John Flanagan - The Kings of Clonmel

`Can't be done. Against the rules. I have to finish it. Now go away.'

Reluctantly, Halt withdrew, backing away, watching his young friend in an agony of doubt and fear. He reached the single rail fence, ducked under it and took. his seat in the front row.

`Ready, combatants!' Sean called. Neither answered and he took that for a positive reply. He nodded to the trumpeter.

`Sound,' he said quietly. The braying note rang over the field.

Horace didn't wait for the sound to die away. The instant he heard it begin, he lunged forward, his right foot stamping out towards Gerard, the blade of his sword thrusting at the fuzzily seen mass before him.

It might have worked, had he not been slowed down by the effect of the drug. Gerard was expecting his smaller opponent to circle and weave, testing his own defences and speed. He was surprised by the sudden attack. The sword point struck him in the centre of his body but he managed to twist so that his hard leather breast plate deflected it, sending it skating across his ribs.

It hurt him and winded him. And it may well have cracked a rib. But it wasn't the killing stroke Horace needed so desperately. He continued the forward rush, a little more clumsily than his normal sure-footed movement, spinning to his left so that he brought his shield up to ward off the counterstroke he expected from Gerard.

He was just in time; the backhand cut clanged heavily against his shield. It was a solid blow, but nowhere near as bad as the hammering mace strokes he had taken from Killeen.

He shuffled backwards, straining to see. His eyes watered and Gerard was a shapeless mass moving towards him. He saw the vague outline of a sword arm rising and threw up his shield again. Gerard's sword slammed into it again and Horace, acting purely on instinct, cut back at the giant with his own sword.

Gerard was big and strong. But he was no combat master. In addition, knowing that Horace had been drugged, he was expecting no opposition at all and he was overconfident. His shield was poorly positioned and a fraction too low to take Horace's counter. The long blade caught the top of the shield, deflected and clanged solidly off Gerard's helmet, leaving a severe dent on the curved metal.

Horace felt the satisfying shock of solid contact up his right arm. The crowd on the western bleachers roared their approval. He saw the fuzzy lumbering shape that was Gerard move back, becoming more difficult to see as he merged into the background.

Gerard, for his part, shook his head to clear it, and stood like a huge, angry bull, glaring at the young warrior before him. The padded lining to his helmet had absorbed some of the blow he had just taken, but even so it had shaken him. He was furious now. He had been told he would face minimal resistance while he avenged his brother's death. But to his way of thinking, he had only just avoided suffering a similar fate. He roared with fury and charged at Horace.

Horace heard the roar but, virtually blinded as he was, he was slow registering the fact that Gerard was coming at him. Too late, he realised what was happening and tried to retreat. At that moment, Gerard rammed his shield into Horace's, with all the force of his charging body behind it. Horace, already beginning to move backwards, was hurled off his feet, and crashed onto his back on the grass, his sword flying from his hand.

There was a concerted gasp of horror from the western stands, a simultaneous shout of triumph from Tennyson's followers. Horace, winded and almost blind, saw the outof-focus figure towering over him. He sensed rather than saw that Gerard was raising his sword, point down, holding it in both hands to drive it into Horace's body.

So this is how it's going to happen, he thought. He felt a vague sense of disappointment that he had let Halt down. He heard Tennyson's section of the crowd shouting encouragement to Gerard and resolved to keep his eyes open as he died, in spite of the fact that he could see almost nothing of his killer. That was annoying, somehow. He wanted to see.

He wished he wasn't going to die while he was annoyed. It seemed such a petty emotion.

Will heard the first clash of sword on shield as he and the marshal dragged the staggering Genovesan towards the field of combat. Curious spectators separated before the small group. The ice vendor followed behind him, puzzled, but curious to see what was about to unfold.

The crowd roared and he realised the sound was coming from the western stands, where Horace's supporters were seated. For a wild moment his hopes rose that Horace had somehow managed to win. Then he pushed through to the barrier that marked the southern end of the combat area and his heart sank. Both combatants were still standing but he could see Horace was in trouble. His friend's natural grace and speed had deserted him and he stumbled about the field, desperately warding off Gerard's attacks, and striking back with ineffectual counters.

Will saw the one useful blow that Horace struck and for a moment, as Gerard swayed, he thought the huge man might be about to fall. But then he stepped back,recovered and charged into Horace, sending him flying, to crash awkwardly on his back.

The huge sword in Gerard's hand was being held like a dagger as he prepared to drive it down, plunging it into Horace's helpless body. Acting entirely by instinct, Will shrugged his bow off his shoulder and into his left hand. As he raised it, an arrow seemed to nook itself to the string and he drew and fired in a heartbeat.

Gerard's snarl of triumph turned abruptly into a screech of agony as the arrow transfixed the muscle of his upper right arm.

He wheeled away from the prone body before him, the sword falling harmlessly from his nerveless hand, clasping with his left hand at the throbbing pain that had burst out in his arm, sending shooting blasts of agony down to his hand and fingers. The crowd, after an initial gasp of surprise, was shocked to silence.

Tennyson came to his feet, drawing breath to shout for the marshals. But another voice beat him to it. A young voice.

`Treachery!' Will yelled at the top of his lungs. 'Treachery! The Sunrise Warrior has been poisoned by Tennyson! Treachery!'

Tennyson's eyes swung towards the voice. His heart sank as he heard the accusation of poisoning and saw the bound, hobbling figure of the Genovesan. Somehow, his plot had been discovered.

Halt, on his feet now in the crowd, realised the need to maintain the momentum. He began echoing Will's cry.

`Treachery! Treachery!' And, as he had hoped, those around him took it up, not knowing the how or the why of it but caught up in the mass hysteria. The word rang round the arena.

Will, dragging the Genovesan with him, turned to the ice vendor and whispered a quick instruction to him. The man hesitated, a puzzled look on his face. Then as Will urged him, he turned and ran back towards the pavilion.

Will was almost up to the central point of the arena now, where Horace had slowly regained his feet and where Gerard crouched, hunched over and still clasping his wounded arm. He shoved the Genovesan forward, sending him stumbling to his knees.

'I caught this man in the Sunrise Warrior's pavilion, trying to destroy the evidence. Look beside Tennyson and you'll see his cohorts!'

An angry murmur swept through the crowd. Will noted that it wasn't confined to the King's side of the arena. Some of Tennyson's recent 'converts' looked questioningly at the priest, flanked by two of the Genovesans. The foreigners were unpopular. Since joining Tennyson's band, their arrogant manner had done little to endear them to their colleagues.

In the silence now, Will spoke up: 'The Warrior's drinking water was drugged by this man.' He pointed to the Genovesan, who was on the ground before him. 'And he was working for Tennyson! They've betrayed the sacred rules of trial by combat.'