He slashed at the pagan′s face and he fell backward in a spray of blood as the ugly yielding feel of thin bones breaking flowed up wrist and arm. Grown men and boys and elders and even shrieking women were in the crowd facing the corsairs in a heaving, stabbing, shoving mass. Then they turned and pulled back as a shower of black cane arrows came slashing down from the house, driven by powerful whalebone-backed bows.
Abdou braced the point of his scimitar on a broken cart and his weight on the pommel for a moment to sob for breath, waving his free hand to Falilu, who grinned from the second-story window before he loosed another shaft.
Then a choked-off cry of pain drew his notice. Ahmed was crumpled at his feet, trying to get the broken shield off his arm. Abdou helped his son, and though the youngster was silent his teeth brought blood from his own lips.
″Not broken, dislocated,″ the father said. Then, in a sharp bark: ″What′s that?″
The boy′s head jerked aside to see what had brought the cry of alarm. In the same instant his father grabbed the arm, pulled and twisted. The joint went back into its socket with a click audible as much by feel as through the noise of combat. Ahmed made a stifled sound, but the rough treatment was over before he could shift his attention back to it.
″And you saved my life.″ Abdou grinned into the pain-sweating face. After a moment the younger man grinned back. ″Now stay close. That arm will be too sore to hold a shield for days.″
They pushed on over the ruins of the barricade, and the houses drew back on either side. The triangular open space before the silver-worked and gilded doors of the idolater′s temple—even then a brief what a place to sack! went through his mind—was crowded, but the fight was shaking itself out into lines after the chaotic scramble through the streets. His crew linked up with that of the Shark, and Jawara was there, grinning like the predator itself.
″We have them, I think,″ he yelled.
Abdou nodded and let the battle surge past him; his head went back and forth. The pagans were still fighting, but they were outnumbered now . . . and most of the casualties on his side had been the weird allies the Marabout had found, not his own folk. Which was just as he′d planned.
A cry came from behind him; in Wolof, and not just the sort of screaming—usually for their mothers—that men in unendurable pain made. He turned, and his eyes went wide in alarm. It was one of the men held left as a rearguard at the broken wall. Two gray-fletched arrows stood in the back of his steel-strapped cuirass of doubled hippo hide, and his left forearm and hand were a dripping mass of ruin through which bone showed pink-white. His right held the broken stub of a sword.
The man fell forward into Abdou′s arms, and the captain turned and laid him down gently on his side. Blood bubbled out across his broad dark face, and his eyes were blind as they hunted about. It was a younger cousin of his, not much older than Ahmed.
″What is it, Dia?″ he asked.
″Too many,″ the man mumbled. ″Couldn′t stop them. They come. Warn the skipper! Hurts!″
″You have warned me,″ Abdou said.
He spoke loudly, to cut through the haze of agony and fear. The other did hear, and understand for an instant.
″You die with honor. Go with God, ghazi of the Faith. The gates of Paradise open for you.″
The man forced a smile, shuddered, jerked, died. Abdou rose and met Jawara′s eyes.
″We′re fucked,″ the other man said. ″So much for our allies′ sentries who were experienced woodsmen.″
″They met someone more experienced,″ Abdou said. ″We couldn′t divide our forces and we didn′t know the country. Probably some force from inland.″
Which was any corsair′s nightmare on a longshore raid; you had to strike swiftly and then go. He drew a deep breath. A rover captain had to be able to think quickly in an emergency—even a disaster, as this had suddenly become. He went on urgently:
″Your men are closer to that southern gate and it′s probably not held anymore. Chances are any of the pagans there hurried back into the street fighting when we came over the wall. Get going. Cut your way through anything you meet and stop for nothing. It can′t be helped. Inshallah, we can break contact and follow you.″
Jawara started to protest, and Abdou grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him backward hard.
″Go! Now! We′ll hold them as long as we can and then retreat. You can cover us from the water with your ship′s catapults. Go!″
What in Shaitan′s name happened at the wall?
