Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she said, ‘I don’t think I could have managed without you.’

  Corban put a hand over hers, smiled weakly at her. Then he tried to grab Calidus’ sword and take it out. He didn’t like seeing it there, sticking out of his body.

  ‘No,’ Cywen said, ‘leave it there until I get you to the hospice. You’ll lose too much blood.’

  There was a gasping noise and Corban saw Farrell kneeling beside him. One side of Farrell’s face was covered with blood, and he was weeping uncontrollably. He was saying things, but Corban wasn’t sure if they were words as they were coming out in a spluttering torrent, and behind Farrell Corban saw Dath, leaning on Kulla. His old friend was smiling at him – no, grinning, wide enough to split his face, tears streaming down his cheek.

  ‘Knew you wouldn’t leave us like that,’ Dath said.

  And then Corban remembered it all.

  ‘Gar?’ he wheezed.

  ‘He’s here,’ Coralen said, and Corban realized what the other pressure on his body was.

  Gar was lying beside him, his head propped against Corban. And he was so very pale, looking at Corban with dark eyes. For a moment Corban thought he was dead, but then Gar blinked, and Corban saw the movement of his chest, shallow, breaths far apart.

  ‘I’ve been . . . waiting for you,’ Gar said, a whisper.

  Corban made to move his hand, realized that Gar was already holding it. Corban squeezed it.

  ‘I saw you,’ Gar said quietly, ‘take a wound, to give one.’ His lips moved, and Corban saw he was smiling, no, laughing. A wet cough, and blood sprinkled his lips.

  ‘I had a good teacher,’ Corban said, smiling too.

  ‘Things to say,’ Gar whispered, ‘need to say.’

  Corban felt a knot of fear and anguish draw tight in his belly.

  ‘Say them later, when we’re both . . . healed,’ Corban rasped.

  Gar just looked at him, into his eyes.

  ‘I love you, Ban,’ Gar said, the words coming out a wet whisper, but there was strength in his grip as he squeezed Corban’s hand. ‘You are the son I never had, and no son could have made me prouder.’

  Tears filled Corban’s eyes. ‘I love you, Gar, as my da, my brother, my greatest friend,’ Corban whispered.

  Gar’s grip on his hand tightened, then slackened.

  ‘Don’t go,’ Corban whispered, Gar’s face a blur through his tears. ‘Please, Gar, don’t go.’

  But he already had.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE

  VERADIS

  Veradis stood on the plain of Drassil, looking at two cairns, side by side. The field was full of them.

  Three nights had passed since the battle of Drassil.

  The greatest battle of our lifetime, and an end to war, I hope, Veradis thought.

  Nathair was buried beneath one of the cairns, Krelis beneath the other. When Veradis had heard that Krelis had fallen in battle he had collapsed to his knees and wept. Of all people, his eldest brother had seemed indestructible to him, always larger than life, the natural leader that drew men to him with his smile, his common sense, his goodness and justice.

  And now he’s gone.

  ‘This world will be an emptier place without you, my brother,’ Veradis said, a tear running down his cheek. He kissed his fingertips and brushed them across the cold stone of Krelis’ cairn. Then he turned to the other.

  Nathair. He stood and thought about him a while, remembered their first meeting, during the interrogation of a Vin Thalun prisoner in Jerolin’s dungeons.

  Even from that moment Calidus was manipulating us.

  Veradis drew his short sword at his side, ran a finger over the worn, sweat-stained leather of its hilt, finding a familiar lump, smooth, a curved shape set into the hilt.

  A draig’s tooth.

  Nathair had given them out to all those who had stood in the shield wall against a charge of giants and draigs, or those who had ridden out with him against them.

  You are my Draig’s Teeth, Nathair had said.

  And we had been proud to bear that name. So long ago.

  A silent shadow passed over him, of great wings, the outline of a Ben-Elim as it flew silently across the sun.

  The world is a different place, now.

  He looked down at his short sword, the blade that had seen him through so many battles, taken the lives of so many. Giants, men, kings.

  Nathair.

  The memory of plunging his blade into Nathair’s belly haunted him, that long moment as Nathair had looked into his eyes, disbelieving.

