Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

by John Gwynne

  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.

  Belo was a tall man, ageing but straight backed and sharp eyed. Half a dozen men rode with him, all sporting black horsehair plumes on their helmets. Belo’s eyes scanned their party as they rode to meet him, hovering on the head atop Veradis’ couched spear.

  ‘It would appear I am somewhat behind the times,’ Belo said, tearing his eyes away from Mandros’ decaying features and nodding at the battlechief. ‘Peritus. I did not expect to meet you under such circumstances. You must know I cannot let you pass, even with the King’s son hostage.’

  ‘I am no hostage,’ Gundul spluttered, nudging his horse forward.

  ‘Then, how do you explain this?’ the Lord of Tarba said, eyes narrowing.

  Gundul drew himself up. ‘As you see –’ his eyes flitted unconsciously up to Mandros’ head – ‘I am no longer just the King’s son. I am King of Carnutan, now, and I have made peace with Tenebral.’

  ‘Peace?’ Belo snarled. ‘Peace with your father’s murderers.’

  Veradis moved forward, ‘Mandros fell in battle,’ he said, ‘
which is more than can be said for our King, murdered in his own chambers without a blade in his hands.’

  Belo turned cold eyes onto Veradis. ‘And who, may I ask, are you?’

  ‘Veradis ben Lamar,’ he said, glowering at the old baron.

  ‘Nathair’s first-sword,’ Peritus added. ‘Come, Belo, I have heard you are wise. Your King is dead, has paid the just price for his iniquity. Gundul has chosen wisdom, making peace with us rather than starting a costly war. And now you hold the pass to Tenebral, but you have one warband before you and one behind you, yes?’

  ‘So it would seem,’ Belo said, still looking at Veradis.

  There is a warband of Tenebral in the mountains, then, just as Peritus planned, Veradis thought.

  ‘But more than that,’ continued Peritus. ‘Your King orders you to stand down. Would your first act under your new king be one of betrayal?’

  Belo sat silent for long moments, weighing Peritus’ words. ‘If Gundul is no hostage, then there would be no harm in his accompanying me to my walls, where we can discuss, in somewhat more detail, the circumstances of this unusual situation.’

  Another silence followed as Gundul glanced at Peritus.

  ‘Of course,’ the battlechief nodded.

  ‘Good. Come, then, my King.’ Belo waved an arm to Gundul.

  Veradis grimaced, suspecting trickery. ‘Do not converse over-long,’ he called out to them as they cantered back up the slope. ‘Our patience is not without end.’

  Peritus frowned at him. ‘You have much to learn,’ he muttered.

  ‘Maybe so. But we are not the wrongdoers here – I will not sit by and wait on Belo’s pleasure.’

  ‘Not the wrongdoers?’ Peritus’ eyes flickered to Mandros’ head. ‘There is more to this than right and wrong, I fear. And I for one would rather be courteous and perhaps live a little longer. Come, we’ll let the sun rise a little higher at least, before we rush to battle.’

  Veradis returned with Peritus, though with an uneasy heart. He did not trust Gundul: the man had betrayed his own father, so there would be no question of loyalty for loyalty’s sake. It just remained to be seen whether Gundul believed it in his favour to remain at peace with Tenebral. That was an uncertain question, now that Veradis had removed Mandros from the board.

  He shrugged to himself; he would almost welcome a battle. Since the death of Mandros he had been surprised to still feel so angry, the sensation lurking somewhere in the back of his mind. He’d thought it would have been quenched, now justice was served, but instead it remained, unfocused, a mist shrouding his thoughts.

  Perhaps it was because of the manner of Mandros’ death, the words he had uttered, trying to blacken Nathair. He had not wanted it to end that way, had not wanted Mandros’ death on his shoulders. But it had been necessary for the greater good. At the memory of Mandros’ lies about Nathair he felt his anger rise again. He ground his teeth, slid from his horse and settled on the ground beside Rauca and Bos.

  Sometime later a small group of riders approached, Gundul on his black charger amongst them.

  ‘Well?’ grunted Veradis, his eyes fixed on Belo.

  The ageing warrior held his gaze a moment, then dipped his head and looked to Gundul.

  ‘Our peace stands,’ Gundul said loudly, standing in his saddle. ‘Be assured, you are both welcome and safe whilst in my lands. Clear passage to the mountains is yours.’

  A cheer rose behind Veradis, although for an instant he felt almost disappointed.

  ‘My thanks,’ Peritus said to Gundul, though his gaze rested on Belo.

  ‘I am but my King’s servant,’ the warrior replied. ‘Come, if you are ready. We shall escort you to our border.’

  Peritus turned to organize the march.

  ‘Veradis,’ Belo called, quietly.

  ‘Aye.’

  Belo leaned low in his saddle, speaking quietly. ‘I would not display your trophy so proudly, if I were you. Gundul is King now, but oaths given to Mandros have stood for more than a score of years. Some may find it hard to put so many years behind them so quickly. They may object to a kingslayer passing through their midst.’

  Belo turned and rode away before Veradis could form an answer.

  It did not take long for Peritus to arrange the movement of their warband and soon they were on their way. Before he left, Gundul promised a new closeness between their realms and thrust a rolled parchment into Peritus’ hand.

