The Hostility of Hanno: An Outlaw Chronicles short story (7 page)

‘What was that you said?’ I cupped my left hand to my ear and leaned forward from the back of Shaitan towards the knight.
‘What did you say just then about the English?’

The knight looked perplexed. He leaned towards me in the saddle and enunciated loudly and clearly as if I were an imbecile.
‘I said: King Richard is in Barfleur – those cowardly English rascals are still many leagues away.’

‘Let me tell you a secret,’ I said quietly, leaning even further towards him and placing my left hand in a companionable fashion
on his right shoulder. Obligingly, he bent his head to me until it was only inches from mine.

‘They are not.’ And I swung my right hand up, hard, and slammed the point of my misericorde, my long killing dagger, through
the soft skin under his chin and on, up through the root of his tongue and the roof of his mouth and deep into his skull.
His whole body jerked wildly upwards with the force of my sudden blow, but I kept him firmly in the saddle with my left hand
on his shoulder. His eyes, massive with shock and pain, stared into mine as he took leave of his life. He coughed once, expelling
a great scarlet gobbet of blood, and his hands scrabbled briefly at my right fist on the handle of the long blade still embedded
under his chin, then he very slowly slid over backwards out of the saddle and away from me, hitting the earth like a loose
sack of turnips, his tumbling fall tearing my dagger free from his throat.

‘Perfect,’ said Hanno, grinning at me savagely from his saddle and displaying his awful rotting teeth. He wrenched his own
small hand axe from where it was embedded in the top of the second knight’s spine and callously kicked the unstrung, speechless,
dying man out of the saddle. ‘A perfect kill, Alan!’ Hanno it seemed was very pleased with my performance. ‘A soldier should
be very happy to die from such a perfect strike. I teach you well.’

Neither of our victims had made more than a moan of complaint before we sent them to God. My mounted company was coming up
the slope at a fast canter and we barely paused once they reached the top of the low hill. ‘Now,’ I shouted to the oncoming
horsemen, their young faces rosy with the light of imminent battle, ‘now, we ride for our lives – ride for the castle gate,
don’t stop for anything. Ride as if the Devil himself were on your heels!’