Authors: John Flanagan
Tags: #Action & Adventure, #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic, #General, #Historical, #Military & Wars
MacHaddish's shoulder hit him just below the breastbone and drove the air from his lungs with an explosive
hoof.
Will staggered, felt his legs go from under him and crashed backward into the thick snow. Unsighted for a moment, he rolled desperately to the side, sure that the Scotti would be following up his advantage. Then, as his vision cleared, he saw that the other man was doubled over awkwardly, his right knee raised as he scrabbled at the top of the boot with his left hand.
It was the fact that MacHaddish had to reach across with his left hand to draw the dirk in his right boot that probably saved Will's life. It was a clumsy action, and it gave Will time to regain his feet.
Almost as soon as he did, he had to leap aside to avoid MacHaddish's slashing attack with the dirk. He felt the blade slice easily through his cloak and kicked out flatfooted at the Scotti's left knee. MacHaddish danced sideways to avoid the crippling blow, giving Will the moment he needed to draw his saxe knife.
MacHaddish heard the sinister whisper of steel on leather, and his eyes narrowed as he saw the heavy blade gleaming in the dull light under the trees.
They circled awkwardly. The dirk was almost as long as the saxe, although the blade was narrower. Normally, the two might have closed, grappling with each other, each seizing the other man's knife wrist with his free hand and turning it into a contest of strength. But the fact that MacHaddish was using his left hand against Will's right made this impractical. For either to grab the other's knife wrist would mean turning his unarmed side toward the enemy, exposing it to instant attack.
Instead, they dueled like fencers, alternately darting their blades forward, lunging at each other, clashing blades as one lunged and the other parried. Their feet shuffled in the snow as they made sure they retained their footing, not daring to raise their feet in case they landed on uneven ground. As they circled, the two antagonists' eyes narrowed in concentration. Will had never seen an enemy move as quickly as this Scotti general. For his part, MacHaddish had never before faced an adversary who could match his own lightning speed.
Left hand or not, Will thought, this man is very, very skilled. He knew that if his concentration lapsed for an instant, the Scotti could well be upon him, the dirk sliding through his guard and between his ribs. He could die here tonight, he realized.
He tried to reach for the throwing knife in its concealed scabbard beneath his collar. The movement nearly cost him his life. The cowl of his cloak impeded the movement and as he fumbled, trying to clear it, MacHaddish lunged forward with the dirk.
Desperately, Will skipped backward, feeling the blade slash through his jerkin, a trickle of blood running down his ribs. His mouth had gone dry with fear. He slashed sideways at the Scotti, driving him back in his turn. Then they began circling each other again.
The problem Will faced was that he needed to take MacHaddish alive. Not that killing him would be any easy matter, he reflected grimly. MacHaddish, on the other hand, was under no such restriction. He had one aim only: to kill his opponent as quickly as possible and fade away into the forest before reinforcements arrived.
Where the devil is Horace? Will thought. He realized that the young warrior may well have lost touch with them. He'd given Will the chance he needed to catch up to MacHaddish, by making as much noise as he could and moving off to the west so that
MacHaddish would think he had given them the slip. Now, the chances were that Horace had no idea where he was or what was happening. Will realized that he was going to have to do this alone – and that there was a distinct chance that he would lose this fight, and be left here among these gloomy trees, his lifeblood leaking away into the snow.
If you worry that you'll lose, you pobably will.
Halt's words came back to him now, and he realized with a shock that he was actually preparing to lose. He was letting MacHaddish dictate the fight; all he was doing was reacting to the other man's attacks. It was time to go on the offensive. Time to take a chance.
His opportunity came when MacHaddish stepped onto an icy patch of snow. Their sliding, shuffling feet had churned and compacted the snow in the small clearing and, for a fraction of a second, the Scotti was distracted as his boot slid on the frozen patch that had been exposed.
It was only a small moment, but Will realized it might be the only one he would get. In one fluid movement, he stepped forward and threw the saxe knife underhand at the general.
He had seen the man's speed already and he had no real hope that the throw would penetrate his defense. Quite the opposite in fact, as he still planned to capture the Scotti alive. As the gleaming blade shot toward him, MacHaddish swept the dirk across his body in a desperate parry, blocking the heavy saxe at the last second. But the throw had served its purpose, distracting MacHaddish's attention and deflecting the dirk. The instant the Scotti sent the saxe knife spinning away, Will was upon him, his right hand grabbing the general's left wrist like a vise.
But MacHaddish was fast as a snake. The moment Will gripped him, he twisted and jerked violently away, pulling Will forward and off balance. At the same time, knowing his own right hand was use- less, he jammed his right forearm up under Will's chin, across his throat, choking Will and forcing his head back.
With his right arm extended and his head being forced farther and farther back, Will could feel his grip on the knife hand weakening.
The Scotti's skin was lightly covered in grease – no doubt as protection against the penetrating cold – and this made it even harder to maintain his grip. MacHaddish twisted his left hand back and forth. Will could feel it turning inside his own grip, and he knew it would be only a matter of seconds before he jerked free of Will's hold completely.
Quickly, Will threw two hard, hooking punches into the Scotti's exposed right side, hitting the ribs and feeling one give slightly. MacHaddish grunted in pain, and the pressure of his forearm across Will's throat lessened slightly. It was enough. Will reached up and grabbed MacHaddish's right wrist, dragging the forearm down from under his chin and twisting MacHaddish off balance.
