Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4) by John Gwynne
There was a bellowing behind Corban, another bear was towering up, one of Laith’s daggers sunk to the hilt in its eye. It reared high on its two hind legs, then it was toppling, thundering to the ground, trees shattering in its ruin.
Its rider rose from the wreckage, searching the glade. She was a shield-maiden, who fixed her eyes on Laith and went striding for her. Farrell saw and intercepted, their hammers ringing out, a dozen heavy blows traded as Laith circled, looking for a dagger-opening. Then Farrell was hurled from his feet, crashing to the ground, Laith ducking as the giant switched her focus. She was too slow: the giant’s hammer clubbed her to the ground before Farrell’s prostrate form. Corban heard a bear roaring and crashing in the trees – Mort bearing down upon him again. The giant maiden was raising her war-hammer high over Laith and Farrell.
Too far, I’m too far away, Corban screamed internally as he ran towards them.
Then Coralen was there. She barrelled into the giant, her sword and wolven claws slashing, sending sparks from the giant’s mail shirt, staggering her foe. Coralen punched her wolven claws deep into a thigh, the giant roaring in pain. She dropped to one knee, hammer falling from her grip, but Coralen’s claws were stuck in the giant’s leg. A fist crashed into Coralen’s face, hurling her through the air, crashing to the ground. She tried to rise, dazed, as the giant staggered to her feet, kicking Coralen in the ribs, lifting her from the ground. The giant raised an iron-shod boot over Coralen’s head.
Corban was screaming, and then he was there, sword swinging from on high, hacking down diagonally across the giant’s chest, a spray of blood and bone, his face twisted in a snarl, striking again and again as the giant tumbled backwards, dead before she hit the ground.
Corban stood over her a moment, blood-spattered and nostrils flaring, then he spun on his heel and ran to Coralen.
She was dazed, grunted with pain when Corban put an arm about her, but she was alive.
Few broken ribs, maybe. I know how that feels. Corban lifted her in his arms, carried her to a tree and placed her against it, then turned and stood before her.
Their small campsite had become a place of carnage, the stench of death filling the air, moonlight glimmering on iron and blood. Farrell and Laith lay still upon the ground – Corban had no idea if they were dead or alive – while Kulla was standing guard over Dath with her feet set and sword raised high, another giant dead at her feet. Gar was still standing, fighting against a riderless bear; Varan and Sig were battling two Jotun on bears.
A bear lumbered in front of Corban, its rider glowering down at him.
Mort.
Corban took a dozen paces forwards and raised his sword high.
Mort snarled and kicked his heels into the bear. The animal jumped forwards.
I’ll not be leaping out of its way this time, it’ll have a clear run at Coralen. Need to draw it away from her.
Corban lunged at the bear’s head, his blade crunching into its skull, glancing off. The blow shivered up through Corban’s wrists and arms, numbing his elbows and shoulders but left only a shallow gash upon the bear.
That’s why Gramm and Wulf learned how to throw an axe.
He retreated a pace, deflected a blow from Mort’s axe as the giant tried to take his head. He backed up another step, stabbing at the bear’s eye and missing and grazing its cheek, only seeming to enrage the beast further. A quick glance showed him that Coralen was a few steps behind him leaning against a tree and looking in no condition to fight.
Corban hacked at Mort’s leg, felt his blade bite and pulled back to stab into the bear’s neck. Then its paw hit him. It must have been a backhanded blow or its claws would have eviscerated him, but it was still powerful enough to hurl him through the air. He hit the ground with bone-jarring force, the bear shambling after him, Mort’s pale face grinning.
Then from out of the trees came a monstrous howl, starting deep, finishing high and keening. The sound of undergrowth being torn up, crashed through, then, much closer, a terrifyingly deep snarling growl that set Corban’s blood running cold.
The bear paused, looking beyond Corban to the edge of the clearing. Corban rolled on his back to see what new horror was entering the battle.
A creature burst from a wall of undergrowth, huge fangs, snapping jaws, knotted muscle and pale fur.
