by John Gwynne
‘I remember you,’ Ildaer said, moving closer. ‘You stood over your friend at Gramm’s hold.’
‘Why are you here?’ Corban asked, eyes scanning the forest for routes of escape.
‘To give Jael my aid,’ Ildaer said. He paused and cocked his head, listening to the faint sounds of battle that drifted up from Drassil.
‘Jael is defeated, his warband broken,’ Corban said.
‘Then who is it that attacks you now?’ Ildaer asked.
Corban looked nervously towards Drassil.
‘I don’t know.’
I must get back there.
Ildaer’s eyes looked Corban up and down. ‘You have a new armring since Gramm’s hold, I think.’ He cocked his head to one side, frowned. ‘Are you their lord?’
‘Come any closer and I’ll be your death-giver,’ Corban said.
‘Ah, I like that.’ Ildaer nodded, looking at his warriors about him. ‘Good spirit.’
There was a hissing sound and a spear punched into Ildaer’s shoulder. He cried out and staggered back, fell against a tree, slid down it.
Two men burst out of the trees behind Corban: Atilius and Pax.
‘Corban,’ Atilius yelled, and Corban didn’t need calling twice, he turned and scrambled over the dead bear, slid down the other side and set off running, Storm bounding beside him, red tongue lolling. They caught up with Atilius and Pax in a dozen strides and then they were all sprinting through the trees.
There was some shouting and snarling behind them, then more crashing as bears lurched into motion.
‘This way,’ Atilius said and veered left, taking them into thicker cover, squirming beneath and around a clump of huge trees that had fallen in some great storm, roots exposed like the husks of great wyrms.
‘Bears can’t follow us here,’ Atilius said. Beyond the fallen trees lay a thicket of long-thorn, Corban discovering how aptly it was named as he tried to navigate his way through, following a narrow fox trail that Atilius seemed to know well, the sound of water growing louder all the time. It was a long time later when they spilt into an open glade that edged a sharp drop to the river. They all paused to fill their lungs, Atilius passing Corban his water skin. Storm stood staring into the undergrowth.
‘My . . . thanks,’ Corban breathed.
‘We heard the bears,’ Pax said. ‘Didn’t know what they were when we heard them, mind, but we knew it wasn’t good, and that you were out here somewhere.’
‘We need to get back to Drassil,’ Corban said, suddenly remembering the horns he’d heard from the hill, the sounds of battle.
‘Aye. We’ll follow the river, takes us close to the trapdoor,’ Atilius said.
Storm growled.
There was a whistling, sound, a whump, whump, whump, as of something huge spinning through the air. They all had a moment to look up, then Atilius was hurtling backwards, blood and bone spraying in his wake, crunching into a tree, where he remained, pinned by the giant axe that had carved him near in two.
Pax screamed and a giant thundered out of the undergrowth.
Corban grabbed Pax, shook him, the lad’s eyes fixed on his da’s body.
‘Drassil. Pax, you have to get back to Drassil. Get help if you can.’
Pax looked at him, crying, then nodded and ran.
Corban drew his sword and turned to face the giant.
It came howling into the glade, pulling a dagger as long as his sword from its belt, eyes flitting to its axe in the tree. Corban did not wait for it, moved forwards, Balur and Tahir’s voices sharp in his mind – deflect the blow, nudge it, guide it, use your speed, your size as an advantage.
Then Storm leaped, jaws clamping around the giant’s wrist, blood spurting, the dagger falling. Corban lunged in as the giant raised a fist and punched Storm in the head. She didn’t let go and then, before the giant even saw him, Corban was burying his blade in its belly, angling his blade high, under the ribs, slicing through a lung. Blood sluiced and it was sinking to its knees. Corban ripped his blade free, cut its throat and kicked it backwards.
He turned to follow Pax and something crunched into his knee, pain exploding, stealing his breath away. He dropped like a felled tree, saw a giant towering over him, war-hammer in its hand, another behind it holding a thick spear.
He rolled away, used his sword to lever himself onto the knee of his good leg, raised his sword.
The giant with the war-hammer laughed and kicked him in the chest. Corban heard ribs snapping, a thunder-clap in his head and he was rolling over and over.
The giant advanced. Corban’s hand searched for his sword hilt, couldn’t find it, pain pulsing from his chest and leg.
