John Flanagan: The Kings of Clonmel

Neither the thrust nor the hand strike were ' telling blows. But they served the purpose he had set. They infuriated the huge man facing him. Killeen stepped forward with a snarl of rage. The mace and chain whirred in giant circles over his head as he gathered momentum for one crushing, final stroke.

Eyes narrowed, Horace watched for him to release his wrist and unleash the blow. He knew he would have to judge timing and distance perfectly if his plan were to succeed.

Here it came!

Judging centimetres with the uncanny natural skill that set him apart from the normal run of warriors, Horace took a half pace forward and brought his shield up to take the blow. He grunted as the mace slammed into the weakened metal and the spiked ball bit deep into the shattered steel and wood. Bit and held.

In that same instant, he released his hold on the handgrip and slipped his arm out of the loosened restraining strap. A fraction of a second later, when Killeen jerked the mace and chain back to free it, the battered, crumpled shield went with it, firmly attached to the end of the chain. It soared high and wide in an arc behind the islander, the unexpected extra weight on the end of his weapon jerking him momentarily off balance.

It was only natural that he would turn his head in surprise to see what had happened, exposing his neck below the full face helmet for just a second or two.

Which was all Horace ever needed. Holding his sword two-handed, he stepped in and swung a lightning side stroke at the exposed two centimetres of neck.

There was a roar of surprise from both sides of the arena as Killeen's helmet went spinning away to land on 'the turf with a dull thud. The roar dropped to silence as the spectators realised that his head had gone with it. Killeen's giant torso slowly buckled at the knees and seemed to fold into itself as it collapsed to the ground.

Then the western stands began to cheer as they realised Horace, who had essayed only one serious attacking stroke in the entire conflict, had won.

Will and Halt were under the railing in a flash. They ran to the centre of the field, where Horace stood, his sword hanging loosely at his side. He looked at them and smiled tiredly.

`I think I'm going to need another shield,' he said.

Halt shook his head at Horace, a delighted grin on his face.

Horace, you continue to amaze me! How did you ever think of that stunt with the shield?'

Horace looked at his two friends. To be truthful, he was a little surprised that he was still here and able to talk to them. There had been an ugly few minutes during the combat when he thought he'd bitten off more than he could chew.

`It seemed like a good idea at the time,' he said mildly. `I just hope Gerard isn't using one of those damned maces. I don't think I could pull it off twice.'

`He's using a sword,' Will said, smiling up at him. He felt a great sense of relief. Like Horace, as he had watched Killeen battering his friend from pillar to post, he had begun to fear that there was no way he could survive, let alone win.

Halt clapped the tall warrior on the shoulder.

`Well done, anyway!' he said heartily. He was fond of Horace, nearly as fond of him as he was of Will. He had decided that, rules of combat notwithstanding, if Killeen had looked like winning, he was going to shoot him down.

Horace winced at the impact.

`Thanks, Halt. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't hit me just there. I'm a little tender. I've just had a giant walloping me with a large iron ball.'

`Sorry,' said Halt, but the grin was still on his face. He glanced now at the eastern stands, to see how Tennyson was reacting to the totally unexpected result. The smile faded as he did so.

The priest looked surprisingly unperturbed by the death of his bodyguard. Or by the implications of the loss. He was talking calmly to one of his white robes, smiling at the man's reply. Yet he must have been surprised by Horace's sudden reversal of fortune. During the fight, Halt had looked across several times and seen Tennyson, flanked by his three Genovesans, leaning forward, shouting encouragement as Killeen had rained blow after blow down on his seemingly helpless opponent.

A small frown creased Halt's forehead. There had been three Genovesans behind Tennyson. Now he could see only two. He turned to Will.

`Get back to the tent quickly and keep an eye on things. We'll be along shortly.'

Will took one look at his teacher's face, saw the sudden concern there and needed no further urging. He ran lightly through the milling crowd of people who had invaded the arena, making his way to the imposing white tent at the northern end of the ground. When he was a few metres short, he stopped. The crowd was thick here as the vendors had recommenced selling their wares and people were queuing for refreshments before the next bout. But, slipping through the mass of jostling people, he thought he had seen of a glimpse of dull purple, heading away from the pavilion. He shoved his way for a few more metres in pursuit and caught one more brief glimpse before the crowd swallowed the figure.

It could have been one of the Genovesans, he thought, and, if so, he had been very close to Horace's pavilion. He was torn by the temptation to follow and catch up with whoever it was. But Halt had told him to keep watch at the tent. Reluctantly, he turned back to the pavilion. As he approached the canvas flap that screened the entrance, he surreptitiously slipped the saxe knife out of its sheath, holding it low, against his leg, so that people wouldn't notice it.

The leather thongs securing the canvas door seemed to be as he'd left them, but he couldn't be sure. Quietly, he untied them and, jerking the screen back, darted quickly inside, the saxe held ready now at waist height.

Nothing.

The tent was empty. Somewhere he could hear a bluebottle fly, trapped inside and buzzing frantically as it butted against the canvas, seeking to escape. He scanned the interior. Table, water jug and two tumblers, still draped with damp muslin. Chair, lounge, arms rack – empty now but with the spare shield standing beside it. Nothing else in sight.

It was hot inside the tent. The sun had been beating down on it and the flap had been closed, trapping thehot, stuffy air inside. He turned, meaning to tie back the canvas door flap and let some fresh air in, when he realised that he hadn't checked the screened-off privy. He crossed the tent now and jerked the screen back, saxe knife ready to lunge.

Empty.

He let out a long pent-up breath and re-sheathed the saxe. Then he busied himself tying back the door flap and opening a ventilation panel at the rear of the tent. A breeze of cooler air swept in and the interior temperature quickly began to fall. The stuffiness was dispelled as well.

Halt and Horace arrived, the former carrying Horace's sword, helmet and the battered, crumpled shield. He tossed it into a corner.

`You won't be needing that again,' he said. He looked a question at Will and the young Ranger shook his head. Nothing suspicious to report. Although Halt's remark about the shield reminded him that he should check the straps and fittings on Horace's reserve shield before the next combat.

Horace sank back on the lounge, sighing as his bruised muscles came in contact with the cushions, and glanced longingly at the jug on the table.

`Pour me a drink, would you, Will?' he said. 'I'm parched.'

His dry mouth and throat were caused by nervous tension and fear as much as exertion, he knew. And Horace wasn't ashamed to admit that he had felt fear while he was fighting Killeen. He leaned back, his eyes closed, and heard the soft tinkle of ice as Will poured.

`That sounds good,' he said. 'Make it a big one.'

He drank the tumbler in one long draught, then nodded as Will offered the jug for a refill. This time, he sipped at the cold water more slowly, enjoying the sensation of the cold liquid sliding down his dry throat. Gradually, he began to relax.