Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen, #4)

by John Gwynne

“Lykos is there; the man who gave me this.” He twisted to show the scar burned into the back of his shoulder, a twisting spiral. “He and his kind did this and worse to many of us,” Javed said, waving a hand at his warriors. Angry murmurs spread amongst them. “Kick a stone in anger, you’ll hurt your foot,” Tahir said.

Doing nothing does not absolve you of choice.

He’s scared. Scared of making the wrong choice and thus damning his people; instead he makes no choice and so damns them all the same.

“In the end, it’s all the same,” Varan said. “We all face death alone.” Corban nodded. “To my thinking, though, it’s what happens before death that’s important. All of us die. How many really live?”

Sometimes caution is wisdom, but sometimes it is fear, and fear is not wise.

“Because this is not who I am,” she eventually said. “One act of darkness, of treachery. But also many of loyalty, too. Judge me by the sum of my deeds, not just the one mistake.”

“But, the prophecy is a lie,” Corban said when they quietened. “So what?” a voice shouted—a voice and face that Corban recognized. Javed of the Freedmen. “I for one do not care. I never followed you because of a prophecy. I followed because you saved me, and because my enemies are here, and if I don’t face them, they will kill me, or worse, make me a slave again. I still want to kill them. The prophecy changes nothing.”

You speak of truth and courage. Forgiveness can be the greatest act of courage.”

“Sometimes you have to take a wound to give a wound.”

“I’m scared,” Corban said into the silence. “I’m scared, too,” Gar said. Murmurs of agreement rippled amongst them. “But all feel fear, both the coward and the hero, and all those in between,” Farrell said. “Aye. It’s what we do about it that counts,” Dath muttered.

“This day,” he cried, shouting now, “we will live or die, but whatever the outcome, this will still be the day we avenge ourselves for those we’ve lost, the day we right the wrongs done to us, or die in the trying. It will be a dark day, a bloody day, a proud day, for this is the day of our wrath.”

“Well met, Nathair,” Veradis called out. “My friend,” Nathair said. “Why are you stood against me?” Veradis took a few steps forwards, stopped only a dozen paces from Nathair’s shield wall. “Because you are wrong,” his friend said simply. And in that sentence, just for a moment, Nathair felt all of his arguments, his politics, strategies and oh-so-rational excuses fade away, and he knew Veradis was right. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut tight. How have I ended up in this place. A pawn of Asroth? He already knew the answer. Ambition. Greed. Power. And cowardice. I am a coward. I chose to live and swear an allegiance to my enemy, rather than die with my head held high and my conscience clear.

No. Fear is the enemy. Control it, use it. He thought of Gar on a spring meadow beside the sea, the call of gulls in the background, so long ago, and Gar offering to teach him, to train him, to help him control his fear. And Corban did. Perhaps it was his greatest act of valour this day.

Rafe stood there a moment, staring at Camlin, along the length of his arrow. “Mercy,” Rafe whispered. “Mercy?” Camlin said, pulling a face. “Bollocks to that,” and he released his arrow.

“Veradis, you once said you would leave the politicking to me. You win battles. I win thrones. Some things are hard to understand when you are too close, but afterwards, you would have seen that I was right.” “You killed your father,” Veradis whispered. Nathair stared at him, mouth open, about to say something but the words were gone or frozen in his throat. “Keep your twisted vindications to yourself,” Veradis said. “You killed your father. You opened his throat with your own knife, then stabbed yourself with the same blade to avoid implication. You are not the Bright Star. Maybe you could have been, once, if you’d chosen differently, but from that moment on you were the Black Sun.”

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.

New life, moving on. He felt a twinge of guilt, but moving on did not mean forgetting. Never forgetting.