Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon - Страница 54

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‘You think so?’

‘I know. There’s a little more to your unfortunate tale than you know.’

Thomas wondered what the Frenchman meant but he did not like his mocking tone and would not rise to the bait. There was no time anyway, the enemy was drawing closer and they had to return to the rest of the men.

‘Come on, we have to go.’

They stayed low as they crept away from the rocks and hurried back to the ambush site. A pale glow was spreading along the eastern horizon and by the time the enemy reached the position, the first rays of the sun would be in their eyes, making it harder for them to detect any signs of danger. Thomas was pleased there was no sign or sound of the men as they approached and it was only at the last moment that the tousled blond hair of Von Harsteiner rose up from behind the wall of a pen close to the farm.

‘Are they coming?’ the German asked eagerly.

‘They are.’ La Riviere smiled. ‘And there will be plenty to go round.’

A brief look of anxiety flitted across Thomas’s expression. The Frenchman seemed to have a reckless streak that might jeopardise the success of the ambush. He was too keen to fight the enemy. The task that La Valette had set them depended upon patience, stealth and a willingness to retreat the moment any skirmish threatened to get out of hand. They were to take prisoners, not supply them.

Once they had retrieved their mounts Thomas and La Riviere joined the party of squires on the left of the line. The knights at the other end, beyond the line of footsoldiers, were under the command of Von Harsteiner. The men stood ready and waiting, senses alert for the approach of the enemy. Thomas spared a quick glance at Richard; he was a few yards away, crouching behind a boulder, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

They did not have long to wait. A single figure appeared at the top of the ridge and cautiously advanced along the lane, peering right and left. He wore a conical helmet rising in a spike and carried a spear. As he reached the farm, he paused and looked over his surroundings carefully. At one point Thomas was certain that the Turk was looking directly at him and he kept perfectly still, waiting for the man to raise the alarm. Then he turned away and Thomas let out a soft sigh of relief. In the distance the sounds of battle from the direction of de Robles’s force intensified and helped to cover up any whinny from the horses, or the scrape of a hoof on rock. The Turkish scout suddenly left the track and entered the farm. They heard the sound of furniture being moved and then he emerged from the back of the farm with a couple of stools. Moving a short distance from the building he smashed one of the stools on a rock and started to build a fire.

Thomas looked over his shoulder and saw the golden hue along the horizon. He edged towards the French knight and whispered, ‘If he remains there, he’ll see us as the sun rises. We have to get rid of him.’

‘We could take him prisoner,’ Richard suggested. ‘And return to Birgu.’

‘We need an officer,’ La Riviere countered. ‘And the enemy needs a sharp lesson. But first we must deal with him.’

‘I’ll go,’ Richard said softly.

Thomas shook his head. ‘No. You stay here. I’ll do it.’

For an instant La Riviere looked surprised and then he gestured towards the abandoned farmhouse. ‘All right then, be my guest, Englishman.’

Drawing his dagger, Thomas crept forward, picking his way carefully through the stunted undergrowth which concealed the knights on the left flank of the line. Ahead of him the scout continued to arrange the splintered lengths of timber in a crude cone, and then tore apart some rags he had taken from the farm and pressed them into the gaps he had left between the lengths of wood. As he worked he frequently looked up, scanning the ground in the direction of the main harbour and occasionally looking back towards the ridge as he waited for his comrades to arrive. Thomas reached the small bam, little more than a shed, and moved slowly along its length until he reached the corner and could peer round to spy on the enemy soldier.

Once the fire was complete the Turk stood up, stretched his shoulders and then crossed the farmyard and leaned on the low stone wall that bordered the lane, presenting his back. Thomas waited a moment to see if he moved, but the scout remained where he was. He glanced both ways down the lane, and then settled on staring towards Mdina, where the spire of the church stood dark against the pink smear of the dawn. Thomas drew his dagger in an underhand grip and hunched lower as he paced towards the Turk, casing each foot down so as not to crunch any gravel under his boots. The sound of gunfire to the east was diminishing to a handful of parting shots as de Robles and his men broke contact and fell back towards Birgu. Then, when Thomas was no more than ten feet from the scout, a flicker of movement to his left drew his eyes and he saw a standard edging up over the ridge. The Turk noticed it too an instant later and half turned in that direction. The moment lie saw Thomas his eyes widened in alarm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

There was no time to think. Thomas launched himself forward, drawing the dagger back a fraction as his arm muscles tensed, ready to deliver the blow. The scout turned quickly and his surprise caused only the briefest of hesitations. He threw up his left arm to protect his face as his right hand snatched at the ivory handle of his dagger. The thin curved blade was out of its sheath at the moment Thomas struck.

There was no finesse in his attack, no attempt to duel with his adversary, just a headlong charge intended to smash into the scout and knock him down. The other man was slightly built and the impact drove him back against the wall. Thomas thrust his dagger in hard and the blade tore through cloth and flesh and the scout gasped in pain. But the blow glanced off his ribs; the wound bled freely but it was not disabling. With a growl of anger the scout swung his knife arm round and the blade clattered off Thomas’s shoulder plate and deflected up, the point grazing through his hair and tearing his scalp with a searing pain. Thomas struck again, and this time buried the blade in the soft tissue of the other man’s stomach. He let out a deep groan and then smashed his fist into Thomas’s face. Instantly his vision blurred and he stumbled back, out of range of the Turk’s knife. His heel caught on a small rock and he stumbled and fell heavily on his back, driving the breath from his lungs.

Thomas gasped softly and cursed himself for failing to make a clean kill. Now he was at his enemy’s mercy and at any moment he expected to feel the sharp, lethal blow of the scout’s dagger. Then, as his vision began to clear, he raised himself up on his elbows and drew up his legs to get back on his feet. He saw the scout, ten feet away, on hands and knees as he desperately tried to scramble away and flee towards his comrades. Glancing back, he saw Thomas. He struggled on to his feet, one hand clutching at his stomach, the other, still holding the dagger, braced on top of the wall. He began to move towards the lane, towards his comrades, trying to shout, but the effort was too much agony and he gritted his teeth and concentrated on making his escape instead.

Still struggling to breathe, Thomas went after him, staggering across the farmyard. His chest felt as if it was being pressed by a great weight and he began to feel dizzy. He paused and shook his head to try and shake the nausea off and then saw that the scout had increased his lead, even with his wound. He might yet escape. The Turk glanced back and came to the same realisation and his lips parted in a brief grin before his features twisted in agony. With a muttered curse he stumbled on.

‘No . . .’ Thomas whispered in furious despair. He clenched his spare fist and forced himself to step out after the scout, and drew up gasping after only a few paces. Then he was aware of movement and someone ran past him. There was a blur as his arm swept back and then forwards and a soft thud from the direction of the Turk who had just reached the lane. With a moan he dropped to his knees and his left hand groped up his back towards the dark haft of the knife that had struck him just under the shoulder blade.

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