Malice

CHAPTER FIFTY

VERADIS

Veradis stood on a shingle ridge, arms folded across his leather-bound chest, watching.

Two score ships sat anchored in the bay they had found, crewed by men he would, until recently, have regarded as his enemy. Now they were his allies, speeding him towards his heart’s desire.

Mandros.

Orcus’ call from Aquilus’ study to apprehend the King of Carnutan had come too late. Mandros had fled, not even gathering all of his warriors in his haste to vacate Jerolin. Aquilus’ eagle-guard had followed, but the gap had been too great and Mandros had been reckless in his flight, losing men to the steep slopes and snow-filled trenches of the Agullas, but increasing the distance between himself and those that hunted him. Almost a full moon later those that had set out to bring Mandros back had returned to Jerolin, heads low, empty handed.

Aquilus’ burial had already passed by then, the barons of Tenebral gathered to pay their last respects as a cairn was raised above their dead king, and swear new oaths of fealty to a still weak and pale-faced Nathair. The knife wound had missed all of his vital organs, but the Prince had come close to bleeding to death in Aquilus’ study, waiting for healers to arrive, his grip on Veradis’ hand growing weaker and weaker.

Not for the first time, Veradis felt a flame ignite in his gut. A fierce rage had consumed him those first few days after Midwinter. He had felt such shame, standing idly by in a corridor while his King was murdered and his Prince and friend stabbed, left for dead. Since then all emotion in him had been distilled, transformed into the raw essence of a cold, permanent rage that he had never experienced before.

Mandros would pay.

He had been tempted to leave as soon as those hunting Mandros had returned without their quarry, but Nathair had still been weak and the passes through the Agullas Mountains were closed to more than a handful of men. It would take more than that to root out Mandros. He would be safely back in his kingdom of Carnutan, surrounded by his warbands, who’d be guarding the mountain passes into his realm. Lykos — whom Nathair had summoned soon after the attack — had agreed to ferry a force to the coast of Carnutan, but he had counselled against sailing throughout the Tempest and Snow Moons. So they had waited, planned, organized provisions, spoken of goals and strategy.

Nathair had given Peritus overall command of the campaign, much to Veradis’ surprise.

‘He has weathered many campaigns,’ Nathair had said. ‘No matter my grievances with him, he is good at this, and his anger against Mandros burns as bright as yours. Watch him, learn from him.’

Veradis had grudgingly agreed, and soon recognized the truth in Nathair’s words. Peritus was a keen strategist and a man of immense organizational skills. And so it was that he found himself on a beach on the southern coast of Carnutan, watching hundreds of warriors bearing the eagle of Tenebral disembarking from a fleet of Vin Thalun ships.

They had begun unloading at sunrise, the first of a score of scouts and their horses, quickly fanning out beyond the beach. It was now almost highsun.

As he watched, a dozen men cried out. The wain they were guiding down a wide ramp lurched off its bearings. One wheel teetered in air before toppling into the surf below, scattering its cargo and sending a cloud of spray up about it.

He cursed to himself, calculating the extra time needed to try and recover the wain’s cargo.

‘Patience,’ a voice said beside him. He turned and saw Peritus a few paces away.

Veradis nodded, turned back to watch warriors filing onto the beach. They were forming into two loose clusters. The smaller was his warband: around six hundred men, the survivors of their campaign in Tarbesh — each man carrying a draig’s tooth. When added to Peritus’ larger band the whole force numbered a little under three thousand swords. Not a large force to send into the heart of an enemy realm, but they hoped stealth would be their ally. Mandros would expect them to wait for the spring thaw and cross the Agullas Mountains in large numbers when the passes opened, but that was at least half a moon away still. Their scouts had reported a massing of warriors at Tarba, the fortress guarding the mountain pass into Carnutan itself.

They did have another warband gathering at Jerolin, ready to march through the mountains with the thaw, but hopefully they would have Mandros by then. The task now was to march north to Mandros’ own fortress. Lykos had assured him that Mandros had fled there, gone to ground like a fox fleeing the hounds.

On the beach a man detached himself from Veradis’ gathering warriors and raised an arm to him — Rauca. He strode purposefully up the shingle ridge dotted with thin, straggly clumps of grass, and stood beside Veradis.

‘There’ll be songs about us, one day soon,’ he grinned. ‘Lads will dream of being us, lasses will just dream of us.’

Veradis snorted, Rauca’s grin broadening.

‘Be careful they’re not singing your cairn song,’ Peritus said.

‘No chance of that. I plan on standing right next to Veradis through every moment of combat.’

Veradis shook his head. In silence the three men watched the last warriors empty from the Vin Thalun ships, rolling a score of wains across the beach onto firmer ground.

The fleet of ships began to move, turned and Veradis nodded approvingly as he saw the ships split into two groups, one disappearing east, the other west.

‘Why are they doing that?’ Rauca asked.

‘They are splitting to harry Mandros’ fortresses along the coast,’ Peritus replied. ‘That way, if the fleet has been spotted, it will just be thought that they are corsair raiders.’

