Malice (61 page)

‘Mandros has fled,’ he gasped as he reached the battlechief. ‘Horses – we must ride if we are to catch him. He cannot reach Dun Bagul.’

Peritus nodded and wiped blood from his eyes, streaming from a shallow gash on his scalp. Within moments he had gathered a handful of mounted warriors and scouts. Veradis and the battlechief climbed into saddles, pounded up the slope of the riverbank and crashed into the battle. Mandros’ rearguard were grim faced and fighting furiously, with the abandon of those who have already embraced their death.

Veradis grunted as he deflected a sword swing, slashed in return, opening a red line down a warrior’s thigh. Peritus’ sword stabbed forwards, under the horseman’s ribs – he swayed, toppled bonelessly from his saddle and disappeared beneath churning hooves.

Digging heels into his horse’s side, Veradis pressed forwards.

Then it was over, Gundul’s sword buried in the chest of the last defender.

Veradis rode to Mandros’ son and sheathed his sword. ‘My thanks,’ he said between deep breaths.

Gundul’s eyes were wide, still caught up in the frenzy of battle. He stared at Veradis, suddenly recognized him and grinned fiercely.

‘Nathair will know of this,’ Veradis said. ‘You have become a friend of Tenebral this day.’

Gundul nodded. ‘My father—’

‘I know, I saw him flee. We must take him before he reaches Dun Bagul, or . . .’

‘He will not reach the fortress. I placed men further along the road on the far side of the wood. But my father is cunning. Now that I am revealed he may head
into
the woods, leave the road.’

‘Come then,’ said Peritus. ‘Let’s be after him. You have men that know the land?’

‘Aye.’

‘Then lead on, with all haste.’

Soon they were galloping along a road dappled with sunlight, trees looming around them until the column stopped for their tracker to examine the ground.

‘Men left the road here – not all of them, maybe a dozen,’ the tracker said, a lean, sharp-featured man. ‘The rest continued on up the road.’

‘We must split also,’ Gundul said.

‘Which way?’ Peritus growled. ‘Which way would Mandros have gone?’

‘I think the woods. He will suspect the road will be blocked.’

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Veradis said between gritted teeth, kicking his horse towards the trees, Gundul following.

The woodland was dense and navigating a horse rapidly turned from difficult to impossible. They dismounted and led their horses. Veradis saw that Rauca had followed him, along with Peritus and a dozen or so others. His simmering rage was fuelled by the slow going, by his fear that Mandros would escape them. He was almost glad when they abandoned their horses, and set off into the woods after Gundul’s tracker.

The man was sure-footed, scanning the ground before him, occasionally touching a broken fern stem, scuffed moss on a boulder or tree trunk. Their group was silent, only the slap of feet on earth, grunting breaths and a growing tension charging them.

Veradis’ thigh burned where he had been cut earlier, but he gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain. Then, as he stepped into a small glade, something crashed into him – the tracker, a spear-point buried in his chest. Veradis ducked and rolled to the side, unslinging his shield as he came to his knees, drawing his longsword as he reached his feet.

There were a handful of men before him, their backs to a great boulder. Mandros was in their centre.

Veradis charged forwards, a cold rage possessing him completely.

He tried to dodge a spear, taking it square on his shield and sweeping it away from him. Swinging his blade, he saw the spearman topple backwards, a red gash across his throat.

His momentum carried him on and he crashed into another man. They tumbled to the ground, Veradis’ sword pinned between them.

Distantly he heard the sound of battle about him, saw booted feet as he rolled, wrestling furiously with his opponent. He butted his head forward, the iron rim of his helmet crunching into a nose. Blood spattered his face, then he was free and scrambling to his feet, reaching for his sword hilt.

His opponent was slower to rise, blood sluicing from his nose. Veradis’ sword punched into the man’s chest before he was upright.

There was combat all about him, the grate of iron on iron, men shouting, grunting and screaming. He glimpsed Rauca trading blows with a bull of a man, saw his friend hack into the big warrior’s knee, then he saw Mandros, slashing at a smaller man – Peritus. The battlechief was quicker, driving Mandros back with fast sweeps and lunges until the King slammed into the boulder at his back, Peritus’ sword sparking as the battlechief chopped forwards. The two stood chest to chest a moment, then Mandros brought his knee up into Peritus’ groin and clubbed him with his sword hilt. Peritus dropped to the ground, Mandros standing above him, sword raised.

