John Flanagan - The siege of Macindaw

Trobar clutched at the sudden fierce pain, feeling his own hot blood course over his fingers. Only his massive strength kept him standing for a few seconds. He looked, uncomprehendingly, down to his side, where the sword had cut into him. This was how Shadow must have felt, he thought vaguely. He saw that Buttle was about to thrust at him again and, hopelessly, threw up his arm to ward off the sword.

The point of the blade thrust into his massive forearm, sliding through muscle and flesh, jarring off the bone. Trobar whimpered in pain once more as Buttle angrily withdrew the sword. He had aimed for the giant's heart, but Trobar's last-minute reaction had thwarted him.

This time, he thought.

But there was to be no second time. As the blade darted forward again, Horace's sword flicked it to one side. And now John Buttle learned what swordsmanship was really about.

He staggered back desperately under Horace's lightning-fast and constantly varying attack, never knowing where the next strike was going to be aimed, never knowing from which direction it might come. Horace's sword was a glittering wheel of light in the flare of the torches, a nonstop onslaught that left Buttle no time to plan his own counterattack, and barely time to defend himself.

He was holding the sword in both hands now, horrified by the crushing force behind each of Horace's single-handed strokes – seemingly delivered without the slightest effort. Every one jarred his hands, wrists and arms. He knew he could never hope to defeat this man, and so he took the only way he could think of.

He leapt back and dropped his sword, hearing it clatter on the walkway timbers.

Then he dropped to his knees, hands held out wide.

"Mercy!" he shouted hoarsely. "Please! I surrender! Mercy, I beg you!"

Horace's downstroke had already started, and his eyes flinched with the effort of stopping. Buttle saw the stroke begin and cowered, turning his face away from death. Then, as the sudden pain didn't come, he looked up, fearfully, to see Horace standing over him, a disgusted look on his face.

"You really are a gutless piece of scum, aren't you?" Horace said. He looked back to where the huge figure of Trobar had sunk to the planking, blood soaking the walkway around him. Then he looked at Buttle again, remembering all that Gundar and Will had told him. In one smooth movement, he sheathed his sword. He saw a light of hope kindle in the kneeling man's eyes, hope overlaid with a crafty, self-serving expression.

Cowards and bullies, they were all the same, thought Horace. His thoughts went back to the past again, to his confrontation with the three bullies who made his life a living hell in his first year as an apprentice.

In a sudden blind flare of rage, he grabbed Buttle by the front of his shirt and heaved him to his feet. As part of the same movement, Horace hit him with a short, savage right cross, perfectly timed, perfectly weighted, perfectly executed, with no wasted motion.

Buttle screamed as he felt his jaw dislocate. His vision went black, and his knees turned to jelly. Horace let go of his shirt front and allowed the insensible figure to crash to the planks, bouncing off the stone wall as he went. Horace shook his head, then turned and hurried back to Trobar.

The giant was alive, but he had lost a massive amount of blood. Horace rolled him over carefully. Long and bitter experience had taught him to carry a basic first-aid pack whenever he went into battle. It was in a pouch on the back of his belt, and he found a clean bandage there. He held it against the sword wound in Trobar's side, binding it in place with the giant's own belt. The bandage was instantly soaked with blood, but at least it stanched the flow.

Trobar's eyes were open, and he looked at Horace, uncomprehending. Horace forced a smile onto his face.

"You'll be fine," he said. Trobar's lips moved, and Horace shus hed him.

"Don't try to talk. Rest. Malcolm will fix you up," he said. He hoped the doubt that he felt didn't show in his eyes. The wound was a serious one, and even Malcolm's skill would be tested by it.

Trobar tried again. This time, he managed a vague croak. Horace saw the fear in the giant's eyes. And as he saw it, he realized that Trobar wasn't looking at him. He was looking behind him.

He swung around. Buttle, his face swollen and distorted, blood running down from his mouth, stood above him, his sword raised in a double-handed grip high over his head. There was hatred in his eyes. Hatred and triumph. In another second, Horace would be dead.

But there wasn't another second. Gundar Hardstriker's ax came spinning out of the night, rotating end over end with a peculiar haoomp haoomp haoomp sound.

Eight kilograms of solid wood and heavy iron, it struck Buttle in the back. He grunted in pain, his eyes glazed in surprise and shock. The sword fell to the ground behind him as he staggered under the impact. He tried feebly to reach behind him to pluck the massive weapon free, but he lacked the strength and the purpose. He took a pace to the left, lurched, reeled. And fell into the dark courtyard below them with a resounding thud.

Horace came wearily to his feet as Gundar joined them. "Nice throw," he said.

The Skandian nodded."All I could do," he said."I knew I couldn't reach you in time."

He peered anxiously over the edge of the walkway, down at the crumpled figure on the flagstones below. Horace moved beside him and dropped a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry about him. He's finished," he said.

Gundar looked at him dismissively."To hell with him. I hope my ax is all right."

By now, the defenders at either end of the west rampart had retreated into the two corner towers. Horace inspected the solid oak door of the southwest tower and frowned. It would take a small battering ram to break through. And he assumed the northwest tower door would be no easier. Below, he heard shouting voices and the sound of running feet. Peering over the edge of the walkway, he saw members of the garrison streaming out of the towers into the courtyard. They were heading for the main gateway, where the fortified gatehouse would give them shelter from the attackers.

The way down through the two towers was blocked. But Buttle himself had shown them another route to the courtyard. Horace gathered the Skandians around him. Several had been wounded during the fighting, and he left two of them to look after Trobar. The others were still fit for battle. He led them down the narrow steps beneath the trapdoor that Buttle had used. As they reached the courtyard, he knew their tendency would be to stream after the retreating garrison in an undisciplined throng.

He restrained them by sheer force of will until all of them were down the stairs. Then, forming them into an arrowhead formation, with himself at the tip and Gundar and Nils to his left and right, he led them at a steady, disciplined jog toward the fleeing defenders, currently jostling each other to get through the narrow entrance to the gatehouse.

Hearing the battle chant of the Skandians as they approached, those inside the gatehouse slammed the ironbound oak door shut, leaving nearly twenty of their comrades locked out, backs to the wall, facing their attackers. When there was less than ten meters between the two groups, Horace raised his right hand and called the order to halt. He had the natural gift of command, and it never occurred to the Skandians to ignore him.

"Form a line," he told them, and the arrowhead formation spread out into one line, facing the terrified enemy.

"I'll give you one opportunity to surrender," he told the members of the garrison. "That opportunity is now."

Keren's men eyed the Skandians fearfully. In normal circumstances, they would have surrendered readily enough, but this battle was far from normal. They knew these savage sea wolves were in league with supernatural forces. They had all seen the terrifying apparitions that had risen from the mist in the south. If they surrendered, they had no idea what would become of them. Perhaps they would be sacrificed to the huge warrior they had seen, or the red-faced demons who had soared into the night sky. This was more than a normal battle. They were pitted against the forces of the underworld, the black evil of sorcery, and no sane man would willingly surrender himself to such an enemy.