  He stabbed Alcyon. And Veradis’ reaction had been automatic, unthinking. His face twisted in a grimace and he sighed, raised the sword and slammed it into the earth before Nathair’s cairn, making the wounds across his chest throb, the stitches pulling tight. He left his sword quivering in the ground, turned and walked away, a dozen black-and-silver-clad warriors falling in behind him.

  He felt melancholy. He was used to the highs and lows that often followed battle – euphoria followed by a dark mood – but never like this. Perhaps because this time there was a void in his life. Before, he had always been moving on to the next task, the next engagement or battle. But now there were no more battles to be fought.

  Because we’ve won. And I am feeling bleak, more so than ever before.

  What am I going to do now?

  I need to speak to Alben.

  They marched back to Drassil, past a great bonfire of corpses, the Kadoshim piled high, now nothing more than a stinking pile of ash and charred bone. Smoke still rose from it in a breeze-torn column. Further off, Veradis glimpsed the carcass of Nathair’s draig, crows thick upon it, picking it clean. And all over the plain there were rows of cairns, the battlefield of a few days ago now a field of the dead, so still compared to the storm of violence that had been unleashed upon it. A few men, women and bairns wandered the field, standing at cairns as he had just done, leaving a sprig of flowers, grieving the loss of loved ones. He saw Alben standing before one and thought to go and join him, then he realized whose cairn he stood before.

  Maquin and Fidele’s.

  Alben had returned after the battle had ended, upon a boat with Fidele’s body wrapped in linen. Veradis had heard how Maquin died, saving the young King of Isiltir and slaying a draig. Another friend that his heart grieved for.

  Alben was standing with his head bowed, lost in thought; Veradis chose not to disturb him.

  There is someone else I need to see.

  Veradis strode through Drassil’s gates. As he passed through the wide streets he saw such an array of disparate peoples as to make him smile at the strangeness of it. Giants. Jehar. Men of Ardan and Domhain, men of Isiltir and Helveth, of Carnutan and even the eagle-guard of Tenebral. And Ben-Elim, who were everywhere, their shadows flitting across the ground as they patrolled the skies, or walking through Drassil’s streets, their wings furled.

  That’s a sight it will take me a while to get used to.

  The day after the battle the prisoners had been gathered up – the ones that were left, or could still stand and talk – and brought before the leaders of this strange alliance, and a representative of the Ben-Elim had come as well, for they were allies too.

  The prisoners had been given their freedom, and a choice.

  Freedom to leave, to go back to their lands, their homes and families, or freedom to stay. To continue to serve. The vast majority of them were warriors, men and women following the orders of their lords, and they had become caught up in a war beyond their understanding.

  Most had chosen to stay. Some had left the following day, using the roads built by Jael or Lothar to take them home, and Veradis understood that. But many, most, had just resumed their positions within the warbands of their realm, which was why there were eagle-guard mixed into Veradis’ honour guard, marching alongside the men of Ripa. Even Caesus was there, his broken hand splinted.

  The only people who weren’t offered the optio
n of freedom, who had been gathered up together, bound at the wrists and taken to a place of holding were the Vin Thalun. Reapers and reavers, they had done too much in this war of sorrows, committed too many atrocities. So they would be escorted back to Tenebral, put aboard ships and commanded never to return to the continent of the Banished Lands again.

  Now Veradis saw the building he was marching to, the one he had first seen on a dark night, a bonfire blazing in the courtyard as Vin Thalun had begun to burn a witch.

  It was a different place now; people mingled in the courtyard, giants laughing with men, the entrance doors thrown wide. A great brindle hound lay along the borders of a herb garden, a wolven cub tugging at its ears, and other cubs lazed around or played in the winter’s sun. The hospice was heaving with activity: rows of beds full, men, women and giants in various states of injury, from amputated limbs to stitches to fevers, as well as those for whom nothing could be done, who were just waiting for death’s final breath upon their neck, and people sat with them, trying to ease their passing with seed of the poppy, a mopped brow, a squeezed hand, a gentle word.

  A small section of the hospice seemed to be dedicated to just one bed, with what looked to be a host of people around it. And animals.

