Erak's Ransom

Chapter 48

Toshak peered round the corner of a narrow street leading onto the square. The beginning of the wide thoroughfare that led to the main gate was forty metres away. He looked now and saw Erak and his friends moving towards the colonnades that lined the far side of the square. Somebody must have seen him running in that direction, he thought.

He smiled grimly. He had gone that way initially. But then he'd doubled round, cutting through a maze of streets and alleys to emerge back here. He had a horse saddled and ready, in a stable a few doors back from the square. Now his enemies were moving away, leaving the way clear for him to escape. And the Rangers, he noted with satisfaction, were without their cursed longbows. All he needed to do was fetch the horse, lead it to this corner, mount and ride for his life.

Once he was out of Maashava, who knew? He'd have a head start, a fresh horse and plenty of water. He'd make forthe coast sixty kilometres away. His ship, Wolfclaw, was moored in a little bay and he was an experienced stellar navigator. He'd travel by night so those damned Rangers couldn't track him. In two days, he could be on board.

But first, he had to get out of Maashava. And this was looking like his best chance. He backed slowly away from the corner for a few paces, then turned and ran lightly to the stable.

'The trouble is, he could have gone anywhere once he made it this far,' Horace said. Halt nodded, chewing his lip reflectively. Beyond the colonnades that lined the market square, they found a maze of narrow, winding streets and crowded buildings.

'We'll just have to keep looking till we find him,' he said. 'At least he'll be easy to spot.'

'What's all that shouting?' Evanlyn interrupted. From the square, they could hear voices raised, calling the alarm. In a group, they ran back through the rear door of the coffee house they had just left, then out onto the square once more.

'It's Toshak!' Svengal yelled.

Diagonally opposite them, the Skandian traitor was seated astride a rearing horse, striking left and right with a battleaxe at a group of Bedullin warriors who had tried to stop him.

He beat his way clear, leaving two of them lying ominously still, and set his horse towards the wide entrance to the road leading to the main gate. Svengal ran forward a few paces and launched his spear after the retreating horseman, but it was a futile gesture and the missile landed, clattering, twenty metres short.

Then Halt heard that strange humming sound again, rising gradually in pitch. He glanced around to see Evanlyn, feet braced apart, whirling the long leather sling around her head, letting the speed build up.

'He's wearing a helmet,' he cautioned. Toshak had been prepared to fight his way clear. He was fully armed and Halt knew that the sling would be useless against his heavy iron helmet.

'I know,' said Evanlyn briefly, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Then there was a whistling slap as she cast the heavy marble ball after the fleeing Toshak. It flew across the square, too fast for the eye to follow, and slammed painfully into the target she had set herself – the horse's rump.

Stung by the sudden burning impact, the horse reared and lost its footing on the cobbles of the square. It staggered sideways on its rear legs, trying to regain its balance. The unexpected, violent movement and change of direction was too much for Toshak and he slid backwards over the horse's withers, to fall with a crash on the cobblestones.

'Good shot,' Halt told Evanlyn. She grinned.

'I figured he'd sit a horse as well as most Skandians,' she said.

Momentarily winded, Toshak regained his feet to find himself surrounded by a ring of vengeful Bedullin. The desert warriors circled him cautiously, kept at bay by the threat of the massive battleaxe. A true Skandian, Toshak hadn't released his grip on the weapon when he fell.

He eyed the circle of enemies now, determined to sell his life dearly. Toshak might be a traitor but he was no coward.

'All right,' he said, to nobody in particular. 'Who's going to be first?'

'I think that would be me.'

Erak shouldered his way through the Bedullin warriors and stood facing his enemy. Toshak nodded several times, and smiled. He knew he was going to die but at least he'd have the satisfaction of taking the hated Oberjarl with him. He glanced down scornfully at the Tualaghi sabre Erak was carrying. It looked no bigger than a dagger in the Oberjarl's massive fist.

'You're fighting an axe with that toothpick, Erak?' he sneered. Erak studied the weapon and pursed his lips. He looked round the watching circle and saw a better alternative. He removed his kheffiyeh and wrapped it round the palm and fingers of his left hand. Then he set the sabre down and reached his right hand out to Horace.

'D'you think I could borrow that bodkin of yours, Horace?' he said.