The battlechief turned to Veradis. ‘It grates me to be aided by the Vin Thalun, but they have strategic merit, I must confess. Nathair has a keen head on his shoulders.’

‘Aye,’ Veradis assented. He did not want to think about that right now; it was too close to his last memories of Aquilus, railing at Nathair over his association with the Vin Thalun.

Nathair had not spoken of the final words he had shared with his father while they had been alone. He hoped there had been some reconciliation between them before the end. The end. His thoughts turned to Meical and the conversation they had then had outside the King’s rooms. He had resolved to question the counsellor more, but discovered that Meical had left Jerolin soon after word of Aquilus’ death had spread. Valyn told him that Meical had saddled his horse along with the warriors that had set out in chase of Mandros. The stablemaster presumed that he was riding with them, but he had not. That troubled Veradis: where had the counsellor gone? And why had he left so hastily? Nathair needed him.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. ‘Come, then,’ he said. ‘It’s a long walk to Dun Bagul.’

They had chosen against bringing horses — Lykos could only muster two score ships, and horses took up more space than warriors, so they had sacrificed speed on land for stealth. Besides, wains set the pace, and most warriors preferred fighting on foot to a horse’s back, Veradis’ warband more so. He was looking forward to forming a wall of shields against other men instead of draigs and giants.

‘Aye,’ muttered Peritus. ‘To Dun Bagul, and vengeance.’

‘We are discovered,’ Peritus said grimly as Veradis entered the battlechief’s tent, Rauca slipping in before the hide flapped shut and closed out the night.

Peritus stood bent over a table, a parchment spread before him.

‘We have done well to come so far,’ Veradis shrugged. They could not see the old fortress of Dun Bagul yet but it was close now, no more than a day’s march.

‘Aye. But now is the knife-edge. Mandros will have a warband about him, at least equalling our numbers, likely more.’

‘Good. Then he may be tempted to leave his fox hole to fight us.’

‘He will send word for aid.’ Peritus jabbed a finger at the parchment before him. ‘His nearest strongholds are Raen in the east, Iska in the west. We do not have the numbers to stop some of them getting through but if our Vin Thalun allies are right, their garrisons are low, most of their warriors sent east to await our expected passage through the mountains.’ The battlechief stretched wearily. ‘We must prise him from his lair, bring him to battle before aid can reach him.’

‘Aye,’ grunted Veradis. ‘If he does not march out to meet us on the field I will shame him before his men, shout of what he did. .’ he paused a moment, a tremor running through him. Murderer, whispered a voice in his head. ‘I shall challenge him to the Court of Swords — anything to get him out from behind his walls.’

‘We could storm Dun Bagul,’ Peritus said. ‘It is not impregnable, but it would be costly, both in men and in time. Mandros is no fool, and until now has been no craven, either. Our best chance lies here.’ He prodded at the parchment again, Veradis and Rauca coming closer, looking at the map spread on the table. Peritus traced a line across it. ‘This river lies between us and Dun Bagul. There is no bridge, only a ford, unless we would walk half a ten-night out of our way. The ford is bordered by woodland on one side, hills on the other. It is a most excellent site to ambush us. Mandros will know this, and if he considers our numbers at least even, then I think it likely that he will seize his chance.’

Veradis smiled grimly. ‘Let me lead the vanguard across the river.’

Peritus frowned. ‘Even expecting an ambush, prepared for it, that will be a most unhealthy spot to be standing.’

Rauca laughed, a harsh sound that did nothing to break the mood. ‘We are accustomed to unhealthy spots now. At least we won’t have murderous draigs and giants tearing at us.’

‘I don’t know,’ Peritus said. ‘I am not inclined to return to Tenebral without our new King’s first-sword.’

‘You’ve seen our warband train,’ Veradis said hotly. ‘You know we are best suited to this task, to bear the brunt of any ambush, any charge — our wall of shields is made for just such a position.’

‘Maybe so.’ Peritus suddenly grinned. ‘You have something of your brother in you, it would seem.’

Veradis grunted, unsure of what to say. Krelis had become firm friends with Peritus during his time at Jerolin — and he had spoken frequently of Aquilus’ wily battlechief.

‘All right, you cross first, as our vanguard. We shall march at dawn, take our time reaching the river and just hope Mandros acts on the information his scouts bring him this night.’

There was a tapping on the tent hide and a voice called through — Peritus’ guard.

‘Enter.’

Two warriors stepped into the tent, a man between them. He was dressed in worn leather, a dark cloak pulled about him. He pushed back his cowl, revealing a broad, plain face, ruddy cheeks and nervously darting eyes.

Veradis heard Peritus exclaim under his breath. He had seen this man at Aquilus’ council.

It was Gundul, Mandros’ son, staring nervously back at him.

Veradis stepped into the shallow water of the river, ice-cold water swirling about his legs, seeping through his boots and numbing his feet. A loose row of some three score men stretched either side of him. Gravel shifted under his feet and he swayed, feeling the weight of the shield on his back.

