Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗
As the Moor wrenched the shaft back, Thomas thrust his point into the man’s side but the chain links did not give way. The man grunted in pain and turned the bloodied point of his pike towards Thomas’s body. Then, seeing the breastplate, the Moor dropped the point and stabbed at Thomas’s groin. Twenty years before, Thomas would have nimbly dodged the blow but now he had to throw himself to the side against the mortally wounded Spaniard who had dropped his weapons and stood mouth agape as he stared down at the ragged tear in his quilted jacket and greasy grey length of gut that had been tom out as the Moor wrenched the pike free.
Thomas recovered his balance and struck back, cutting towards the side of the Moor’s head. The edge of the blade struck the cheekguard, bending it in half, and the Moor’s jaw shattered under the impact. Blood and teeth spurted from his gaping mouth. For an instant the Moor was dazed and Thomas snatched his blade back and thrust deep into the man’s throat, then ripped the blade free in a rush of bright crimson. Stepping back into a crouch, Thomas held the dripping tip of his blade up and glanced to both sides. The Spaniards were swarming over the bulwark and leaping into the fight. A thud to his left caused Thomas to twist round sharply and he saw Richard, wide-eyed as he held up a hand to ward off the point of Thomas’s sword.
‘Keep close,’ Thomas commanded, then moved cautiously across the deck. A sprawling melee extended on each side as the Spaniards pressed forward, cutting wildly about them as they struggled to create more space for their comrades to follow them. Towards the stem Thomas saw a richly robed man in a braided green jacket leading a party of armoured men down from the aft deck, and realised it must be the enemy commander and his officers. Strike him down and the rest of the crew might surrender, Thomas decided. Without their leader the rest of the corsair ships might also lose heart and break off their attack.
‘This way!’ Thomas gestured towards the man and beckoned to Richard to follow him. They had advanced no more than a few paces before a knot of corsairs blocked their path — five men, unarmoured but equipped with shields and heavy scimitars. They had been hanging back from the fight but now, seeing the two Christians before them, their confidence flowed back and they surged forward with enraged cries. Thomas parried the first blow before a second weapon glanced off the reinforced crest of his helmet. He blinked and struck back, hacking at a shield and driving it down, then grasping the rim and wrenching it away as he punched the guard into the man’s face.
He was dimly aware of a blur of action to his left and he heard Richard hiss a curse, before the savage scrape and clatter of blades that ensued. Then Thomas was dealing with his next foe, an older man, ten years or more older than Thomas himself. He held back as they briefly weighed each other up. Then the corsair feinted, testing Thomas’s reactions. He did not flinch, but stood poised as he stared back. The second attack was followed through and Thomas parried three cuts before he made a riposte that was knocked aside at the last moment by the corsair’s shield. As he drew back his sword and lunged again, aiming for the man’s face this time, Thomas’s boot caught on the limb of a body sprawled on the deck and he pitched forward and fell heavily, at the mercy of the corsair standing over him. He rolled on to his side and raised his left arm to protect his head, willing to risk it in order to save his life. The corsair raised his scimitar and his expression gleamed with bloodthirsty triumph as he swung the fatal blow. Then there was a blur and a sharp metallic ring as another blade blocked the scimitar, a swift arcing movement and then a deep grunt.
For a brief moment all was still and then Thomas felt several warm drops spatter across his face. He blinked them aside as a hand reached under his arm and hauled him up on to his feet. Richard glanced over his body.
‘Are you wounded, sir?’
‘No ... I think not.’ Thomas shook his head, and then saw the two bodies to one side, each mortally wounded by a thrust to the heart. Richard was holding a rapier in one hand. He drew a broad- bladed dagger from its sheath with his other hand. The man Thomas had just been fighting lay on his back, legs working feebly as he clutched his hands to his throat and tried to stem the blood pulsing from a ragged wound beneath his chin. Richard pushed in front of him, leaning slightly forward, his arms held loosely to each side, both weapons poised. A heavily built African with a studded club had stepped forward and with a loud roar he leaped forward and swung the club in a diagonal arc. Thomas watched as his squire ducked nimbly under the attack and then stabbed the dagger into the corsair’s powerful bicep and ripped it free, tearing the muscle apart. The African howled in agony but managed to hold on to his club and aimed a fresh blow at the squire’s head. Once again Richard moved neatly aside and this time swung his sword up and punched the tip under the corsair’s ribcage. The man’s momentum did the rest; the sword blade sliced up into his vital organs and cut through blood vessels. Stepping back, Richard twisted the blade and yanked it free before he resumed his en garde position.
Thomas was breathing heavily and nodded his thanks. ‘I thank you, young Richard,’ he said hoarsely.
‘There will be time later,’ he replied curdy, then stepped forward between two corsairs standing back to back. Both men were despatched with carefully executed blows that they never saw coming, and Richard took another couple of paces before he stopped long enough to allow Thomas to catch up and resume the lead.
‘Now do as I said and stay at my side,’ he said.
‘As you will.’
Around them the fight was clearly going the Spaniards’ way.
The corsairs had already suffered heavy losses from blasts of chain shot that had scourged the deck of the galley, and now they had been pushed back to the bows and stern of their vessel and only a handful of men continued to fight along the deck between the masts. Thomas and Richard were only ten or so paces from where the corsair leader and his officers were fighting the Spaniards pressing around them, anxious for the honour of killing the enemy commander and looting his body. Yet several of their comrades had already fallen under the bejewelled scimitars of the corsairs and as Thomas watched, another was struck down, the blade of the leader cleaving through his collarbone and deep into his chest so that his right shoulder and sword arm slumped to the side as the Spaniard collapsed on to his knees. Thomas was close enough now to see the deep lines on the enemy commander’s face and the scar across his brow and cheek. He had lost one eye. The other glittered, as did his teeth, within the dark weathered skin of his fierce expression.
‘Make way!’ Thomas called out to the Spaniards facing the enemy officers. ‘Move aside there!’
He roughly shoved one of the soldiers from his path and then thrust between two more before he stood a short distance from the enemy commander. Raising his sword, Thomas bellowed, ‘Hold fast! Hold fast!’
The Spaniards looked at him and then as reason mastered their fury they backed off a pace and regarded their opponents warily.
Thomas raised his left hand and thrust his finger at the corsair commander. ‘Surrender your ship.’
The corsair needed no familiarity with English to understand the instruction and his lips twisted into a sneer before he spat on to the deck at Thomas’s feet. Ignoring the insult, Thomas turned his head slightly towards his squire, while keeping his eyes fixed on the corsair.
‘Tell him the fight is over. His ship is ours. If he surrenders now, he and his men will be spared. If not, they will surely die. ’ Thomas lowered his voice. ‘I already have enough blood on my hands and wish no more. Tell him.’
