accommodation. Signs of the War began to increase, however. I passed the occasional gallows and more frequently came upon burnt-out ruins of farmsteads and churches.
I had reached a mountainous region, of pines and gtittering limestone, one day and was emerging from a small gorge, when I saw before me a broad meadow in which, quite recently, some gory fight had taken place. There were bodies strewn everywhere, most of them stripped or at least partially shorn of their best clothing. Crows and ravens flapped and hopped, squabbling over the red, stinking flesh of the slain. There was absolutely no means of telling the loyalties of the combatants, and there was little point in trying to find out. It would probably emerge, as always, that their motives for fighting had been confused, to say the least.
Normally I should have skirted the battlefield, but my path took me directly through it and there were boulders on either side of the meadow. I was forced to let my horse pick his way between the corpses, while flies rose in clouds to attack me, presumably finding something more attractive about warm blood than cold.
I was halfway across the meadow, holding a cloth to my nostrils to try to block out the sickening smell of death, when I heard a noise from the rocks on my right and, looking up, saw a small boulder come tumbling down towards me. I detected a flash, as of metal, a hint of blue cloth, and immediately my old instincts came to my service.
The reins were wound around my pommel and both pistols were in my gloved hands. I cocked them carefully just as the men began to reveal themselves. They were all on foot, dressed in a motley of armour, carrying a variety of weaponry, from rusty axes and pikes, to glittering Toledo swords and daggers. The ruffians belonged to no particular army, that was certain. They were old-fashioned brigands, with sweating red faces, unshaven chins, and all manner of minor diseases written on their skins.
I leveled my pistols as they began to scramble down the hillside towards me.
“Stand back,” I cried, “or I shall discharge!”
Their leader, almost a dwarf, wearing a stained black cloak and hat and a torn linen shirt, produced one of the largest pistols I had ever seen and grinned at me. Most of his teeth were missing. He squinted along the gun and said in a wheedling voice:
“Fire away, Your Honour. And we’ll have the pleasure of doing the same.”
I shot him in the chest. With a groan he flung up his arms and fell backwards, twitching for a second or two before he died. His pistol slithered towards his feet and none of his men were prepared to pick it up.
I reholstered the pistol I had used and drew my sword. “You’ll not find me easy game, my friends,” I said. “I would advise you that the cost of robbing me will prove far too dear.”
One of the ruffians at the back raised a crossbow and loosed his bolt. The thing went just past my shoulder and I betrayed no sign that I had noticed it. My horse, well-trained, held his ground as well as did I.
“No more of that,” said I, “or this other pistol will do its work. You have seen that I am a good shot.”
I noted an arquebus lowered and a musket lifted from its aiming rod.
A creature with a squint and a Prussian accent said: “We are hungry, Your Worship. We have not eaten for days. We are honest soldiers, all of us, forced to live off the land when our officer deserted us.”
I smiled. “I would hesitate to guess who had deserted whom. I have no food to spare. If you wish to eat, why don’t you seek out an army and attach yourselves to it?”
Another began: “For the love of God …”
“I do not love God and neither does He love me,” I said, with some certainty. “You cannot beg charity from a man you had hoped to murder.”
They were creeping closer. I raised my pistol as a warning. They stopped, but then one of them, from the middle, brought up a pistol and fired it. The ball grazed the neck of my horse
I had reached a mountainous region, of pines and gtittering limestone, one day and was emerging from a small gorge, when I saw before me a broad meadow in which, quite recently, some gory fight had taken place. There were bodies strewn everywhere, most of them stripped or at least partially shorn of their best clothing. Crows and ravens flapped and hopped, squabbling over the red, stinking flesh of the slain. There was absolutely no means of telling the loyalties of the combatants, and there was little point in trying to find out. It would probably emerge, as always, that their motives for fighting had been confused, to say the least.
Normally I should have skirted the battlefield, but my path took me directly through it and there were boulders on either side of the meadow. I was forced to let my horse pick his way between the corpses, while flies rose in clouds to attack me, presumably finding something more attractive about warm blood than cold.
I was halfway across the meadow, holding a cloth to my nostrils to try to block out the sickening smell of death, when I heard a noise from the rocks on my right and, looking up, saw a small boulder come tumbling down towards me. I detected a flash, as of metal, a hint of blue cloth, and immediately my old instincts came to my service.
The reins were wound around my pommel and both pistols were in my gloved hands. I cocked them carefully just as the men began to reveal themselves. They were all on foot, dressed in a motley of armour, carrying a variety of weaponry, from rusty axes and pikes, to glittering Toledo swords and daggers. The ruffians belonged to no particular army, that was certain. They were old-fashioned brigands, with sweating red faces, unshaven chins, and all manner of minor diseases written on their skins.
I leveled my pistols as they began to scramble down the hillside towards me.
“Stand back,” I cried, “or I shall discharge!”
Their leader, almost a dwarf, wearing a stained black cloak and hat and a torn linen shirt, produced one of the largest pistols I had ever seen and grinned at me. Most of his teeth were missing. He squinted along the gun and said in a wheedling voice:
“Fire away, Your Honour. And we’ll have the pleasure of doing the same.”
I shot him in the chest. With a groan he flung up his arms and fell backwards, twitching for a second or two before he died. His pistol slithered towards his feet and none of his men were prepared to pick it up.
I reholstered the pistol I had used and drew my sword. “You’ll not find me easy game, my friends,” I said. “I would advise you that the cost of robbing me will prove far too dear.”
One of the ruffians at the back raised a crossbow and loosed his bolt. The thing went just past my shoulder and I betrayed no sign that I had noticed it. My horse, well-trained, held his ground as well as did I.
“No more of that,” said I, “or this other pistol will do its work. You have seen that I am a good shot.”
I noted an arquebus lowered and a musket lifted from its aiming rod.
A creature with a squint and a Prussian accent said: “We are hungry, Your Worship. We have not eaten for days. We are honest soldiers, all of us, forced to live off the land when our officer deserted us.”
I smiled. “I would hesitate to guess who had deserted whom. I have no food to spare. If you wish to eat, why don’t you seek out an army and attach yourselves to it?”
Another began: “For the love of God …”
“I do not love God and neither does He love me,” I said, with some certainty. “You cannot beg charity from a man you had hoped to murder.”
They were creeping closer. I raised my pistol as a warning. They stopped, but then one of them, from the middle, brought up a pistol and fired it. The ball grazed the neck of my horse
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