It was the calm, unflustered attitude that caused something to snap inside Padraig. He launched himself forward again, sword swinging down in a vicious arc. This time, as Horace deflected it with his own blade, he remembered the words of Sir Rodney, his own mentor at Castle Redmont years ago.
Give any opponent a chance to surrender, but don't take risks sks with him. Something can always go wrong in a duel. A snapped girth, a cut rein, n, a lucky blow that gets through your guard. Don't take chances.
He sighed. He'd given Padraig two opportunities. Rodney was right. To do more would be foolish. As he deflected the Hibernian's sword, he quickly brought his own blade up and hammered four rapid overhand cuts at the man. His sword slammed down repeatedly on the outlaw's shield, denting and bending it out of shape as
Padraig held it high, cowering under it. Then, as the sound of the fourth stroke was still ringing across the field, Horace spun Kicker fast to the left, using the momentum of the spin to bring the long blade in a scything forehand across Padraig's exposed ribs.
The wet, crunching sensation as the stroke went home told him it was a fatal blow. Padraig stayed upright for a few seconds, a puzzled expression on his face. Then all expression left him and he toppled sideways from the saddle.
As the battle still raged at the barricades, several of those in the attackers' rear ranks had turned to watch the encounter. Now they saw their leader fall to the ground as the mounted warrior dealt him one final crushing blow. They looked for his lieutenants for orders. But they were either dead or wounded by Will's volley of arrows.
Gradually, a few of those in the rear began to melt away, running to the south. Within a few minutes, the trickle became a flood and the outlaws streamed, without leaders or direction, away from the barricades, leaving half their number dead or wounded on the field, or draped over the barricade.
The battle for Craikennis was over.
Chapter 29
The aftermath of a battle was always a sobering sight, Horace thought. The dead lay in awkward, unnatural poses, draped on the barricade or sprawled on the ground before it, looking as if they'd been carelessly scattered by some giant hand. The wounded sobbed or cried pitifully for help or relief. Some tried unsuccessfully to hobble or crawl away, fearing retaliation from the people they had so recently been attacking.
The people of Craikennis moved among the defeated men, rounding up those with less serious injuries and holding them under the hostile gaze of a squad of village watchmen. The women tended to the more seriously wounded, bandaging and cleaning wounds, bringing water to those who cried out for it. Funny how a battle left your mouth and throat parched, the young warrior thought.
Will supervised a group of villagers as they collected weapons and armour from the outlaws. One of the villagers asked him if he wanted to retrieve his and Halt's arrowsbut he shook his head hastily. Half of them would be broken anyway and the idea of cleaning and reusing a blood-stained arrow was distasteful in the extreme. Besides, they had plenty of spares in the arrow cases they both carried tied behind their saddles. He watched while one of the village women cradled a wounded outlaw's head and let him take small sips of water from a cup as she held it to his lips. The man groaned pitifully, his hand weakly searching for hers to try to keep the cup to his mouth. But the effort was beyond his strength and his hand fell limply back to his side.
Strange, Will thought, how the most evil, murderous outlaw can be reduced to a sobbing little boy by his wounds.
Halt was talking with Conal and the village head man, Terrence.
`We owe you our thanks, Ranger,' the watch commander said. Halt shrugged and gestured towards Horace. The young warrior, as Halt had told him to, was sitting mounted on Kicker, on the raised knoll where Halt and Will had based themselves. The early afternoon sun shone off the white shield cover, accentuating the rising sun emblem.
`Your thanks should go to the Sunrise Warrior,' he said and saw the instant flicker of recognition in Terrence's eyes. He'd guessed correctly that the older head man would be familiar with the ancient myths and legends of Hibernia.
`That's the…?' He stopped, not quite daring to pronounce the fabled name.
`Who else would it be?' Halt asked him. 'You see the rising sun emblem on his shield. And you saw him cut down nine of the enemy to reach their leader – who now lies dead out there.' There had been seven men in the group Horace attacked but Halt knew it was never too early to start exaggerating numbers.
Terrence shaded his eyes with his hand and peered at the tall figure on the bay battlehorse. He certainly looked imposing, he thought.
Horace, for his part, was puzzled. He'd been willing to take part in the clean-up after the battle. But Halt had told him to mount Kicker, ride to the knoll and sit there.
`Look enigmatic,' he had instructed.
Horace had nodded, then frowned.
`How do I do that?' he asked. Halt's eyebrow went up and Horace hastily added, 'Well, if I get enigmatic wrong, you'll be angry with me. So it's better I ask.'
`All right. Look as if you have plenty to say but you're not going to say it,' Halt told him. He saw the doubt in Horace's eyes and quickly altered his instructions. 'Forget that. Look as if someone has shoved a week-old fish under your nose.'
`I can do that,' Horace said, and cantered away. He practised curling his lip in distaste as he went.
Now, as he sat there, he saw Halt gesture towards him and saw the unmistakable start of interest from the older man, Terrence. He wondered briefly what the conversation was about and then he sighed. Halt was a devious character when he chose to be, he thought. He was confident it would be something that he, Horace, would probably disapprove of. He was also confident that, whatever Halt was saying, it had little to do with the truth.
At the barricade, Halt continued to elaborate on the theme of Horace's identity.
`You know the old legend,' he said to Terrence. He was sure the head man did, but he thought he'd spell it out anyway. 'The Sunrise Warrior will come from the east when the six kingdoms are in dire peril.'
Terrence nodded as he spoke. Halt glanced quickly at Conal and saw the cynicism in the younger man's eyes. He shrugged mentally. No matter. He hadn't expected a practical man like Conal to subscribe to old myths and legends. But at least Conal had seen Horace's undoubted weapons skill. He'd been impressed by those, all right.
`So, what thanks does your… Sunrise Warrior ask?' Conal said now. 'Is there some tangible reward that he's looking for?' The slight pause before he spoke the title was clear evidence that he set no store by the legend. He obviously expected Halt to demand some kind of cash tribute in the Warrior's name.
Halt faced him, his gaze level and unblinking.
`No thanks are necessary. Just spread the word that the Sunrise Warrior has returned to bring order to Clonmel,' Halt told him.
He saw a slightly puzzled frown crease Conal's forehead and smiled quietly to himself, although his face showed no trace of it. It didn't matter that Conal didn't believe. Halt had noticed that several of the villagers working nearby had heard his words and were looking with interest at the tall warrior mounted on his battlehorse. He heard the phrase 'Sunrise Warrior' repeated several times in lowered tones. Gossip and hearsay would spread the word of the Warrior's appearance here within a few days. Halt always wondered how such things could spread so quickly through a fief or shire. But he knew they could and that was what he needed. He also knew that the farther the word spread, the more exaggerated the facts would become. By the end of the week, he was willing to bet, the story would be that the Sunrise Warrior had faced Padraig's band all alone, in an open field, and cut down all of them with three mighty sweeps of a flaming sword.