Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

  Rafe stood with Morcant above Stonegate, watching Rhin and her monstrous warband ride away, close to five thousand warriors riding out, the late summer sun turning them into a glittering wave sweeping eastwards.

  ‘That is quite the sight,’ Rafe said.

  ‘It is,’ Morcant agreed. ‘And if you do your job well we shall soon be joining them.’

  ‘Don’t need t’worry about that,’ Rafe muttered.

  Morcant sneered at him and walked down from the battlements, leaving Rafe to watch Rhin’s warband fade into the east.

  Wish I were with them now. Looks like something the songs’ll tell of for many a cold night.

  ‘I will go,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I will see Corban again.’

  As soon as I have the starstone necklace in my keeping.

  Rhin had come to him last night and made it clear that he must bring her the starstone necklace before she reached Drassil, or he would lose his head. One or the other. And he knew she’d do it, because she was scared – no, terrified – of arriving in Drassil and not having the necklace to present to Calidus.

  I have to get that necklace back. It is life or death to me.

  And one other thing Rhin had said to him: ‘This Camlin that I am hearing so much about. He killed my Braith, thwarted Morcant and Evnis in the swamps of Dun Crin, sneaked into my own fortress and stole from me. I want him dead.’

  It’ll be my pleasure.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  FIDELE

  Fidele groaned as she awoke.

  Better to be asleep. Better not to know where I am. I cannot stand another day of hearing his voice, of seeing his face.

  Not for the first time, she thought of throwing herself over the side and into the river, of ending it all. But something kept her from that final act. Perhaps it was because she still dreamed of seeing Maquin again, and of seeing Lykos’ death.

  ‘Did you sleep well, my lady-wife?’ Lykos said from behind her.

  When Fidele didn’t answer, he turned on his bench and looked down at her.

  ‘Ah,’ he muttered, bending down amicably to wrap his arms around her and lift her onto the bench beside him. He pulled the cloth from her mouth. On the first day he’d removed the cloth first, and then lifted her, but she’d bitten a chunk out of his ear, and now he left her mouth bound until he was sitting a little further away from her.

  She looked about her. Five boats rowing up the river, the one she was in leading the way, the others spread behind, like the blade of a spear. It was early, mist curling on the river, hiding the dark depths, and she regarded it suspiciously. On the first day of rowing one of the boats had grated on a submerged boulder and the collision had thrown a man into the water. He was being hauled back on board when something had grabbed him from beneath the surface. Fidele had only had a glimpse of it: long and sinuous, a mouth full of razored teeth.

  Men were grunting, sweating as they pulled oars against the current, but the river was wide and sluggish here, and it felt as if they were making good time, water hissing against hulls.

  Five nights we’ve been travelling. But where? The trees of Forn grew thick about them, the canopy above thin and frayed as branches stretched over the river, letting sunlight through in greater abundance than Fidele had seen for some time.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Fidele asked.

  ‘We’re on a quest, my wife,’ Lykos said good-naturedly. He looked as if he’d just finished pulling at an oar, his hair sweat-soaked, his leather jerkin loose. Fidele glimpsed the rippled flesh of his chest where Maquin had burned him.

  ‘A quest where? For what?’ she asked.

  ‘We are going to Arcona, searching for one of the Seven Treasures,’ Lykos said.

  Arcona! The grass plains to the east of Forn Forest.

  ‘Which Treasure?’ Fidele asked, hoping against hope that she would somehow become free and be able to share this information with her people.

  Lykos gave her a long, measuring look. ‘No harm telling you,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Not like you’ll ever leave my side again.’

  That made her shudder, and she refused to dwell on it. When she had been captured she had been certain that her life would be measured in moments, Lykos dragging her through the darkness of the forest, bound, gagged and stumbling for what felt like a ten-night. She’d thought she was being hauled back to Drassil to be presented as a prize to Calidus, but instead she had soon heard the rush of the river and seen five boats sitting in the water, full it seemed with grim-looking men and a handful of black-eyed Kadoshim. Ninety-two bodies in total, it turned out, including her. Enough that three shifts of rowers could split the day, so even though the boats were heavy-laden and they were rowing upstream it seemed to Fidele that they moved incredibly fast. Lykos was skilled on the water, whatever else she thought of him.

