Dody remained motionless except for his blinking eyes. In his hands was a bag of smooth pebbles and a slingshot, which he had already proved to use with great force and accuracy.
Dardo’s eyes rounded on the weapon and he immediately rubbed his forehead. ‘Bad memories,’ he said looking pale.
Exactly one hour later, Thomas, dressed in forest greens darted through the early morning mist covering the woodland floor. The air was thick with the scent of pine and cedar and the forest track covered in tiny russet needles. He was on foot and chasing a stag of truly huge proportions. It was at least a twenty-four pointer, weighing six or seven hundred pounds or more, and he had never seen one that big in his entire life.
He had caught sight of it while out testing his fitness, skill and agility in the forest, awaiting intelligence of Ozhan’s plans from his embedded spies. Now he ran like the North Wind chasing it, and with every stride he took he ran faster and faster, hurdling over every obstacle with ease. However, after a fifteen-minute chase he lost sight of it and dropped to his knees out of pure exhaustion, realising how hungry he was. His belly rumbled, growled and seemed to say, ‘Has my throat been cut?’
Just at that moment, Dardo arrived breathless and red faced from running too. ‘There’s been another mass killing,’ he announced, trembling, a chill in his voice.
The words jolted Thomas.
Dardo beckoned his friend to follow him and led the way to a large clearing beside a river. Evil hung in the air as surely as they breathed. Bodies of men, women and children lay sprawled everywhere, burned and mutilated, and all had had their throats slit from ear to ear in some kind of ritual murder. The farm animals had been hacked to death also. Nothing and no-one had survived the onslaught. Thomas looked at Dardo quizzically and gasped. ‘What in God’s name happened here?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘The baron,’ said the other, looking sick to his stomach, his face pale, his eyes haunted.
‘It’s time to end this slaughter,’ snapped Thomas, and he turned heading back to where he had tethered his horse. ‘There is a need for Ozhan to die…’
No more than thirty minutes later, through high slitted windows, Thomas watched the rose pink and gold fingers of the sun’s rays stealing down the cold grey walls of the meeting hall. Farmers, stock men and traders filled the room – indeed everyone and anyone who could handle a weapon. Even Tobin, Lira’s father stood quietly at the back of the hall with his huge blacksmith’s arms folded and his ears pinned back.
Thomas, dressed in his black and gold leather tunic and matching leggings stood at the head of the noisy crowd. He stared hard at their angry expressions, and even as the morning sun began to shine brighter, creating a vast rainbow, thunder rumbled overhead and rain sheeted down, lashing the windows.
‘Silence… silence,’ shouted Dardo, raising his hands in the air, trying to bring the chattering crowd to order.
Thomas nodded to him and Lira moved alongside them both, sitting down behind a large trestle table. She was dressed in a loose fitting white gown. The swordsman hammered his fist on the table to get everyone’s attention, and then paused looking at them ponderously. The crowd fell silent. ‘What has happened to you people? You are certainly not the people I knew. Has the heart and soul gone out of you? Ozhan wants you to rot and die and you don’t even put up a fight,’ he said with despair in his heart. ‘I know you don’t want to fight, but life here could be so much better if you do.’
‘It’s easy for you to talk,’ said one farmer. ‘You’re skilled in the art of war, but we’re not.’
‘That isn’t the point. If I’m willing to stay here to save your hides, why aren't you willing to fight alongside of me? Should I give my life for yours if you’re not willing to do the same in return?’ scolded Thomas.
Angrily Lira jumped to her feet. ‘Listen to this man. He’s trying to save you from a fate worse than death. Would you rather live as slaves to Ozhan and die of old age, or would you rather fight him and die young as free men and women with pride in your heart?’
Thomas looked at her in wonderment as she scolded the crowd on his behalf. She was even more beautiful when angry. ‘Thank you Lira,’ he said looking about him, nodding his head gravely. ‘Little more need be said on the subject, other than you all know what must be done. The baron will not go away of his own accord or let you live peaceful, productive lives. He's a murdering megalomaniac, who would see you all dead to implement his grandiose schemes. Many are dead already, tortured and burned with their throats slit. How many more of you are willing to suffer such fates in the dark hours of night? Think of your children if no one else, because they deserve better.’
