Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  Nathair stood over him, nostrils flaring, sword rising, and Veradis kicked out, caught Nathair’s leg, sent him tumbling to the ground.

  They both rose unsteadily.

  ‘You made the wrong choice,’ Nathair snarled. ‘This battle’s won.’

  ‘My choice had nothing to do with victory or defeat,’ Veradis said. ‘But right and wrong.’

  Nathair lunged at him, Veradis stepping in to meet the blow. Instinct took over then, Veradis’ body moving before he had time for conscious thought, and slowly, inexorably, he pushed Nathair back, across the battlefield, Nathair’s defence becoming ever more ragged. A barrage of blows sent Nathair reeling, a cut to his forearm and his sword fell to the ground. Veradis drew his arm back for the finishing blow, sword-tip ready to stab through Nathair’s throat, and Veradis . . . stopped.

  The two of them stood there with battle raging about them, Nathair gasping for breath, eyes blazing at Veradis with a mixture of rage and fear, Veradis standing with feet set, sword-tip hovering, the muscles in his arm tense, trembling, as if caught and straining against some invisible grip.

  I can’t do it. No matter what he’s done, who he’s become, he was my friend once, and my King. I swore an oath to him.

  Nathair burst into motion, knocking Veradis’ sword wide, stepping in and headbutting him in the face, stars bursting in Veradis’ vision.

  ‘TO ME,’ Nathair was yelling. Veradis shook his head, but figures were appearing about him: eagle-guard, four, five of them, more. Veradis slashed one across the throat, blooded another’s arm, but blows were raining from all directions.

  ‘Don’t kill him,’ Nathair shouted as a blow struck Veradis’ shoulders, clubbing him to his knees, and then hands were grabbing him, holding him, and Nathair was standing before him, glaring down at him.

  ‘You have betrayed me,’ Nathair said, his expression shifting from anger to something more akin to grief. ‘How did it ever come to this? We were blood-brothers. We were going to save the world.’

  ‘You deceived me, deceived us all,’ Veradis said.

  ‘It was . . . for the greater good,’ Nathair whispered.

  ‘No,’ Veradis said. ‘I think you may mean, for your greater good.’

  ‘You are right,’ Nathair said, ‘we have wronged each other. But of our two betrayals, yours is the greater.’ Nathair stared around the battlefield, expression changing again, becoming cold, angry. ‘You chose this rabble over me! I am King of Tenebral, High King of the Banished Lands, and you think a blacksmith’s son more worthy than me!’ He looked almost apoplectic with rage, eyes bulging. ‘I would have made things right, given time,’ Nathair ranted. ‘Calidus, Lykos, Rhin, when the victory was won and I was emperor—’

  ‘You were never going to be emperor,’ Veradis said. ‘Surely you realize that. Calidus was using you. Once this battle was won, he would have cast you aside.’

  ‘NO,’ Nathair cried. ‘I was going to . . . deal with him.’

  ‘Yet more betrayal?’

  ‘Veradis, you once said you would leave the politicking to me. You win battles. I win thrones. Some things are hard to understand when you are too close, but afterwards, you would have seen that I was right.’

  ‘You killed your father,’ Veradis whispered.

  Nathair stared at him, mouth open, about to say something but the words were gone or frozen in his throat.

  ‘Keep your twisted vindications to yourself,’ Veradis said. ‘You killed your father. You opened his throat with your own knife, then stabbed yourself with the same blade to avoid implication. You are not the Bright Star. Maybe you could have been, once, if you’d chosen differently, but from that moment on you were the Black Sun.’

  Nathair’s face twisted, emotions flitting across it. Shame, grief, pride, rage. With a snarl he drew his sword back.

  Behind Veradis there was a thud, a scream. Blood sprayed one side of Veradis’ face, and a severed arm fell to the ground. Then all was chaos, Veradis throwing himself forwards, rolling away from Nathair, grabbing his short sword as he rose on unsteady legs.

  Alcyon was standing close by, with eagle-guard attacking him – what was left of them. Even as Veradis stared, Alcyon’s whirling axes took a head from its shoulders, blood fountaining, and then Veradis was rushing to his aid, stabbing an eagle-guard in the throat, trading blows with another, while Nathair circled Alcyon.