As Will's iron grip fastened onto his injured arm, MacHaddish screamed in agony and doubled over in an instinctive movement to protect himself. The galvanic twisting action caught Will off guard and he lost balance, releasing his grip on MacHaddish's injured wrist, his feet slipping in the compacted snow. They staggered around the clearing, each trying to gain the advantage. MacHaddish's knife hand was still locked in Will's grip, and now the Scotti went on the attack again. He threw his right forearm at Will's face. The young Ranger ducked the blow, then just managed to twist his body to one side in time as MacHaddish's right knee jerked up at him. Now all of Will's focus was directed at maintaining his grip on the hand that held the razor-sharp dirk. He knew if he lost that grip, he would be finished. All thought of taking MacHaddish alive was now gone. Will was thinking only of survival.
He grabbed the long pigtail that hung down the left side of MacHaddish's head and jerked it up and over, dragging the Scotti's head to the right. The general howled in pain and turned his head, teeth snapping, trying to lock onto Will's hand. As he did so, Will swept his left leg across in a scything action that took the general's feet from under him, sending him crashing to the snow, Will on top of him, his weight driving the air from the general's lungs.
Again, he felt MacHaddish twisting and turning the knife hand in his grip, trying to break free. Then the general heaved convulsively and rolled to the right at the same time, reversing their positions so that he was on top, the dirk hand poised above Will's throat, slowly starting to move downward as he put all his weight and strength behind it.
Will gripped the knife hand with both his hands, trying to force the dirk away to the side. But he felt a hollow sense of despair as he realized how much stronger the Scotti was. Fighting on their feet, Will would have had a slight edge in speed and mobility. But here, all the advantages were with the Scotti.
Will heaved and bucked desperately, trying to throw the other man off. But MacHaddish was expecting the movements and countered them easily. Each time, Will gained a little respite as the knife moved away from him. Then, inexorably, MacHaddish's brute strength would bring it back, forcing it down toward Will's throat. And Will was tiring.
The sweat of fear, panic and exertion ran into Will's eyes as he watched the gleaming tip of the dirk inch closer and closer. Behind it, vaguely, he could see MacHaddish's face, his features obscured by the paint. There was a light of triumph in his eyes, and MacHaddish's lips drew back in a fierce smile as he realized that any second now, it would be all over.
And then, sooner than he had expected, it was.
Bang Bang
The heavy brass pommel of Horace's sword slammed into the Scotti's temple twice in rapid succession.
Will felt MacHaddish's strength suddenly fade to nothing, and all that was left was his dead weight bearing down on the knife as his eyes glazed and he slumped unconscious. With one final convulsive heave, Will threw him off to the side and staggered to his feet, reeling a little as he moved away from the inert body in the snow.
Horace stepped toward his friend and put an arm around his shoulders to steady him.
For the past five minutes Horace had been blundering blindly through the trees and bushes, heading in what he hoped was the right direction. Thank god, he thought, he had made it just in time.
He saw, with some concern, that the front of Will's jerkin was covered in blood.
"Are you all right?" he said, taking his arm from Will's shoulders and turning him so he could see more clearly, looking for some sign of a wound.
Will coughed and retched in reaction to his close shave. He knew how near to dying he had been, and his legs were weak from the thought of it.
"Will!" Horace said, concern making his voice harden. "Are you okay?"
The young warrior was frantically running his hands over Will's chest and stomach, trying to see where he might be wounded. There was a lot of blood soaked into his jerkin front, and it had to be coming from somewhere. Still in slight shock, Will reacted angrily to the question.
"Of course I'm not all right, you idiot!" he snapped. "He damn near killed me! Or didn't you notice?"
He tried to slap Horace's searching hands away but didn't succeed.
"Where did he get you?" Horace asked frantically. He knew he had to find the source of that blood and stanch the flow. Wounds to the stomach and torso were all too often fatal, he knew, and he felt panic rising in him as he continued to search.
"Stop pawing at me!" Will shouted angrily, stepping back from him. "It's MacHaddish's blood, not mine!"
Horace looked at him, uncomprehending for a moment. "Not yours?" he said.
"No. Look at his hand where the arrow hit him. He was pouring blood all over me as we fought. I'm fine."
And illogically, right on the heels of a sudden rush of relief, Horace felt his anger welling up.
"His blood? Why didn't you say so? I was frantic here, thinking you were bleeding like a stuck pig!"
"When did you give me a chance?" Will said. "You were all over me, grabbing at me, turning me this way and that!"
The anger, of course, was nothing more than reaction to the shock and fear they had both felt. But it was no less real for all that.
"I'm sorry," Horace snapped back. "Forgive me for being concerned about you. It won't happen again!"
"Well, if you'd got here a little sooner, there wouldn't have been a problem," Will retorted quickly. "Where the blazes were you, anyway?"
"Where was I? I nearly went crazy trying to find you! Is this the thanks I get for saving your life? Because let me tell you, it didn't look as if you were having the best of it with our friend here."
He nudged the unconscious MacHaddish with the toe of his boot. The Scotti general made no sound. But Will had the grace to look suddenly chastened as he realized his friend was right.
"I'm sorry, Horace. You're right. You saved my life, and I'm grateful."
"Well..." Now it was Horace's turn to shuffle his feet uneasily. He knew the reason for Will's apparent anger. He had seen it in many soldiers who had come close to death and he knew Will hadn't meant to be ungracious."That's okay. Think nothing of it." He looked for a way to change the subject and realized the perfect opportunity was lying unconscious in the snow.
"I suppose we'd better get him back to Grimsdell," he said. He stooped and grabbed the Scotti's arms to heave him up and over his shoulder, then realized the man's right arm was still pulsing blood. "Better bind this up or he'll bleed all over me," he said.
Quickly, he cut a strip off the man's tartan and wrapped the injured wrist in it. Then, with Will's help, he managed to get the dead weight of the general over his shoulder. He wrinkled his nose with distaste.