Free The Hostility of Hanno: An Outlaw Chronicles short story by Angus Donald Page B

him. The man, a giant red-faced warrior in
     a long green woollen cloak, bawled and guffawed, and banged on a large shield that he had brought for the wounded boy. He
     seemed to be explaining what it was for: God in Heaven, were the soldiers of the Lionheart all imbeciles? Did they willingly
     go into battle without knowing how to hold a shield?
    The English boy had several visitors in green cloaks: a tall good-looking fellow with an easy air and strange silver-grey
     eyes who seemed to be his lord, an excitable red-head not much older than the patient accompanied by an odd-looking woman
     who seemed to be his mother, and a child-servant who brought food and drink and hovered around twisting his fingers in anxiety
     for his master’s health. There was no peace to be had in the infirmary, Hanno grumbled to himself, no peace at all. He cursed
     the bone of his leg that had been shattered by that woman’s blow, long before the fever took him. A shameful wound: laid low
     by an ale slut. He had not expected that – he had thought he was fighting two men in that noisome drinking den in Tyre, and
     he had dispatched them smartly enough, but the woman over whom he had taken up arms in the first place sided with the Chiavaris
     and snapped his tibia with an iron cooking pot when his back was to her. Which only proved what he had always said: a man
     could always improve; a man should strive for perfection in his art, but he must also be as ready to learn as he was to teach.
     She was a fine woman, after all, well worth fighting for – fat as butter and with breasts like the full udders of a prize
     milch cow, and she brewed a decent ale as well. Shame she was dead now, really. Shame he had to kill her. But what could you
     do … Just bad luck. Bad luck, too, to be pinned here helplessly by that God-damned leg with the remaining Chiavari brothers
     calling for bloody vengeance. And all alone, without a single comrade to stand beside him, to watch over him … For a moment,
     he felt a childish self-pity ballooning in his chest, but he squelched it ruthlessly, laughing at his own weakness, and focused
     his thoughts on his future – and the loom of the Chiavaris. When would they come? At night? Maybe. During the day in the guise
     of concerned friends? Perhaps. Or would they wait until his guard was down, perhaps for weeks or even months. Whichever, it
     would be foolish to remain lying here in this bed for too long …
    ***
    Alan was awoken by a clattering of wood on stone and a harsh cry of pain. It was dim in the infirmary, deep night-time, but
     a lone candle on a table at the far end gave some relief from the darkness. He sat up and looked left. The cot that had contained
     his surly companion was empty but he could see a humped shape moving feebly at the foot of the bed, trying to drag itself
     forward. He slowly levered himself out of bed and stepped over to the fallen man. Two fierce eyes gleamed up at him from the
     tangle of limbs and bedding. Alan reached down and hauled the man upright. Hanno let out a bitten-down yelp as his broken
     limb banged against the bed, and followed it with a foul-sounding stream of unintelligible yet clearly furious words. It was
     no easy task, for his wounds had seriously weakened him, but Alan had soon wrestled the shaven-headed man back on his cot.
     They glared at each other, both panting with the exertion of the manoeuvre. And then Hanno said loudly, ‘
Wasser
!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘
Wasser
!
Wasser
!’ Hanno mimed drinking with a curled hand.
    Alan nodded and walked over to the table at the end of the room. His wounded belly had been strained in the act of lifting
     the heavy-set Bavarian on to the bed, and he checked it and was pleased to find no fresh blood; for all his discomfort, he
     was nearly mended. From a tall earthenware jug, he poured out a pint beaker of cool water and brought it over to his neighbour.
     The man took it and sank the contents in a single draft. He put the