by Peter Wacht
“You have done well, boy. But your luck is about to run out.”
The man looked familiar to Thomas. How could that be? Thomas had little time to ponder it. The man lunged forward, trying to skewer Thomas with his blade. He easily avoided the thrust, dancing to the side. Thomas glanced behind him and saw that his friend was still surrounded by reivers, who made no move toward him yet. The boy was tiring, that much was obvious. If Thomas wanted to escape he’d have to do it soon, otherwise they’d never have another opportunity. The initial confusion that worked to their advantage in the beginning would not last for much longer. The man lunged forward again with his blade and Thomas stepped out of the way.
This man with the large nose was beginning to irritate him. He lunged again with his sword, aiming for Thomas’ gut. Thomas dodged to the side, but this time returned with a thrust of his own, catching the man by surprise. Off balance, the ratlike man barely avoided the blade. He couldn’t stop his forward motion, though, and fell to the ground heavily for the second time in an hour. He tried to rise but stopped, cold steel pressed against his throat.
Looking up, he saw the boy staring down at him. His eyes were hard, harder than they should be for a boy. A bolt of fear settled in the bottom of Killeran’s stomach. He came to the horrible realization that he had misjudged this boy, thinking that his youth would limit his skill with a blade. The boy’s green eyes flashed in anger and Killeran felt the steel pressed harder against his throat. A warm trickle ran down his neck. Those cold green eyes held no mercy, only death.
“Drop your blade, boy, or your friend dies.”
Thomas looked over his shoulder, his sword pressed tightly against the man’s throat. The Highland boy had put up a good fight, but his exhaustion had done him in. Four reivers lay dead at his feet. But two now held him by the arms, while the third, a grizzled veteran, held a dagger to his throat.
“I said drop the sword, boy.” To exclamate his point Kursool pushed the dagger against the boy’s throat. A few drops of dark red blood welled up and dripped slowly down the boy’s neck, staining his already ragged shirt.
Thomas looked down at his prisoner. The man hadn’t said a word, but his fear was plain. The eyes always told all. They were filled with stark terror, and Thomas noticed that the man’s body was shaking slightly. He knew that killing this man would be a good thing. He was obviously the leader of this band of reivers. His gleaming silver breastplate, now dented in several places, and his once swan white cloak, now muddied and torn, testified to that.
He turned his gaze to the boy, who stood there still as a rock, held by two reivers and the blade against his neck. There was no fear there. Only duty. The boy could have escaped with the others, and in fact should have. But he had stayed behind and tried to help Thomas prevent the reivers from following. Thomas locked eyes with the boy. There was courage there, and loyalty. His eyes said that Thomas was free to kill this man — should kill the man — and the boy wouldn’t blame him for his own death. An almost imperceptible whimper issued from the man beneath his blade. He could not sacrifice a man of courage for a coward.
Thomas removed his blade from the man’s neck and let his sword drop to the ground. The man he had held hostage let out a sigh of relief, then quickly regained his composure. Three reivers rushed forward, knocking Thomas to the ground and holding him there. Thomas didn’t resist. The boy still had a knife pressed against his throat. Thomas hoped his sacrifice was worth it.
“Thank you, Kursool,” said Killeran, as he bent over and reclaimed his sword, slipping it back into his scabbard. He tried to recapture a measure of his dignity, but failed miserably. His body still shook slightly from fear. The man turned toward Thomas. “As I said, boy, your luck has run out.” The man motioned to one of the soldiers holding him down, who then rapped Thomas on the side of the head with the hilt of his dagger. Darkness quickly consumed him.
Killeran examined the now unconscious whelp. “Chain these two and double the guard.”
The sergeant who had recaptured the large boy stepped forward. “Should we pursue the Highlanders, my lord?”
Killeran glared at him. “No, they’re not worth the effort. Besides, if there are more of them out there like this one,” motioning to Thomas’ limp form, “we’d only be asking for more trouble. No, I think it’s time we return to the fort.”
The sergeant nodded, then went off yelling for more chains and shackles.
Killeran felt the need to be behind solid walls, surrounded by his men. Death had brushed just a little too close for his taste this time. He stood there for a moment, watching his men fasten a steel collar around the boy’s throat, then run a length of chain through the ring. At least he’d have some entertainment over the next few days. This boy with the green eyes intrigued him. He’d have to learn more about this one before he killed him.
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