Then Storm was standing over Corban, crouched low, snarling. The giant hesitated, the one behind with the spear moving into view. Before either could move, Storm was leaping, slamming into the first giant before he could swing his hammer. Her jaws snapped for his throat, teeth ripping, both of them crashing to the ground, rolling.
Corban got to his feet, couldn’t put any weight on his damaged leg, found his sword and used it as a crutch to hobble after them.
The giant was punching Storm as they rolled, repeatedly, heavy fists crunching into her ribs. Corban heard a crackling sound, then snapping. Storm whined, then her jaws were finally clamping around the giant’s throat. She gave a savage wrench of her neck and head and blood jetted, the giant slumping, then lying still, Storm sinking across him. She whined as she tried to stand, then the other giant was standing over her, spear rising, Corban a dozen paces away. The spear came down, punching into Storm above the shoulder, angling down into her chest, at the same time Corban hurling himself at the back of the giant’s knees, toppling him to the ground, leaving his spear in Storm.
Corban howled with rage and fell onto the giant, his pain threatening to overwhelm him. He dragged his blade up as the giant tried to rise, stabbed it into the giant’s groin, severing the artery high in the inner thigh. He collapsed upon the dying giant, struggling to breathe. He’d never felt pain like it, pulsing through him, a sharp spike in his chest every time he took a breath, but only one thought filled his mind.
Storm.
He left his sword buried in the giant, did not have the strength to tug it free, rolled onto his front and saw Storm lying flat and still, the spear protruding from her chest. He dug his hands into the ground, pulled, dragged himself towards her. He was sobbing, his vision blurred by the hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He must have been saying her name as well, for she raised her head and looked at him, whining pitifully. Her tail thumped weakly on the ground, blood foaming from her mouth. Her front legs shifted, paws scratching in the dirt, and she moved, just a fraction. Then she did it again, and again, dragging herself towards him.
That was how they met, both battered, bloody, bones broken, upon a grassy ridge above a white-flowing river. Corban gripped the spear buried in her chest and pulled it free, Storm yelping. He threw it away, tried to stem the flow of blood that pulsed from the wound with his hands. Storm licked his face and then laid her head upon his shoulder. He buried his face in the fur of her neck and held her close to him.
There was crashing in the undergrowth, giant voices.
How long have I slept?
Corban groaned, lifted himself from Storm’s side. She was still breathing, though in short, sharp breaths, not the long, deep movement of her chest that he had slept against so many times. She lifted her head to look at him with glazed, pain-filled eyes.
Hold on, girl. After everything I’ve lost I’ll not lose you as well.
The voices again, closer.
Got to move.
He tried to stand, pain exploding in his chest and leg, collapsed, almost fainted with the effort.
Right. Walking’s out of the question, then.
He listened to the sound of the river.
The thud of feet in the undergrowth, so close.
If they find us, they will kill us.
He gritted his teeth a
nd pushed against Storm. Pain was pulsing in huge, rolling waves from his leg and chest. He ignored it, pushed again, strained harder. Storm whined, high-pitched, almost snapped at him. Then they were both slipping over the cliff edge, sliding down slick, sharp rocks, falling, then splashing into ice-cold water. The current took them, Corban clinging to Storm, desperately trying to hold her head above the water, spluttering and choking himself. He bounced off a rock, spun, his head ducking under the water, for a moment not knowing which way was up, then he was clear, gasping air.
The water calmed a little, carried them on until the current spat them out onto a rocky shelf, the steep sides rising over them, not much higher than one of the bears they’d been running from. Corban checked Storm, saw she was still breathing, then collapsed against her, utterly exhausted.
He woke with dawn, wet and shivering. Storm’s breath came in a wet rattle. She opened her eyes when he moved, just lay with her head on the rock, too weak to move, looking at him.
He stroked the fur of her cheeks, above her amber eyes, remembered that first day when he’d saved her as a cub, Evnis looming over him, demanding her death. How he’d refused. And since that day she’d been his constant companion, his guardian, protector, friend.
He put a hand on her chest, felt her heart fluttering.
I have to get help for her. She needs a healer. She needs Brina.
His leg felt numb so he risked moving it. Pain erupted and he rolled over and vomited in the river.
Then he was lurching upwards, being dragged, hanging suspended over Storm, her head rising a fraction, eyes tracking him. He lurched up again, dangling in the air, something hooked under his belt.
Another lurch and he was looking at two giants, one with a rope in its hand, attached to an iron hook that it removed from Corban’s belt.
