Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗
‘Stand ready!’ Romegas ordered those on the bastion and a moment later an assault ladder slapped against the parapet. Thomas raised his sword and stepped over to the ladder as a pair of dark- skinned hands grasped the top rung and a spiked helmet appeared. Thomas swung his sword down hard and the edge bit through the cloth of the man’s shoulder but was held by the chain-mail vest beneath. The impact drove the Turk’s body down and numbed his arm enough to loosen his grip on the ladder. With a grunt he swung off the ladder and hung there for an instant before the strength in his other hand gave out and he dropped out of sight. At once, another Turk took his place and clambered up, warily looking over the parapet.
‘Richard,’ Thomas called out. ‘The ladder! Use your pike. Quick, my boy!’
The Turk raised a shield to protect his head as he struggled up the ladder. Thomas’s blade glanced off it and he drew the sword back to attempt a direct thrust instead. But the Turk was good and easily parried it aside. He reached a hand up on to the parapet in readiness to haul himself on to the bastion. There was a blur of movement as Richard lowered his pike and caught the crosspiece against the top rung, and thrust the ladder back with all his strength. The Turk’s eyes widened in alarm as he swayed back from the parapet and then, with a vigorous push from Richard, the ladder fell back into the breach, together with the three men who had been coming up behind.
Hundreds of men were locked in a deadly fight along the line of the wall and Thomas could see that the weight of numbers must inevitably force the defenders back. More ladders were placed against the sides of the bastion and the Grand Master and the officers and men with him were drawn into the desperate battle to hold their ground. As Richard drove his pike into a man’s face, Thomas looked round and saw La Valette brace his feet as he lowered the shaft of his pike and advanced on a Janissary who had gained the top of his ladder and had already swung his foot down over the side of the parapet. The Grand Master drove his point forward and the Janissary just managed to swing his scimitar across in time to parry the pike. La Valette drew his weapon back and, as if he was practising on a drill ground, calmly thrust again. This time, he dropped the point at the last moment, so that the other man’s blade failed to make contact and the point of the weapon stabbed into his stomach. The Turk’s face contorted in agony and he dropped his sword and grasped the shaft of the pike as La Valette pressed home. The
Janissary toppled back over the parapet and the point ripped free from his wound. Romegas pushed his commander aside, grasped the top of the ladder and wrenched it to one side, unbalancing those below who shouted in alarm as the ladder fell into the breach.
Looking down from the bastion Thomas saw that the defenders were already being forced back from the breastworks in several places. At once the Turks pushed the stones forward, collapsing the crude obstacles before clambering over the ruins to press the defenders back. Then his attention was drawn to another ladder appearing close by. He slashed at his enemy’s hand the moment it appeared above the edge of the parapet, cutting through the knuckles before splintering the wooden rung beneath. There was a howl of agony and the ruined hand was snatched back. Again Richard used his pike to thrust the ladder away from the wall.
‘Over here!’ Romegas bellowed and Thomas turned to see the senior knight and two sergeants battling several men who had managed to gain a foothold on the far side of the bastion. Thomas turned to Richard.
‘Go! Help Romegas. I can hold this position.’
A flicker of concern crossed the young man’s rain-streaked face before he nodded and turned to run across the bastion to assist Romegas. There was a clatter of wood against stone as another ladder appeared in front of Thomas. The Turk who scaled it wore a spiked helmet with a turban tightly wound about the rim and his eyes glared above a thick beard dripping water on to his breastplate. He was waist high to the parapet and raising his shield when Thomas struck. The blade forced the shield down before it deflected to the side and with a sharp clatter the end broke off.
‘Ha!’ the Turk exclaimed and immediately swung his leg over the parapet and drew his scimitar. Thomas saw that only a scant eighteen inches of blade, ending in a jagged point, was left to him. Too little for a conventional fight. He launched himself at the Turk. His left foot slipped on the wet flagstones and there was no impetus to his blow when he collided with the other man. They were pressed together, against the parapet, face to face. The Turk’s thin lips parted in a snarl as he struggled to wrench himself free and win enough space to wield his scimitar. Thomas tried to use his left hand to grasp his opponent and hold on. A fiery agony shot through the limb and he had to release his grip and let the arm hang uselessly. He stretched his right arm out, angled the broken blade in and thrust it under the rim of the Turk’s shield. The tip jarred against the bottom of the breastplate and Thomas drew it back, aimed lower and thrust again, feeling it drive home into the Turk’s groin.
His opponent let out an explosive groan and spittle struck Thomas in the face. Then the Turk hammered the side of Thomas’s helmet with the hilt of his scimitar, smashing his head again and again as Thomas desperately worked his blade deep into his opponent’s vital organs. Then his left foot slipped again and he fell back and the Turk came with him, landing heavily on Thomas and driving the air from his lungs. As the Turk tried to rise, Thomas wrenched the sword to one side and the man’s face contorted with agony. But with a huge effort he pulled himself up and rolled to the side. The blade came free of the terrible wound with a sucking noise. Blood smeared the hilt of Thomas’s weapon and covered his mantlet as far as the wrist. The Turk’s wound was mortal and he knew it as he loomed over Thomas, balanced on his knees. He batted the broken sword aside with his shield then his eyes glinted with rage as he raised his scimitar and aimed the point at Thomas’s face.
For an instant the terrible din around him seemed to fade to silence and the dull gleam of the sword point above seemed to be all that existed for Thomas; every ounce of his flesh froze in absolute terror.
Then the Turk lurched back as the point of a pike stabbed into his throat. He collapsed against the parapet, gurgling as blood spurted from the wound and sprayed from his lips. Thomas struggled to his feet as a hand supported his arm and helped him up. La Valette looked into his face with a concerned expression.
‘Are you wounded, Sir Thomas?’
He was badly shaken but felt no pain other than the burning sensation in his left arm. ‘No, sir.’
‘Then find yourself another weapon.’ La Valette clasped his pike, ready to fight, as he glanced round the bastion and then over the parapet. Thomas could see that the Turks were gaining footholds on the remaining sections of the wall and steadily forcing their way through the breaches. The weight of their numbers was proving impossible for the defenders to contain.
‘We cannot hold the line,’ said La Valette. ‘We must fall back to the inner wall.’ He turned to look for Romegas. The senior knight and Richard were just finishing off a Turk who had climbed on to the tower. They tipped the body down on to those still attempting to scale the bastion and a quick thrust of Richard’s pike sent the ladder reeling back. For the moment the bastion was cleared, although two of the bodies lying amid the puddles on the ground wore the surcoats of the Order. Another lay propped up against the parapet, his face a bloody mask of crushed flesh and bone, his body and limbs trembling uncontrollably.
