Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

Krelis!

  Then Krelis and his men were attacking the Kadoshim, Krelis taking a head in one great swing of his longsword.

  Another warrior swept into view, this one not dressed as a man of Tenebral, but gripping a knife in each hand. He joined Krelis, and together they attacked the Kadoshim before Veradis.

  Maquin and Krelis.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NATHAIR

  Nathair stood in the great hall of Drassil and stared at the giant’s skeleton on its throne. The bones of the ribcage surrounded a thick-shafted spear, the wood dark and pale-veined, only a hint of black iron of the blade visible, the rest buried in the great tree of Drassil.

  So that is Skald, High King of the giants, and that is the starstone spear. Skald, the last man to rule a united empire where giants and men lived together in peace. Will I be the next to unite this shattered world? The skeleton was mottled yellow and brown, ancient, the brow of the skull broad and thick, eye-sockets black holes that seemed to stare at Nathair, questioning him.

  Are you worthy? Are you capable?

  He sighed. History shall be my judge – nothing and no one else.

  A hand touched his shoulder. Caesus was standing at the head of three score eagle-guard. The young warrior had been recently promoted to high captain of Nathair’s warband, now that Veradis was gone.

  Ah, Veradis. Are you dead or alive, old friend? It does not seem right that you are not beside me to share in this great victory. He had been informed of Veradis’ betrayal, his attempt on Calidus’ life, and he and Alcyon’s escape.

  Veradis, how could you abandon me, break your oath to me? He looked at the white scars on the palm of his hand, one of them made as a blood-oath of brotherhood to Veradis on a moonlit hillside in Tenebral. It felt like a lifetime ago, words and promises spoken by different people.

  ‘My King,’ Caesus said. ‘It is Calidus. He asks for you.’

  Nathair looked back at the skeleton one last time, then turned and strode through the huge chamber. The dead were still being cleared from the battle of the day before. Blood stained the stone floor; mounds of corpses lay in stinking piles. Hundreds of them – Kadoshim, Jehar, Vin Thalun, eagle-guard, Benothi giants, many others. The cost of taking Drassil had been high, higher than he would have imagined considering that the element of surprise had been on their side.

  But victory is victory. The fortress is ours, the back of our enemy broken. Though many had escaped: reports were coming in of pitched battles still being fought beyond the walls of Drassil.

  Nathair glanced to his right as he passed an open trapdoor as wide as the gates of Jerolin, and the dark stain of blood on the stone before it.

  Meical’s blood.

  The Ben-Elim’s head now adorned a spear set in the ground of the courtyard before the gates of Drassil. It was not alone.

  But what of Corban, their Bright Star? Where is he? He glared mistrustfully into the yawning dark of the tunnel, knew that Meical had chosen to stand and fight there to gain time for many who escaped into the tunnel.

  Was Corban one of them?

  There had been no reports of Corban being seen during the battle. Had he even been here?

  It had been a long night and Nathair felt a greater weariness settling upon him than he had ever known before. Caesus snapped an order behind him and eagle-guard spread to either side, forming a protective column.

  ‘Drassil is not yet secure,’ Caesus said in reply to Nathair’s enquiring look.

  The courtyard also bore the signs of yesterday’s battle, bodies scattered all about, flies buzzing, the metallic aroma of blood everywhere. For an instant Nathair thought he saw a wolven cub tugging at the leg of a dead Kadoshim, but looking back realized it was a small white-furred dog.

  They turned a corner in a street and Nathair glimpsed the towering outer walls of Drassil beyond the layers of stone buildings latticed with thick branches.

  This is a truly remarkable place.

  Branches soared above him as thick as towers, with buildings of stone and iron wrapped about them, bound tighter than leather armour.

  It looks almost alive: the tree the bones, the fortress its flesh.

  The rasp of a sword drawn from its scabbard drew his attention, and he glimpsed a black-clothed warrior hurtling from the shadows of a doorway. Abruptly Caesus was yelling as more dark figures emerged, iron glinting. The eagle-guard moved, shields thudding together around Nathair, obscuring his view.

  Blood sprayed, spattering Nathair’s face as an eagle-guard before him collapsed. A black-clothed Jehar slipped into the gap carved in the shield wall, surging towards Nathair.