  ‘The starstone torc,’ Lykos said. ‘I am reliably informed that it is to be found in Arcona.’

  ‘And Calidus needs the Treasures to fulfil his plan,’ Fidele said. She looked at the Vin Thalun sitting in the boat, some rowing, a man at the back manning a steering oar, others resting. Two of the Kadoshim were also in the boat, their black eyes fixed on the path ahead. Thankfully the one surrounded by a swarm of flies was on another boat.

  I wonder if Lykos’ men know what Calidus would do with the Seven Treasures. Would they be so eager to aid him if they did?

  Fidele had spent much time in conversation with Brina, a woman she had come to respect, and she had told her what had come to light regarding Calidus and his schemes.

  ‘To open a portal between the Banished Lands and the Otherworld,’ Fidele said loudly, ‘so that Asroth and his Kadoshim may cross over and become flesh.’

  A few heads twitched to look at her.

  ‘Exactly!’ Lykos said, beaming at her. ‘A woman of intellect,’ he said. ‘I admire that, and find it attractive. Far more than just a fine shape to you.’

  She shuddered.

  So far Lykos had not touched her in that way. It was something that she had been both immeasurably grateful for and also the thing of which she lived in perpetual fear.

  But it will happen, if I remain in his power. I see the way he looks at me. Hungry.

  She willed herself to think about something else.

  The starstone torc. If it is important to the enemy, then it is important to us. If by some miraculous twist of fate I escape Lykos and get back to my people, this knowledge could be valuable.

  And Lykos says it is in Arcona. What do I know of that land? The whole realm is mostly grass land; vast, rolling plains, and it lies to the east of this great forest. No doubt at the end of this river. The Sirak dwell there, I remember them from Aquilus’ council. Strange-looking men, shaven-haired, scar-latticed. Small, fierce and war-like. They were not unified. A realm of many clans and kings, or whatever they call them, forever in some conflict or dispute with one another. And they rode shaggy-haired ponies, rather than warhorses. Even their kings.

  Fidele racked her mind for any other shred of memory, but could think of nothing else.

  If I don’t get away from this boat I will see the plains of Arcona soon enough.

  She sat and stared behind them, eyes scouring the riverbank, wishing, willing, that she saw movement. Wishing that she saw Maquin.

  Rain dappled the river, darkness a cloak over them as Fidele’s boat moved slowly through the night.

  Torches had been lit, fore and aft, and the two Kadoshim bent their backs relentlessly to rowing, a Vin Thalun leaning over the prow, scanning for rocks or anything else that could give them a nasty surprise.

  ‘We’ll not stop,’ Lykos’ voice said behind Fidele, a bodiless whisper on the night. ‘Day and night we’ll row, because I mean to be back in Drassil before Midwinter’s Day. A fitting time to renew our wedding vows, don’t you think?’

  ‘That will never happen,’ Fidele said, her voice cold and hate-wreathed. ‘I will die, first.’

  ‘Oh aye, no doubt that wo
uld be true, if I tried to take you now.’ Lykos twisted his fingers into her hair, jerked her hard so that he could whisper into her ear, his breath foul. ‘I imagine you’d throw yourself into the river, let the things of tooth and slime have your flesh, rather than me.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But Calidus is back in Drassil. It’s amazing what he can do with only a lock of hair.’

  Revulsion goose-bumped her flesh, a thousand spider-legs skittering across her skin. She remembered a clay effigy with a lock of her hair set within it, remembered the control it had given Lykos over her. Made her a slave-puppet to his every wish and whim. But inside, she had been screaming.

  ‘So I shall wait,’ Lykos said, ‘and you can dream of escape, and I shall dream of Drassil, and we shall see whose dream comes true.’ He licked her ear and she jerked away.

  He moved away, chuckling softly, and Fidele lay on the boat’s floor, her mind filled with horror. Slowly she controlled it, thought of better things.

  She thought of Maquin, of her last night with him, their bodies intertwined. Thought of stroking his face before she’d left, watching him sleep. Tears bloomed and she blinked them away.