  The last eagle-guard fell. Alcyon turned on Nathair, axes rising, Nathair cowering before the giant.

  ‘NO!’ Veradis cried.

  Alcyon’s twin axes hovered in the air.

  And then something was happening around them. Veradis saw men, women, giants staring to the north.

  Veradis looked too; even Alcyon turned to stare, Nathair frozen. All were gazing beyond the northern fringe of the battlefield, where the ground sloped up to the forest.

  The trees were shaking.

  And the ground was trembling, a vibration that Veradis felt rumbling up through the soles of his boots.

  Shadows within the trees were moving, a shifting in the gloom all along the ridge of the slope. Figures emerged from the murk. Huge figures, of muscle and fur, of tooth and claw, of amber eyes and red jaws. Huge mail-clad bears. And upon their backs, giants, wrapped in leather, iron and fur, hair braided for war, battle-axes and war-hammers glinting in the fading sun. Hundreds of giants, stretching in a long line across the ridge, more shapes shifting behind them.

  The might of the Jotun, and they had come for battle and blood and war.

  A hush rippled across the battlefield as more and more stopped in the midst of their combat and stared, and there was a moment, one solitary, perfect moment, Veradis was sure, when all were silent upon the battlefield of Drassil, both above and below.

  Veradis saw a giant at the centre of the line, war-hammer in his fists, blond hair a thick braid curling down one shoulder, moustache braided too. Beside him was a giantess, a longsword in her hand. Veradis recognized her.

  The giant that gave Corban Storm’s chainmail. Sig, Corban called her.

  As Veradis watched, the blond giant’s bear shambled forwards a few paces, and the giant surveyed the field.

  He gave a shouted command as his bear lumbered onwards, Sig lifting a horn to her lips and blowing, echoed by other giants all along the ridge, and then hundreds of bears were lurching after him, a long line flowing out of the forest, over the ridge and onto the slope. They picked up speed, the bears breaking into a thunderous charge, and now Veradis was sure the earth was trembling.

  ‘The Jotun have come,’ Alcyon breathed.

  The bears charging down the slope were bellowing and roaring as they came, a great wave of muscle and fur and fang surging towards the battlefield, the ground quaking beneath them, and then they were slamming into Rhin’s warband of black and gold, men and horses heaved into the air at the first impact, others, crushed, cut and hammered down by axe and hammer, bitten and torn and trampled beneath a tide of the Jotun and their great bears, the line carving deeper and deeper into the battlefield, men and horses screaming and scrambling in their desperation to get away.

  The giants’ charge began to slow and Veradis saw the line bowing, bending back at either end, slowed at first by the crush of bodies as much as by any resistance, though resistance did start to build, for Veradis knew that Geraint, battlechief of Rhin, was no coward; nor was he a stranger to battle and war. Geraint sounded his horns, brandished his banners, rallied his men and led them against the Jotun.

  Like a man waking from sleep, battle broke out across the field again, a stuttering ripple as all about Veradis warriors blinked, stared at their opponents and lifted their weapons. The roar of battle surged all around Veradis, the coming of the Jotun sparking new levels of ferocity.

  Veradis looked to Alcyon, saw him still gazing at the Jotun, a look of awe upon his face. Nathair moved, slipping behind Alcyon. Veradis saw it as if in slow motion, Nathair’s muscles bunching in his legs and arm as he drew back his sword
and then stabbed forwards. Veradis leaped into motion, a yell of warning forming on his lips, but Nathair’s sword was plunging into Alcyon’s back, slicing through fur and leather, deep into his flesh, Alcyon crying out, arms flailing, and then the giant’s legs were buckling and he was collapsing, Nathair ripping his sword free, a twisted smile upon his face, turning to meet Veradis, swinging his sword high, chopping down at Veradis’ head.

  Veradis caught Nathair’s sword arm by the wrist, a grip of iron holding it above their heads, and he stabbed Nathair, sword-point punching through leather and chainmail beneath, into Nathair’s belly, deeper.