The meeting hall suddenly filled with murmurings and then the clapping of hands. Two mercenaries, one male and one female stood to the right of the blacksmith shaking their heads derisively. ‘Fine speech,’ announced the female who was wearing two short swords, their black hilts tightly bound with leather, ‘but quite useless.’
Thomas shivered as old memories flared. Dressed from head to foot in a black tunic, leggings and cloak, Nelan looked more like a demon from a shadow-haunted wood.
Outside the rain was heavy and Thomas could hear it cascading down the walls. He stared across the room into her glittering eyes. ‘I take it then that you are in Ozhan’s employment?’ he said scanning her face.
Laugher greeted Thomas’ words and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. He shot them an angry stare and hunched his heavy shoulders, gripping the hilts of his swords. ‘Now you listen to me and take heed of what I say. You and your kind are not welcome hereabouts so, I want you to deliver a message to Ozhan. Tell him that law and order is coming to this city – law and order. Tell him that he's asked for what he’s now going to get, because he’s finished here, do you hear me? After this day, if we see him, you or any of his hired thugs, we'll kill you all without a second thought. Tell him I’m coming for him. Tell him the devil's coming with me to show him the gateway to Hell,’ Thomas snapped.
Nelan's companion, Talon, smiled weakly. ‘Hmm, Thomas Flynn, I’ve heard of you. Law won’t work around here,’ he countered.
Thomas drew his swords. ‘I've no more to say on this subject, but I see that you need convincing.'
Nelan stepped forward drawing her swords, but Talon threw out his arm stopping her advance. ‘Many times these past months I've heard travellers whisper your name, seemingly afraid to speak it aloud, awed by the folk legend that surrounds you – but I think I can kill you.’
Dardo and Lira looked at each other, shaking their heads gravely, watching Thomas push his way through the crowd toward the two mercenaries. A deathly hush fell upon the whole gathering as elbows nudged ribs, but the silence was broken with Thomas' scornful snorts and derisive laughter. ‘Ahem, er, why my good fellow,’ he said clearing his throat, ‘while I respect your bravery, you should really look to Nelan for guidance, for she is the only one who has ever beaten me in a fair fight, and that was many years ago. I guarantee that she couldn’t do it now.’
Feeling slightly abashed, Talon drew his sword as Thomas stood smiling confidently at him. Dardo couldn't help but shake his head in admiration as usual. It always seemed like his friend had hidden depths of courage well beyond what any man should have.
Without warning, Talon charged headlong towards him, lashing out wildly with his weapon, but Thomas’ swords shot out at lightning speed, crossing in front of his face, stopping the others blade in an explosion of bright sparks. He was bowled over in the process by the others massive strength. Talon threw back his head roaring with laughter. ‘I have no chance against you, eh? Is that what you said?’
Thomas rolled to one knee and climbed to his feet. ‘You may win the odd battle, but you have no chance of winning the war, even though you're fast for a big man,’ he said throwing himself forward, slicing air above the other as he ducked awkwardly off balance, out of harm’s way.
Thunder rumbled overhead as the clattering of swordpla
y echoed eerily around the meeting hall, and lightning flashed through the high windows illuminating even the darkest shadows. All eyes rounded on Thomas as one of his swords licked out to nick Talon’s shoulder, causing a flash of crimson to bloom on his silk shirt. Thomas found it almost impossible to keep the smile from his face as he resumed control of the fight, parrying Talon's next thrust, and the next, and the next. Then he spun on his heel, hammering his fist against Talon's jaw, who tumbled awkwardly to the wooden floor with a clatter, but rose again and advanced, fighting long and hard.
‘There is a need for you to die now,’ announced Thomas finally, his voice cold as ice. Slamming one of his blades into Talon’s chest, he drove it in up to the hilt and he staggered back, falling to his knees and a long groan burst from his lips as his barrel-chested upper-body slumped forward, thudding against the cold floor.
The crowd of onlookers gasped. ‘You ever seen anything move that fast?’ whispered one of them.
‘Hell, I haven’t even heard of anything that fast,’ whispered his friend.
Thomas knelt beside the corpse, pushing it to its back. Dragging his blade clear he wiped it on the body, rose and turned to face Nelan. Her eyes seemed to pulse with living colour and he could feel the hate emanating from them. ‘How many times do I have to prove that I'm the best?’ he asked.
‘Do you really think so?’ she countered, her voice faintly mocking.