What monster from Forn is this?
It slammed into the bear, smaller in bulk, but the power and ferocity of its assault was enough to hurl the bear backwards, sending it crashing to the ground. Mort flew through the air and hit a tree – the crack of his spine breaking audible even above the battle. The bear and this new creature locked together: a maelstrom of snapping teeth, bone-rattling snarls, tearing at each other.
They rolled to a halt, the bear underneath, scrabbling to rise, the new creature a lump of bulging muscle and fur atop it. Huge jaws bit down, a tearing sound, the bear’s roaring rose in pitch, and then abruptly cut short as its throat was torn out. The creature stood upon its victim, shoulders bunched with power, pale fur and dark stripes upon its torso. It carried on frenziedly ripping at the bear’s throat for a few moments, then looked up, teeth bared in a snarl as it looked around the campsite.
Long fangs dripped red, its muzzle and head broad, fur matted with blood and scarred from old battles. Amber eyes regarded him, and suddenly Corban knew.
‘But, you’re dead,’ he whispered, rolling to one knee, standing.
Storm.
In a bound she was in front of him. She took a deep sniff, then lifted her head to the heavens and howled, a victory howl, of a hunt ended. She gave his face a long, rasping lick with her rough tongue, nuzzling him, pushing her body against his, curling around him protectively, jumping away and back again, licking at his mouth, whining.
Corban just stood there for a few shocked moments, buffeted and battered by her greeting, grinning all the time like a fool, tears streaming down his cheeks.
It’s really her. He felt as if his heart would burst. All that pain and heartbreak that threatened to overwhelm him every time he thought of Storm howling as he was carried away by giants, of when she had stopped howling – it was just gone, transformed suddenly and completely into a deep and overwhelming joy.
And then he threw his arms around her neck and buried his face in her fur, weeping and laughing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CORALEN
Coralen watched Storm turn into a scampering cub at her reunion with Corban and couldn’t help but smile. She hobbled over to the pair; Storm, for a moment, raised a lip and bared her fangs at Coralen before she recognized her scent, then she was nuzzling her as well.
Corban looked at her and smiled, tears streaking lines through the dirt and dried blood-spatter on his face.
‘I thought she was dead,’ he said.
‘I found her, on a riverbank,’ Coralen said smiling. Somehow it was important to her that Corban knew that. ‘I thought she was dead, she had the faintest heartbeat. Brina was looking after her when we left to find you, though she said there was little hope.’
‘Well, whatever she did, it worked,’ Corban grinned, ruffling the thick fur around Storm’s neck and tugging on one of her ears. She licked his face with a rough tongue, then licked Coralen for good measure, making her stagger. Coralen grunted in pain.
‘I need to look at your wounds,’ Corban said.
‘I think I may have to wait my turn,’ Coralen said. ‘There’re others in more need than me.’
Farrell and Laith were still unmoving, Laith lay prone across Farrell. It was he who was groaning.
Laith swore when they tried to lift her. Coralen breathed a sigh of relief at hearing her; she’d feared the giantling was dead.
‘Concussion,’ Corban said, looking in Laith’s eyes. ‘No broken bones.’
Gar came to help them and the three of them rolled Laith off of Farrell, as gently as they could. The two giants that had joined them – Varan and Sig, as Corban introduced them to Coralen – h
‘You saved us,’ Corban said to the two Jotun giants. ‘We are in your debt.’
‘We’ll talk later,’ Varan said. ‘But now, take this and tend to your wounded.’ He offered Corban a bag. Corban opened it and sniffed.
‘Comfrey, yarrow, peppermint,’ Varan said. ‘Being apprenticed to a healer has its benefits.’
‘Hala,’ Corban said. ‘How is she?’
‘Unconscious,’ Varan replied.
‘Mort struck her,’ Sig snarled.
‘She may never wake,’ Varan added.
‘I am sorry for that.’ Corban shook his head.
Sig grunted.
‘And take this,’ Varan said, offering a drinking skin to Corban.
‘Brot?’
‘Aye,’ Varan smiled.