  Nathair grunted, looked into Veradis’ eyes a long, shocked moment and slowly slumped forwards, his head falling upon Veradis’ shoulder as if in an embrace. Then with a gasp his legs gave way and he was falling, slipping off Veradis’ blade and slumping to the ground. Veradis stood and stared, blood dripping from his sword, vision blurred by his tears.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-TWO

  CORBAN

  Corban stared at Meical and Asroth, both of them sealed in a case of black iron, or whatever it was that had spewed out from the cauldron as a result of the Seven Treasures’ destruction. They looked like two magnificent statues created by a master smith, every detail and proportion exquisite in its perfection. And the iron still steamed, beneath its darkening rime a glow of molten metal.

  Corban’s ears were still ringing from the blast, though part of him was aware that it was deathly silent in the great chamber, Kadoshim and Ben-Elim staring in stupefied shock. Some of them moved; a Ben-Elim flew over the flood of molten iron that had slicked the floor and stairs of the dais, hovering close, tentatively reaching out a hand. Fingertips sizzled and hissed as he touched Asroth’s wing, a gasp of pain.

  Then a screech from a Kadoshim high in the chamber, a pulse of wings as one of the dark-winged demons flew at the figures, fast as an arrow, straight at Asroth. It smashed into the Lord of the Fallen and was hurled away in an explosion of sparks, its wings igniting, hissing as flame licked at them, eating away a portion of leathery skin before the Kadoshim’s crash and tumble across the flagstones put out the flames. The Kadoshim rose, one wing half-burned, the skin on its shoulder and arm bubbling from where it had been scorched.

  Asroth was unmarked.

  He is imprisoned, if he still lives.

  The other Kadoshim in the room, hundreds of them, must have thought the same thing, for all of a sudden they burst into motion, realization dawning, fear spreading.

  Their King had fallen.

  Kadoshim fled the chamber like a swarming nest of hornets, swirling upwards, seething through the two great holes in the roof, others beating their wings and flying through the main doors, and everywhere they went, the Ben-Elim went too, hacking and stabbing and slicing at them, sending Kadoshim tumbling through the air to crash around Corban and Storm. One Kadoshim tried to rise but Storm pounced upon it and shook it as if it were a rat.

  Corban ran to Cywen and Farrell, both of them were unmoving. He lifted Cywen gently and she stirred and opened her eyes. Dark tears of blood had stained her cheeks, deep into the skin.

  ‘You did it,’ Corban said, stroking her cheek.

  ‘Did I?’ She blinked. ‘Well, there’s a surprise.’ She smiled.

  Corban carried her to where Storm stood over Coralen and Dath, ignoring the few Kadoshim and Ben-Elim that still fought in the chamber, and set her gently down, then he ran back to Farrell, the big man groaning, swaying as Corban helped him stand; he had blood seeping from a wound on his head, his eyes unfocused.

  A Kadoshim swooped close to them, Corban and Storm stood ready, but it flew past, hurled itself into a Ben-Elim.

  ‘Gar?’ Cywen whispered, taking Corban’s hand.

  Corban bowed his head, felt the grief rising, a physical pain in his chest like a fist clenching around his heart. He tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.

  ‘Where?’ Cywen asked him.

  Corban turned to point, not trusting his voice, and froze. He saw Gar’s body upon the steps that rose in wide tiers towards the chamber’s open doorway, but it was the figures beyond Gar that he was staring at. A Ben-Elim, wings tattered and useless, fighting another man, tall, slim, his face and head burned and puckered.

  ‘Calidus,’ Cywen whispered.

  Calidus.

  Corban drew his sword, felt a twinge from the wound in his shoulder and took a step forwards. Cywen grabbed his hand, tried to rise.

  ‘No,’ Corban said. ‘Tend our friends. He’s mine.’

  ‘Take Storm,’ Cywen said.

  ‘She must stay and protect you all,’ he said, looking at the prostrate forms of his loved ones, ordering Storm to maintain her guard. He gritted his teeth and turned away, felt his hatred of Calidus giving him new energy as it bubbled through his veins.

  ‘For Mam,’ Cywen said behind him.

  ‘Aye. For Mam. For Gar. For Brina. For Laith,’ Corban whispered.

  For all those that Calidus put on spikes in Drassil’s courtyard. From the beginning he has been the puppet-master behind all of this. Behind Nathair. He is responsible for Da’s death too, and so many more.

  ‘For everyone,’ he said.

  ‘Bring me his head,’ Cywen snarled as he stalked away.

  He felt a fire ignite within him then. A cold flame, wrath and vengeance mixed, and he began to run.