‘Indeed I do,’ he said moving alongside her, laying his hand on her shoulder. Leaning towards her he whispered, ‘We can prove it here and now if you wish, but I would rather that you deliver my message to the baron. Tell him I’m coming for him. Tell him it’s not revenge that I want – it’s a reckoning for Gorl’s death, the slaughtered farmers, homesteaders and their wives and children.’
Nelan swung around. ‘I'll give him your message, but we will have a reckoning too, Thomas,' she announced, walking down the long hallway towards the street. Pushing open the double doors of the meeting hall, she marched out into the morning rain and disappeared around a corner.
Chapter 7
Two days later, Thomas’ heavily armed men halted to the sound of a horse’s hooves thundering towards them. Dardo looked to the warrior for reassurance, his eyes resting balefully on the scout who was heading their way in a mile-eating gallop. Within moments, the scout was back among his own men giving his report. ‘The element of surprise is ours,’ he said wiping the sheen of sweat from his forehead. ‘Ozhan’s men are camped two miles from here in a small glade and they’re still sleeping.’
‘Good,’ said Thomas in a small voice. ‘The baron understands the value of fear as a weapon, but we’ll show him the importance of surprise.’
He barked his orders, whereupon his men closed ranks. Then stealthily and silently they made their way through the forest of oak, elder and birch on horseback towards the glade and Ozhan’s drunken, sleeping men. And even though the afternoon sun was shining brightly through the filigree of overhanging branches, the birds had ceased to sing and a deathly silence prevailed.
On approaching the camp, Thomas gestured to his men to surround it quickly and then barked out for them to strike, whereupon they closed in. Taken by surprise, drunk and still half-asleep, the baron's men tried to grab their weapons, but the circle of horsemen hemmed them in and they died screaming. Thomas’ men killed them all within mere heartbeats, the bare earth stained crimson with their blood. Afterwards his men searched the camp thoroughly, but Ozhan was nowhere to be found.
Thomas sat astride his stallion, his dark eyes staring down unblinking at the carnage. ‘This is what’s going to happen to the baron's men, and I mean any and all who wear his gold crest, but when we find the man himself, I’m going to hang him from the nearest tree for his crimes.’
‘What makes him do the things he does when he’s already rich and powerful?’ asked Dardo.
‘Ozhan has a great empty soul and no heart. He can never steal enough, kill enough or inflict enough pain,’ said Thomas.
‘Then, what does he really want?’
‘Retribution.’
‘What for?’ asked Dardo looking stunned.
‘His mother giving him life.’
Thomas now swung his horse towards the west and another of the baron's encampments with his forty men following. ‘Keep close,’ he ordered and they obeyed instantly, bunching together in a tight group. They galloped down the slopes of the hillside onto level ground in pursuit of more of their enemy with an unmatchable speed. The sounds of yelping and screaming filled the air.
As they approached the second camp, Thomas saw some twenty men running to their horses, vaulting into their saddles at the foot of a hill, and a little way to his right was a mound of burnt, mutilated bodies. Farmhouses and barns were blazing and the smell of soot lingered in the air as Thomas beckoned his men to follow him as he rode down the hill in pursuit of the raiders. When he reached the foot of the hill he dismounted briefly. In the bright sunlight he stared into the distance, scanning the area as he patted the long, sleek neck of his horse. A wolf howled and the horse swung its head towards the sound. Mutilated bodies of the baron's victims were scattered everywhere and there was a pile of severed heads left as a warning to the other farmers to leave their land. Thomas kicked them into the ashes and swung back into his saddle. ‘Let’s find them and kill them all,’ he said heeling his horse forward.
His men followed without question, and the sound of screaming horses filled the air as he swung his mount towards the west again, following the raiders back down the slopes to more level ground. ‘How many in the raiding party?’ he asked his scout, sweat breaking out on his angry, tired face.
Dardo edged his mount alongside Thomas' as the scout noted every single hoof print.
‘No less than twenty, and no more than thirty,’ the scout reported without hesitation, ‘and they’re heading for the North Quarter of Nottingham.’
‘That’s strange,’ said Thomas, his face hardening. ‘Ozhan’s farm is in the South Quarter.’
Dardo scratched his head. ‘The Northern Quarter has a feel of evil to it and is just a vista of bare rock and dry earth, why would they be heading there instead of to the safety of the baron's homestead in the Southern Quarter, where the water is sweet and the grass green and rich?’ he asked.
