pull. He roared with pain and held hard to the projecting stump of the shaft as the only
support he had. He could hear the battle cries – loud, or shrill, depending on the man. He could hear the meaty sounds of strikes – he could
feel
them – as men’s
weapons rained on the wyvern.
But the creature still had him. It tried to twist his head to break his neck, but its bite couldn’t penetrate the helmet for a firmer grip. Its breath was all around him, suffocating
him.
He got his feet beneath him and tried to control his panic as the wyvern lifted him clean from the ground. He got his right hand on his heavy rondel dagger – a spike of steel with a grip.
With a scream of fear and rage, he slammed it blindly into the thing’s head.
It spat him free and he dropped like a stone to the frozen ground. His dagger spun away, but he rolled, and got to his feet.
Drew his sword.
Cut. All before the wave of pain could strike him – he cut low to high off the draw, left to right across his body and into the joint behind the beast’s leg.
It whirled and before he could react, the tusked snout punched him off his feet. Too fast to dodge. Then threw back its head and screamed.
Bad Tom buried his pole-axe in its other shoulder.
It reared away. A mistake. With two wounded limbs, it stumbled.
The captain got his feet under him, ignored the fire in his neck and back, and stood, powering straight forward, coming at it from the side this time. It turned to flatten Bad Tom, and Jehannes,
suddenly in front of it, hit it on the breastbone with a war hammer. Its face was feathered with barbs and arrows. There were more in the sinuous neck. Even as it turned and took another wound, in
the moment that the head was motionless it lost an eye to a long shaft, and its body thrashed – a squire was crushed by a flick of the wyvern’s tail, his back breaking and armour
folding under the weight of the blow.
Hugo crushed its ribs with a mighty, two-handed overhead blow. George Brewes stabbed it with a spear in the side and left the weapon there while he drew his sword. Lyliard cut overhand into the
back of its other leg; Foliack hammered it with repeated strokes.
But it remained focused on the captain. It swatted at him with a leg, lost its balance, roared, and turned on Hugo who had just hit it again. It closed its jaws on the marshal’s head, and
his helmet didn’t hold, The bite crushed his skull, killing him instantly. Sauce stepped over his headless corpse and planted her spear in its jaw, but it flung her away with a flick of the
neck.
The captain leaped forward again and his sword licked out. This time, his cut took one of the thing’s wings clean off its body, as easy as a practice cut on a sapling. As the head turned
and struck at him the captain stood his ground, ready to thrust for the remaining eye – but the head collapsed to the earth a yard from him, almost like a giant dog laying his head down at
his master’s feet, and the baleful eye tracked him.
He thrust.
It whipped its head up, away from the point of the sword, reared, remaining wing spread wide and thrashing the men under it, a ragged banner of the Wild—
—and died, a dozen bolts and arrows catching it all together.
It fell across Hugo’s corpse.
The men-at-arms didn’t stop hacking at it for a long time. Jehannes severed the head, Bad Tom took one leg off at the haunch, and two squires got the other leg at the knee. Sauce rammed
her long rondel into every joint, over and over. Archers continued to loose bolts and arrows into the prone mound of its corpse.
They were all covered in blood – thick, brown-green blood like the slime from the entrails of a butchered animal, hot to the touch, so corrosive that it could damage good armour if not
cleaned off immediately.
‘Michael?’ the captain said. His head
felt
as if it had been pulled from his body.
The young man struggled to get his maille aventail over his head, failed, and threw up
support he had. He could hear the battle cries – loud, or shrill, depending on the man. He could hear the meaty sounds of strikes – he could
feel
them – as men’s
weapons rained on the wyvern.
But the creature still had him. It tried to twist his head to break his neck, but its bite couldn’t penetrate the helmet for a firmer grip. Its breath was all around him, suffocating
him.
He got his feet beneath him and tried to control his panic as the wyvern lifted him clean from the ground. He got his right hand on his heavy rondel dagger – a spike of steel with a grip.
With a scream of fear and rage, he slammed it blindly into the thing’s head.
It spat him free and he dropped like a stone to the frozen ground. His dagger spun away, but he rolled, and got to his feet.
Drew his sword.
Cut. All before the wave of pain could strike him – he cut low to high off the draw, left to right across his body and into the joint behind the beast’s leg.
It whirled and before he could react, the tusked snout punched him off his feet. Too fast to dodge. Then threw back its head and screamed.
Bad Tom buried his pole-axe in its other shoulder.
It reared away. A mistake. With two wounded limbs, it stumbled.
The captain got his feet under him, ignored the fire in his neck and back, and stood, powering straight forward, coming at it from the side this time. It turned to flatten Bad Tom, and Jehannes,
suddenly in front of it, hit it on the breastbone with a war hammer. Its face was feathered with barbs and arrows. There were more in the sinuous neck. Even as it turned and took another wound, in
the moment that the head was motionless it lost an eye to a long shaft, and its body thrashed – a squire was crushed by a flick of the wyvern’s tail, his back breaking and armour
folding under the weight of the blow.
Hugo crushed its ribs with a mighty, two-handed overhead blow. George Brewes stabbed it with a spear in the side and left the weapon there while he drew his sword. Lyliard cut overhand into the
back of its other leg; Foliack hammered it with repeated strokes.
But it remained focused on the captain. It swatted at him with a leg, lost its balance, roared, and turned on Hugo who had just hit it again. It closed its jaws on the marshal’s head, and
his helmet didn’t hold, The bite crushed his skull, killing him instantly. Sauce stepped over his headless corpse and planted her spear in its jaw, but it flung her away with a flick of the
neck.
The captain leaped forward again and his sword licked out. This time, his cut took one of the thing’s wings clean off its body, as easy as a practice cut on a sapling. As the head turned
and struck at him the captain stood his ground, ready to thrust for the remaining eye – but the head collapsed to the earth a yard from him, almost like a giant dog laying his head down at
his master’s feet, and the baleful eye tracked him.
He thrust.
It whipped its head up, away from the point of the sword, reared, remaining wing spread wide and thrashing the men under it, a ragged banner of the Wild—
—and died, a dozen bolts and arrows catching it all together.
It fell across Hugo’s corpse.
The men-at-arms didn’t stop hacking at it for a long time. Jehannes severed the head, Bad Tom took one leg off at the haunch, and two squires got the other leg at the knee. Sauce rammed
her long rondel into every joint, over and over. Archers continued to loose bolts and arrows into the prone mound of its corpse.
They were all covered in blood – thick, brown-green blood like the slime from the entrails of a butchered animal, hot to the touch, so corrosive that it could damage good armour if not
cleaned off immediately.
‘Michael?’ the captain said. His head
felt
as if it had been pulled from his body.
The young man struggled to get his maille aventail over his head, failed, and threw up
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