Read Online Calgaich the Swordsman by Gordon D. Shirreffs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gordon D. Shirreffs
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wild bear of a swordsman with only his sword for defense.
Calgaich swept into the attack. He pressed Girich back again and again. Their breathing was harsh and fast as they circled, feinting and dodging, thrusting and slashing while moving swiftly around like a pair of deadly whirligigs. He had learned something about Girich. His shoulder muscles were so thick they hindered his being able to raise his arms as high and as quickly as he would have liked. There was something else to Calgaich's advantage— Girich was deathly afraid to step within the ring of stones.
They circled. It was fully light now, and the snow was trampled into mush. Here and there on the surface of it were bright flecks of Calgaich's blood. Girich was becoming craftier as he realized Calgaich would soon weaken with the loss of more blood. Calgaich retreated before the steady attack of the Pict. It was as if Girich were chopping wood, but he always stayed back from that damned overhand stroke to the helmet from which he had been unable to defend himself.
"It grows late, Girich!” Aengus called out. "There are not enough of us to fight off an attack by the Damnonii. They will have seen the smoke by now. The hounds will soon be baying in the hills. Kill this braggart of the Novantae and have done with him!”
Girich did not take his eyes off Calgaich. "Would you like to come out here for a while, Cousin?” he asked.
There was no reply from Aengus.
Girich and Calgaich grinned wearily at each other.
Girich drove a crushing blow at Calgaich's shield and then cut low for the knees. The tip of the sword severed a crossgartering around Calgaich’s right leg and the leathern thong fell down about his ankle. It trailed behind him as he beat a feigned retreat toward the ring stones. There was a look of fear and almost of panic on his sweating face.
Girich spat to one side. He sensed victory. He drove in, striking wildly and steadily. There seemed to be no end to his great strength. Suddenly Calgaich sidestepped. His sword came down with powerful force on top of the Pict's helmet. Girich could not stop his headlong rush, which was aided by the blow to his head. He staggered in between two of the great ring stones.
Cairenn stepped back and lowered the tip of the war spear toward Girich’s back.
"No!” Calgaich shouted.
Calgaich leaped between two of the stones and smashed his sword down atop Girich's battered helmet. Blood began to trickle down from beneath the helmet and into Girich's eyes. Calgaich worked his way around the Pict so that the light of the rising sun shone against the tattooed face of the Pict. Girich's eyes were dazed with pain. His breathing was harsh and irregular. He turned his head from side to side, seeking an escape from the ring of stones. He forgot that Calgaich was really his opponent and not his own intense superstitious fear of the Holy Ring.
No matter which way the beleaguered Pict turned, a grinning Calgaich was there in front of him, feinting and thrusting with undiminished strength and skill. Girich's face was now a mask of trickled blood forming a grotesque pattern with the blue design of his tattooing.
Calgaich drove Girich back toward the stones to give him a choice—to try to escape while presenting his back to Calgaich, or to wait out the attack and put aside his fear of the ring of stones to save his life.
The Pict made his choice. He ran toward the stones, then whirled to get between two of them to hold off Calgaich's pursuit. As he turned, Calgaich's sword splintered Girich's shield down to the metal boss. Girich lowered his shield arm and sword arm. His recovery was too slow. Half-blinded by blood, with the sun shining full in his face, and deathly afraid of the ring of stones, Girich hardly felt the thrust that penetrated a hand's span into his heart. He was dead before he sprawled on the bloody snow.
Calgaich leaned on his reddened sword. His breathing was harsh and irregular. He looked between the stones
Calgaich swept into the attack. He pressed Girich back again and again. Their breathing was harsh and fast as they circled, feinting and dodging, thrusting and slashing while moving swiftly around like a pair of deadly whirligigs. He had learned something about Girich. His shoulder muscles were so thick they hindered his being able to raise his arms as high and as quickly as he would have liked. There was something else to Calgaich's advantage— Girich was deathly afraid to step within the ring of stones.
They circled. It was fully light now, and the snow was trampled into mush. Here and there on the surface of it were bright flecks of Calgaich's blood. Girich was becoming craftier as he realized Calgaich would soon weaken with the loss of more blood. Calgaich retreated before the steady attack of the Pict. It was as if Girich were chopping wood, but he always stayed back from that damned overhand stroke to the helmet from which he had been unable to defend himself.
"It grows late, Girich!” Aengus called out. "There are not enough of us to fight off an attack by the Damnonii. They will have seen the smoke by now. The hounds will soon be baying in the hills. Kill this braggart of the Novantae and have done with him!”
Girich did not take his eyes off Calgaich. "Would you like to come out here for a while, Cousin?” he asked.
There was no reply from Aengus.
Girich and Calgaich grinned wearily at each other.
Girich drove a crushing blow at Calgaich's shield and then cut low for the knees. The tip of the sword severed a crossgartering around Calgaich’s right leg and the leathern thong fell down about his ankle. It trailed behind him as he beat a feigned retreat toward the ring stones. There was a look of fear and almost of panic on his sweating face.
Girich spat to one side. He sensed victory. He drove in, striking wildly and steadily. There seemed to be no end to his great strength. Suddenly Calgaich sidestepped. His sword came down with powerful force on top of the Pict's helmet. Girich could not stop his headlong rush, which was aided by the blow to his head. He staggered in between two of the great ring stones.
Cairenn stepped back and lowered the tip of the war spear toward Girich’s back.
"No!” Calgaich shouted.
Calgaich leaped between two of the stones and smashed his sword down atop Girich's battered helmet. Blood began to trickle down from beneath the helmet and into Girich's eyes. Calgaich worked his way around the Pict so that the light of the rising sun shone against the tattooed face of the Pict. Girich's eyes were dazed with pain. His breathing was harsh and irregular. He turned his head from side to side, seeking an escape from the ring of stones. He forgot that Calgaich was really his opponent and not his own intense superstitious fear of the Holy Ring.
No matter which way the beleaguered Pict turned, a grinning Calgaich was there in front of him, feinting and thrusting with undiminished strength and skill. Girich's face was now a mask of trickled blood forming a grotesque pattern with the blue design of his tattooing.
Calgaich drove Girich back toward the stones to give him a choice—to try to escape while presenting his back to Calgaich, or to wait out the attack and put aside his fear of the ring of stones to save his life.
The Pict made his choice. He ran toward the stones, then whirled to get between two of them to hold off Calgaich's pursuit. As he turned, Calgaich's sword splintered Girich's shield down to the metal boss. Girich lowered his shield arm and sword arm. His recovery was too slow. Half-blinded by blood, with the sun shining full in his face, and deathly afraid of the ring of stones, Girich hardly felt the thrust that penetrated a hand's span into his heart. He was dead before he sprawled on the bloody snow.
Calgaich leaned on his reddened sword. His breathing was harsh and irregular. He looked between the stones
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