Horace stepped forward, reversed the huge executioner's sword and placed the hilt in Erak's outstretched hand. 'Be my guest,' he said.

Erak swiped the long sword back and forth several times, then nodded in satisfaction.

'That'll do,' he said. 'Now step back, everyone. I've got work to do.'

The circle of spectators quickly backed off several paces as he launched himself at Toshak, the sword swinging down in a blow that would have split the traitor down to the waist.

There was a massive, ringing clang as Toshak caught the blow on the top of his double-bladed axe head. He twisted his wrists, jerking the sword to one side, then it was his turn and he swung in a flailing round arm blow with the axe.

Erak leapt back just in time, the heavy double-bladed head whooshing through the air only millimetres from his ribs. He was already counterattacking with the sword and this time Toshak swayed to one side, letting the huge blade slice down just clear of him, striking sparks from the stones on the ground.

He tried an overhead cut and now Evanlyn understood why Erak had bound his hand with the kheffiyeh. He gripped the blade with his left hand and the hilt in his right to block the force of the axe blow. A grip on the hilt alone wouldn't have had sufficient leverage to stop the massive axe, she realised.

The two men strained against each other for several seconds, their weapons locked together. They were both massively built, each one as powerful as an ox. But Erak had been a prisoner for some weeks now and his strength was reduced by the meagre diet and the punishment he had taken from his captors. In a straight-out contest of brute strength like this, Toshak had the advantage and he began to force the Oberjarl back, a pace at a time.

Realising he was overmatched, Erak struck out quickly with a flat-footed kick to Toshak's thigh. The blow staggered the traitor and Erak was able to spin away, leaping suddenly to avoid a lightning fast axe stroke as Toshak recovered his balance.

Then they rushed at each other again and stood toe to toe, hammering blows at each other. Parrying and blocking, sliding to one side to evade each other's weapons and beating at each other in a final trial of strength and speed. There was no science or subtlety to it. Each used the advantage his weapon gave him – Erak the extra reach of the sword, Toshak the massive weight of the battleaxe.

And it was that weight that began to tell as he rained blow after blow down at Erak, forcing the weakened Oberjarl onto the defensive.

Svengal watched in an agony of concern as his leader began to give ground, a few centimetres at a time at first, then in gradually greater amounts. A light of triumph came into Toshak's eyes as he saw the Oberjarl faltering, felt him giving way. He redoubled the effort he was putting into his strokes, feeling Erak's weakening resistance, seeing his knees buckle slightly with each blow. Now Toshak was swinging two blows to Erak's one and the momentum of the battle was with him and it could only be a matter of time.

Erak's eyes were haunted and his breath came in ragged gasps. He caught one final, overpowering axe blow on the blade of the sword and the massive force behind it buckled his knees and drove him back and down onto the cobbles.

There was a groan from the spectators as they saw the Oberjarl fall. Toshak leapt forward with a snarl of triumph, the mighty axe rising in a two-handed grip for the killing blow. Then he saw something strange.

Erak was smiling.

Too late, Toshak realised he had been tricked. Erak was nowhere near as tired and clumsy as he had seemed. And he was holding a weapon with a much longer reach than any battleaxe. With a mighty roar, Erak used his left arm to thrust himself up from the cobbles while he drove the sword deep into Toshak's unprotected body. Then, releasing the sword, he sidestepped the axe stroke that came half a second too late and watched his enemy, impaled by the terrible sword, stagger, drop his axe and fall to the ground.

Toshak's eyes were wide open, in pain and fear. His fingers scrabbled awkwardly on the cobbles and he was mouthing something to Erak. The Oberjarl understood and nodded. With the toe of his boot, he nudged the axe alongside his enemy's scrabbling hand. Toshak's fingers closed over the haft and he nodded once.

Skandians, Horace knew, believed that if they were to die in battle without a weapon in their hand, their soul would wander for all eternity. Even Toshak didn't deserve that.

'Thank… you… ' Toshak sighed, the words almost inaudible. Then his eyes closed and he died.

'You should have left him to wander,' Svengal said coldly. Erak looked at him, eyebrows raised.

'Would you?' he asked and Svengal hesitated. At the end, Toshak had fought well and that counted for a lot with Skandians.

'No,' he admitted.