  Nathair drew his sword, fear and rage, his constant companions, igniting within him. The shouts and screams of battle faded, his world contracting to the Jehar warrior before him. A woman, her dark-skinned face all sharp bones, almost fragile-looking.

  ‘Truth and courage,’ she yelled, curved sword rising.

  There was an explosion of sparks as their weapons met, the power of the Jehar’s strike making the tendons of his wrist shriek, shuddering on into his arm and shoulder.

  He pushed forwards, knowing to retreat was to die, tried to move within her guard, use his short sword where her longer blade would hinder her. They collided, limbs tangling as both crashed to the ground, wrestling, punching, kicking and biting at each other as they rolled back and forth across the stone street, with the battle raging all about them. The Jehar struck a glancing blow that made his vision blur. Then her knee crunched into his groin and he slumped, pain exploding, pulsing through him in savage waves, draining his strength. She pulled herself free and half rose as he coughed into the cold stone, tried to rise, knew if he didn’t he was dead.

  Fear and rage sparked inside him, sent new energy coursing through his veins.

  I’ll not die here.

  The Jehar stood over him, sword raised, her eyes bright with victory.

  Then a form crashed into her, throwing her to the ground. She started to rise and a boot slammed into her jaw, sent her crashing back down. The figure was blurred, a buzzing cloud swirling about it. Hands gripped him and pulled him upright, Caesus’ concerned face appeared, blood sheeting from a long cut across his forehead. Nathair looked past him, saw his rescuer pull a sword from a scabbard upon its back and raise it over the unconscious Jehar.

  A Kadoshim.

  ‘No,’ Nathair called; the figure’s head turned to look at him, the buzzing cloud parting.

  Flies, Nathair realized, recognizing the Kadoshim. ‘No, Legion. I want her alive.’

  The Kadoshim regarded him for a moment with its cold black eyes.

  ‘Better dead,’ it said.

  ‘I want her alive,’ Nathair snapped. ‘Calidus may have questions.’

  ‘Dead after, then,’ the Kadoshim said, then sheathing its sword. ‘Calidus wants you.’ The flesh of its face and neck rippled, seemed to move of its own accord, as if something were locked within, trying to get out.

  About them the battle seemed almost done.

  Nathair scanned the street, counted nearly a score of his eagle-guard dead to five or six of their Jehar attackers.

  ‘This part of Drassil is supposed to have been cleared,’ he snarled. ‘How did they get in here?’ He looked down at the unconscious Jehar’s form at Legion’s feet.

  ‘Bring her,’ Nathair said as he marched away.

  As Nathair entered the courtyard before Drassil’s gates he heard a rumbling growl reverberate from one of the many stables that edged the courtyard. He looked fondly at the doors that contained his draig.

  Calidus stood before the closed gates of Drassil, to either side of him were a host of spears driven into the ground, most of them adorned with a head. A handful of Vin Thalun warriors were planting new spears into the ground, while behind them Kadoshim prowled in the courtyard’s shadows. Before Calidus knelt a ragged group of people, bound at wrist and ankle: over three hundred prisoners from yesterday’s battle. Above them eagle-guard stood upon Dra
ssil’s walls.

  My warriors.

  They were easily the best-disciplined troops amongst those that had stormed Drassil – the Kadoshim and many of Lykos’ Vin Thalun were involved in the pursuit of their scattered enemy out beyond Drassil’s walls, but Nathair suspected that most by far were ranging throughout the fortress, looting and drinking.

  The Kadoshim are doing other things, such as eating their victims . . .

  Lykos was standing behind Calidus, a dozen Vin Thalun ranged about him – hard-looking men, bodies lean and muscular, skin weathered and scarred. Lykos lifted a water skin to his mouth and took a long drink.

  I’d wager it’s not water that he’s drinking.

  The Vin Thalun saw him approaching and nodded a greeting. Nathair hid his disgust.

  Him, and my mother . . .

  ‘Ah, Nathair,’ Calidus said. He raised an eyebrow at the blood on Nathair’s face, then saw Legion dragging the Jehar warrior across the courtyard by her ankle.

  ‘Calidus,’ Nathair said with a dip of his head. His old counsellor was not looking his best. Part of his face was burned charcoal black and peeling, silver hair was growing in tufts from patches on his head, elsewhere singed to stubble or burned clear.

