn’t get lost this time,’ Haelan said. ‘Just had to follow the stones, and stay away from the tunnels with two stones before them. And we ran all the way instead of creeping.’

  Farrell grunted in disgust.

  ‘Are we waiting here for a reason?’ Brina snapped. ‘Hoping some draigs might join us, perhaps?’

  And with that they were climbing up into the hole. Coralen clambered up first, helping to lift Haelan and Pots and Shadow, the rest of them hauling themselves up, climbing towards the grey light that glowed above. Storm was the last one up, her bulk squeezing through the hole, dislodging a cascade of dirt.

  ‘This is it,’ Cywen said, pointing as they joined her. ‘That light leads to the courtyard.’

  ‘Haelan, you wait for us here with Pots and Shadow,’ Corban said. He held Haelan’s gaze. ‘No following, on your oath.’

  Haelan frowned. ‘My oath,’ he grudgingly said.

  ‘Right then,’ Brina said. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Cywen thought the healer looked scared, just for a moment.

  Cywen climbed from the hole into the courtyard first, Corban after her. It was still daylight, and the sun beginning its twilight descent. The courtyard was deserted, the sounds of battle a distant boom and thunder, like the sea battering upon the cliffs of Dun Carreg. Quietly the others emerged into the still courtyard. Haelan’s pale face stared out at them from the hole beneath the oak tree, Pots and Shadow with him.

  ‘Thank you,’ Corban said to him, crouching down. ‘We are here so quickly because of you.’

  Haelan grinned.

  ‘One of us will come and get you when we’re done,’ Corban said and rose.

  If any of us can.

  There was a flutter of wings from above.

  ‘All Treasures in big room with tree,’ Craf squawked, flapping down to them.

  ‘Even the starstone torc?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Yes, torc there,’ Craf confirmed. ‘And cauldron, spear, axe and cup.’

  Corban touched the dagger sheathed at his waist and the necklace in his pocket.

  They shared a grim, silent look, and then moved swiftly and silently through a deserted Drassil.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

  LYKOS

  Lykos jogged across the battlefield towards the two shield walls, short sword in his fist, buckler strapped to his forearm, the remnants of his Vin Thalun spread behind him like a tattered cloak.

  Fifteen hundred men left from over four thousand. So many have fallen.

  That made him angry.

  His first kill was a man of Ripa.

  My ancient foe.

  Lykos ran on, a blood-splattered grin upon his face.

  His Vin Thalun hit the battle like a plague-filled wind, spreading death, taking near a hundred lives before the enemy even knew they were there. Eventually, their progress slowed, especially when a score of Jehar decided to engage them with their curved swords. Lykos swerved away from them, looking for easier blood, leaving the screams of his Vin Thalun behind him.

  Rowing two hundred leagues in less than two moons and fighting a battle in between has left me a little tired. Even my bones are aching. I’ll take the easier fight if I can.

  The pain of that long row home was fading now, though, and it had been worth it to put some distance between him and damn Maquin. Seeing him standing on that cliff top, swearing vengeance and hurling Kadoshim heads at him – well, it had chilled even his blood for a few moments.

  He blinked as an axe came hissing towards his head, swayed out of its way by a hair’s breadth, punched the fur-wrapped axe-man in the face with his buckler and stabbed deep into the man’s thigh with his short sword.

  The axe-man dropped to his knees, face ashen-pale as his lifeblood gushed like a river down his thigh. Lykos stabbed him in the throat, just for the joy of it, then kicked him off his blade.

  He let out a great battle-cry and saw Nathair upon his draig, the beast stamping on a red-cloaked warrior, its jaws lunging down to tear the man’s head from his shoulders. Then Lykos spotted another familiar man, dressed in the black and silver of Ripa, big as a bull with a great black beard. He was beating a white-cloak to the ground, hammering a longsword into the man’s upraised shield.

  Krelis of Ripa. How many times have you chased my war-galleys? Thwarted my raids? Killed my men? Spoilt my fun?

  He grinned and ran at him, knew that at least some of his men were not far behind.

  Angling through the crowd of warriors, Lykos approached Krelis from behind, pulled his sword back to hamstring the big man, but Krelis spun around, shield tight to his body, longsword hissing in a horizontal arc, nearly gutting Lykos. He skidded to a halt, leaped in after the blow had swung wide, but Krelis’ big round shield slammed into him before he had a chance to dart in and stab somewhere unprotected.