Corban nodded and bent down beside Farrell.
‘My thanks,’ Farrell breathed, ‘much as I’m fond of her, Laith’s not a light lass. I feel half-crushed to death.’
‘Might have something to do with the hammer-blow you took to your sternum,’ Corban said, pressing on Farrell’s midriff. He yelped in pain.
‘Aye, you might be right,’ Farrell said. ‘I’m guessing, as we’re still alive, we won.’ He blinked. ‘Is that Storm?’
‘Aye,’ Corban and Coralen said together.
‘She looks meaner,’ Farrell commented. ‘Wilder.’
I thought that.
‘Where’s Dath?’ Farrell asked.
A muffled sob drew all of their eyes. Kulla. She was still standing over Dath, who was lying face-down in the grass, a vicious set of claw-marks raked across his back. Gently Corban lifted his friend and turned him over. He made no sound, head flopping back in Corban’s arms.
‘Please, no,’ Farrell whispered when he reached them. Coralen just stood and stared, hoping. Corban had his ear to Dath’s chest, searching for a pulse.
‘Thank Elyon,’ he said with a long exhalation, ‘he’s alive.’
‘He’s alive?’ Kulla asked.
‘Aye. For now, though that wound on his back needs cleaning, probably stitching.’
Kulla dropped to her knees, lifted Dath onto her lap and stroked his face, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘When you wake up, we’re going to have a serious talk,’ Kulla said quietly, ‘getting yourself injured like that.’
Coralen helped Corban and Gar tend to the others. Dath’s wounds were the most serious, each claw-wound needing washing out then scraping clean with a knife, making them bleed again. When Corban was eventually happy that the wounds were dirt-free, he slathered them with honey and stitched them closed. While they were doing that, Varan and Sig gathered the giant corpses and laid them together, eight giants in all. The dead bears they left where they fell, Storm feasting on one of them.
Coralen had her own collection of cuts and bruises, her jaw was tender and throbbing where the giant had punched her.
Lucky I don’t have a broken jaw.
She cleaned and washed her cuts down by the stream, but her worst injury was to her ribs, where the giant had kicked her. Already a purple bruise the size of her head was blooming across her ribs. Eventually Coralen consented to Corban checking her over. He touched her ribs, fingers gentle, but still she winced.
He strapped her ribs and gave her a bowl of something he’d heated over a pot, telling her to wash it down with the brot Varan had given him. She did so without complaint.
It was late by the time all was done, the moon fading in the sky.
Corban sat beside Coralen as she lay on the grass, trying not to groan with the pain in her rib.
‘Quite a day,’ he said quietly.
‘And night,’ Coralen said. She felt a warm glow spreading through her, the relief that she always experienced after a battle survived. None of their crew had fallen. Battered to the shadow of death’s doorway, maybe, but they were all still breathing. She knew the odds they’d faced this day and night had been overwhelming. It was verging upon a miracle that they had all survived.
She looked up at Corban and saw that he was watching and smiling at her.
‘Come down here and get some sleep,’ she said to him.
He did, lying down beside her, then turning over to put an arm across her. He kissed her cheek.
‘Good night,’ he whispered in her ear, and within about thirty heartbeats he was snoring softly. She lay there and smiled.
Just before sleep took her she realized they’d not set a guard. Then she heard Storm shift, get up and pad over to them, curling down behind Corban, the smell of her fur wafting over them.
Don’t need to set a guard tonight. Storm’s back, and she’s pack.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
LYKOS
Lykos wandered the wide stone streets of Drassil, a score of Vin Thalun at his back, more of his men emerging from shadowed doorways, all of them shaking their heads.
Nothing.
Where the hell is this blacksmith’s chamber where the starstone Treasures were fashioned?
