Read Online Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople by Christian Cameron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christian Cameron
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– thankfully, not the largest ecclesiastical size of bishop, but not a slim man – was cutting through his burst of spirit.
The oldest of the Venetian marines – the one that the others called ‘The Spaniard’ – turned, paused, and came back towards Swan. Without a word, he took the bishop’s legs, and they staggered on together, the sailor staying with them, eyes glazed with fear. He didn’t have a weapon.
Since no one came to drive them off, the Greek youths grew bolder, and there were stones mixed in with the clods of earth. They rang off Swan’s backplate and his arm harnesses.
Swan’s whole world narrowed to the effort of staggering, off balance, along the time-worn street towards the distant market. It didn’t seem to grow any closer.
He heard hoof-beats.
They started to cross a major thoroughfare and had only fifty paces to go to the market. The old ruin of the fountain was another fifty paces beyond. Swan looked to the left and saw the horsemen – three Turkish riders, with another dozen well behind them – coming at a gallop.
They were all but on top of him.
He and the Spaniard dropped the bishop in the street as the first arrow flew. It passed between them.
The second arrow screeched along Swan’s left shoulder, deeply marking the steel, and fell to the street.
The third arrow all but parted Swan’s hair and reminded him that he didn’t have a helmet. He got his sword out of his scabbard and his buckler off his hip. The bishop curled into a ball and prayed.
The first Turk hurtled by, an arm’s length away, leaning out over his horse on Swan’s buckler side, an arrow drawn all the way to his chin. Tom threw his buckler hand up as the man loosed, and the arrow struck his buckler’s steel boss and left a deep dent, all but numbing Swan’s hand.
The Spaniard didn’t wait for the second Turk, but stepped in front of his horse, severing the reins and slicing deeply into the horse’s neck – the horse was dead immediately and began to collapse under the Turk, who nonetheless took his shot at the range of a few feet. His arrow caught the Spaniard in the middle of the chest and knocked him down. Then horse and rider fell in a spectacular spray of dust and blood.
The third Turk changed direction to avoid the dying horse ahead of him, rose in his saddle, holding on with only his knees, bow drawn.
For what seemed like a brief eternity, Swan was looking down the length of that arrow, and then the Turk loosed. In the same heartbeat, the sailor holding his helmet lurched away from the dying horse and, tripping over the bishop, lifted the armet over his head. The Turkish arrow crashed into the Milanese helmet and careened away.
Swan saw the disgust on the Turk’s face as he went by.
The armet containing the head crashed to the earth.
The Spaniard was alive. The arrow had dented his breastplate and the man was struggling to breathe, but it hadn’t penetrated. The two Turks still mounted were turning their horses.
The other dozen were coming.
Swan gave the Spaniard his hand and lifted the man to his feet.
He took the bow from his bow case, whipped an arrow on to the bowstring, and loosed at the dozen horsemen charging them. As far as Swan could see, he missed, but his attention was now on the two horsemen behind him.
The sailor got to his feet and went to retrieve the helmet.
The nearest mounted Turk put an arrow into him from fifty feet. The sailor screamed, fell heavily on all fours, and screamed again, shot in the groin.
The two Turks started towards Swan.
Swan picked up a rock. It was all he could think to do.
An arrow whistled over his head.
He jumped, a move his uncles had taught him, leaping hard with both feet. He landed by the helmet, and his right arm went back.
The nearest Turk took a crossbow bolt just above the waist. He collapsed back, then forward, and still didn’t fall from his horse’s back, even though the bolt was sticking halfway out of his back. But he
The oldest of the Venetian marines – the one that the others called ‘The Spaniard’ – turned, paused, and came back towards Swan. Without a word, he took the bishop’s legs, and they staggered on together, the sailor staying with them, eyes glazed with fear. He didn’t have a weapon.
Since no one came to drive them off, the Greek youths grew bolder, and there were stones mixed in with the clods of earth. They rang off Swan’s backplate and his arm harnesses.
Swan’s whole world narrowed to the effort of staggering, off balance, along the time-worn street towards the distant market. It didn’t seem to grow any closer.
He heard hoof-beats.
They started to cross a major thoroughfare and had only fifty paces to go to the market. The old ruin of the fountain was another fifty paces beyond. Swan looked to the left and saw the horsemen – three Turkish riders, with another dozen well behind them – coming at a gallop.
They were all but on top of him.
He and the Spaniard dropped the bishop in the street as the first arrow flew. It passed between them.
The second arrow screeched along Swan’s left shoulder, deeply marking the steel, and fell to the street.
The third arrow all but parted Swan’s hair and reminded him that he didn’t have a helmet. He got his sword out of his scabbard and his buckler off his hip. The bishop curled into a ball and prayed.
The first Turk hurtled by, an arm’s length away, leaning out over his horse on Swan’s buckler side, an arrow drawn all the way to his chin. Tom threw his buckler hand up as the man loosed, and the arrow struck his buckler’s steel boss and left a deep dent, all but numbing Swan’s hand.
The Spaniard didn’t wait for the second Turk, but stepped in front of his horse, severing the reins and slicing deeply into the horse’s neck – the horse was dead immediately and began to collapse under the Turk, who nonetheless took his shot at the range of a few feet. His arrow caught the Spaniard in the middle of the chest and knocked him down. Then horse and rider fell in a spectacular spray of dust and blood.
The third Turk changed direction to avoid the dying horse ahead of him, rose in his saddle, holding on with only his knees, bow drawn.
For what seemed like a brief eternity, Swan was looking down the length of that arrow, and then the Turk loosed. In the same heartbeat, the sailor holding his helmet lurched away from the dying horse and, tripping over the bishop, lifted the armet over his head. The Turkish arrow crashed into the Milanese helmet and careened away.
Swan saw the disgust on the Turk’s face as he went by.
The armet containing the head crashed to the earth.
The Spaniard was alive. The arrow had dented his breastplate and the man was struggling to breathe, but it hadn’t penetrated. The two Turks still mounted were turning their horses.
The other dozen were coming.
Swan gave the Spaniard his hand and lifted the man to his feet.
He took the bow from his bow case, whipped an arrow on to the bowstring, and loosed at the dozen horsemen charging them. As far as Swan could see, he missed, but his attention was now on the two horsemen behind him.
The sailor got to his feet and went to retrieve the helmet.
The nearest mounted Turk put an arrow into him from fifty feet. The sailor screamed, fell heavily on all fours, and screamed again, shot in the groin.
The two Turks started towards Swan.
Swan picked up a rock. It was all he could think to do.
An arrow whistled over his head.
He jumped, a move his uncles had taught him, leaping hard with both feet. He landed by the helmet, and his right arm went back.
The nearest Turk took a crossbow bolt just above the waist. He collapsed back, then forward, and still didn’t fall from his horse’s back, even though the bolt was sticking halfway out of his back. But he
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