Michael JECKS - The Last Templar

Now the camp was full of struggling men. Simon caught a glimpse of a man from the posse going down, but then he felt the club scrape along his jaw in a fast, glancing blow, and he had to dodge back. Crouching, sword making swift movements from side to side pointing at the man’s belly, he watched his opponent.

The man’s eyes were shifting nervously from Simon’s face to the battle behind him. Blinking quickly, his thin, drawn features seemed to radiate confused tenor as he licked his lips, but then he pounced, the club swinging up from low to reach towards Simon’s face. Moving aside and catching the cudgel on his blade to move it away, the bailiff snarled, “Give up!” as he circled like a wrestler, the heavy sword twitching left to right. “Surrender! You can’t win.”

From the fleeting glimpses he had of the rest of the battle, it was clear that the posse would have no need of the men on the horses. Already only four outlaws were still fighting, and even as he watched another fell with a scream, clutching at his side where a huge gash had opened his body to show the bones of his ribs. Now there were only three, but as he looked, he realised that one of the three was the man they wanted.

He was a great, square bear of a man, a vast, solid mass of bone and muscle, with a shock of dark hair that fell over his little eyes, black with anger, as he whirled and spun, his sword in one hand, a misericord in the other. He had already wounded Fasten, who lay unmoving on the ground beside him. Black and two other men were surrounding him now, darting in to stab and slash, but even as they moved, he appeared to have slipped away, as if he could perfectly anticipate their every movement, as if he was always slightly quicker than they. If it was not so terrible a sight, it would have been almost humorous, the way that this huge man seemed to be able to dance in and among the other three, but then any amusement disappeared as another of his attackers fell, to crouch on hands and knees, coughing, before falling to his side and shuddering, like a rabbit with a broken back, until at last he lay still, with a dark stain spreading over his chest.

The sight made the bailiff pause for a moment too long, and his opponent took the opportunity to lunge forward, swinging the club down from over his head to strike Simon’s skull. Startled, Simon met it on the flat of his blade, but the momentum of the outlaw forced him forwards just as the sword was knocked down by his own blow, and as he rushed on, he fell onto the blade.

He seemed surprised, when he looked down, to see the metal jutting from his chest, and when he glanced up at Simon, his eyes seemed to hold only a complete bewilderment, no fear or anger, just a total incomprehension that this could have happened. But then all expression fled and he fell at the bailiff’s feet.

Simon stood panting for a moment, staring at the body with a sense of irritation. Why hadn’t he surrendered? But even as the thought struck him, he felt the glow of pride at his victory, at winning his first fight to the death. The feeling was soon smothered by noises from behind, and, turning, he saw the knot of men around the big man again. Sword still in his hand, he strode towards the group.

The knight, as Simon assumed he was, was the last to struggle now, and his hoarse voice bellowed his rage at the men who circled him like hounds as he struck and slashed at his assailants, his eyes small black flints of rage as he fought, like the mad eyes of a cornered wild boar.

“Hold! Stop this madness!” Simon shouted as he came close, but, although the man with Black seemed to hesitate, the knight carried on, pushing the hunter and his companion backwards, forcing them to give ground as he screamed his fury and battle lust at them. He moved quickly, like a thunder bolt, seeming to always find a slight point of weakness, pressing his advantage, pushing and pushing until the two against him had to fall back, slashing wildly in their attempt to defend themselves.

But then his luck failed him. He thrust hard, knocking aside Black’s companion’s sword, and stabbed the man deep in his belly, the sword almost disappearing in his body, and as his victim stared uncomprehendingly at the blade in him, Black stepped quickly behind the knight and struck him in the back. Quivering, the knight roared and almost seemed about to spin and strike at Black, but then he tottered and fell to his knees, hands behind him, vainly trying to pull the sword out.

Simon stopped, and as he stared, something caught him at the back of his head and he found himself falling down, not to the ground but into a huge black pit that seemed to open in the grass in front of him, and it was almost with relief that he accepted the cool softness of the darkness as it seemed to sweep up to engulf him.

When he came to again, he found himself lying on his back outside the camp, a rug over him to keep him warm, facing the view to the south. It had become a clear and bright day, with a deep blue sky surrounding the thick, white clouds that meandered slowly across it, and Simon lay and watched them for a while, his mind wandering, losing himself in the pleasure of being alive.

He heard footsteps and turned to see Black and Tanner walking towards him. Trying to sit up to greet them, he found that his muscles seemed to have turned to aspic jelly, and all he could do was slowly topple over. Stunned, he lay there. He heard a laugh, then feet ran to him and gentle hands caught him up and leaned him against the wall of the camp. When he next opened his eyes, he found himself gazing into the faces of a serious Black and a smiling Tanner as they crouched in front of him.

Tanner seemed to be unmarked, but Black had a dirty rag tied over what must have been a long cut in his arm that went all the way from his wrist to his elbow.

“What happened to me? I was going over to see you, Black, when everything went…”

“One of the outlaws hit you with a cudgel and knocked you out. He’d been with the horses, over at the back of the camp, and you were in his way when he tried to make a run for it. Don’t worry, though, we got him!”

“So, how long have I been…?”

“Not long, bailiff, only a half hour or so. Look, the sun’s hardly up yet!” said Tanner, smiling at him.

“Our men, how many are hurt?”

Black answered. “Old Cottey, Fasten, and two others are dead. Three are wounded, but none of them seriously, they only had scratches. I’ve been marked by that giant from Hell, and you’ve got a knock on the head. That’s all of the damage.”

Simon shook his head in sad disbelief. “Four dead? God!”

“Come now, bailiff,” said Tanner gently, “we did well, after all we were against a knight, from the look of him, and we’re mainly untrained as soldiers. We did well to manage so much for so few lost. And don’t forget that the whore’s son himself killed two and wounded another. If it wasn’t for him we’d’ve lost few indeed.”

“Yes, and any battle will have injured men at the end of it,” said Black. “Now, how are you? It only looks like a scrape, but it must have been a hard one to make you fall over like that.”

Simon cautiously felt his skull. There was huge lump where his head had caught the force of the club, with the hair matted and gritty with blood and dirt. “I think I’m alright,” he said uncertainly. “I just have a headache now.”

Tanner peered at the wound and frowned a little. “Yes, it should heal well. It looks clean enough and there’s little damage that a good sleep won’t cure.”

“How many did we catch?” said Simon.

“None got away,” said Black. “There were nine, like I thought. Four will swing for their crimes, the rest, well…”

“I want to see them,” said Simon, struggling to his feet.