″Volley! Forward six paces. Volley! Forward six paces! Volley! Forward six paces—pick your man. Volley! Volley! Wholly together! Volley! Forward six paces!″
Edain had the bowmen well under control. Two dozen longbows bent and spat at the sparse line of corsairs opposing them in the gap of the shattered wall. A third of them fell, and the rest wavered as the heavy-armed band around Rudi came up behind the thin line of archers. He knocked down his visor with a hard snick-clack!
″Morrigú!″ he shrieked, as the world shrank to a slit. ″Charge!″
They ran forward in a wedge with him at the point; the archers slung their bows, drew blades or axes or mallets, and followed. A curved sword swung at his head as he leapt up the body-littered slope of the broken wall, agile as a great steel-skinned cat, screaming like a panther in battle heat. He ducked beneath the stroke and stabbed up at the man above him. The point of the western longsword went in behind the chin and punched through the thin bone that shielded the brainpan. Rudi wrenched it free; Matti′s shield knocked aside a spearpoint probing for his face, unseen until the last instant. His own shield blocked a slash and he cut the man′s legs out from under him with a chop that severed a thighbone.
Cries rang out, battle slogans where they weren′t just raw shrieks of rage or of pain:
″Morrigú! Morrigú!″
″Allahu Akbar!″
″Jesu-Maria!″
″Haro, Portland! Holy Mary for Portland!″
″Ho La, Odhinn!″
″Face Gervais, face death!″
″Artos and Montival!″
There was a long moment of slipping, scrambling fighting on the uncertain footing of the broken wall. Rudi felt an arrow hammer into his knight-style shield; six inches of it showed through the inner felt lining just beside his forearm until he broke it off with the hilt of his sword. The Moors′ bows hit hard. The man was behind a balk of timber, fumbling another shaft onto the string when Rudi′s lunge punched the point of the longsword into his throat.
It didn′t sink deeply—the lunge had also slammed Rudi′s shield and chest against the pinewood—but it was enough to send him back, both hands scrabbling at the wound. Rudi vaulted over into the place he′d occupied, landing with a grunt under the weight of his armor and dodging a stroke from a curved slashing sword in the same instant. A big Bjorning named Hrolf followed Rudi, roaring, one of their newcomers from Eriksgarth. His blow met and snapped the sword in a shower of sparks, then crushed the Moor′s shield hand right through the thick leather with a swing of the hammer side of his ax.
″Edain. That one!″
Rudi pointed with his sword as the wounded man dodged beneath a return stroke that would have taken his head off, turned and sprinted into the town; you could tell when a man was running to something, as opposed to just away.
The younger clansman sprang up on the balk of timber behind him. The pirate staggered as two shafts thudded into his leather armor, then ran on and vanished behind the corner of a building. His comrades ducked and backed, wavering on the edge of panic as Rudi stood ready with dripping sword and shield up under his visor′s beak. Arrows showered down on them as more and more of the attackers came over the ridge and put their bows to work. Garbh paced the rubble at Edain′s feet and barred blood-dripping red teeth.
″There they go!″ Mathilda said breathlessly, as she scrabbled over to join him.
The last few pirates broke and ran, down into the smoke-fogged streets. Rudi lo
oked over the town, recalled what the descriptions and maps had said, made a quick decision.
We need to put a lid on the kettle, he thought. Otherwise they′ll squeeze out, if they′ve their wits about them. But I wish I had more men to spare.
″Odard!″ he called.
The Portlander noble looked at him, mouth a grim line beneath his visor and sword dripping crimson-dark.
″Take six men and block that road there, the one to the south gate. Hold if anyone comes at you, push on to the square in front of the temple if nobody does.″
″Your Majesty!″
That′s actually starting to sound more natural, and less like a joke, some corner of Rudi′s brain noted.
Odard dashed off. Rudi led the rest down the ruined wall and into the town—there was a clear strip inside the defenses, and then houses.
″Come out!″ he shouted. ″Kalksthorpe folk, come out and fight!″
There were probably a lot of dwellers still inside, waiting to sell their lives hard when their doors were beaten in. He filled his lungs and shouted again, a great bass sound like a trumpet in the fouled street, overriding the sound of boots and the growing clamor of combat.