Veradis darted forwards, lunged and sank his blade into Mandros’ shoulder. The King cried out and fell back against the boulder, dropping his weapon.

With a jerk, Veradis ripped his sword free and held its blood-covered tip to Mandros’ throat.

As quick as it had begun the battle ended. Only two of Mandros’ honour guard were still standing, but they lowered their weapons upon seeing their King taken.

A hush settled over the small glade as all looked at Veradis, waiting.

He was staring at Mandros, seeing only him, remembering his face as he emerged from Aquilus’ chambers and fled from the tower, remembering Nathair in a pool of blood and Aquilus’ lifeless eyes.

‘
See that justice is done
,’ Nathair had said to him, standing on a windswept quayside before he set sail.

‘Justice?’ Veradis had answered. ‘What exactly would that be?’

‘Peritus will find Mandros, help you beat him. But Peritus is a politicker. He may see
uses
in Mandros, advantages.’

‘What would you have me do?’ Veradis had asked.

‘A life for a life,’ Nathair had said, his voice as cold as the winter sea about them. ‘That is justice. No negotiation, no compromise.’

‘I will see it done,’ Veradis had sworn.

Yet now, with his sword at Mandros’ throat, something held his arm.
Do it
, the voice whispered in his head,
kill him. It is what he deserves. He is a traitor. It is justice
.

Peritus rose slowly, Rauca helping him. ‘Veradis,’ he said. ‘We have him. We have won. Step back, lad. You don’t want kingslaying weighing on your shoulders.’

‘No,’ Gundul exclaimed, taking an involuntary step forward. ‘Kill him. He deserves death.’

The world seemed to freeze, a heartbeat becoming an eternity, then Veradis took a step back and lowered his sword.

‘I will not kill you,’ he said, and saw relief filling Mandros’ eyes. ‘You shall be taken to Jerolin, brought in chains before Nathair. There you shall answer for your crimes.’
No
, hissed the voice in his head.
He is cunning, sly, he will squirm out of his punishment. And all of Carnutan lies between here and Jerolin. He will escape
. His knuckles tightened on his sword hilt, indecision making him twitch.

Mandros was cut, his cloak torn, blood caked on one side of his face, but he still held something of the manner of a king – in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. He snorted. ‘My crimes. I am guilty of nothing except foolishness, trusting where I should have been wary.’

‘Be silent, kingslayer, else I reconsider my decision. Save your lies for Nathair.’

‘He should be tried. Here, now,’ Gundul said, licking his lips. ‘There is too much risk while he lives.’ He looked between Veradis and Peritus, eyes a little wild. ‘Nathair promised me, and I have kept my part, won you your battle. But if he lives, men will rally to him. God’s teeth, we are in the middle of
Carnutan
.’ He looked away. ‘If he is paraded through the realm it will make things difficult. For me. People should think him slain in battle, think me the peacemaker. If he lives I will appear . . .’ He rubbed the heel of his palm into an eye.

‘A traitor?’ Mandros sneered. ‘Cowardly? Weak?’

Gundul lunged forwards and backhanded his father across the jaw. ‘I need listen to your
insults
no longer,’ he screeched.

Peritus caught him by the arm and pulled him away.

Mandros wiped a trickle of blood from his lip, spat on the ground.

‘So, you have made a deal with Aquilus’ whelp, eh? Good, for at least now I know you will not enjoy the fruits you think your betrayal has earned you.’

‘Be silent,’ Veradis muttered through clenched teeth. He would not hear Nathair disrespected.

‘Come, Mandros. It is over,’ Peritus said. ‘You are taken. By Elyon’s grace we have marched into the heart of your realm and
taken
you. And now we shall march you out. You have wronged us, wronged Tenebral, wronged
me
. You shall have your chance to speak in Jerolin. Save your words for my King. He shall judge them, and you.’

‘Your King. You mean the
son
of your King. He will be your ruin, Peritus. He shall be
Tenebral’s
ruin.’ He glanced between Veradis and Peritus. ‘On my oath, I did not kill Aquilus. Nathair did.’

Peritus blinked, just stared at Mandros.

‘I
said
. Be. Silent,’ Veradis growled, feeling the familiar rage churning in his gut again.
His lies will spread poison
, the voice in his head reasoned,
and Nathair does not deserve to be slandered so. He almost died
. Veradis’ knuckles whitened as he gripped his sword hilt.