Before him, too far away, was the far bank of the river. Then there was a gentle slope leading up into woodland.

He tried not to stare at the trees, to search for the glint of sunlight on iron, and kept his eyes on the water. Risking a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw most of his warband had entered the river, Peritus’ warriors spread in a more disorganized crush behind them.

‘Can’t go back now,’ Rauca muttered beside him. ‘Who’s fool idea was it to march us first across this river, anyway?’

‘Huh,’ grunted Veradis, a grin tugging at his mouth, despite the fluttering weightlessness he felt somewhere deep inside.

His eyes swept forward again, drawn inexorably to the treeline half a hundred paces from the river’s edge. If Mandros was in there, he would wait until the warband was partially out of the river so that they could be charged from both flank and front. A head-on charge would keep them in the river, but a surprise charge to the flank usually wreaked more damage. It could even decide the outcome.

Mandros. The thought of Carnutan’s King banished all doubts. Mandros was clearly a servant of the Black Sun. The traitor had grabbed Nathair’s own dagger, stabbed King Aquilus through the throat, then plunged it into the Prince’s side. He should not have let Mandros into that room. Justice, whispered the voice in his head. Justice would be done this day: dark, merciless, bloody justice.

Over halfway across now, forty paces left till they reached the far bank, thirty, twenty. .

Suddenly a cry erupted from beyond the trees, a keening, deafening war cry. Men swarmed into the daylight, iron flashing as weapons were drawn, feet thundering as they charged down the slope towards Veradis and his men.

Veradis shrugged his shield from his back, yelling, ‘Shield wall!’ He drew his short stabbing sword, hefted his shield and felt it connect with a satisfying thud to Rauca’s on his left and Bos’ on his right. He had just a moment to set his feet on the unstable riverbed and glance over his shield rim at the onrushing tide of men. They looked confused at this tactic. Battle was not fought like this. His warband should have been charging for the riverbank to meet the enemy, the battle quickly fragmenting into a chaotic melee of individual conflicts. If not for the weakness in his knees he would have laughed.

Then the screaming onslaught slammed into the wall. Hundreds of shields crashed into each other, a thunderous cacophony. The wall trembled but held, the mass of charging men pushing their first rows into a compressed, seething mass of limbs.

Veradis bent his knees, shoulder against shield and grunted at the enormous weight of bodies. He stabbed beneath his shield’s edge, time and time again. His blade bit into muscle, sinew, raked bone. Hot blood gushed onto his hand, his arm, and men screamed, bodies held upright before him only by the crush of men behind them. To either side of him his warriors did the same, dealing out death with deadly efficiency.

He shouted a command over his shoulder, heard the warrior behind him pass it on, and in moments there was a horn blast. All in the front line of the shield wall stepped forwards, shoving the press of men before them, then another and another. Sand and shingle underfoot changed to flesh, leather and wood as the dead were trampled. The river ran red about them, piles of bodies marking the tide-line where the wall of shields had held. Slowly, inexorably, Veradis and his warband ground their way forwards. Some in the front ranks fell, stumbling over the dead or dragged from the line by sheer weight of numbers, but the gaps were filled instantly. Then Veradis felt the ground change beneath him, becoming more solid, and the riverbank also turned to red as men fell before the unbreachable wall of wood and iron.

Suddenly the pressure on his shield lessened. He saw the front ranks of his enemy had retreated up the bank: fear now in their eyes. Battles were often won in the battle-fury of the first charge, when the blood was up. This should have been a slaughter, catching an outnumbered foe floundering knee-deep in a swirling river. Instead it was overwhelmingly Mandros’ warriors that had fallen.

Veradis felt new strength fill his limbs and advanced with renewed vigour, his warriors following.

It was easier going now. The ground was more solid underfoot, the warriors before him less wild in their onslaught. More of Mandros’ men swarmed the flanks of his line as Peritus’ men now emerged from the river, returning with relief to their usual combat style.

Heedless, Veradis’ warband ploughed onwards. Then a wild shouting filtered slowly through the clamour of battle. He looked up to see a mounted figure near the treeline and blinked with surprise to see the woodland so close. The figure was Mandros himself, screaming a mixture of fury and panic, eyes wild as he urged his men on. Kill him, the voice growled in his head. A cluster of mounted warriors milled about Mandros, faces grim and focused.

He pressed forwards, stabbing furiously, outpacing his comrades-in-arms. Pain punched his side as a blade thrust behind his guard, but was turned by his shirt of mail. It slid down, bit into his thigh and blood sluiced down his leg. He stumbled, suddenly weak, then arms were grabbing him, lifting and pulling him back. He saw Mandros and swore, spat blood onto the ground at his feet. He was so close.

There was a baying of horns, high and to the right. For a moment the battle seemed to lull, all eyes following the sound.

Lines of warriors were forming on the rim of the hill that edged the battle, most of them on foot, a score or so mounted at their rear. Veradis saw one of them draw a sword and hold it aloft. Gundul, son of Mandros, gave a great war cry and his warriors surged down the hill, screaming as they came.