″Come out and fight!″
The folk of Kalksthorpe came out of their homes to join them as they loped down the street, with sword or ax, spear or smith′s hammer in their hands.
We′re not going to make it to the south gate, Abdou al-Naari knew. Maybe we should have tried for the water and the boats . . . No, it was fated. I shouldn′t have listened to that so-called holy man!
He could have been content with what he′d found in Miami and Balti more and been halfway back to home by now with a good if unspectacular cargo; the knowledge was as bitter on his tongue as the wormwood tea the hakims brewed for fever.
The last knot of his crew formed up around him, their backs to the blank log wall of a warehouse or workshop. The newcomers surrounded them, in wildly mixed gear that didn′t look like Norrheimer equipment at all. The leader of the strangers came at him, leading the rush. He was a tall young man in full armor that showed through the rents in his winter coat; a crescent moon cradled between antlers showed on his shield.
But he moved like moonlight on water under the weight of steel and wood and leather, his long straight sword trailing red drops as he whipped it in an effortless figure eight. A taut grin showed beneath the beaked visor of the odd-looking helmet, with light stubble the color of sunset along the jaw; behind the vision-slit were eyes as blue-green as tropic seas.
This one is trouble, the pirate captain′s experience told him. Then: No. He is the shadow of Azrael′s wings. He is death.
Abdou called on God—or croaked—and cut at the unbeliever′s knee. The kite-shaped shield twitched into the path of the slash and glanced the blow, leaving him off-balance. The corsair twisted desperately and tried to get his own tattered hippo-hide shield up as the return thrust came for his throat, driving like the strike of a cobra, faster than any man had a right to move. He succeeded just enough to keep his windpipe unslit. Instead it plowed into his shoulder like the kick of a horse focused behind a narrow point of steel, breaking the mail links and tough leather, nearly breaking the bone. Agony ran through his body like rays of sunlight.
His sword fell from nerveless fingers, and the captain of the Bou el-Mogdad looked death in the face as the blade rose again. He dropped his own shield and grabbed for his enemy′s, snarling as he tried to wrestle it away while his hand scrabbled for his dagger. The effort sent ice spikes into his wounded shoulder. Another, slighter figure attacked beside him.
″Ahmed, no!″ he cried.
The straight longsword beat the boy′s scimitar out of his hand with a snapping backhand slash and plowed on to cut flesh. In the same instant the green-and-silver shield smashed into Abdou like a collapsing wall in an earthquake, hammering him back against the logs behind him; the impact of his helmeted head on the wood had him seeing flashes of light for a second. There was no more room to retreat and his sword arm hung useless.
″Surrender!″ the man who′d wounded him shouted, his blade poised to pin the rover captain to the logs. ″Surrender, and sure, we′ll spare you all!″
There was a brief pause, as men panted and glared hate at each other from arm′s reach. Ahmed was alive, rolling on the dirty snow and clutching at his twice-hurt arm. His father looked to either side; a dozen men were all that were left on their feet, though more of the fallen might live if they got help soon.
″I surrender,″ he growled thickly in the English tongue, and threw down his dagger and raised his hands. ″We not fight more. No kill.″
Or at least he raised his left, which still worked. The weakness and nausea of blood loss made his vision swim, and his lungs sucked at the cold air. His men did the same, all except one gone battle mad, who charged instead. A spear cut off his war cry, and an ax came down on his neck; Abdou kept his hand up, but for a moment he thought it would do him no good, as the killer′s weapon went up for another smashing strike.
Then the stranger flicked his sword out. Even awaiting death, Abdou blinked at the casual speed and precision of it, faster than a shrike and more delicate than an artisan′s graver tapping patterns into a silver dish. The sharp point rested in the bushy thicket of the ax-man′s brown beard, and the Norrheimer froze motionless, his eyes rolling down to look at the length of blood-running steel. Behind him was a ring of his friends and kin and neighbors, looking on with interest; a Norrheimer even bigger than most barred their way with a gruesome hammer-ax weapon held parallel to the ground, leaving him isolated among the odd-looking company.
