he ducked, and a crossbow bolt hissed past
him. The guide, still holding the bow, had now swept out his sword with his free
hand and was charging him. Otto struggled to draw his own blade. The knight was
shouting something. Otto cursed and stepped smartly to one side, only narrowly
avoiding the guide’s murderous sword swipe. His own sword now in his hand, the
young nobleman whirled to face the horseman who, rearing his mount, had turned
with incredible speed to attack him again. His gaze locked by his enemy’s one
blazing eye, Otto desperately prepared to dodge again but suddenly the guide
fell as Lutyens burst from the scrub and discharged a pistol into the side of
his head.
Otto’s mind reeled. The huge, rather slow pistolier had transformed into a
raging colossus of action. He didn’t seem to pause, even as he coolly dropped
the knight’s war-horse with his other pistol. Blonde hair streaming from under
his burgonet, he charged to where the squires were riding up to protect their
fallen master. He glanced back at Otto and shouted, “Get at them, fool!”
Otto hesitated. He was staring aghast at his borrowed brigandine, splattered
with blood from the slain guide. He looked up as a squire charged him. Gasping
aloud, Otto just managed to roll behind the dead guide’s horse. He barely
parried a spear thrust from the Bretonnian and luckily managed to seize the
weapon with his free hand. He stared up at the face of the squire: a grizzled,
scarred man who hissed with exertion as he tried to wrest the weapon from the
young noble’s hand.
Otto stepped forward, trying to jab his sword at the Bretonnian’s arm but he
stumbled over the body of the dead guide, which was hanging, one foot trapped in
the stirrups. Frantically, Otto tried to pull himself upright using his enemy’s
spear but he fell, twisting, amongst the horses’ hooves. Through the stamping
legs and dust, he stared into the scarred face as the squire grinned and stabbed
down with his spear. Otto writhed but once more a pistol discharged close by and
the Bretonnian, grin still fixed in place, toppled from his horse. His killer, a
wiry pistolier in a dented helmet, paused just long enough to seize the horse’s
bridle and pull the beast away from the young noble, before running towards the
main body of the Bretonnians. Otto, panting aloud, struggled to his feet and
stumbled after him.
The knight, protected by a close knot of squires, was on his feet and
ordering his men to the attack. Standing screened by his warriors, with one hand
the Bretonnian attempted to beat the dust from his crimson surcoat, while with
the other he held his sword aloft. “They are only brigand dogs!” he yelled.
“Kill them!”
Charging forward, Otto almost screeched as he shouted with indignation, “I am
no brigand, but Otto von Eisenkopf of Barhaus! Defend yourself, insolent
knight.”
Dimly, Otto was aware that there seemed to be very few pistoliers on the road
or moving through the shrubs and boulders, but now his attention was fixed on
the tight group of men immediately facing him. The squires hesitated, looking to
their master for guidance. Slowly the knight gestured them aside and stepped
forward. “Very well,” the Bretonnian hissed, “whatever honour you have, von
Eisenkopf, prepare to test its mettle.”
The knight stood before him, looking almost warily at his young opponent. He
held his sword—a fine, jewel-hiked affair—loosely by his side while his free
hand toyed with a corner of his silk jupon. Otto sized his opponent up. The man
was older and taller, very tall in fact, but sparsely built, with a thin face
and hawk nose.
His reach would be long, Otto thought, but he himself had inherited his
father’s bull-like physique and he reckoned that, young though he was, he
himself was perhaps the stronger. They were both shieldless but the Bretonnian
was well armoured while Otto had only his brigandine. Otto smoothly raised his
him. The guide, still holding the bow, had now swept out his sword with his free
hand and was charging him. Otto struggled to draw his own blade. The knight was
shouting something. Otto cursed and stepped smartly to one side, only narrowly
avoiding the guide’s murderous sword swipe. His own sword now in his hand, the
young nobleman whirled to face the horseman who, rearing his mount, had turned
with incredible speed to attack him again. His gaze locked by his enemy’s one
blazing eye, Otto desperately prepared to dodge again but suddenly the guide
fell as Lutyens burst from the scrub and discharged a pistol into the side of
his head.
Otto’s mind reeled. The huge, rather slow pistolier had transformed into a
raging colossus of action. He didn’t seem to pause, even as he coolly dropped
the knight’s war-horse with his other pistol. Blonde hair streaming from under
his burgonet, he charged to where the squires were riding up to protect their
fallen master. He glanced back at Otto and shouted, “Get at them, fool!”
Otto hesitated. He was staring aghast at his borrowed brigandine, splattered
with blood from the slain guide. He looked up as a squire charged him. Gasping
aloud, Otto just managed to roll behind the dead guide’s horse. He barely
parried a spear thrust from the Bretonnian and luckily managed to seize the
weapon with his free hand. He stared up at the face of the squire: a grizzled,
scarred man who hissed with exertion as he tried to wrest the weapon from the
young noble’s hand.
Otto stepped forward, trying to jab his sword at the Bretonnian’s arm but he
stumbled over the body of the dead guide, which was hanging, one foot trapped in
the stirrups. Frantically, Otto tried to pull himself upright using his enemy’s
spear but he fell, twisting, amongst the horses’ hooves. Through the stamping
legs and dust, he stared into the scarred face as the squire grinned and stabbed
down with his spear. Otto writhed but once more a pistol discharged close by and
the Bretonnian, grin still fixed in place, toppled from his horse. His killer, a
wiry pistolier in a dented helmet, paused just long enough to seize the horse’s
bridle and pull the beast away from the young noble, before running towards the
main body of the Bretonnians. Otto, panting aloud, struggled to his feet and
stumbled after him.
The knight, protected by a close knot of squires, was on his feet and
ordering his men to the attack. Standing screened by his warriors, with one hand
the Bretonnian attempted to beat the dust from his crimson surcoat, while with
the other he held his sword aloft. “They are only brigand dogs!” he yelled.
“Kill them!”
Charging forward, Otto almost screeched as he shouted with indignation, “I am
no brigand, but Otto von Eisenkopf of Barhaus! Defend yourself, insolent
knight.”
Dimly, Otto was aware that there seemed to be very few pistoliers on the road
or moving through the shrubs and boulders, but now his attention was fixed on
the tight group of men immediately facing him. The squires hesitated, looking to
their master for guidance. Slowly the knight gestured them aside and stepped
forward. “Very well,” the Bretonnian hissed, “whatever honour you have, von
Eisenkopf, prepare to test its mettle.”
The knight stood before him, looking almost warily at his young opponent. He
held his sword—a fine, jewel-hiked affair—loosely by his side while his free
hand toyed with a corner of his silk jupon. Otto sized his opponent up. The man
was older and taller, very tall in fact, but sparsely built, with a thin face
and hawk nose.
His reach would be long, Otto thought, but he himself had inherited his
father’s bull-like physique and he reckoned that, young though he was, he
himself was perhaps the stronger. They were both shieldless but the Bretonnian
was well armoured while Otto had only his brigandine. Otto smoothly raised his
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