Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen, #4)

by John Gwynne

“And life’s not so simple, is it? One man is not the same as another, and I have come to see that the same is true of you giants. We are all capable of good and evil, kindness and cruelty.”

“We Jotun are not on any side, except our own.” Corban shook his head. “This is the God-War; it does not work like that. All choose a side,” he said. “If you choose not to fight against Asroth, then you have already chosen him. Doing nothing does not absolve you of choice. Doing nothing puts you firmly on Asroth’s side and makes you a coward, as well, for not having the stones to admit it.”

My god

“Ach, little man,” he snarled, “it would be so easy to kill you, just for the joy of it, and any advantage you may bring to me be damned.” “Do it, then,” Corban said, glaring up at Ildaer. Ildaer glowered back, his moustache twitching in anger, then he slung his war-hammer over his shoulder. “Perhaps later,”

This is so good

“Set them free,” Lorcan said to Morcant. “Of course,” the regent of Ardan said. Then he stepped forwards and punched a knife into Lorcan’s throat. Roisin screamed as Lorcan began to crumple. With one last great surge of strength Lorcan heaved his arm upwards, launching the starstone necklace high into the air. Morcant stared at it, reaching out. There was the whisper of wings, a dark shape swooping down to pluck the necklace from the air, just before Morcant’s fist snapped shut, and then Craf was swooping upwards, a shadow in the night.

“Fidele is all that matters. Me being maddened beyond all thought will not help her, so I will control that beast,” he said, his voice as cold as winter rain. “And I swear, by Elyon above and Asroth below, I will find her. And if she is hurt…” He ground his teeth, made a sound in his throat beyond words, fingers closing around a knife hilt, pulling it out and cutting across his palm. He held it out, a white-knuckled fist, blood dripping into the river. “There will be blood.”

“Death to our enemies,” Javed yelled, repeating it. “Death to our enemies,” Wulf joined him. “Death to our enemies,” the cry was taken up by them all, a wave of sound, a recognition of injustices endured, of kin murdered, homes burned, friends and loved ones slain. Corban looked around at them all, more than a thousand men and women raising their voices, and he thought of the long list of crimes committed by his enemy, the deaths of his mam and da, his King, so many throughout Ardan and Domhain, the slaughter at Gramm’s hold. “DEATH TO OUR ENEMIES,” Corban cried out, joining his voice to theirs.

Rafe drew his knife and gathered his legs under him. Then a horn blew out, long and loud. It startled Rafe because it came from almost directly above. He craned his neck, saw a small figure standing on a branch, a horn to its lips. Then something happened in the battle. The warriors at the far end of the giantsway—at least two hundred men, all mounted and clustered by the fallen tree—were tearing off their cloaks of black and gold and charging into their comrades. Men were screaming, horses rearing, hooves lashing, swords rising and falling.

Soo good!! Didn't even see it coming

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.”

Then hands were grabbing his ankle, pulling him back down. He felt a hot line slash across his belly, saw a face grinning viciously at him, knife in hand. It was Javed. “How does it feel to be in the pit with the rest of us?” Javed snarled, stabbing at him.

So fire

Two figures at the rim of the glade. Lykos, holding Fidele by one hand, dangling her over the cliff edge. “Let her go,” Maquin snarled, stalking towards them. “That’s a poor choice of words,” Lykos observed. “Are you sure?” He jerked a wrist, setting Fidele wobbling, only her toes on the cliff edge, back arching over into thin air.

Batman reference lol

When our enemy assaults Nathair and Lothar we shall ride out and attack their rear. We will crush them, Nathair the anvil, and us the hammer.”

Throwback to the first book

“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.

Nathair heard a wolven howl, loud and long, the sound of it echoing through the forest, setting birds to flight. It chilled his blood, a note within it that resonated with spine-tingling malice, and he knew that it was not only he who felt it. All about him his eagle-guard paused, a ripple passing through them. Even his draig sensed it, head cocking to one side, its lumbering gait stuttering for a moment before it carried on.

figure stepped out from the enemy warband, not Krelis, as Nathair was expecting, but someone even more familiar. It was Veradis.

Hell yes

“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. At that moment, pure as white-hot flame, he despised himself.

