Free Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople by Christian Cameron

dropped his bow.
    The farther man had to rein in to avoid his mate’s horse, and Swan threw, with all his fear and hate behind it, and his rock struck the man’s horse in the head, and the horse shied violently, sidestepping, rearing, and blew out a great breath, utterly spoiling his master’s aim, and that arrow vanished well over Swan, who charged the Turk while the man tried to get control of his horse, his right hand seizing his sword back from his left. A few paces behind Swan, the wounded Turk finally fell from the saddle, and his horse stopped immediately and stood over her fallen man.
    The Turk nearest Swan gave up on fighting his mare, dropped his bow, and drew his sword.
    Swan made it to his side and pushed his buckler at the man, drawing a heavy cut that rang off the buckler’s steel boss, and Swan’s counter-cut scored, cutting the man’s fingers and his wrist – having hit, Swan cut a reverso up into the man’s chin, and punched it home with a jab like a boxing blow – all in a pair of heartbeats. It was a set piece he’d learned from the maestro in Venice, and it worked beautifully, even when his opponent was four feet higher and cutting down.
    He was still admiring his own swordsmanship when his victim’s horse knocked him flat. His backplate took the animal’s kick, and he rolled in the dust and saw the Spaniard loose an arrow.
    The other group of Turks had stopped to shoot. It was a natural reaction for an archer, but it cost them time, and the Spaniard loosed shaft after shaft – not accurately, but the Turks were densely enough packed that many of his arrows hit horses, exposed flesh – even a ricochet, or a broken splinter in a horse’s hoof, could change the course of a small fight. And his flow of shafts disconcerted them.
    And another carefully aimed crossbow bolt struck, tearing a horseman from his saddle.
    Swan got to his knees, the pain in his back ebbing from unbearable to bearable where the horse had kicked him. He retrieved his sword, got to his feet, and stumbled from the pain.
    The Turks had begun to return the marine’s arrows, with interest – six for one. But the Spaniard was canny – he loosed and moved, loosed and moved, always headed for the cover of the market plaza and the distant fountain.
    Swan saw Giannis at the edge of the market as the Greek man-at-arms leaned out from the cover of an ancient pillar and snapped off another crossbow bolt. It hit a horse.
    Swan went from walking to a stumbling, shuffling jog. Two arrows passed close to him, but the Turks were now concentrating all their arrows on the Spaniard, and all that came his way were overshots.
    He managed to run.
    The bishop lay unmoving. The head of St George lay in the middle of the street, wrapped in his armet.
    He couldn’t think of rescuing either of them, right now. Instead, he passed the bishop, got a hand up, and seized the bridle of the horse standing by the corpse of the first man Giannis had killed. Without breaking stride he vaulted into the saddle, gathered the reins, and leaned way out over the horse’s neck.
    ‘No! Thomas!’ yelled Alessandro at his back.
    I got them all into this , Swan thought.
    He pointed the head of the Turkish horse at the enemy, pressed his spurless heels into her sides and rolled his weight forward over her neck. She got the message and leaped into a gallop. Swan finally got the reins under his buckler hand and concentrated on holding on with his knees.
    He kept his buckler up near his head.
    He heard the flat crack as Giannis discharged another bolt.
    And then he was on them, although his mare was suddenly sluggish – she slowed from a gallop to a canter, and he couldn’t make her turn. His buckler slammed into an archer’s hands as he raised his bow, and Swan almost lost his seat cutting across his body to get the man – a weak blow that nonetheless mangled his opponent’s bow-arm.
    Swan had never actually fought from horseback before.
    The second Turk loosed