David Blixt - The Master of Verona

Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio felt the Pup's damned smile settle on him. The bastard's baiting me! The fool! Doesn't he realize how badly he's outnumbered?

As if in answer, Cangrande gestured upward with his mace. In response, there came a massive cheer from a thousand throats, more voices by far than just the riders with the Pup. The sound was deafening even at this distance. But who was cheering?

Around the Count men stepped back and horses shied. Beside the Count, Ponzino was aghast. "Dear Christ! Look! Look! Oh, has he no honour?!"

The Count glanced up and swallowed his heart. All along the walls of San Pietro, those same walls he had scaled that morning, hundreds of helmets glinted in the light of the setting sun. Enough of these silhouettes bore outlines of bows to show they were archers.

But they did not hold crossbows. They held bows of yew.

Somehow, beyond all possibility, the Scaliger's army had come. Worse, against dictate of emperors, kings, knights, and church, he had armed his soldiers with longbows. A violation of every code of chivalry, it was political suicide. It was also deadly.

Instead of indugling in outrage, the Count was doing the math. Those weapons could drive an arrow three times the distance of any crossbow. It wasn't an army the Greyhound had brought. It was death, in the form of a hail of arrows.

Below the rows of archers, the Scaliger howled a wordless cry that froze the blood. Ponzino actually shivered at the sound, for a moment believing it was the dog that had made the noise, so feral it was. The Count saw Cangrande throw his helmet aside in a show of contempt. Still standing in the stirrups, he lifted his reins in his left hand and kicked his horse into a gallop, the spiked mace in his right hand poised and ready to crush his enemies. Behind him, against all reason, his followers charged, screaming for blood.

In that moment San Bonifacio understood. It was neither courage nor reason nor a grasp of tactics. Not honour, not chivalry. It was a streak of madness that defied reason, thought, life. It was a kind of immortality, perhaps the only kind a man owns. For this heartbeat of time the Greyhound was more than human. He was Mercury, the messenger of the gods. He was the Angel of Death, descended from the heavens to reap a fearful harvest. He was the Greyhound.

Ponzino was horrified. "They can't possibly…"

Already knowing the worst, the Count snarled. "They already have. Run!"

All around them men in every state of readiness — sober, drunk, valiant, cowardly — fell back before Cangrande's mad charge. They'd witnessed their daring leaders run to them for protection. They'd watched the Flemings, darlings of the fierce Asdente, run as if the devil nipped their heels. They'd seen men armed with bows along the walls. Now this giant, this impossibly fearless, murderous man, rode at them like Mars on the field of war.

The Paduans broke. The massive army disintegrated into clusters of terrified men. In their desperate flight they shed booty, weapons, provisions and armour. Into ditches or into the Bacchiglione it all went as the men scrambled back to preserve their lives.

The Count of San Bonifacio didn't hesitate. Tossing his family armour aside, he turned his horse about, kicking hard. Grabbing the reins of the Podestà 's horse, he dragged the stunned commander with him. Ponzino ripped every seal of office from his body, wanting no sign to mark him as Cangrande's enemy. For the first time that day, the Paduan commander did not think of his honour. He thought only of his life.

The charging gait of the warhorse rocked Pietro violently. He'd never ridden a fully barded animal, and the weight of the horse's armour took some getting used to. The sound of its hooves on the stones was odd. Glancing at the closest destrier he saw sharp nail heads protruding from the horseshoes. Shivering, he made sure he was snug in his saddle.

Pietro had no idea where the archers had come from. He only knew they had saved his life. Cangrande had charged, and for some baffling reason Pietro had followed, riding onto the battlefield towards glory, flanked by friends, glowing with pride, and out of his mind with terror. What in Heaven's name am I doing ?

Cangrande was in the lead, of course. Ahead, some impetuous Paduans, probably hoping to make names for themselves, reversed their course of flight and set themselves to slay the enemy prince.

Seeing five horsemen riding towards him, Cangrande made a whoop of joy and spurred harder.

"Come on! Ride! Ride!" cried Mari. Pietro tried to speed up, but because he lacked spurs his horse failed to respond. Pietro kicked again but the pointed slippers offered no purchase in the stirrups, and the kicking hurt his heels worse than the horse's armour.

The Paduan in the best position rode a few paces behind the leader. Cangrande would probably survive the first blow only to be spitted on the sharpened point of this one's lance.

The Scaliger edged his horse slightly to his right, bringing him even with the lancer. His helmet gone, his eyes made contact with the grinning face across from him. He smiled back, showing them his perfect teeth. Then he pursed his lips and blew. Seeing this, the Paduans thought their prey was making an obscene face and spurred harder.

Cangrande bent lower, kicking free his stirrup and dropping his right boot to the dirt. Then he hitched that leg up onto the horse's back, knee crooked out and forward, right heel under his own rump. Like a daredevil at a fair , Pietro thought. Or an acrobat .

Cangrande cocked his head as if listening to music. The first sword would be on him in three more strides. Two. One….

Oh my God!

The merlin struck. Called by a whistle from its master, it swooped out of the sky past Cangrande's left shoulder. For a moment the huge golden-headed bird seemed to hang in the air before the startled Paduans. Then it was upon them. The wicked pounces raked the head of the leading horse. The steed was armoured, so the talons did little damage. But the rider forgot his weapon as his arms flew up to protect his face.

As the merlin attacked, Cangrande moved. With a convulsive pull on the bridle he yanked the horse's head back and right. Well trained, it reared. But Cangrande kept pulling, and the combination of his strength and the heavy armour conspired to bring the horse down. With a burst of air expelled and legs flailing the animal fell on its right side — directly in the path of the attacking horses.

It was too late for the Paduans to stop. Through the screams of both men and mounts Pietro heard the snaps as the horses on the left broke their front legs. They pitched forward, throwing their riders headfirst into the ground. Held in the saddle by his stirrups, one rider's neck was broken as his own horse toppled end over end. The other Paduan was thrown clear, landing in an ignominious heap of broken bones.

Had the Scaliger not waited to the very last moment, the two approaching horses would have leapt the living hurdle with ease. As it was, he left it almost too late. Using the hitched leg under him he barely had time to propel him sideways off the falling beast. He rolled shoulder over shoulder clear of the massacre.

The three remaining attackers rode past, hardly understanding what had happened. Before they could come to grips, the defenders were upon them and they were cut to pieces. Pietro stunned one Paduan with the flat of his blade alongside his helmet, setting him up to be killed by Antony.

Cangrande, meantime, was on foot, facing down an oncoming rider. He gripped his mace with one hand on either end and blocked the downward blow. He twisted and jabbed back with the head of the mace in a move Pietro recognized from one of his old fightbooks. It was called the Murder Stroke, and had Cangrande been holding a sword the man would have been sliced open. Instead, the mace pulped his ribs. Cangrande hauled the man's carcass out of the saddle, mounted, and spurred the battle on.