Kings of Clonmel (25 page)

“Three arrows,” Halt said quickly. “Shoot for the center of the front rank.”

From his position behind them, Horace watched with some awe as the two Rangers released six arrows in rapid succession. All six were in the air within the space of a few seconds. And within a few seconds, six men in the center of the advancing line went down. Two of them made no sound. The others cried out in pain, dropping their weapons. One blundered into the men around him as he reeled in a circle, trying to pull the arrow from his shoulder. Then he sank to his knees, groaning in agony.

Those beside and behind the stricken men stopped in confusion. The even line of advance broke up as the center stopped and the two wings continued forward, unaware of what had happened.

“Left flank,” Halt said, and the two longbows sang their dreadful song once more. Another five men went down. Will frowned angrily. His second shot had been ineffective. His target, seeing a man close by sink to the ground, had involuntarily thrown his shield up and Will’s arrow had glanced off it. Angrily, Will snapped off another shot and the man went down, the arrow arcing down above the rim of his shield.

But in spite of Will’s initial miss, the overall effect of the second volley was successful. The left-hand end of the line stopped and the men faced outward, trying to see where this new threat had come from. This meant the right wing was advancing on its own, and they covered the last few meters to the barricade at a run, letting out a roar as they went.

Only to be answered by a matching roar of anger and defiance as an unexpectedly large mass of defenders appeared above the barricade, thrusting down at the attackers as they tried to scale the improvised barrier of carts, trunks, tables, hay bales and odd items of furniture and timber.

Some of the defenders’ weapons were improvised too—scythes and sickle blades mounted on long shafts were scattered among the spears and swords being wielded by the defenders. Will saw several pitchforks being used as well. But improvised or not, they were effective against the attackers, who were at a disadvantage as they tried to climb up the barricade.

The right wing, isolated from the rest of the attacking force, were savaged as they tried to breach the defenses. They fell back, leaving a number of their companions sprawled lifeless on the ground and on the barricade itself. Instead of being part of a coordinated attack along the entire line, they had paid the penalty for assaulting a well-defended position on their own.

Padraig raged at his men, urging his horse forward and yelling at the rest of the line to move up and close the gap. He sensed that the arrows were coming from his left but could see no sign of any archers. From the number of his men who had gone down before the hail of arrows, he estimated there must be at least half a dozen shooters, firing from the shelter of the trees. Through narrowed eyes, he saw a vague flicker of movement from a small knoll. Ten seconds later, three more men in the center of the line were struck down by arrows.

He yelled at a squad of a dozen men in the rear rank. They were all armed with swords or maces, and most of them had shields. The squad commander looked at him, a question on his face, and Padraig pointed with his sword toward the knoll.

“Archers. Behind that knoll! Clean ’em out!”

Archers were always lightly armed, he knew. And they were cowards who’d slink away at the first sign of a real threat. They’d never stand against an attack by a force of armed men protected by shields. The dozen men dropped out of the line and bunched up behind their squad leader. He motioned them forward and they started toward the knoll with a yell of fury.

Halt saw Padraig stop and look. Saw him send the squad toward their position. No need to panic yet, he thought.

“ The command group,” he told Will. “Put them down.”

And while the younger Ranger sent a rapid volley soaring off at Padraig and his subordinates, Halt took the time to thin out the dozen men running toward them. A shield could only cover so much of a man’s body, and the outlaws had no idea of the accuracy that their opponents could achieve. An arrow through the calf, thigh or shoulder of a running man would stop him just as effectively as a killing shot, Halt knew. One after another, the running men began to fall.

Will’s first arrow was aimed at Padraig. But Will’s luck was out that day. As he released, one of the outlaw’s lieutenants urged his horse forward to speak to his leader and the arrow struck him from the saddle. Will swore as he realized Padraig was unscathed. He’d already sent another three shots off, aimed at the men around him.

In the space of a few seconds, Padraig found himself alone, surrounded by riderless horses, while his commanders lay writhing on the grass. Sizing up the situation, he slid from the saddle, placing his horse between himself and the knoll.

