Reckless (Age of Conquest #5) - Tamara Leigh Page 0,125

silent in anticipation of final blood, Vitalis’s opponent stared into eyes above his own. Then with a crooked smile, he said, “You failed me,” and opened his sword hand. In a public display of surrender, he dropped the weapon.

“Can you do it, Vitalis?” he said with derision, as well as weariness of a volume which the walls made of men might hear but not the spectators above. “Can you eschew vengeance and take the chance I will not myself resume its pursuit if I depart this field alive?” He shook his head. “To ensure your survival, you will slay this unarmed man, and those who wish you to do it will tell of how the mighty Saxon warrior slew a defenseless whelp.” He grinned, causing the healing wound on one side of his face to pucker. “Not the vengeance I wanted, but it will do.”

Vitalis did not know if it was death or grudging mercy the traitor wished, and he thought it possible neither did Daryl know, but he knew what he wanted—to thoroughly avenge Zedekiah and ensure the miscreant never again threatened anyone dear to him.

You will know regret the same as Sigward, his conscience prodded.

“Thinking still?” Daryl drawled.

Vitalis returned him to focus and saw the traitor’s hand thrust up from his side. No blade there, but instinct made Vitalis jump back. Thus, the dirt his opponent must have scraped into his palm the last time he found himself on the ground stung rather than blinded Vitalis’s eyes.

Blood coursing loud between his ears, he lunged, causing Daryl to rear back toward the wall of men. The traitor stumbled and, unable to right himself, landed on his rear and dropped to his back.

When Vitalis jabbed the point of his sword to the base of his neck, there was no pleading for mercy, no reminder the loser was unarmed, no threats of tales to be birthed by Vitalis’s vengeance. Daryl lay there looking a youth taught another painful lesson he must commit to memory to ensure it not be repeated.

The silence grew thicker as the spectators waited to see whether the victor would be satisfied with bringing the unworthy one exceedingly low.

Vitalis knew that the same as he, most of the Normans wanted death to be the end of this, but they did not matter. Tasting draws of breath and beginning to feel the places from which Daryl had taken blood, he looked around and up.

Nicola’s veil fluttered back off her head, causing dark, silvered hair to dance before wide eyes and brush parted lips. His anger toward her gentling further, he acknowledged she would not like the threat of Daryl remaining alive, but neither would she have her husband slay a man who refused to defend himself.

Vitalis returned his gaze to the traitor. “If we are not to be done with this now, then on another day when you are strong and courageous enough to face me with sword in hand.” He inclined his head. “Be assured, I will be ready for you.”

Eyes dark with hatred told all. The evasive Daryl would not risk public dishonor again. He would strike from behind and with as much aid as possible. “Certes, we will meet again, William’s hound.”

The point of Vitalis’s blade drawing a well of blood, he said, “Had you truly desired to be a better man than your sire, so much more I could have taught you. So much that we would not be here, and even were we, you might have prevailed.”

“As told, Vitalis of Wulfen, you failed me.”

“Nay, you have only to stand this side of the blade and see and hear what I have to know you failed yourself more than I could. It was you—no longer a boy—who scorned consequences, you who chose the shadowed, descending path that only appeared easier to traverse than the lit, ascending one. The failure is your doing, son of Aiken.”

Vitalis raised the blade, slid it in the scabbard’s throat, and looked to William whose eyes were partially hooded against the lowering sun. “I am done with him!”

Disappointment sounding all around, Le Bâtard sliced a hand through the air, silencing all and prompting Daryl to gain his feet.

“You are certain it is enough he is brought low, Sir Vitalis?”

“As he renders himself defenseless, it must be. For now.”

William inclined his head. “Then this the end, Daryl.”

Did the traitor note the absence of a title? Did he think it merely oversight?

“The day goes to Sir Vitalis,” Le Bâtard proclaimed, “the vendetta settled.