  ‘Slippery little snake,’ Krelis said, then his eyes narrowed as he recognized Lykos. ‘Ah, travelling three hundred leagues from home is about to become so very worthwhile,’ he growled and strode at Lykos.

  Krelis was a skilled warrior. He assaulted Lykos with sword and shield, never over-extending, keeping his defence tight, his sword sweeping, looping, stabbing, and Lykos steadily retreated, searching for a weakness, hoping to counter-strike, but all he did was notch his sword and buckler and retreat over two score paces.

  That had been part of his plan, though, and suddenly Krelis found himself amidst a sea of Vin Thalun, few of his own men about him.

  ‘TO ME,’ Krelis cried in his booming voice, and Lykos saw a surge of black and silver coming his way.

  Need to finish him now.

  He saw his Vin Thalun closing on Krelis, closer than the black and silver.

  Then Krelis surged forwards, taking Lykos by surprise, his shield slamming him backwards, sword looping low. Lykos took the blow on his buckler, the iron twisting, his arm going numb from wrist to shoulder.

  ‘LADS,’ Lykos bellowed as he tripped over a dead man, rolled behind him, lifted the corpse to catch Krelis’ sword in its belly.

  The Vin Thalun closed with Krelis’ men, a score forming a barrier between Krelis and his warriors, a trio of Vin Thalun turning on Krelis, chopping at him from behind, sending him crashing to his knees, Lykos gripping his wrist, holding Krelis’ blade snared in the corpse’s body as his lads hacked at Krelis’ back, blood spraying in gouts now.

  The men of Ripa let out a great howl, hammered ferociously at the Vin Thalun.

  Lykos let go of Krelis’ hand, stabbed his short sword into his armpit, pulled it out slowly, smiling at the Lord of Ripa. Krelis, still on his knees, swayed and toppled backwards, staring up at Lykos.

  ‘No honour, in that,’ Krelis whispered, blood gurgling over his lips.

  ‘Honour is overrated,’ Lykos sneered at him and smiled as he died.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

  CORBAN

  Corban saw the great hall of Drassil before him.

  They had taken a deep looping route through the fortress, avoiding the area where Cywen had told them most of the warbands bar
racked, always clinging to the shadowed ways, Craf scouting above, warning them when to hide. For most of the desperate, heart-in-his mouth run through the streets it had felt as if they were in a deserted place and now here they were, in the courtyard before the great hall.

  The huge gates were open, as they had always been when Corban was a resident of Drassil. A dozen Vin Thalun guards lounged on the steps leading up to the gates, gathered in a half-circle, bone dice rattling on a throw-board between them.

  Do they not realize the battle for the future of the Banished Lands is taking place beyond those walls?

  He took a deep breath, looked at his friends, saw grim, determined faces staring back at him. Then Gar was marching across the courtyard, straight towards the open gateway and the Vin Thalun guards. At the same time Corban and the others slipped around the shadowed alcoves of the courtyard.

  A few of the Vin Thalun looked up at Gar, seeing nothing more than a Kadoshim walking towards them, a sight they were no doubt used to. A closer inspection would show a lack of black eyes and veins threading Gar’s body, but for the moment they were relying on the laxity in the guards.

  It worked to a point.

  ‘Oi,’ one of the Vin Thalun said as Gar reached the first step to the gates, and then Gar’s sword was in his hands, two Vin Thalun collapsed on the steps, choking on their own blood. The rest of them were scrambling backwards, drawing swords, spreading into a half-circle around Gar, though another man had already fallen before the first Vin Thalun struck at Gar.

  Two others crashed to the ground and rolled down the steps, one with an arrow through his neck, the other with a long dagger lodged between his shoulder blades. Then Storm was amongst them, men screaming, blood spraying.

  It was almost over before it had begun.

  ‘No point in tiptoeing now; I’d imagine we’ve announced ourselves,’ Farrell said, as they ran through the gates.

  Corban paused, looking down into the great hall; the trunk of the great tree where the chair of Skald was situated filling the hall’s core. About it the Starstone Treasures were arranged: cauldron, axe, spear, torc and cup, all in a circle, two spaces left empty. Strange designs and runes had been etched upon the ground around and between the Treasures.