At first Lykos had thought that searching for this mysterious room might be an interesting distraction from the boredom of being stuck in Drassil. Discovering that Maquin and probably Fidele were out in Forn not too far from him had perked him up for a while, but after giving a lot of thought to imagining how he would capture and kill Maquin, and capture and enjoy Fidele, he’d started to try and work out how he was actually going to make that happen. So far he’d not come up with anything. Marching his warband into Forn didn’t seem to be the most sensible option, not least because Calidus would probably stick Lykos on one of the spears before the great gates for even suggesting such a wasteful use of manpower.
He seems very highly strung these days. He needs to learn to relax and enjoy the moment.
Lykos unstoppered a fresh skin of mead with his teeth and took a long swallow. Then he belched.
Like me.
He grinned to himself.
Calidus had given Lykos and Nathair different sections of the fortress to search. They were in the last street of Lykos’ allocated area, now, opening up into yet another abandoned courtyard, a gnarled old tree at its centre, and still nothing.
We have searched every building. Every room, every tower, every barn and basement. And yet, nothing. I wonder if Nathair has had more luck?
He sat under the shade of the ancient oak, waiting for his men to finish their search. While he waited he drank some more from his skin of mead.
What’s that smell?
He looked about. The most terrible stench was drifting up his nose. He stood and looked around, saw only the empty courtyard, his men, the tree, its thick roots lifting flagstones.
Is that a hole in the ground amidst the roots, in the shadows of the tree?
Footsteps slapped on stone and a voice called his name. One of his runners, a young lad who he set to watch the gates and bring him news, if there ever was any. He was red-faced and sweating.
‘Someone has arrived,’ the lad said. ‘A Kadoshim.’
Lykos raised an eyebrow. Calidus was very protective of his Kadoshim these days, rarely let them pass through the gates of Drassil.
‘And he looks like he’s scrapped his way through all the pits in the Three Islands to get here,’ the lad added.
‘Where did he go?’
‘The great hall, looking for Wax-Face.’
Wax-Face. Ha.
Lykos hastened through the gates of Drassil’s great hall and saw Calidus sitting at the long table before Skald’s throne, in deep conversation with Nathair. A dozen eagle-guard stood straight-backed close by, and Legion was lurking in the shadows.
The Kadoshim is not here yet. Good.
‘What?’ Calidus said as Lykos approached.
His manners are failing him. When he was pretending to be nothing more than a counsellor he was so much more polite.
Lykos nodded a greeting at Nathair, wh
He needs to mask his feelings better. Like me.
‘I have finished searching the section of this fortress that you set me. No old secret forge.’ He opened his hands wide, pulling a sad face.
Calidus opened his mouth to say something, but then his eyes focused over Lykos’ shoulder.
Our Kadoshim has arrived, then.
‘Mavet, why are you here? Has Gundul arrived?’ Calidus called out.
Ah, so he was one of the hundred Kadoshim gifted to Gundul.
Lykos turned to watch the Kadoshim. He was flanked by two more of his kind; seeing them together highlighted how shockingly different this Mavet appeared.
First of all, he was missing a hand. He limped down the stairs, clothes and mail shirt torn and rent, his pale-veined flesh gashed and battered. One eye was gone from his head.
I don’t think he’s bringing good news.
When Mavet reached them he dropped into a chair at the table, scratching absently at the empty socket where his eye had been.
‘Sustenance,’ the creature said, its voice a croak.
Calidus poured him wine and the Kadoshim drank deeply, head arching back as it drained the cup.
‘Well?’ Calidus said through thin-clenched lips.
‘Gundul is dead,’ the Kadoshim said as a board of meat, bread and cheese was brought for him. He began stuffing food into his mouth. ‘And his warband slain or scattered.’
‘How?’ Calidus said, voice cold and hard as iron.
‘Men clothed like them,’ the Kadoshim said, pointing at Nathair’s eagle-guard.
Veradis and the warband of Ripa.
Lykos looked to Nathair, who appeared stunned by the news.
‘But, there were fewer than a thousand men in the warband from Ripa,’ Nathair said. ‘Gundul’s warband numbered in the thousands – three, four thousand strong.’
‘And a hundred Kadoshim,’ Lykos pointed out.
‘It’s Veradis and his damned shield wall,’ Nathair whispered.