  ‘It would appear that the streets of Drassil are not yet cleared of our enemy,’ Nathair said sourly as Legion dumped the Jehar warrior in front of Calidus. She groaned, pushing herself to her knees as Legion’s hand clamped on her shoulder, holding her before Calidus.

  ‘What is your name, child?’ Calidus asked, regarding her with his cold eyes.

  She spat blood at Calidus’ feet and glowered up at him. ‘Ilta,’ the Jehar said. ‘And I am no child.’

  ‘Well, Ilta, I shall ask you the same question that I have just put to your comrades. Where is Corban?’

  ‘You will see him soon enough,’ a voice said from amongst the prisoners. ‘He will come for you.’

  ‘And when he does,’ said Ilta as she turned her head to look from Calidus to Nathair and Lykos, ‘he will kill you all.’

  ‘He is a boy, a puppet. Your real master is already slain,’ Calidus said angrily, sweeping a hand towards Meical’s head.

  ‘You are wrong,’ Ilta said. ‘Corban is our lord; he slew your best, Sumur, in single combat. We all saw it. He will do the same to you.’

  ‘Sumur?’ Calidus frowned. ‘I saw his head decorating your gates . . .’

  ‘Corban killed him,’ the prisoner’s voice called out again, one vaguely familiar to Nathair. A figure straightened amongst the captives, black hair hanging lank about her face. ‘He took Sumur’s head, and he will take yours, too.’

  Ah, Cywen.

  ‘I want nothing more than for him to come and try,’ Calidus said with a sigh, his expression mocking, but Nathair glimpsed something else in his eyes. Doubt?

  ‘But so far he does not seem inclined to do so,’ Calidus continued. ‘Perhaps a message will speed him to us.’ He looked to the Kadoshim. ‘Legion, choose one prisoner and impale them upon a spear,’ he ordered.

  Legion grabbed Cywen and pulled her, struggling, towards a spear.

  ‘Not her,’ Calidus said with a wave of his hand.

  Legion grabbed another prisoner. He was a man of Isiltir by the look of him. The Kadoshim hoisted him effortlessly into the air and brought him down slowly upon the upright spear.

  Then the screaming began.

  When it was over the prisoner was skewered like a squirrel ready for the cook-fire. He was writhing upon the spear, blood pooling about his feet, screaming himself to oblivion. Nathair resisted the urge to cover his ears.

  ‘On your feet,’ Calidus said to Ilta. ‘Go and tell Corban what is happening to his followers, what I am doing. Tell him I will not stop until he has faced me.’

  Legion pushed her stumbling forwards as, with a rumble, the gates opened. She looked back once and then ran, the gates slamming behind her.

  Calidus barked an order and the remaining captives were led away. Cywen caught Nathair’s eye as she walked in line, hatred pouring from her.

  ‘We must talk soon,’ Calidus said to Nathair and Lykos. ‘Highsun in the great hall.’ Then he was striding away.

  Lykos raised an eyebrow and offered Nathair his water skin. Without thinking, Nathair took it and drank, then coughed, almost choking on the contents.

  ‘Is that . . . ?’

  ‘Mead,’ Lykos finished for him. ‘Found a dozen wagons with barrels full of the stuff.’

  Nathair handed it back to him and Lykos walked away, chuckling to himself, his Vin Thalun following him.

  Nathair headed for the wide stairs that scaled Drassil’s walls and he climbed to the top, stopping above the great gates, where he stared out at the world beyond. A wide plain circled the fortress, clear blue sky bathing the ground in sunshine before the great trees of Forn blotted it from view. He caught a glimpse of Ilta just before she disappeared into the treeline. Behind him he heard the footsteps of Caesus and his eagle-guard, stopping a respectful distance away.

  The screams of the impaled in the courtyard were much fainter up here, fading to a pathetic mewling. He wished he would just die.

  How have I allowed myself to come to this? It is for the greater good. For me to win the war Corban must die. To bring peace to the Banished Lands, Corban must die. He felt his resolve stir, but still the screams wormed their way into his head, reminding him of other battles, other deaths in the name of this great cause.

  And now I follow the path of Kadoshim, of demons, of Asroth himself.