Will was nocking another arrow, but Halt stopped him. “Save it,” he said. He had a better idea as to how Padraig should be dealt with. Besides, they had a more immediate problem. The remaining seven outlaws were getting closer now, and he turned and waved to Horace, pointing at the running men.

“Horace! They’re yours!” Then to Will, he said, “Cover Horace if he needs it.”

Horace needed no further invitation. He clapped his heels against Kicker’s sides and the mighty horse lumbered forward, gathering speed like a thundering juggernaut. He burst out of the tree line, and the approaching outlaws saw him for the first time. They stopped in panic, eyes riveted on the bared teeth of the horse and the long, glittering sword in its rider’s hand.

They began to back away, but they were too late. Kicker smashed into two of them, hurling one to the side and trampling the other. Horace struck down at a man to his right, then, sensing danger on his disengaged side, he pressed his right knee into Kicker’s ribs.

Kicker responded instantly, rearing onto his hind legs and spinning in a half circle. His shoulder slammed into an outlaw who had been about to thrust up at Horace. The impact hurled the man several meters away.

As the horse came back to all fours, another outlaw was already moving forward, a long-handled mace in both hands, drawn back for a killing blow. But Horace’s reactions were lightning fast and his thrusting sword took the man in the shoulder, outside his chain mail vest. The outlaw staggered back, the mace dropping as he tried to stem the gush of blood from the wound.

Horace wheeled Kicker again to clear his back, the flashing fore-hooves ready to decapitate any potential attacker. But there was no need. A sixth outlaw was already sinking to his knees, staring with disbelief at the black arrow buried in his chest. His head drooped forward. The lone survivor looked at his companions, scattered and broken, some of them lying still, others trying desperately to crawl away from the terrible horse and rider. Then he turned and ran, throwing away his sword as he went.

Horace wheeled his horse again, not sure what to do next. He looked back at the knoll and saw Halt pointing toward Padraig, still dismounted and sheltering behind his horse.

“Get the leader!” Halt shouted. He looked quickly toward the village. The bandits had recovered after the initial disruption of their attack. It had cost them a lot of lives, but now they were pressing hard at the defenders. The key to the situation was Padraig, Halt knew. If the outlaws saw him defeated, if they found themselves leaderless, they’d melt away.

Horace waved his sword in acknowledgment and spun Kicker again. He could see the outlaw leader sheltering from the arrows behind his horse. Horace’s lips curled in scorn as he realized that Padraig was also staying well back from the battle at the barricade. He tapped Kicker with his heels and began to canter forward.

Padraig heard the drumming of approaching hooves. He had watched in fear as Horace scattered seven of his men with absolute ease. Now the warrior with the sunrise insignia was coming after him. He decided he’d risk the arrows and scrambled up into the saddle, wheeling his horse and setting it to a gallop toward the south.

But Kicker, in spite of his slow initial acceleration, was faster than the outlaw’s horse and he gradually began to make up the distance between them. Padraig heard the hoofbeats growing closer. He looked back fearfully and saw that the warrior was almost on him. He realized, with a shock of surprise, that his pursuer was merely a youth. The face was young and unbearded. Perhaps it had been a fluke that he’d scattered those seven men, Padraig thought. After all, his band were cutthroats and bandits, not trained fighting men, whereas Padraig himself had been trained as a soldier. He wheeled his horse to face his pursuer, drawing his own sword and settling his shield on his left arm.

Horace reined in Kicker a few meters short of his quarry. He saw the hatred glowing in the man’s eyes, took in the set of shield and sword. Padraig knew what he was doing, Horace realized.

“Throw the sword down and surrender. I’ll say it once and once only,” he told the bandit leader. In answer, Padraig snarled and drove his horse forward, swinging an overhead cut at Horace. Kicker danced easily to the side and Horace deflected the sword with his shield. His answering stroke slammed into Padraig’s shield and staggered the other man with the force behind it, nearly unseating him. But Padraig recovered, wheeled his horse clumsily and rode in for another attack. He flailed blindly at Horace, and the young warrior took the blows easily on his shield and sword, content to let Padraig tire himself out.