‘You were right to follow the river,’ one said to the other.
‘Let me go,’ Corban coughed.
‘Ha, I think not,’ the giant said in common tongue. ‘You have led us a merry chase. The others are searching for you all over Forn.’
‘We should put a spear through his heart,’ the other one growled.
‘Ildaer wants him,’ the first giant said.
‘What about that?’ The other giant jutted its chin at Storm.
‘I’ll not be going down there,’ the first giant said with a shake of its broad head. ‘Besides, there’s no need. She is finished.’
As the two giants dragged Corban up the slope and through a glade, pain lancing through his leg and chest with every movement, every breath, he heard Storm howl behind him. It was a rattle, weak and fluid, yet long and mournful, and Corban felt his heart was being ripped apart.
They took him deeper into the forest, and soon Corban discovered the one thing that broke his heart more than listening to Storm’s weak and fading howls.
The moment when she stopped howling.
By John Gwynne
MALICE
VALOUR
RUIN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I can’t believe we are three books into The Faithful and the Fallen. I’m still not used to seeing them on shelves in bookshops, with paper and cover art and everything, and here we are now with the third! As with Malice and Valour, writing Ruin has been a rollercoaster of an experience, with a small warband of helping hands throughout.
First of all I must thank my wife, Caroline, and my children, Harriett, James, Ed and Will for their unceasing and passionate support of all things Banished Lands, and also for allowing me to retreat into my very own fantasy world for a large chunk of last year. I did emerge from my ivory tower (messy desk!) for brief periods of weapons sparring (read: helping with homework), in which I tended to come off worse. This book wouldn’t have been written without their support.
Thanks must also go to my agent, John Jarrold, without whom The Faithful and the Fallen would never have seen the light of day. He is a man of immeasurable class and a fantastic agent. There is no one I’d rather have in my corner.
Also my wonderful editor at Tor UK, Julie Crisp, one of the few people I’ve met more bloodthirsty than myself. Her talent and polishing skills are a constant source of amazement to me, without which The Faithful and the Fallen would have been a much duller affair. Of course, along with Julie I must thank Bella Pagan, Louise Buckley, Sam Eades, Rob Cox, James Long and all at Team Tor, a host of people that make this writing malarkey look easy – which I can assure you it is not!
Thanks must go to my copy-editor Jessica Cuthbert-Smith, a lady with a most remarkable eye for the minutest of details.
And thanks of course to Will Hinton, my editor across the pond, as well as the whole team at Orbit US.
I’d also like to thank those who have taken the time to read Ruin and provide feedback. It is not a small book; indeed, I suspect it’s large enough to bludgeon a fully grown giant to death. Firstly Edward and William Gwynne – to say they have read Ruin is really an understatement. They’ve buried themselves within its pages, frequently reminding (catching me out!) on details I’ve neglected or overlooked (forgotten!). I must also confess to the dubious fact that Ruin reduced Edward to tears – something I am coming to realize equates (hopefully) with a good bit in the book.
Others who have read and commented on Ruin: my wife, Caroline; Mark Roberson; David Emrys – whose knowledge on the details of close-quarter combat has been both extremely helpful and mildly disturbing. I do not want to know how he’s come by his expert knowledge! And of course, Sadak Miah, my oldest friend; one of two geeks who formed their very own Tolkien Club at school, with a quiz for any who wished to join! Reading seven chapters of Ruin really isn’t good enough, you know!
I’d also like to thank my good friend Robert Sharpe, his brother John Sharpe and their friend Ciarán Mac Murchaidh for help and translatory (that’s a word, now) skills in the use of Gaelic within this book.
And finally, a huge thank you to all of you who have bought the books and taken The Faithful and the Fallen to heart. Truth and Courage!
JOHN GWYNNE studied and lectured at Brighton University. He’s been in a rock ’n’ roll band, playing the double bass, and has travelled the USA and lived in Canada for a time. He is married with four children and lives in Eastbourne, running a small family business rejuvenating vintage furniture. His first novel, Malice, won the David Gemmell Morningstar award for best debut fantasy. Ruin is his third novel, following Malice and Valour.
First published 2015 by Tor
This electronic edition published 2015 by Tor
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ISBN 978-1-4472-5967-1
Copyright © John Gwynne 2015
Map artwork by Fred van Deelen
Jacket illustration by Paul Young
The right of John Gwynne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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