  Storm was sitting at the bottom of the bed, Craf the crow upon the bedpost, and Veradis saw Coralen, Farrell, Dath, Kulla, Akar, Balur One-Eye and Varan, Lord of the Jotun, even Haelan, the young King of Isiltir.

  Now there’s a brave lad. A little foolhardy, perhaps, luring three wild draigs from their lair, but his plan worked. Without those beasts trampling the eagle-guard reinforcements the battle could have turned out very differently. Isiltir’s in good hands with him as King. He may be young to become King of Isiltir, but he’ll have Tahir at his side.

  Cywen was there, too, hovering over her brother.

  Corban had been grievously injured, if half of what Veradis had been told was true, but from here Corban looked to be recovering well, sitting up in his cot and smiling. As Veradis looked at the small warband gathered around Corban’s bed a thought struck him, simple in its clarity.

  There it is, the difference between the Bright Star and the Black Sun, right there. Who stands at Nathair’s cairn and mourns? And yet Corban is surrounded, not by those who serve or fear him, but by those who love him. Even a scruffy old crow. That tells a tale far clearer than a prophecy scrawled upon parchment. I am glad that I met him, that I discovered the truth before it was too late.

  As he stood there, looking over at Corban and his companions, Cywen turned away from the bed and saw him. There were red streaks down her face, but she did not look the worse for it. She stood there a moment, returning his gaze, and he felt something shift inside, as if something fluttered within his belly. It was not unlike fear, though pleasanter. And then she was shooing people away from Corban’s bed, and he was looking elsewhere, feeling a flush of heat around his neck.

  He made his way through the hospice and found who he was looking for. He stood over a large cot, and looked down on Alcyon. The giant was looking remarkably well, considering he’d been stabbed in the back only three days gone, and Nathair’s blade had cut deep.

  Alcyon smiled at Veradis and sat up, gesturing to a chair that sat empty.

  ‘Raina and Tain?’ Veradis asked.

  ‘They are off finding food to bring me,’ Alcyon said, ‘I have a rare hunger upon me.’

  ‘I am pleased to see you looking so well, and feeling so hungry,’ Veradis said.

  ‘Aye, well, I think the Ben-Elim are to be thanked for that,’ Alcyon said. ‘They are skilled healers as well as schemers and death-dealers, it seems. Corban was on the brink of death two days ago, and today he is sitting up and laughing.’

  ‘As are you,’ Veradis said.

  ‘I feel as strong as a draig! And hungry as one,’ Alcyon grinned.

  ‘You are altogether a different person,’ Veradis observed, thinking of the grim-faced silent sentinel that Alcyon had once been.

  ‘Well, life is good, little man. Many good things have happened. Although many bad, too. I am sorry about your brother,’ he said. ‘I liked him.’

  Veradis grunted, not trusting his voice to words, the grief too raw.

  Alcyon studied Veradis and his expression turned sombre.

  ‘He forced your hand,’ Alcyon said. ‘You had no choice.’

  Veradis looked down at his hands. At the scar on his palm. The hands that had killed his King. Guilt whispered in his ear.

  ‘There is always a choice,’ Veradis whispered, words that he had spoken to Nathair, not so long ago.

  ‘Aye. You could have let Nathair kill me,’ Alcyon shrugged. ‘I am glad you did not. Although this puts me in your debt twice over.’

  Veradis snorted a laugh. ‘I know you are right,’ he said, ‘but sometimes . . .’

  ‘Let it go,’ Alcyon said. ‘Nathair was your curse, and now you are free of him.’

  ‘Am I?’ Veradis said. ‘I see it in my dreams. My sword stabbing into him, the expression in his eyes . . .’

  ‘Patience, True-Heart,’ Alcyon said. ‘Time is a healer.’

  ‘Why do you call me that?’ Veradis asked him.

  ‘Because it is who you are.’

  ‘I was not true to Nathair,’ Veradis said, a murmur. ‘I abandoned him, left him with Calidus. And now he is dead.’

  ‘Your heart is true, Veradis. That is what I mean. You did remain true. True to yourself. Nathair was ever desperate for power and glory, and he tried to turn you onto his path, to drag you along it with him. A dark path, but you did not follow him. That took strength, here and here.’ Alcyon poked Veradis in the head and the chest, and none too gently.

