The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,115

finally landed a killing blow but couldn’t drive the animal over the cliff before it bled out. Both armies could hear Alonzo’s fury. The prince wasn’t discreet in his anger.

“W-well done,” Marco said. “We c-can do t-this.”

Maybe he really was mad enough to believe it. Alonzo had ridden ahead, which was obviously why he had mostly knights with him, but his army would be following behind and they far outnumbered Marco’s group. Everyone but Marco knew death was merely a matter of time.

“W-what will m-my uncle do n-now?”

“Unhorse his light cavalry,” Captain Weimer said. “Use them as foot soldiers.”

And so it proved. A group of mercenaries advanced with their shields held high as they edged carefully between dead horses. They wore breastplates and open-faced helmets and looked utterly professional. Raising their shields, they advanced in step.

“Tortuca,” Captain Weimer shouted.

As the front row of Marco’s men steadied their shields, Tycho took his place in the second row beside Captain Weimer. The men behind them had shields that they raised against spears or arrows from above. It was a formation as old as Venice itself, possibly older.

Shield met shield as the mercenaries slammed into Marco’s wall. The men in Marco’s tortuca dug their boots in, steadied themselves and punched with their shields, hoping to hear air whoosh from those they faced. A mercenary stumbled, and his immediate opponent stabbed for the gap. His sword slid off armour and entered a man’s neck, jutting right through for a moment until he withdrew his blade in a spray of blood. The enemy wall roared in fury.

The mercenary’s comrades closed the gap as he fell.

“Well done, lad,” Captain Weimer roared. Quietly, he muttered, “They’re pushing us back.” Tycho already realised that. The small group protecting Marco gave ground slowly as extra men joined the back of Alonzo’s own tortuca.

“We can’t hold them for long enough,” Captain Weimer whispered. Tycho’s answer was lost as the captain roared, “That’s it, lads. Push harder, we’re going to march right over them.”

Those at the front of Marco’s tortuca pushed and grunted, reversing their grips to stab down over shields, while those behind jabbed with spears when they could. One man risked a glance over the wall and took a sword through the eye. Tycho grabbed his drooping shield, stepped into the gap and stabbed the man’s attacker. Dropping to a crouch, he slashed another across the ankle. These men had wives and children, maybe even mothers, but he welcomed their screams all the same.

“You’ve done this before, sir.”

He punched his shield into an enemy who tried to push him, heard breath burst from the man’s body and slammed the bottom of his shield down on the man’s foot, jerking it upwards to catch him under his chin. “I learn fast.”

“Nah . . .” The man shook his head doggedly. “You’ve done this before.”

Not at Bjornvin, Tycho thought. In Bjornvin, slaves couldn’t even own knives. “I’m going out here. Close the gap after me.”

“If you do,” said his neighbour, “we’ll all die.” His tone said he realised there was little to choose between nobles, children and idiots . . . None the less, he’d rather the idiot next to him keep his place. Tycho remained where he was rather than break the shield wall. Those behind him provided the shields that made a roof against spears, while those in his line held fast against the brutal weight of numbers pushing them and those at the very back dug in their heels, fought the slush and strained to hold those in front. Together they made a metal and flesh monster, solid on the outside and fear-filled, stinking and desperate within. All they could do was retreat and keep retreating as slowly as possible.

Marco was muttering to himself, a stuttery two-way conversation about how strange life was and how death was going to be even stranger. He didn’t seem upset at the thought, simply resigned. Captain Weimer was beside him. The man would die to protect the duke, probably sooner rather than later.

At least their weight of numbers made Alonzo’s men careless.

Marco’s group kept their shields high and took heart from enemy screams every time their blades bit home or spears found their mark. The smell of blood was overpowering, the stench of voided bowels even worse. The grinding of shields hurt Tycho’s ears until he hated the noise and his sharp hearing. He fought, he pushed back and slammed his shield into the enemy in front. Around him, tired men were