Finally, Padraig drew back, chest heaving with exertion, perspiration streaming down his face. He stared in disbelief at his adversary. Horace was breathing easily, sitting relaxed in the saddle.

“We don’t have to do this,” Horace said calmly. “Throw down your sword.”

It was the calm, unflustered attitude that caused something to snap inside Padraig. He launched himself forward again, sword swinging down in a vicious arc. This time, as Horace deflected it with his own blade, he remembered the words of Sir Rodney, his mentor at Castle Redmont, years ago.

He sighed. He’d given Padraig two opportunities. Rodney was right. To do more would be foolish. As he deflected the Hibernian’s sword, he quickly brought his own blade up and hammered four rapid overhand cuts at the man. His sword slammed down repeatedly on the outlaw’s shield, denting and bending it out of shape as Padraig held it high, cowering beneath it. Then, as the sound of the fourth stroke was still ringing across the field, Horace spun Kicker fast to the left, using the momentum of the spin to bring the long blade in a scything forehand across Padraig’s exposed ribs.

The wet, crunching sensation as the stroke went home told him it was a fatal blow. Padraig stayed upright for a few seconds, a puzzled expression on his face. Then all expression left him and he toppled sideways from the saddle.

As the battle still raged at the barricades, several of those in the attackers’ rear ranks had turned to watch the encounter. Now they saw their leader fall to the ground as the mounted warrior dealt him one final crushing blow. They looked to his lieutenants for orders. But they were either dead or wounded by Will’s volley of arrows.

Gradually, a few of those in the rear began to melt away, running to the south. Within a few minutes, the trickle became a flood and the outlaws streamed, without leaders or direction, away from the barricades, leaving half their number dead or wounded on the field, or draped over the barricade.

The battle for Craikennis was over.

THE AFTERMATH OF A BATTLE WAS ALWAYS A SOBERING SIGHT, Horace thought. The dead lay in awkward, unnatural poses, draped on the barricade or sprawled on the ground before it, looking as if they’d been carelessly scattered by some giant hand. The wounded sobbed or cried pitifully for help or relief. Some tried unsuccessfully to hobble or crawl away, fearing retaliation from the people they had so recently been attacking.

The people of Craikennis moved among the defeated men, rounding up those with less serious injuries and holding them under the hostile gaze of a squad of village watchmen. The women tended to the more seriously wounded, bandaging and cleaning wounds, bringing water to those who cried out for it. Funny how a battle left your mouth and throat parched, the young warrior thought.

Will supervised a group of villagers as they collected weapons and armor from the outlaws. One of the villagers asked him if he wanted to retrieve his and Halt’s arrows, but he shook his head hastily. Half of them would be broken anyway, and the idea of cleaning and reusing a bloodstained arrow was distasteful in the extreme. Besides, they had plenty of spares in the arrow cases they both carried tied behind their saddles. He watched while one of the village women cradled a wounded outlaw’s head and let him take small sips of water from a cup as she held it to his lips. The man groaned pitifully, his hand weakly searching for hers to try to keep the cup to his mouth. But the effort was beyond his strength and his hand fell limply back to his side.

Strange, Will thought, how the most evil, murderous outlaw can be reduced to a sobbing little boy by his wounds.

Halt was talking with Conal and the village head man, Terrence.

“We owe you our thanks, Ranger,” the watch commander said. Halt shrugged and gestured toward Horace. The young warrior, as Halt had told him to, was sitting mounted on Kicker, on the raised knoll where Halt and Will had based themselves. The early afternoon sun shone off the white shield cover, accentuating the rising sun emblem.

“Your thanks should go to the Sunrise Warrior,” he said, and saw the instant flicker of recognition in Terrence’s eyes. He’d guessed correctly that the older head man would be familiar with the ancient myths and legends of Hibernia.