Read Online Arthur Britannicus by Paul Bannister - Free Book Online Page B

forward, scything the big-bladed axe horizontally, and aiming to chop Carausius in half at the waist. The Briton stepped lithely sideways to parry the blow with his javelin, angling the shaft and deflecting the huge force harmlessly upwards, though it shaved a thick, foot-long splinter from the ash. Beobwill staggered slightly as the heavy weapon tugged him off balance and Carausius circled the sweep of his javelin’s long blade to slice a cut below the Saxon’s elbow. “You’re too slow, bitch,” he goaded, stepping back. 
    Beobwill snarled and swung again, less wildly. Carausius took the blow on the iron blade of the javelin and felt the weakened shaft tremble. His eye was diverted for an instant as he glanced at the fresh gouge to assess the damage and Beobwill, shortening his grip on the long axe handle, surged in unexpectedly, chopping and thrusting two-handed. The rush forced the Briton back, his heel hit a fist-sized stone half buried in the loam, and he was unbalanced. Beobwill was fast. His next blow slid off Carausius’ helmet, sliced into his unguarded cheek and delivered a numbing blow to his left shoulder, but the armour held. The Briton stumbled backwards, fountaining blood. He was dazed but from long training circled the point of his javelin at the big Saxon, who was snarling and roaring as he came at him again. Beobwill swatted the Briton’s javelin aside, smashed the butt of the axe into Carausius’ cheekbone and chopped down with the blade.
    The blow was a killing one, and only blind instinct saved the Briton as, head ringing with pain, he threw himself backwards. The axe blade scored down his breastplate and thudded through his left foot, severing the two smallest toes before it buried itself in the dirt. Beobwill bellowed in triumph, and the massed Saxons roared in response, rattling their swords and spears against their shields. The Roman ranks, now formed into three battle lines, stood almost mute, sucking in their breath as they watched their bloodied champion stagger towards defeat.  Juventus swore softly, and reached down for his short Sarmatian bow. If it came to it, he’d stick the Saxon through the throat, he vowed.
    The pain from his mutilated foot had not yet fully reached Carausius’ consciousness. His left arm was almost useless, his neck was slick with blood from his flapping cheek where the teeth showed though, and his face was numb where his cheekbone was crushed. He shook his head, spraying blood droplets, and blinked hard, trying to focus his mind as Beobwill wrenched his axe free of the ground. The Saxon moved in again, slower this time, readying for the kill. He shortened his two-handed grip on the axe, whirred it again at his crippled opponent and growled in pleasure as the big blade hacked clean through the ash shaft, causing the long iron spearhead to fly uselessly sideways.
    Carausius swayed, head drooping, Beobwill pulled back to swing again and the Briton took his chance. In the blink of an eye, snarling like a hound, he kicked out his right foot, heel hitting the ground first, and booted hard off his left, feeling the toes dig into the soft ground. His trailing leg straightened, and he pushed his hips forward at the same instant that his right foot flattened against the ground. The strike was as fast as an adder’s and he extended it by leaning towards the big Saxon, adding to his reach as he aimed inside the Saxon’s guard. The lunge, with Carausius’ arm extended in the classic posture of the swordsman, thrust the javelin’s jagged, broken handle into the Saxon’s open mouth. The big man’s head snapped backward and a spray of spittle, blood and broken incisors spattered outwards. The Briton continued his forward lunge, releasing the broken shaft and hurling himself onward. He grasped the stinking bear fur with both hands and head-butted Beobwill square on the bridge of his nose. The ornamental silver gilt eagle on Carausius’ helmet crushed the Saxon’s