Will gripped the knife hand with both his hands, trying to force the dirk away to the side. But he felt a hollow sense of despair as he realized how much stronger the Scotti was. Fighting on their feet, Will would have had a slight edge in speed and mobility. But here, all the advantages were with the Scotti.
Will heaved and bucked desperately, trying to throw the other man off. But MacHaddish was expecting the movements and countered them easily. Each time, Will gained a little respite as the knife moved away from him. Then, inexorably, MacHaddish's brute strength would bring it back, forcing it down toward Will's throat. And Will was tiring.
The sweat of fear, panic and exertion ran into Will's eyes as he watched the gleaming tip of the dirk inch closer and closer. Behind it, vaguely, he could see MacHaddish's face, his features obscured by the paint. There was a light of triumph in his eyes, and MacHaddish's lips drew back in a fierce smile as he realized that any second now, it would be all over.
And then, sooner than he had expected, it was.
Bang Bang The heavy brass pommel of Horace's sword slammed into the Scotti's temple twice in rapid succession.
Will felt MacHaddish's strength suddenly fade to nothing, and all that was left was his dead weight bearing down on the knife as his eyes glazed and he slumped unconscious. With one final convulsive heave, Will threw him off to the side and staggered to his feet, reeling a little as he moved away from the inert body in the snow.
Horace stepped toward his friend and put an arm around his shoulders to steady him.
For the past five minutes Horace had been blundering blindly through the trees and bushes, heading in what he hoped was the right direction. Thank god, he thought, he had made it just in time.
He saw, with some concern, that the front of Will's jerkin was covered in blood.
"Are you all right?" he said, taking his arm from Will's shoulders and turning him so he could see more clearly, looking for some sign of a wound.
Will coughed and retched in reaction to his close shave. He knew how near to dying he had been, and his legs were weak from the thought of it.
"Will!" Horace said, concern making his voice harden. "Are you okay?"
The young warrior was frantically running his hands over Will's chest and stomach, trying to see where he might be wounded. There was a lot of blood soaked into his jerkin front, and it had to be coming from somewhere. Still in slight shock, Will reacted angrily to the question.
"Of course I'm not all right, you idiot!" he snapped. "He damn near killed me! Or didn't you notice?"
He tried to slap Horace's searching hands away but didn't succeed.
"Where did he get you?" Horace asked frantically. He knew he had to find the source of that blood and stanch the flow. Wounds to the stomach and torso were all too often fatal, he knew, and he felt panic rising in him as he continued to search.
"Stop pawing at me!" Will shouted angrily, stepping back from him. "It's MacHaddish's blood, not mine!"
Horace looked at him, uncomprehending for a moment. "Not yours?" he said.
"No. Look at his hand where the arrow hit him. He was pouring blood all over me as we fought. I'm fine."
And illogically, right on the heels of a sudden rush of relief, Horace felt his anger welling up.
"His blood? Why didn't you say so? I was frantic here, thinking you were bleeding like a stuck pig!"
"When did you give me a chance?" Will said. "You were all over me, grabbing at me, turning me this way and that!"
The anger, of course, was nothing more than reaction to the shock and fear they had both felt. But it was no less real for all that.
"I'm sorry," Horace snapped back. "Forgive me for being concerned about you. It won't happen again!"
"Well, if you'd got here a little sooner, there wouldn't have been a problem," Will retorted quickly. "Where the blazes were you, anyway?"
"Where was I? I nearly went crazy trying to find you! Is this the thanks I get for saving your life? Because let me tell you, it didn't look as if you were having the best of it with our friend here."
He nudged the unconscious MacHaddish with the toe of his boot. The Scotti general made no sound. But Will had the grace to look suddenly chastened as he realized his friend was right.
"I'm sorry, Horace. You're right. You saved my life, and I'm grateful."
"Well…" Now it was Horace's turn to shuffle his feet uneasily. He knew the reason for Will's apparent anger. He had seen it in many soldiers who had come close to death and he knew Will hadn't meant to be ungracious."That's okay. Think nothing of it." He looked for a way to change the subject and realized the perfect opportunity was lying unconscious in the snow.
"I suppose we'd better get him back to Grimsdell," he said. He stooped and grabbed the Scotti's arms to heave him up and over his shoulder, then realized the man's right arm was still pulsing blood. "Better bind this up or he'll bleed all over me," he said.
Quickly, he cut a strip off the man's tartan and wrapped the injured wrist in it. Then, with Will's help, he managed to get the dead weight of the general over his shoulder. He wrinkled his nose with distaste.
"He's a bit ripe close to, isn't he?" he said.
Will shrugged. "I was a little too busy to notice."
19
In addition to the unconscious general, three of the Scotti patrol had survived the vicious fight among the trees. Two were unwounded, although one had a large bruise on his jaw where Horace had hit him. The third was semiconscious from loss of blood, with a massive ax wound to his arm.
Gundar, having recovered from his brief flare of berserker rage, ordered the two unwounded Scotti to make a stretcher for their companion and to carry him back to Malcolm's cottage. As they were doing so, he beckoned Will to one side.
"One of them got away," he said. "I can send a few of my men after him if you want."
Will hesitated. The Skandians were excellent fighters, but he doubted their ability to track one running man in the dark. He would have preferred it if none of MacHaddish's party had escaped, but he knew that was asking too much. In the confusion of the battle, it would have been easy for one man to slip into the trees. It was a pity the man had gotten away, but it was no huge problem. He gestured toward MacHaddish, whom Horace had now lowered to the ground with a small sigh of relief.
"We've got the one we came for," he said. "Let it go. He can't do us any harm." He frowned thoughtfully, hoping he was right.
When the stretcher was ready, Horace heaved the Scotti general onto his shoulder again. Nils Ropehander offered to relieve him, but Horace shook his head.
"Maybe later," Horace replied. "He's all right for the moment."
But it was a long way back to the clearing in Grimsdell, and Horace and the Skandians ended up passing the general from one to another, each taking turns carrying him. Eventually, MacHaddish regained consciousness and was able to walk. But his hands were tied and a rope around his neck was secured to Horace's belt. Horace shrugged several times, turning his neck from side to side to relieve the cramped shoulder muscles.
"What are we going to do with this lot?" he asked Will softly, indicating the prisoners. Will didn't answer immediately.
"I suppose we'll have to build some kind of stockade," he said uncertainly. "We'll certainly have to keep guard over them."
Horace grunted."The boys will love that," he said, indicating the Skandians marching ahead of them, joking and laughing quietly among themselves. "They won't want to spend their time guarding prisoners. They like their food and drink too much."