Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

He swung his axe at Simon’s head, and the two-headed weapon clashed from the Baliff’s sword, missing his shoulder by less than an inch. The long knife slipped towards his belly, and he had to reverse his blade’s movement to knock it aside, but as soon as he had recovered, the axe was moving again, first up at his neck, then round in a flashing arc and swooping down towards his knee. He leaped back, feeling foolish after his initial confidence about Jan.

The trouble was, sailors always started fighting when they were drunk: they were worse even than the miners on the moors for grabbing for a knife or dagger. The slightest insult to a man’s wife, sister, mother, ancestry or even his methods of choosing his plots for digging, were all fine incentives for a fellow to reach for the nearest piece of steel and try to spit his opponent, even if the opponent had yesterday been his best friend.

The axe returned with a punch towards his face, and he had to duck. Quickly, he slipped his sword across to his right, opening the man’s breast and slashing at his fist. A finger fell away, and the knife was dropped, and then Simon held his sword’s point at the man’s throat, and hissed, ‘Yield, fool!’

There was a loud clash as the axe fell to the cobbles, and Simon breathed a moment’s sigh of relief before looking about him. Baldwin had three men kneeling on the ground under his sword’s blade while he gazed around with genial interest as though measuring the competition. Beyond him, Simon saw Pierre with one of the sailors, and as he watched, the Frenchman snapped his sword back-handed and stepped away. There was a gout of blood and his opponent fell, his head rolling over the cobbles. Hamund was behind him with a dagger smeared with blood, looking dazed at the sudden eruption of violence, while other members of the posse stood about with their weapons dangling.

Simon heard a cry, and turned in time to see a man with a steel war-hammer in his fist running towards him.

A war-hammer was a fearsome weapon. On one side was the inch-square hammer head, while on the reverse was a vicious spike that projected four inches from the haft. A spear-tip at the top that could stab or slash shone wickedly in the occasional silvery moonbeams, and the whole was set atop a three-feet-long haft of wood strengthened with tangs of steel.

The man held it like a spear and he ran at Simon as if determined to gut him. Simon could only smash at the weapon with his sword and whirl from his path, but the fellow was quick on his feet and immediately tried to club Simon with the butt, which was weighted with a large ball of iron. It found its target, and Simon cried out as his elbow felt as though it was smashed to pieces. His hand was suddenly nerveless, and his sword dropped clattering to the ground.

‘Baldwin!’ he screamed.

Missing finger or no, the axeman was already grinning ferociously, and had gathered up his weapons again. He blocked the path of the others as the man with the hammer prodded it forward at Simon, forcing him away from his companions.

Holding his dead right arm with his left, desperate, Simon could only watch as the spear-tip waved before him, close to his face, at his throat, at his belly or groin. It moved, regular as a pebble on a string, and Simon was utterly engrossed at the sight as he moved back. Then something hit at the back of his knees, and he toppled into a carved moorstone horse-trough. The jarring sensation made him cry out with pain, but before he could attempt to regain his feet, the hammer was at his head, and it caught him a glancing blow over his eye. Simon felt sick with pain, and then he saw the hammer rise again, and begin to fall. He made a quick prayer …

And it stopped. There was a blade beneath it, blocking it — Pierre’s blade — and Simon couldn’t breathe as he watched the duel in fascination. The heavy blade swung around sharply, and the hammer was flicked away, only to stab out at Pierre, nearly nicking his thigh. Pierre leaped back, and the hammer was aimed at Simon again, but then Pierre returned and stopped it with a ringing crash that shook the hammer away, and now the hammer-fighter turned his full attention on to Pierre, leaving Simon to roll out of the trough, carefully protecting his arms as he landed on the ground again. He stayed there on all fours, panting, exhausted, as he watched his saviour.

Pierre handled his blade like a man who had been possessed by a fighting demon. He thrust, parried, blocked a great crashing blow that would have knocked Simon to his knees, and then began to move more swiftly, pressing his enemy with speed and determination, forcing him back farther and farther. The axeman was keeping the others away, but seeing his friend being pushed back, he lost concentration for a moment, and Simon saw Baldwin and Hamund attack together, Baldwin’s sword cleaving through his arm near the shoulder, and while the man screamed in rage and hatred, Hamund’s knife thrust in through his back, the point appearing in his breast. He shook Hamund away, and tried to reach the hilt of the knife with his remaining hand, but panic made him mad even as the blood pumped from his shoulder and he weakened. Soon he fell to his knees, and he flailed at his back ineffectually for a little longer, before keeling over and screaming once as the stump of his arm crashed into the cobbles. Then he was silent at last, and Hamund and Baldwin rushed to Pierre.

The hammer man knew that he was lost, but he wouldn’t give up. He snarled at the men, even as they surrounded him. It was only a matter of time now, and he gazed at them all, eyes running from one to another. Pierre and Baldwin exchanged a look, and both sprang forward at the same moment. The hammer man shifted his weight and flung his point out, trying to spit one of them, but too late. Pierre’s blade slapped into and through his thigh, while Baldwin’s stabbed upwards, piercing his throat and running on until Baldwin’s fist was below his chin, the knight’s other hand gripping the wrist of the hand that held the hammer.

The man went over backwards like a sack of flour, and thrashed desperately as he drowned in his own blood, the fluid jetting from his nostrils and erupting from his mouth. Baldwin withdrew as the man gradually eased, and wiped his blade on his tunic.

‘Simon? Are you all right?’

The expression of concern on his face was the last thing Simon saw as he felt himself sinking into the great emptiness that appeared to open in the street beneath him.

It was broad sunshine the next morning when he woke, and his first thought was to condemn the loudly shouting fool. ‘The great slubberdegullion cretin!’ he said, wondering who it was. Then he remembered the name — Sir Richard de Welles — and with that, the sickness and headache were both fully explained. Simon burped and winced with the taste of acrid gas. At least this time he had made it to his own bed. Sir Richard hadn’t taken it last night.

But then he had a recollection of the flash of a sword, the point of a war-hammer, and his eyes snapped wide as he remembered the desperate fight. It was enough to make him start to roll over to climb up from his bed, but even as he did so, his arm gave a sharp twinge, and he hissed with the pain.

‘It’s not broken,’ Baldwin called quietly.

Simon carefully turned. Behind him, at the wall, Baldwin was standing easily, an anxious smile on his face, while Rob knelt beside him, rinsing a cloth in a bowl of warmed water scented with fresh lavender. ‘I’m relieved to hear it, but it feels as though it may disagree with you.’

‘We had you looked at last night as soon as you collapsed,’ Baldwin explained, walking up and standing beside the bed, gazing down at him sympathetically. ‘I know what it’s like to wake with a head like yours. I would remain there and wait until the sickness passes. It is the best way to recuperate, old friend.’