He had courage, though. ″Who are you to stop me avenging my folk?″ he asked.
The man with the sword at the ax-man′s throat used his shield to push up his visor. That revealed a face that was beautiful in an alien way, though red and running with sweat. His breath puffed white in the chill air. When he spoke the harsh English language held a lilting music, but the words might have been hammered from iron:
″I′m Rudi Mackenzie of the Clan Mackenzie, and High King of Montival, the which you couldn′t know by looking at me. I′m the man the Gods have chosen to save the world, the creatures—the which you couldn′t know either. But I′m also the man who saved your pisspot town, boyo, the which you should know by the evidence of your own eyes.″
He prodded, very slightly, and the Kalksthorpe man swallowed.
″But be telling me now. Do I look, do I look in the least little bit, like a man who′d let you break his oath for him?″
″No,″ the Kalksthorpe man whispered.
His eyes locked on Rudi′s like those of a rabbit on the very last wolf it ever saw.
″I promised these men quarter if they′d throw down, and throw down they did.″
″Sorry,″ the Norrheimer muttered, as the sword withdrew.
″See to their wounds as you would those of your own folk, and then lock them up. Swear to it!″
″I swear. By Forsetti who hears oaths, and by my own honor in the sight of my kin.″
″Give them food and water too . . .″ He turned to Abdou: ″Wait, pork is geasa for you, am I right?″
Abdou nodded, dazed as the pain started to push through the fading blaze of urgency; he bent to lift his son.
″Haraam, unclean, yes,″ he said.
″Then give them something they can eat.″ To his own followers: ″Move! We have work to do yet!″
″Are you sure they won′t harm those prisoners?″ Father Ignatius said as they trotted southward.
″Reasonably, yes,″ Rudi said grimly. ″And I have a use for them, I think, too.″
Mathilda snorted something that was almost a chuckle. The Kalksthorpe folk were getting themselves organized with surprising speed, tending the hurt and putting out fires and scouring for enemy stragglers. He didn′t think any such left within the walls would survive the next quarter hour however hard they tried to surrender, except the ones he′d give
n quarter.
″You!″ he called.
The man was in late middle age with dark silver-shot hair receding from a high forehead and even darker eyes; he threw another bucketful of water on a smoldering wall and turned.
″Yah?″ he said, nodding in friendly wise.
″Is anyone down by your boats? If you can get men out, they might be able to seize those enemy ships, or at least one of them, before they′re crewed and away.″
″I′m Thorleif Heidhveigsson,″ the man said, picking up a spear. ″I′ll see to it. Odinleif! Thorvin! Freyjadis! With me!″
Bodies lay thicker as they approached the gate. Thick enough to be worrisome; he′d sent Odard to do some flanking, not fight a major battle. Rudi hissed softly as he saw two of the Southsiders he′d sent with the young baron. They were the only ones still on their feet, and they were both badly wounded.
The hiss turned into a curse as he saw what they stood about. The most senior of them looked up, and went almost limp with relief.
″Rudi-man! Chief! They hits us hard. Too many!″
Mathilda gave a little sound, like a cat′s, then clamped her lips shut. She didn′t dash forward, but they all stopped around the figures on the ground, scattered where they′d fallen in the melee. Two near the end were in the armor of the Sword of the Prophet; another pair were the dark-faced corsairs. One of those was a near-giant, with his wiry black hair in long knotted locks and a great brass-bound club lying by his hand. His dark eyes were still open in a stare of astonishment, and one leg was slashed to the bone just below the hip with all his life′s blood spilled from the huge wound.
The fifth was Baron Odard Liu de Gervais. He lay limp, his head propped up against a sack of something someone had dropped, with two trails of blood leaking out of the corners of his mouth. Battered shield and broken sword were near his limp hands. He opened his slanted blue eyes as they approached and smiled slightly.
The Sword of the Lady Page 53