Veradis saw Balur first, a thick plate of iron strapped across his torso, hammered and shaped to cover the giant from neck to hips, like a leather cuirass; more moulded plates were strapped and buckled about his shoulders and arms, iron bracers wrapping tight about his wrists and forearms, and the same with his legs, iron greaves enfolding ankles and legs. Upon his head he even wore a helmet of iron, a nose-piece and cheekplates making his face a shadowed thing. He looked like a walking forge. In his arms he held a wooden shaft longer than a spear, banded and butted with iron, at its head a single, wicked-looking axe-blade with a long curved point tapering like a beard. Another nine giants emerged from the shadows clad like Balur in plates of iron and gripping the spear-long axes, and then another score clothed in their leather and fur, all wielding their traditional weapons of hammer and double-bladed axe.

“Giants will not save you,” Nathair called from behind the shield wall, “we have faced them before and triumphed.” Not these giants, you haven’t, Veradis thought. “SHIELD-BREAKERS, FORWARDS,”

Then Nathair heard something else, a scuttling sound that grew louder, and as he looked the very forest floor appeared to…move. He peered harder, trying to pierce the gloom of the forest, saw undergrowth swaying, collapsing under the weight of some invisible force, a wave like a great slick of oil spreading over the forest, black and scuttling. Getting closer and closer. Nathair felt a fist of fear clench around his heart. He did not know what it was, but instinctively he knew that it wasn’t anything good. Beneath him his draig rumbled uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. And then the first row of his eagle-guard that edged the western flank just…disappeared.

Holy shit that is so awesome

Conall looked back up at the walls of Drassil. “As if I’m going to be riding my own brother down! She never had the measure of me.” And with that he was ripping his cloak of black and gold from his shoulders, waving it around his head and hurling it aside. All around Rafe men were doing the same. He looked at them aghast, then realized he had better follow suit.

“Just to make sure,” Conall said, and he cupped his hands to his mouth. “Rhin, you’re Queen of Domhain NO MORE,” he cried. “So you can KISS MY ARSE.” He dropped his breeches and bared his backside to Drassil’s wall, waved it around a little, whooping and laughing, more guffaws rippling through both warbands. Even Rafe chuckled. “Do you think she understands now?” Conall asked, still waving his backside in the general direction of Drassil. A high-pitched, rage-filled screech rang out from the walls, drifting across the plain to them. “I suspect she does,” Edana said with a grin.

Something thudded onto the ground beside him. Salach’s head, dark hair matted with blood, one side of its face a bloody pulp. Balur came to stand at Ethlinn’s shoulder. How can it come to this? It cannot be ending like this. I have drunk from the cup. “Mercy,” he cried. Ethlinn’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t deserve it.” Then her spear-blade lunged forwards, and he saw it sink deep, dark heart’s-blood welling. He took a rattling breath that didn’t seem to work, and then the world was growing dim, narrowing to a tunnel of light, Ethlinn’s grim face at the end of it, and he was falling…

Men fell before him, a wedge of men from Ripa gathered behind him. Maquin glanced back once and saw that the Freedmen, Alcyon, Tain and Cota were with him too, striding at his flanks, slaying, blood-drenched and battle-grim. And on he marched, into the storm of iron, killing, searching, the cry of OLD WOLF circling around him like a murder of crows, his banner a battle-cry that spread dread as men heard it. And then Maquin saw him, a few score men between them. A Vin Thalun, a half-crushed buckler upon one arm, short sword bloody and notched, a savage glee upon his ring-bearded face as he hacked a man of Ripa to death. Lykos. Your death is here.

God I love this

“So, you’re the witch that would have ruined my grand designs, foiled the plans and schemes of Asroth that have taken eons to come to fruition.” “Sounds about right,” Brina said, glaring up at Calidus. “Oh, some spirit. Good. It will make your screams all the more beautiful.” “Oh, please, spare me your melodramatic threats,” Brina snorted. “You don’t scare me. You’re nothing but a lot of hatred, hot wind and bitterness tied up in a bag of over-cooked flesh.”

“How pathetic you humans are. So much emotion wrapped up in weakness, leading you to attempt the impossible, lying to yourself, time and time again. Hope, I think you call it. And yet always you fail. Your whole experience has been death and misery, failure and yet more death, and still you refuse to face the truth. A breed with such a talent for blind delusion and denial deserves to be exterminated.”