  He remembered Calidus’ words to him in Murias, so persuasive. It had all been so logical when Calidus explained it, made sense of the alliances, the lies – deception upon deception heaped in a great pile.

  But the truth is simpler, a voice seemed to whisper inside his mind.

  Deep down, he knew. It was more basic when all was stripped away: Calidus’ persuasive arguments and philosophical debates on good and evil, right and wrong, the abstract meanings that were attached to names. Politics, power struggles, who deserved what. The honest answer was much simpler than any of those meandering debates, and one that had been clearly reinforced by his brief struggle with the Jehar warrior before him.

  I don’t want to lose.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CORALEN

  Coralen sat with her back to a tree, staring into the dawn gloom of Forn, absently twirling a knife between her fingers. Behind her were the sleeping forms of three score or so of the survivors with whom she had fled Drassil. Amongst them was Brina, grey hair poking from beneath her cloak, beside her the bulks of Farrell and Laith curled close together. She glimpsed the Jehar, Akar, standing guard on the far side of their camp. Exhaustion hovered at the fringes of her consciousness, and in so many ways it would be wonderful to lose herself in the nothingness of sleep. But she couldn’t. Her mind was reeling, a whirlwind of grief, fear and rage as fractured moments of the previous day played out in her mind’s eye. Out of them all, though, everything kept returning to one thought, circling.

  Where is Corban?

  The fog of tiredness crept upon her again, a relentless assault, but she knew that sleep would not come; the shock and horror of yesterday’s battle was still too present.

  There was a soft footfall from behind and a figure came to stand beside her.

  Gar.

  The lord of the Jehar looked at her, lines of worry etched upon his usually unreadable face. He was clothed in a shirt of dark chainmail splattered with grime and blood, his curved sword sheathed across his back, a single-bladed throwing axe hanging at his belt. Even he was not free of injury: a bloodstained bandage was tied around his forehead.

  ‘Storm is with him,’ Gar said, as if he could read her thoughts.

  They must be as plain to read upon my face as are his.

  Storm.

  That was a measure of comfort; Coralen knew that the wolven was a better guardian than a dozen shieldmen. But still . . .

  ‘We will find hi
m,’ Gar said.

  Coralen had seen the familiar scuff marks of Storm’s claws in the tunnel, which was why they had exited at this spot. After a brief search she’d found more tracks, leading to the brow of the slope, but darkness had settled upon them and no matter how frustrating, it was pointless to stumble around in the dark.

  But where can Corban be? He must have heard the din of battle from Drassil, even if he were this far away.

  The thought rose unbidden in her mind, the one thought she had refused to acknowledge throughout the long dark of night.

  What if he is slain? What else could have kept him from returning to Drassil? She felt a worm of fear wriggling through her belly but refused to consider it. He lives. He must.

  She nodded and stood, sheathing her knife, a myriad of cuts, bruises and strains aching for attention. She ignored them all.

  ‘We need to go,’ she said.

  ‘Aye,’ Gar agreed. He continued to stare at the trapdoor. ‘I had hoped that Meical would find us. That he escaped . . .’

  Coralen remembered her last sight of the Ben-Elim, wielding his sword two-handed, feet planted before the entrance to the tunnel in Drassil’s great hall as they had retreated into its shadows. Swathes of blood had surrounded him as he swung his sword in deadly arcs, holding back the enemy, protecting them, purchasing them time to escape.

  ‘He would have come by now. If he could,’ Coralen said.

  Gar sighed and nodded.

  Coralen cocked her head, listening, staring down the hill. Something was moving in the undergrowth, heading towards the trapdoor.

  Gar saw it too, and without words the two of them separated, slipping into the shadows as they quietly surrounded the intruder.

  Bushes rustled, a twig snapped and Coralen caught a glimpse of dark hair. She knew it wasn’t Corban – even he isn’t that clumsy.

  A figure burst from the undergrowth, a young man clad in leather and wool, his dark hair tousled and a scabbing cut marking his forehead. He started at the sight of her, fumbled for a weapon at his belt, his eyes widening.

  ‘I know you,’ Coralen said, though she didn’t remember his name. ‘Your da is Atilius.’ A competent, unassuming warrior, Atilius had been a slave oarsman on a Vin Thalun ship.