  Calidus fought back and forth across the steps, with a savage twist of his wrist, he sent the Ben-Elim’s sword spinning through the air, then lunged, skewering him through the heart. He kicked the Ben-Elim to the ground, then turned and stared at Asroth, his frozen King.

  Then he saw Corban.

  Indecision flickered across the Kadoshim’s face. He glanced over his shoulder towards the fading light that poured through the chamber’s open doorway, looked as if he was thinking about running. He must have decided against it, for he turned to face Corban, set his feet and raised his sword.

  Corban’s hatred of this man, this creature, boiled up within him, overflowing in a wordless battle-cry that burst from his lips. He vaulted up the steps, leaping over Gar, still screaming, sword held high, gripped two-handed, smashing at Calidus. The Kadoshim blocked, staggering under the power of the blow, retreating as Corban struck again and again and again, wolven claws raking across Calidus’ face, sword shattering a line through chainmail links. A thousand thousand hours of sword dance and sparring, of muscles stretched and pushed and fibres ingrained with forms and combinations and lunges and parries, of sweat and pain, determination and discipline, all were coming out in a few dozen heartbeats as Corban hammered at this creature before him, man, demon, the author of so much evil. Wrapped around all, screaming into his mind, was Gar – a man who had been his friend, his teacher, both brother and father to him . . .

  Rage coursed through Corban, putting greater strength into his blows, more speed, and Calidus struggled; every other blow of Corban’s was landing, Calidus was battered, cut, retreating, Corban powering after him, the rage growing, building, an incandescent fury surging through his veins and limbs until he felt he must glow with the purity of it. Until he felt he did not control his own body.

  And he saw something in Calidus’ eyes, a hint of gloating pride.

  No. He is luring me, ensnaring me in my rage.

  And he remembered Gar’s first lesson to him.

  Control your anger, for if it controls you it will surely see you slain.

  And slowly Corban reined his anger in, like a runaway stallion, harnessing the power, giving it coalescing focus, directing it all at the death of this thing before him, Calidus. He saw something flash across the Kadoshim’s face: frustration, a frown of disappointment?

  ‘Your death is coming,’ Corban snarled at him.

  And then the real sword dance between them began.

  Back and forth they fought, across the steps, the clash of their blades echoing, Corban drawing on all that he had learned, from Gar, from Halion, from
Coralen, from both giants and men, entering that place where his body led him, reacting before conscious thought could have moved him, striking or lunging as opportunities flashed into existence, and Calidus blocked and parried everything, counter-striking, launching into blistering combinations, short lunges, sweeps and chops, drawing upon forms that Corban knew like his own skin, and others he’d never seen before. He had crossed blades with Calidus before, in the giant fortress of Murias. That time Calidus had beaten him and slain his mam, Corban had only been saved by Meical.

  But I am a different man now.

  He is good. A master, but he has been here a long time, a hundred years, Meical told me, planning and plotting, and learning sword-craft as well, it would seem.

  It will not save him.

  Corban struck Calidus half a dozen times, blows that would have turned a fight against a normal man, blows that would have let blood flow, brought pain and weakness, but against Calidus they had little impact, no telling effect.

  Veradis had told Corban how he’d put a knife in Calidus’ belly, thrown him into a fire, and Alcyon had hit him so hard with a war-hammer that his body had smashed stone, and yet he’d walked out of the flames, pulled the knife from his belly and brushed the splintered rock from his clothes.

  He is not like these new Kadoshim, his true self become flesh. He lives in a host body, like the possessed Jehar.

  I have to take his head.

  And he remembered how Gar had spoken of fatigue coming upon him as he fought Ildaer, Warlord of the Jotun, a warrior whose stamina could last for a moon, and how the onset of that fatigue had nearly defeated Gar.

  And I have to take it soon.

  But as he fought Calidus he saw no opening, no weakness, no tell or repeating pattern of blows or combinations that might give him the edge he needed.

  ‘Deatach a chónaisceann,’ Calidus muttered, and opened his mouth wide, the same black smoke that had bound Corban and his companions issuing from his throat. Corban felt a rush of fear, but it was different this time: a breeze was tugging at it, fraying it even as it tried to wrap around Corban. It had no more effect than morning mist.