  Veradis found it hard to listen to such kind words, as his opinion of himself was not so high, but he looked at Alcyon and saw genuine concern in the giant’s eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’ Alcyon frowned.

  ‘For being a friend. I have learned that good ones are few and far between, and your friendship is something I value.’

  ‘You are welcome, Veradis, and I, too, value your friendship,’ Alcyon said solemnly. ‘We will be friends for life. I know this.’ He smiled, something Veradis was finally becoming accustomed to.

  ‘Now, something else troubles you,’ Alcyon said.

  Veradis thought about denying it, shrugging it off, but this was Alcyon, and they had been through too much together for Veradis to lie to him.

  ‘Aye,’ he grunted. ‘I feel lost, Alcyon. The battle is done, the war is done, and now I do not know what to do.’ He paused a moment, emotion threatening to engulf him.

  ‘You have lost much, my friend. Your kin, your King, your friends. The past threatens to overwhelm you. But life goes on.’ Alcyon shrugged. ‘And there is much to do. We must rebuild, try and make the future better than the past.’

  ‘Aye,’ Veradis smiled ruefully. ‘I am just tired.’

  ‘Try running all the way to Arcona, and rowing all the way back,’ Alcyon grumbled, ‘then I will allow you to talk to me of tired.’

  Veradis laughed at that, the first real laugh for as long as he could remember.

  ‘And I have heard a rumour about you,’ Alcyon said, whispering now. ‘That you are to be King of Tenebral.’

  ‘What!’ Veradis spluttered. ‘Who said such a thing?’

  ‘Alben,’ Alcyon said with a shrug. ‘It is not such a bad idea. I think you would make a fine king. But only if you want to be. There is always a choice.’

  Veradis looked at Alcyon, shaking his head as the giant laughed.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX

  CAMLIN

  Camlin shivered and pulled his cloak tighter as he walked through the streets of Drassil. Meg strutted beside him, still wearing her too-big helmet. She also had a long dagger hanging from a belt at her waist, which looked about the size and scale of a sword upon her.

  ‘Not sure you need that, now,’ Camlin said, nodding at
the dagger.

  ‘Course I do!’ Meg said. ‘Kulla says there’s Kadoshim about, still roaming the land. Can’t just be good with a bow or a sling, you know.’ She patted a bag of stones and a leather sling hanging from her belt. ‘Kulla says most people end up needing to use a sword at least once in their lives. It’s the ones that actually know how to use a sword that live to tell the tale.’

  Kulla said this, Kulla said that.

  Mind you, to be honest, the lass is probably right. But Meg’s only nine summers old.

  Camlin was walking with one arm curled up to his waist, and upon it a big black crow was perched, leaning into the fur of his cloak.

  ‘Craf cold,’ the crow muttered and, without thinking, Camlin tucked his cloak over the bird’s splinted wing.

  What am I doing!

  ‘How did I even get roped into this?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Taking a crow for a walk.’

  ‘Camlin kind,’ Craf cawed.

  He shook his head.

  I’m a fool, nursemaiding a crow. Two days I’ve been doing this. If the lads from the Darkwood saw me now.

  He realized he was stroking Craf’s head as he thought that.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Meg said as they strolled into a courtyard with a huge half-fallen oak tree at its centre, its roots torn from the ground and dangling in the air like great hanging vines.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Camlin replied. ‘Thought I smelt something burning.’

  Meg kicked him in the shin, good-naturedly.

  ‘Let’s sit,’ Meg said and they walked to the shattered tree, Camlin eyeing the outline of a filled hole. Balur and a handful of giants had shovelled earth and rock into it, but Camlin was still suspicious of it.

  This is where Haelan led the draigs into Drassil, and where two of them left with their egg.

  They sat on the stump, Meg’s feet dangling, and Camlin set Craf down carefully on the trunk of the tree.

  ‘When are we going home?’ Meg asked him once they were settled.

  ‘Ahh, now there’s a question, and a good one it is, too. I’m waiting on Edana for that one. She’s a queen, and a good, strong one at that, and she’s got work to do here before she goes.’