  I will see you again.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  RAFE

  Rafe kicked at his mare, urging more from her gallop along the giantsway. Wind snatched at his hair, pulling it out wild as a mane behind him as he bent over her arched neck, sweat staining her coat, Scratcher pounding along on the meadow parallel to them.

  ‘Almost there,’ he yelled as he pulled on the reins, sending her skidding down the giantsway’s embankment and onto a hard-packed road, galloping like the north wind through the outskirts of Havan village and then pounding up the track that led to Dun Carreg.

  Rafe had to rein in hard once in the courtyard, as it was crowded with warriors, all with mounts, clad in Rhin’s black and gold. A quick glance showed mud-stained boots and cloaks, dust-caked horses.

  Probably more latecomers answering Geraint’s muster. Other warriors had passed through Dun Carreg’s gates for the same reason, and Morcant had sent them on their way after Rhin’s warband, over a ten-night gone already.

  Rafe rode on to the courtyard before Dun Carreg’s keep, leaped from his horse’s back and sprinted up wide steps into the feast-hall.

  It was dark, a low fire crackling in the fire-pit, Morcant sitting at a table upon a dais; a warrior in black and gold stood before him.

  ‘. . . food, rest, provisions for your journey from our kitchens,’ Morcant was saying to the warrior, the captain of those in the courtyard, Rafe guessed. He was broad-shouldered, with red hair streaked with silver, a scar dissecting his braided beard.

  ‘How many of you?’ Morcant asked.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty swords, my lord,’ the warrior replied.

  ‘I’ve found them,’ Rafe blurted, skidding to a halt before Morcant.

  ‘What?’ Morcant said, turning a bored expression upon Rafe.

  ‘Edana and the rebels, in the Baglun,’ Rafe all but yelled. ‘I’ve found them!’

  Morcant stared at him a few moments, then slowly stood.

  ‘Sound the call to arms,’ he said to a guard standing close by. ‘Prepare my war gear.’

  The guard hurried to the feast-hall doors, put his horn to his lips and blew.

  ‘Sounds as if it’s about to get busy round here,’ the red-haired warrior said to Morcant. ‘If we can just restock our provisions, we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘To hell with that,’ Morcant said. ‘You’re Rhin’s warriors, you can ride with my warband and fight her enemies. You can damn well earn your food.’

  Rafe sat impatiently upon his horse as Morcant rode into the courtyard, followed by a score more mounted warriors, all in gleaming mail and iron helms, clutching spears, shields slung across backs or strapped to saddles.

  Morcant pulled his black stallion in a tight circle.

  ‘Time to clear this land of some vermin,’ he yelled. ‘They’ve been raiding and burning, striking and running away, the cowards. But now we know where they are.’ Men rattled spears on shields. ‘Time to show them how real warriors behave. We’ll return to these walls when our enemy lie dead at our feet.’

  Louder cheering, and then Morcant was kicking at his horse’s ribs and cantering out through the arch of Stonegate, Rafe falling in beside him. Together they rode across the bridge and down the hill, an endless double column of riders flowing from the fortress, seven hundred men. At the base of the hill more men gathered, a larger force, falling in as Morcant rode past them, surging up to the giantsway and heading south, towards the Baglun.

  Rafe had found Edana’s camp in the trees close to the Oathstone glade and the giantsway. They’d even cut trees down from the glade, making it more habitable. Rafe had caught a glimpse of Edana, thought about trying to sneak in and put a knife through her eye, but thought it more risky than storming the camp with fifteen hundred swords.

  Over seventeen hundred now. He smiled, glancing back at the mass of warriors behind him.

  ‘Let me take a hundred men east,’ Rafe said, ‘and flank them. I’ll flush them out into the open glade, and then . . .’ He grinned.

  ‘Vengeance,’ said Morcant. ‘For my silver, my tower, the humiliation at Dun Crin. And the score of arrows that Camlin has put into you.’ He looked at Rafe and smiled back.

  ‘Time for Camlin to die,’ Rafe agreed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CAMLIN

  Camlin sat on a stolen horse, trotting down the giantsway, sun dappling the flagstoned road.

