Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗

Thomas placed his boot on the corsair’s chest and ripped the point of his pike free. He glanced round, ready to strike again. La Valette and a party of men were fighting their way towards the stern where the corsair captain and his officers stood, determined to defend their station. In the other direction Stokely and some men had gained the foredeck and were cutting down the gun crews. Elsewhere the deck was a chaotic battlefield. The superior armour of the knights and the mercenaries they led gave them the advantage. The enemy’s fanatical faith in their prophet’s teachings gave them fierce courage but it was of little avail. Their scimitars glanced off the plate armour and only a fortunate blow at the joints or a thrust towards the face caused injury to the Christians. A handful of

Thomas’s comrades had fallen but the rest were steadily cutting their way through the corsairs.

Some of the enemy still presented a formidable challenge. Thomas picked out a tall, thin, well-armoured fighter with a large shield and a finely decorated scimitar who appeared to be standing guard over a hatch leading down into the galley’s hold. A body lay sprawled at his feet, the white cross on a red surcoat revealing that it was one of the knights. The corsair grinned and held up his sword so that Thomas might see the bloodied edge. He ignored the taunt. The corsair was light-skinned, perhaps one of those taken as a child from the Balkans and raised as a Muslim, like the infamous Janissaries who formed the elite corps of the Sultan’s army. A plume of black horsehair shimmered from the point of his helmet, which was covered in a gleaming black lacquer, as were the small plates of armour that had been stitched on to his quilted jacket. A livid scar on his cheek told of his experience, and also that once a foe had got the better of him, Thomas realised.

He presented the point of his pike as he approached the man and feinted towards the corsair’s face. His opponent did not even blink, just shook his head mockingly.

‘Very well,’ Thomas growled through clenched teeth. ‘Then try this!’

He threw his weight behind his pike and leaped forward. The corsair nimbly stepped aside and then slashed his fine blade towards the side of Thomas’s head. Thomas ducked and the honed edge glanced off the curved steel of his helmet with a sharp ringing impact that stunned him for an instant. He stepped back and shook his head, weaving his pike from side to side to keep the corsair back. The other man grinned briefly, then the lips closed into a tight grimace and he stepped forward, the blade whirling, almost too fast for human eyes to follow. Thomas ignored the scimitar and abruptly changed his grip to hold the pike out like the cross staff he had used as a boy back in England. He was strong and well-built as all men who had been raised to become knights must be and now he charged forward.

The bold, and crude, tactic caught the corsair by surprise and he could not move fast enough to get out of the way of the length of the pike. Thomas crashed into him, driving the corsair back and causing him to stumble as he struggled to remain on his feet. Then he slammed against the bulwark, the impact driving the breath from his lungs so forcefully that Thomas blinked as the odour of the man’s morning meal washed over his face. The corsair released his grip on his sword and shield and let them slip to each side as he grasped the shaft of the pike and pushed back. Thomas met his thrust and with every muscle and sinew in his arms he pressed down on him, steadily forcing the corsair on to the deck. The shaft touched the top of the man’s chest and then Thomas pushed it up, under his chin and against his throat. The corsair’s jaw opened and he squirmed as he desperately tried to stop his opponent choking him.

‘Curse . . . you . . . Christian,’ he uttered in accented French. ‘Damn you ... to hell!’

Thomas’s face was now scant inches from that of the corsair and he could see every detail of the man’s features and the sweat pricking out from his brow as he fought for his life. His breaths were now laboured and harsh and his eyes rolled up and then something gave in his throat with a soft crunch. The corsair spasmed, his eyes snapped open, wide and fierce, as his mouth worked in a series of dry clicks and gasps. Thomas felt the other man’s strength fading but he kept pressing down on the pike, until at length the corsair’s head slumped back on to the deck, his hands slid from the shaft and he stared blankly at the pink sky, the tip of his tongue protruding from between his teeth.

Thomas rolled to one side, his pike held ready in case there was another enemy about to attack him, but he had only the dead and wounded for immediate company. The fight for the ship was almost over. Stokely and the men with him had cleared the foredeck, while La Valette and the other soldiers were pressing across the stern of the galley. The corsair captain and a handful of his men were up against the stern, savagely hacking at the armoured men in front of them. As Thomas watched, La Valette raised his sword above his head and slashed it violently down at an angle. The veteran knight was a powerfully built man and the enemy captain’s attempt to parry the blow did nothing to alter the course of the sword. An instant later the sharp steel cut through his turban and deep into his skull, right down to the jaw.

When the corsairs on the stern saw that their captain was mortally wounded they threw down their weapons and fell on their knees to beg for mercy. Swords and pikes hacked and stabbed at the men on the deck for a few more moments and then the fight was over. La Valette wrenched his blade free, wiped it on the robe of the corsair and sheathed the weapon then turned to survey the carnage on the deck of the galley. He caught sight of Thomas.

‘Sir Thomas! Over here.’

Thomas quickly picked his way over the deck towards the stem, stepping over the bodies sprawled and heaped across the bloodstained deck. He stopped at the foot of the short flight of stairs leading up to the stern and looked up at his captain. La Valette had taken a blow to the head and his morion helmet had a deep dent in the wide brim, but there was no sign that he was wounded or even dazed as he calmly regarded his subordinate.

‘Take command here.’

‘Take command? Yes, sir.’

‘I’m taking the Swift Hind and going after the galleon.’ He gestured with his hand and Thomas looked round to see that the sails of the big cargo ship had filled with the light dawn breeze and she was about to clear the bay. If she got far enough out to sea then she would be more weatherly than the galley and might yet escape if a heavy swell picked up along with the increasing breeze.

‘I’ll leave Sir Oliver and twenty men with you,’ La Valette continued. ‘Free any Christians you find amongst the rowers. Take care, mind you. I don’t want any of the Muslims claiming that they are of the faith.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Chain the prisoners to the rowing benches. Then make the necessary repairs, clear the bodies away and set course for Malta.’

‘Malta?’ Thomas frowned. There was still plenty of time before the end of the campaign season. It was too early to return to the home of the Order. But the captain had made a decision and Thomas had no right to question him. He stiffened his back and bowed his head curtly. ‘As you command, sir.’

‘That’s right.’ La Valette regarded him with a stern expression for a moment before he relented and continued in a lower voice that was meant for the young knight alone to hear. ‘Thomas, we have sunk one galley and taken this one. I hope to take the galleon in due course. We must take our prizes to Malta where they will be safe and revictual the Sunft Hind before we continue. By noon we shall have three vessels and barely enough men to crew them. We cannot take the risk of any further clashes until we have returned our prizes to Malta. Do you understand?’