Then he heard a chant, words drifting on the wind that chilled his blood more than any Otherworld-spawned demon ever had. Old Wolf. Old Wolf.

Lykos breathed out a long sigh of relief. Then a wing twitched, was thrown off, and Maquin rose from the Kadoshim’s ruin, a long cut across his forehead, a limp in his left leg, but other than that he appeared to be infuriatingly healthy. “Elyon above and Asroth below,” Lykos whispered, feeling a cold breath upon his neck. “LYKOS,” he heard Maquin scream. Lykos began to run.

Gave me a good laugh

Haelan ran, Shadow and Pots speeding along beside him, Pots with his tongue hanging out, looking like the happiest dog in the world.

Lol

He took a step onto the bridge, realized he had a sword in his hand and, looking down, he saw countless blades set within the stone, some still keen-edged, others notched and rusted. He walked on, eyes fixed upon the golden mist. At the centre of the bridge a man stood. No, not a man, a Ben-Elim, white-feathered wings spanning the bridge. As Maquin drew nearer the Ben-Elim furled his wings and stepped out of Maquin’s way, giving him a single nod of respect. Maquin walked past him, carried on towards the mist, saw shadows within it, figures. One stepped out: a woman, dark-haired, beautiful. She was smiling at him. He felt his mouth stretch in a smile and with a clatter let his sword drop from his hand. It sank into the bridge, became a part of it. Maquin didn’t notice; he was too busy running.

Veradis caught Nathair’s sword arm by the wrist, a grip of iron holding it above their heads, and he stabbed Nathair, sword-point punching through leather and chainmail beneath, into Nathair’s belly, deeper. Nathair grunted, looked into Veradis’ eyes a long, shocked moment and slowly slumped forwards, his head falling upon Veradis’ shoulder as if in an embrace. Then with a gasp his legs gave way and he was falling, slipping off Veradis’ blade and slumping to the ground. Veradis stood and stared, blood dripping from his sword, vision blurred by his tears.

And then Corban reached out and wrapped his wolven-clawed fist around Calidus’ hand. “Sometimes,” Corban grunted, pulling himself up towards Calidus, along the length of the Kadoshim’s sword, grimacing with both pain and rage, “you have to take a wound to give a wound.” And with all his might, a world of pain exploding in his gut, Corban swung his sword and cut Calidus’ head from his shoulders.

“Ban?” he said, his voice a wet croak. Coralen sat beside him, wiped the blood and grime from his face and lips. She shook her head. Gar groaned, squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking from them. He flopped over, managed to get one elbow under him, attempting to drag himself to Corban. Coralen tried to help him. Farrell came and between them they lifted Gar and carried him to Corban’s side. “Ah, my Ban,” Gar breathed, lying beside Corban, looking at him. He took Corban’s hand, and Coralen put her hand upon both of theirs. She could hardly see them for her tears.

Behind her there was a squawk, a frail flapping. “Help Craf,” the crow cawed. Farrell did, hurrying to find Craf on the stairs. He brought the crow back to them, one of the bird’s wings was hanging at the wrong angle. He broke out into mournful squawking when he saw Corban and Gar, and demanded to be placed upon Corban’s chest, where he immediately lay down and started cawing softly.

Rip my heart out

Then he had a thought. He reached down and grabbed Calidus by a leathery wing and began to drag him across the grass until they reached the lake with the red-leaved tree beside it. “What are we doing here?” Calidus said, a new edge of fear creeping into his voice.

So good

“I saw you,” Gar said quietly, “take a wound, to give one.” His lips moved, and Corban saw he was smiling, no, laughing. A wet cough, and blood sprinkled his lips. “I had a good teacher,” Corban said, smiling too. “Things to say,” Gar whispered, “need to say.” Corban felt a knot of fear and anguish draw tight in his belly. “Say them later, when we’re both…healed,” Corban rasped. Gar just looked at him, into his eyes. “I love you, Ban,” Gar said, the words coming out a wet whisper, but there was strength in his grip as he squeezed Corban’s hand. “You are the son I never had, and no son could have made me prouder.” Tears filled Corban’s eyes. “I love you, Gar, as my da, my brother, my greatest friend,” Corban whispered. Gar’s grip on his hand tightened, then slackened. “Don’t go,” Corban whispered, Gar’s face a blur through his tears. “Please, Gar, don’t go.” But he already had.

I could cry

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.