  Soon a line of mounted warriors appeared on a ridge above them, all wearing the eagle of Tenebral on their shields. The warband that Peritus had arranged.

  A giant of a man rode down to greet them. It was Krelis.

  ‘Well met, little brother,’ he said as they drew close.

  Veradis could not help but smile, even though at their last meeting they had not parted well. He suddenly realized how much he had missed his brother. Leaning forward, he gripped Krelis’ arm tight.

  ‘Nathair has seen fit to place a few thousand swords behind me. Are they needed?’

  ‘No, they are not,’ Peritus said, grinning at the huge man.

  ‘Still causing trouble wherever you go, eh?’ Krelis said to the battlechief. He slapped Peritus’ back good-naturedly, nearly knocking the man from his saddle.

  ‘Not this time,’ Peritus said. ‘Your brother is the one to watch on that count. He begged to be the first one to walk into an ambush – through a river.’

  ‘He never was the brightest of us,’ said Krelis, grinning again. Veradis felt himself blush, feeling good for the first time since before Aquilus’ death.

  ‘And Mandros,’ Krelis said, looking up at the head on Veradis’ spear. ‘He has answered for his crime, then.’

  ‘Aye,’ Peritus grunted.

  ‘Did he die well?’

  ‘Well enough,’ Peritus muttered. Veradis looked away. ‘Your brother did the deed.’

  ‘Good. That is fitting,’ growled Krelis. ‘Aquilus was a great man. A great king.’ He sighed and wiped a huge hand across his eyes. ‘Well then, that is that. I suppose it is back to Jerolin for us.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Peritus.

  ‘Come, then. I’ve had enough of these mountains,’ Krelis rumbled. Together they began the journey back to Tenebral.

  Veradis rode into the courtyard of Jerolin with Krelis and Peritus, and saw Nathair standing at its far end. Fidele was beside him, with rows of the eagle-guard standing behind in polished leather and iron.

  The three men slipped from their saddles and dropped to one knee before Nathair.

  ‘Rise,’ said the new King of Tenebral.

  Veradis thought him still pale, drawn around the eyes, but much improved from when he had last seen him.

  ‘Welcome home,’ Nathair said, gripping Krelis’ and Peritus’ arms in turn, then embracing Veradis before stepping backwards and regarding them all. ‘Elyon has answered my prayers. My battlechiefs have returned to me, through countless dangers.’

  ‘I only sat on a grassy slope for a ten-night,’ Krelis interjected. ‘It was these that risked life and limb – worst I got was a damp arse.’

  ‘You would have risked all, though, if the need arose,’ said Nathair, smiling. ‘And just your presence played a great part in persuading Belo to grant safe passage, of that I am sure.’ He paused a moment, reached for his mother’s hand and squeezed it tight. ‘And my father is avenged?’

  ‘Aye. He is,’ Peritus said, a tremor shaking his voice.

  ‘Where is Mandros?’ Nathair said. Veradis stepped over to his horse, untied a hemp sack strapped to his saddle and threw it to the ground at Nathair and Fidele’s feet.

  Mandros’ head rolled out, the skin mottled, flesh peeling and hair falling out in clumps, but still recognizable as the King of Carnutan.

  Fidele wrinkled her nose but did not step away.

  Nathair nodded slowly, stared at the severed head, a sense of triumph in his eyes. Eventually he sighed. ‘Come. There must be much you have to tell. To my chamber and some food and wine
.’

  Then a horn blast sounded out from the battlements and they moved to view the gate.

  A huge figure was striding across the meadow beyond the fortress walls, through Peritus’ and Krelis’ combined warbands, warriors parting about him. It was Alcyon.

  ‘A day for welcome arrivals,’ Nathair murmured.

  The giant nodded to Veradis as he drew near, then turned to Nathair. Dropping to one huge knee, he fumbled inside his cloak and drew out an egg, larger than a head. It was coloured in rippling, shimmering shades of blues and greens. The giant held it out in cupped hands to Nathair.

  ‘My lord,’ Alcyon rumbled. ‘I have done as I promised. My gift to you: a draig’s egg.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CORBAN

  The year 1141 of the Age of Exiles, Hound’s Moon

  ‘That’s it!’ Corban yelled. ‘Nicely done, Dath. Now take the fight to her.’

  Corban was standing in his garden with his arms folded across his chest, watching Dath and Cywen hack at one another with wooden sticks. Dath was limping slightly, and had a red mark blooming on one cheek. Cywen was unscathed.

  Dath lunged forwards, swinging his stick a little wildly at Cywen’s ribs. She stepped nimbly backwards, blocked his strike and swept her own weapon whistling down towards Dath’s knee.

  There was a loud crack, then Dath was rolling in the grass and Cywen was holding up what was left of her makeshift weapon.

  Corban stepped in, trying not to smile. Poor Dath. It felt a little strange, teaching his friend and his sister their weapons, but there was something about it that he liked – probably being able to tell Cywen what to do with more effect than usual. And Dath had been desperate.

  A warband had left Dun Carreg a moon ago, led by Pendathran, heading for Badun and then the Darkwood. It was the beginning of Brenin’s move against Braith and the Darkwood brigands. Over two hundred warriors had ridden out with Pendathran, amongst them Halion and Tarben, leaving both Corban and Dath without weapons-masters in the Rowan Field.