The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 28

Will and Horace had been dozing close by the tree Halt was leaning against. They were seasoned campaigners and they knew there was nothing to gain by remaining tensed up, waiting for the action to start. Far better, they knew, to conserve energy and rest while they could. As Halt spoke, they both snapped awake, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons.

`Relax,' Halt told them. `It's only the advance scouts.'

He indicated a point several hundred metres away, where the road passed over a crest. Three armed men had suddenly come into view, moving furtively, as if they could avoid being seen by stooping. They stopped, peering at the peaceful-looking village. One of them shaded his eyes with his hands. Nothing stirred in Craikennis and the leader of the three scouts, apparently deciding that the village was unaware of their approach, faced back down the road and waved his so far unseen companions forward.

Gradually, the raiders came into view over the crest.

They moved in two files, either side of the road. The watchers in the treeline could hear the faint jingle of weapons and equipment as they moved. Most of them were on foot, although Padraig and four of his senior commanders rode horses. They were small animals, however, not bred for fighting like Horace's massive battlehorse.

Horace moved quickly back into the trees and tightened Kicker's girth straps. The big horse, sensing imminent combat, shifted expectantly from one foot to the other, tossing his head and snorting softly while Horace soothed him and patted him, keeping a firm hold on his bridle. Kicker was bred and trained for battle, as was his master. Horace felt a familiar tightening in his stomach now. Not fear. More expectation and nervous energy as adrenaline flooded his system. He knew that once he mounted Kicker and charged at the enemy, he would relax. It was the waiting that got him tensed up. He wondered if Will and Halt felt the same way as the older Ranger led his apprentice towards their vantage point on the knoll. Horace smiled to himself. Even though Will was a fully fledged Ranger in his own right, Horace always thought of him as Halt's apprentice. Will thought the same way, he knew.

`We'll stay below the crest of the knoll,' Halt was saying. 'With just our heads and shoulders visible, chances are they'll never see where we're shooting from, or how many of us there are.'

`Or how few,' Will suggested and Halt considered for a few seconds before agreeing.

`Or how few,' he said. He glanced back at Horace,standing calmly beside Kicker, talking in a low, soothing voice to the horse. 'Horace looks calm enough,' he said.

Will glanced back at his friend. 'He always does. I don't know how he manages it. This is the time when I've got butterflies in my stomach the size of fruit bats.' He had no compunction about admitting his own nervousness. Halt had taught him long ago that a man who doesn't feel nervous before a battle wasn't brave, he was foolish or overconfident – and either condition could prove to be fatal.

`He's a good man to have at your back,' Halt agreed. Then he nodded his head towards the enemy. 'Hullo. They're getting ready.'

The outlaws had stopped their advance fifty metres from the village. The two files now began to spread out in two extended lines. Padraig and his companions remained behind the formation. From the village, a shout of alarm was heard, then someone began ringing a bell. A man appeared on the barricade. Even from this distance, Will and Halt could recognise him as Conal.

`Stop there!' he called. 'Come no further!'

Now there were growing sounds of panic and alarm within the village. The bell continued to toll and men were taking up positions on the barricade. But they were pitifully few and they appeared alarmed and surprised. Padraig obviously knew his business and understood that nothing would be gained by parleying. That would only give the villagers more time to organise their defences. He drew his sword and held it above his head.

`Forward!' he called, his voice ringing clearly across the field. His men responded, moving forward at a steady walk. There was no point in running at this stage. They'd only arrive out of breath and exhausted at the barricade that way.

From their position, Halt and Will had a side-frontal view of the battle line as the outlaws advanced. It was a perfect position for enfilade shooting. The two ranks began to increase their pace, jogging now as they approached the barricade.

`Three arrows,' Halt said quickly. 'Shoot for the centre 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 centre 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 centre 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 outwards, 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 metres 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 defences. 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 co-ordinated 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 archers out there. 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 archers, 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 centre 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 towards 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 towards the knoll with a yell of fury.

Halt saw Padraig stop and look. Saw him send the squad towards 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 towards 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 or falter.

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 realised 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 treeline 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 metres 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 forehooves 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 on his chest. The one 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 towards Padraig, still dismounted and sheltering behind his horse.

`Get the leader!' Halt shouted. He looked quickly towards 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 realised. If the outlaws saw him defeated, if they found themselves leaderless, they'd melt away.

Horace waved his sword in acknowledgement 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 realised that Padraig was also staying well back from the battle at the barricade. He tapped Kicker with his heels and began to canter towards the outlaw.

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 towards 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 hoof beats growing closer. He looked back fearfully and saw that the young warrior was almost on him. He realised, 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 metres 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 thought.

`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 own mentor at Castle Redmont years ago.

Give any opponent a chance to surrender, but don't take risks sks with him. Something can always go wrong in a duel. A snapped girth, a cut rein, n, a lucky blow that gets through your guard. Don't take chances.

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 under 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 for 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.