Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

‘Stay down until I give the order!’ Thomas bellowed. He glanced quickly to each side; his men were watching him anxiously, clutching their arquebuses or pikes as they waited on his command. The clink of loose stones was clearly audible now amid the cheers and incoherent battle cries of the more fanatical of the enemy. Thomas controlled the impulse to rise up and peer over the barricade a moment longer, and then drew a deep breath, snapped the visor of his helmet shut and straightened up. For an instant he saw only the top of the rubble slope, then a pointed helmet and a turban to the side before suddenly a sea of faces as the Turks struggled to the top of the ruined wall, cutting off the line of sight of their snipers.

‘Now!’ Thomas thrust his pike into the air and with a roar his men stood up along the fifty-foot line of the barricade. There was a crash as the first of the arquebuses fired. The range was point blank and the swarm of targets impossible to miss. Thomas saw one figure in white robes and round shield lurch back amid his comrades, his scimitar spiralling backwards and out of sight as he fell. More shots blasted out on each side and several of the Turks fell as they clambered over the difficult ground towards the barricade.

‘Ready incendiaries!’ Thomas shouted and the men assigned to the task lit the fuses. ‘Release!’

With a grunt the men hurled the pots out over the barricade and the fuses flared and trailed a thin line of smoke in the morning air as they arced up over the heads of the nearest of the enemy and disappeared amongst them before shattering on the rubble with a bright flash, engulfing the Turks closest to the impact in flame and smoke. Their loose robes caught fire and the men screamed in terror and then agony as they threw down their weapons and beat at the flames while their comrades leaped aside, fearful of also catching fire. To the right Thomas saw the first of the hoops set alight. The men on either side holding the blazing hoop in iron tongs heaved it up on to the parapet and over the side of the wall. The roar of the flames briefly filled the air before cries of panic rose from the ditch.

Then the first of the enemy incendiaries flew up and over the wall, falling a short distance behind the parapet. There was a loud crash and Thomas turned to see a pool of fire licking up from the stone slabs on the walkway. He thrust his hand out, pointing towards the nearby stock of incendiaries in a wicker basket. ‘Move them! Quickly!’

The closest men were too preoccupied with firing their arquebuses to heed the warning. Seeing the danger, Richard dropped his pike and sprinted towards the basket, leaping over the flames. He grasped the handle just as some of the burning liquid reached it and small flames licked at the side. Thomas took a half step away from the barricade as his chest seized with fear. Richard gritted his teeth as he pulled the basket a safe distance away from the fire before stopping to beat out the flames on the wicker side. Thomas breathed out in relief and turned back to face the enemy.

The Turks, knowing that the only way to escape the fire and bullets of the defenders was to close on them as swiftly as possible, charged towards the barricade. But there was one final weapon standing between them and the Christians. Thomas waved the man with the naphtha bellows forward. He nodded and raised the long iron nozzle towards the enemy and pumped the bellows. A jet of naphtha liquid spurted out, and was instantly lit by the taper burning a short distance in front of the nozzle. A thin tongue of brilliant flame arced out across the attackers and rained down on them, searing heads, bodies and limbs. The defenders let out savage shouts of glee and triumph as their enemies roasted before their eyes. And still the Turks surged forward over the rubble, over their stricken comrades, and on towards the barricade.

Thomas held his pike ready. Richard hurried to his side, his weapon in an overhead grip. Then the Turks were all along the barricade, either side of the fiery avenue caused by the jets of the naphtha bellows. Through his visor Thomas concentrated his attention on an officer in brilliant scale armour shouting encouragement to his spearmen as they charged forward. Raising his pike, Thomas aimed at the man’s chest and thrust hard. The point slammed home but the armour was well-made and the blow did not puncture the armour. Even so, the impact drove the breath from the officer’s lungs and he staggered back, gasping. His men swept past and steel clattered and scraped on steel either side of Thomas as the two sides met.

Despite the overwhelming number of enemy the defenders had better armour and enjoyed a slight height advantage from their side of the barricade. Most of the Spaniards were armed with stout pikes which they thrust at the Turks to keep them at bay. Scimitars flashed as the Turks hacked at the shafts of the pikes, and any exposed hands or arms. A man wearing a lion skin over his head and shoulders burst through the crowd in front of Thomas and grasped the end of his pike just below the steel point. Instinctively he tightened his grip and wrenched it back. Another man grabbed the shaft. To his side Thomas saw a Spahi warrior scramble up on to the barricade and raise his blade high, ready to strike at Richard who was battling a white-robed fanatic.

Seeing the danger to his son, Thomas released his hold on the pike and the two men on the other end tumbled back. Thomas snatched up a mace that was leaning against the inside of the barricade and swung it in a short, vicious arc at the shin of the Spahi before he could strike. The iron head smashed through flesh and bone and the man crumpled on to his side. Thomas swung the bloodied weapon again, this time smashing the Turk’s skull open in an explosion of blood, bone and brains. Richard, still heedless of the danger that had threatened him, was thrusting his pike again, forcing his enemy to duck to one side to avoid being hit in the face.

A sharp blow to his left shoulder knocked Thomas round and he slashed out with the club, knocking his attacker’s sword aside. Then, for an instant, there was no enemy within his reach and he glanced quickly to each side to see how the rest of his comrades were faring. Three men were down, sprawled on the flagstones behind the barricade. A man who had lost his hand clasped the bloodied stump to his chest as he staggered towards the top of the staircase. Then his head jerked to one side as a sniper on the ravelin picked him off. He fell headlong, only yards from the shelter of the staircase.

A flicker of motion to the right caught Thomas’s eye and he just had time to step to one side as a curved blade slashed down. With a deafening clatter it deflected off his shoulder guard. He turned quickly and hammered on the blade with the mace, knocking it down on to a rock atop the barricade. The blade shattered and the Turk who had wielded the weapon screamed a curse and threw the guard and handle at Thomas, which struck his breastplate harmlessly. The man’s curse was abruptly cut off as Richard piked him in the side of the chest. With a groan the man pulled himself free and staggered back into the throng of turbans, spiked helmets and robes.

An arrow whirled close by Thomas’s head and he saw that some archers had taken position on the mounds of rubble and were shooting over the heads of their comrades. The defenders were higher up than the Turks and made clear targets.

‘Watch out for the arrows!’ Thomas bellowed the warning above the din of batde. It came too late for the soldier operating the naphtha bellows. An arrow struck him high in the shoulder and his hand spasmed and he released one of the handles on the bellows. The nozzle dropped down. At once the nearest of the Turks let out a savage cheer.

‘Richard!’ Thomas called out. ‘Take the bellows!’