Thomas gripped the reigns of his mount even tighter. ‘It’s a trap. Ozhan’s trying to trap us.’
Dardo peered into the distance, heeling his horse harder as Thomas spoke, and every one of the riders twitched with anxiety at the thought of a trap.
‘But where would the trap be sprung?’ asked Thomas.
‘A narrow pass about two miles thus,’ said the scout pointing north.
‘Then we’ll set a trap of our own,’ said Thomas, winking at his men.
He swung his horse to the north-west and galloped off with the whole group following behind him to the thunder of hooves. Above him, heavy grey skies and steady rain prevailed over the whole miserable looking landscape, but Thomas’ fever bright eyes never veered away from the far horizon, until the top of a narrow pass came into view. Then he slowed his horse to a trot, holding up his hand as a signal for his men to halt. He dismounted, striding to the edge of a high ridge and could just make out some of Ozhan’s men breaking cover of the trees on the rim of the rocks below him, but above a narrow pass. The warrior smiled to himself. Ozhan and his men had gained the high ground, but he had gained the higher ground – and the element of surprise.
Within seconds he assembled his band of recruits around the top of the escarpment at the edge of the steep plateau, overlooking the whole pass, and signalled for his men to load their longbows, which they did speedily and methodically. Apprehensively they all shuffled forward as he raised an arm. ‘It’s a lucky day,’ he said.
Each man took a careful aim at his target, pulling back on the grey goose-shaft betwixt his fingers and awaited Thomas’ command. Some could see their target clearly, but others couldn't and made thei
r best guess as to where their target was. Ozhan may have won a few battles in his time, thought Thomas, but I'll win this war.
Even Dardo sported a longbow proudly, peering down the long shaft of his arrow at the nearest target he could find – a warrior sat clinging to a branch, high up a tall pine tree. Fleetingly he shifted his gaze, looking across at Thomas’ arm held high. Clad in his favourite black and gold tunic, he was a heroic looking figure with a fearless stare on his face, seemingly leaning casually forward, peering down with his eyes fixed firmly on the baron’s men.
Dardo watched in admiration, wonderment in his eyes, waiting for his arm to drop signalling the release of a hail of arrows that would no doubt decimate their enemy. If only I could be like Thomas, he thought, he's the bravest, most courageous man I’ve ever known.
Finally, Thomas’ arm dropped and the longbows sang. Forty grey goose-shafts spun, whistling through the air, and instantly three smashed through the skull of one man pitching him forward from his cover in a tree onto the rocky ground. Another man in an elm jerked as if stung, rose to his feet on the branch, and then his legs gave way beneath him. He fell to his death with an arrow embedded in his throat and the canyon echoed to the high-pitched screams of the wounded and dying. Dardo’s arrow found its mark too – much to his surprise – slamming home, tearing into a man right between the eyes.
There was no response from the enemy as Thomas’ men reloaded their bows, firing a second volley, then a third and even a forth. His trap was working much better than he had hoped – his surprise attack winning the day as arrows smashed through armour, flesh and bone. Ozhan’s men were falling from the trees like autumn leaves in a strong wind.
Thomas watched the enemy fall, one after another and listened to their high-pitched dying screams. ‘I warned you I was coming and hell was coming with me,’ he said in a whisper as the longbows sang repeatedly.
Suddenly, one of the baron’s men lurched forward from his cover in a tree. He had three arrows in his chest and his nose was torn away, but he stumbled forward hurling a spear before dropping dead. It took one of the bowmen through the chest, hurling him back into the others, smashing some of them from their feet. Then Thomas saw another bowman’s face swept away in a crimson blur as an axe whizzed past him spraying shards of bone everywhere. He picked up the dead man’s quiver, placing it over his shoulder and picked up the longbow, notching an arrow to the bowstring in the blink of an eye. His face was expressionless. Then he let fly, sending volley after volley into the axe man’s chest, arms and legs, pinning him to a tree with a final shot to the forehead. ‘Did you enjoy that you bastard?’ he shouted, punching the air. Thomas’ men suddenly ran left and right, letting fly with another murderous hail of arrows that slammed into the remainder of the baron’s men, who were now running for their lives – but still there was no sign of the man himself.
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 10