  Regardless of the sun and blue sky, there was a crisp chill to the air, and about them the leaves were shifting from green to russet and gold.

  Autumn’s coming, and winter won’t be far behind. Not a good time to be living rough in the forest.

  Behind him fifteen more men and women rode, Baird one of them, humming a tune as he itched absently at his eyeless socket. Baird had insisted on coming along because he was bored; he was the only one of Camlin’s crew with a shield slung over his back. The rest of them were mostly woodsmen and hunters, happier with bow and spear than sword and shield.

  The trees of the Baglun thinned and Camlin heard the chatter of water over shingle as they neared the ford across the river Tarin, then the trees were gone and they were in open ground, the river before them, meadows rolling towards Dun Carreg.

  A dark shadow came plummeting down from the sky, screeching and squawking.

  ‘WARE THE ENEMY,’ Craf was crying, over and over again.

  Then Camlin heard them – a rumble that grew quickly, setting stones rattling and dirt sliding down the giantsway’s embankment. Mounted warriors appeared from behind the curve of a gentle hill. A great wave of Rhin’s black and gold, no end to them.

  ‘By Elyon above and Asroth below,’ Baird breathed.

  For timeless moments Camlin and his raiders just sat on their horses and stared, open-mouthed.

  From the head of the warband a rider drew his sword, pointed it at Camlin and his crew and shouted some battle-cry. A wordless roar rose up from the warband as they spurred their horses on.

  As if a spell had broken, Camlin lurched into motion, tugging at his reins, kicking, swearing at his mount, everyone doing the same, back towards the Baglun.

  Camlin felt panic spreading as he struggled to get his horse moving in the right direction, others jostling into him, then he was away, reaching a gallop as he passed under the eaves of the Baglun’s first trees.

  And then everything was sound and motion. The thunder of hooves about and behind him as a storm crashed across the old river ford, Camlin clinging to his horse, Baird in front of him, whooping like it was a Midsummer’s Day race.

  Camlin’s crew clustered about him, faces set in hard, frightened lines, all knowing that death resided in heartbeats, the road speeding by beneath pounding hooves, branches above growing thicker, all the while the thunderous avalanche of horseflesh and screaming w
arriors behind them growing ever closer.

  I’m a dead man.

  And then they were bursting into a glade of bright sunlight, the Oathstone standing dark and tall to Camlin’s left. He reined in hard, others about him doing the same, a few galloping on, ducking low in their saddles so that heads and bodies lay tight against their mounts’ necks.

  Camlin scrambled from his saddle, slapping his mount’s rump, and the mare was flying off down the giantsway again. He heard Baird yelling for him to hurry as he slithered down the embankment, broke into a run, heart pounding in his mouth, legs pumping as he sprinted with a dozen others towards the treeline, leaping into its shadows as their pursuers hurtled into the glade.

  Shadowed figures appeared around Camlin, a short one thrusting his new-made bow of elm into his hand, waving a quiver of arrows at him. Then he was turning, crouching behind a bush and gasping in gulps of air.

  ‘Well, that worked a treat, eh?’ Baird said to him, grinning wildly.

  ‘Bit too well,’ Camlin said. ‘Think I’ve soiled my breeches.’

  That made Baird laugh like a madman.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  RAFE

  Rafe squinted at the sudden brightness of the sun as they burst into the Oathstone glade, dazzlingly bright after their gallop through the twilight of the Baglun.

  Horses galloped ahead, their enemy disappearing into shadow as they sped through the glade and back into the Baglun’s gloom.

  Camlin’s leading them.

  Seeing him had incensed Rafe, and the plan of sneaking and flushing the enemy out of hiding was suddenly so much wasted breath.

  No matter. We have Camlin now, he cannot escape from this, and we are too many for Edana’s rabble, whether we take them by surprise or not.

  The Oathstone reared dark and rune-written to Rafe’s left, the glade around them wide and sunlit.

  Different from how I remember it. Wider. Not a glade now, more a meadow. Then Rafe saw the stumps of fresh-cut trees.