‘You speak from desperation, Mandros. It dishonours you,’ Peritus said.

‘Do I? You think I would strike down your King? In his own chamber? I am no fool, Peritus – you know that of me, at least. No. When I entered the chamber Aquilus was already slain, though I did not see him at first. Your precious Nathair showed me his father’s corpse, then drew his own knife and stuck himself.’

‘You lie. You
fled
,’ Peritus said, but there was something in his voice now, almost a question.

‘What would you have done?’ Mandros said. ‘Say that Nathair slew his father and stabbed himself, and trust that justice will out? Me, in the heart of your kingdom, a dead king before me and his wounded son accusing me.’

You cannot allow him to spread these lies. He is Asroth’s tool, it is what he does, will continue to do. He must be silenced
.

‘Maybe I was a fool and panicked,’ Mandros spat, ‘but running seemed the best choice.’ He held Peritus’ gaze. ‘Nathair slew your King, not I.’

Kill him
, the voice in his head screamed.

Suddenly Veradis exploded into motion. In a heartbeat he struck, his sword slicing deep into Mandros’ neck. The King wobbled a moment, sank to his knees and fell forwards onto the ground, dark blood pulsing into the grass.

No one had moved, so fast and ferociously had Veradis struck. He stood over the dying King, nostrils flaring. ‘It is over,’ he said, glaring at the small band. Peritus was the only one who withstood his gaze.

‘Bring his head,’ Veradis muttered to Rauca as he strode into the forest, slamming his sword into his scabbard.

Tarba, a squat, brooding fortress of dark stone, stood outlined against the rising sun as Veradis cantered out of thick woodland into a gently rolling plain. Peritus and Gundul rode before him, deep in hushed conversation.

The fortress guarded the mountain passes that led to Tenebral. Veradis studied it carefully. It was well placed, on a low hill overlooking a wide plain before the first slopes of the snow-capped mountains. He breathed in deep – much depended on the events of this morning as war or peace would be the outcome.

Belo, cousin to Mandros, ruled the fortress. He was a shrewd and cautious man, according to Gundul.

It had taken them a ten-night to march from the site of their battle with Mandros and, if Peritus’ plans were timed correctly, a warband from Tenebral should now be sitting in the nearby mountain passes, waiting for their arrival.

Peritus did not want a fight, though. He hoped the fact that Belo would have to face foes from two sides, as well as the presence of Gundul,
and
Mandros’ head on a spear, would convince the Lord of Tarba to lay down his arms.

But as the sun rose higher, they spotted shapes moving on the slopes before the fortress, sunlight glinting on iron. The hillside was covered in a sprawling mass of men: Belo’s warband.

Veradis glanced over his shoulder, at the warriors pouring out of the woodland into the meadow. His own warband had suffered remarkably few casualties from the battle by the river, losing fewer than thirty men. Peritus’ followers had not fared so well – he had lost around five hundred warriors. Mandros’ warband had paid a much higher price, of course: some two thousands of their number littering the riverbank as food for crows.

Gundul’s warband had swelled their ranks, but even so they still could only muster some three and a half thousand swords. There were considerably more than that massed on the slopes before them.

Veradis blew out a long breath, preparing for the fight ahead.
If the day turns sour my shield wall will carve a path to the mountains, or die trying
. He knew even his lethal wall of shields would most likely fall before this many men, though. If the wall were flanked in sufficient numbers it would be picked apart. He shared a grim look with Rauca, who rode beside him, as a small mounted party headed their way.

‘Belo,’ muttered Gundul.

‘Come, then,’ Peritus said, ‘let us see what Elyon holds in store for us. You’d best join us, and bring your trophy,’ he said to Veradis, glancing at Mandros’ head, displayed on Veradis’ spear-point. ‘Belo will wish to know who slew his King.’

‘Is that wise?’ Veradis said.

‘A sight such as that – it will set their will or break it. As to whether it is wise or no, that luxury was taken from us in a forest glade.’ Peritus lingered a moment longer, then cantered after Gundul.

Veradis said nothing, but grimaced. He regretted what he had done, felt moments of intense shame, or at least part of him did. Another part of him gloried in it, knowing that justice had been done, Aquilus avenged, and a powerful servant of Asroth taken out of the coming war.