Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

I had still moved not so much as a muscle since coming to my senses, and although my first impulse was to leap to my feet, I did not. Through the shock of Rollo's sudden demise came filtering, like the dust motes that drifted above me, the realisation that whoever had shot my companion had not tried to shoot me. Therefore he – or they, for there must be at least two bowmen – supposed me dead. Was there the slightest chance that they might leave me alone, having killed Rollo? My mind was in a mad whirl. They must be robbers, I thought. That being the case, they would now move in to rob the dead bodies. If I moved now, they would shoot me from their hiding place. My only hope was to let them come up to me. I had my knife. If there were two men, and they both came out, I might have a small chance. If there were three or more, I was a dead man. Christ. Where was my horse? Could I draw my knife easily? Ah, holy Mother of God, I still held the boar spear, of course. My right arm was throbbing horribly. I fervently prayed it was not broken.

As these and a legion more thoughts gabbled inside my brainbox like a drunken conclave, I was struggling to keep still. All my reasoning could not blot out the very real chance that the bowmen might decide to put a couple of arrows into me, just to make sure. So I was almost relieved when I heard footsteps padding towards me. But now something was tickling my neck: a fat fly, drinking my fear-laced sweat. I must not twitch. Not now. The footsteps came closer, closer. More than one pair of shoes, I thought. There was whispering, hissed words I could not make out. Shoes were crunching on gravel very close to my head. Through slitted eyes I could see a man to my right, just a dark blur against the sun. He walked up to Rollo and kicked him. Then he bent quickly and slit his throat – or so I guessed, for it is a sound I have never been able to erase from my memory, and I recognised it all too well now. Straight away someone kicked me in turn, a hard blow to my left kidney. Knowing what would be next, I opened my eyes. A man's swarthy face, all hawk's nose and straggling eyebrows and framed with greasy black ringlets, was looking down at me. As he gave a start and began to bend towards me, I sat up, and in the same movement rammed the blunt end of the spear into his throat. It struck his Adam's apple with a jolt: not a terrible blow, but he was so startled that he lost his balance and sat down hard. As I tried to get my legs under me, an arm grabbed me around the neck. At once I threw my weight backwards, dropping the spear, and tried to stand; and if I had been able to feel astonishment at that moment I would have laughed aloud, for the man behind me was standing so firmly that I slid upright against the length of his body. I fumbled for my knife. There was an endless, infernal second during which my fingers felt only cloth, then they touched the cool steel ball of the pommel. Feeling his arm tighten and imagining the knife-hand that I could not see, I stamped down with all my might on the top of his feet and spun as his grip loosened minutely, my flesh cringing in expectation of the thrust of steel. My face came around into the hollow beneath his chin, all beard and garlic-sweat, and I shoved him away with both hands. He stepped back and raised his arm. He held a small sword, not a knife, and that had saved me, for he had not been able to bring the shorter blade to bear at close-quarters. His face was twisted horribly, and dumbly I realised I must have stabbed him as I fended him off. The sword came down and I stepped inside the arc of the blade and punched my blade into his guts again and again, perhaps five times, perhaps many more. He shrieked into my ear and dropped, writhing, to my feet.

I spun round. The other man had stood up, although he was stooped and was looking sour enough to let me know I had hurt him, however slightly. He leered evilly, his knife held straight out, point aimed unwaveringly at my face. I saw that he wore an odd sort of costume, something like a Saracen rag-picker: Moorish trousers, a loose-sleeved shirt and a waistcoat- of filthy, painted leather. The shirt hung open to reveal a great black serpent tattooed on the man’s dark chest. He smiled, revealing black and yellow teeth. Then he glanced to his left and held up his left hand. I had been about to run as fast as my feet could carry me, but now the logic of battle, all the training dinned into me over the past two years aboard the Cormaran, took over. There was another man, probably a bowman. He would not shoot me while I was so near his comrade. Or the snake-man was bluffing, and he had stupidly given me an opening. That was a better thought, and acting upon it I dropped my knife and lunged for the boar spear, which lay in a spreading pool of Rollo's blood. I came up with it as the snake-man turned back to me, and his smile vanished.

If you are extremely good at fighting, or just exceptionally lucky, you will very rarely find yourself with the upper hand and with the clarity of mind to choose your next move. I was no more than adequate in a fight but fickle luck had come over to my side and suddenly I was the master of an unequal struggle. The spear I held was a good six feet long, tipped with a long, razor-edged blade. My enemy held only a long dagger. Keeping my eyes fixed on his face I carefully stepped over Rollo's corpse and circled, forcing him to put himself between the bowman, if he even existed, and myself. I have said my mind was clear, but into that clarity anger now poured like burning tar. This man had meant to slaughter me, and I was suddenly disinclined to forgive him. My natural instinct, perhaps, would have been to let him run for it if he cared to, but I was so overcome with rage that instead of making my own bluff I began to jab at him, edging closer until he was parrying the spearhead with his knife. He did not look scared, however, in fact his smile had spread to reveal more rotten teeth. This merely fuelled my anger, and as rage makes a fair proxy for courage, I ignored what Dimitri my fearsome teacher had told me over and over again – keep your head – and lunged.

The man side-stepped and slashed. His blade slid down the haft of the spear and I parried it away. I lunged again, and again. He was still not afraid, still giving me his foul smile, but I was backing him up, keeping out of his reach but near enough that his friend with the bow – if he was real – would not shoot. I lunged, and he gave ground. Now we were picking our way among the corpses of Rollo's dogs, one of whom still kicked feebly. The man tripped slightly. We both glanced down. It was the spear I had dropped while charging the boar. Desperately I lunged again, but the man dodged, knocked my spear aside and flung his dagger at my face. His aim was perfect but I was too close, and the handle struck me crosswise across the bone of my nose. I heard it snap and felt blood begin to gush instantly. I staggered back, and through hot tears of pain I watched the snake-man snatch up the fallen spear.

You bastard!' I yelled. I was still furious, but now I was frightened too, and barely able to breathe. In this confusion of rage and fear I leaped forward as the man was straightening up, and stuck my spear into his shoulder. It went deep, up to the cross-bar, and I yanked it out and thrust again. This time I missed, for he had lurched sideways. His own spear came up. I charged again: again my spearhead missed and I slammed into him. We stood for a moment, and then, overcome with blind panic I shoved him away and he shuffled backwards, grunting in pain. I pushed again and again, shoving him back. We were like two drunkards fighting in front of some tavern: both clumsy, both exhausted. But I was younger, and he was wounded, and in a turmoil of sweat and gasping breath I drove him across the clearing and into the river. His feet went backwards into the wet mud and his face went slack with horrified understanding as he slipped and fell.