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Andrews UK - Tom Hill

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193 pages

English

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Swords, combat, ransom, siege, battle, rape, starvation, revenge, bloodshed, justice, honour and death. The life of the famous El Cid as he wages medieval warfare to seize Valencia. A thousand years ago the Christian Knights of the Kings of Leon fight the ruling Muslim Moors and the dreaded Almoravids of the Sahara for the right to rule Spain.

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Historical fiction

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	26 février 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781783336517
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title Page
Swords of El Cid

by
Tom Hill

Publisher Information
Swords of El Cid published in 2014 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of Tom Hill to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2014 Tom Hill
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Swords of El Cid
“Rodrigo! May God curse him!”
“In Islam, my men tell me, one can pray for God to curse someone. This is done with the Arabic word ‘La’nat’ meaning deprivation and can be used in expressions such as ‘La’anatullah’;
“May he be deprived of God’s blessings”.
So, the curse is not to be understood as gaining evil, rather of losing the blessings of God. The Shi’a Muslims generally believe in cursing as a part of Tabarra, one of the branches of their Religion.
They argue that rather than a curse it is a prayer.
God is entitled accept or reject the prayer and abstain from invoking the deprivation. Cursing is a ‘Sunnah’ established by God himself in the Quran in various verses and they quote the Quranic verses where Jesus and other prophets curse those who reject them.”

The fight at the Bodega
The ebony rod parted his balls nicely and he dropped to his knees with a grunt of foul, cheap wine sodden breath, He appeared to bow respectfully from the blow, so I followed with a swift benediction to the back of his head, with the heavy silver pommel of the walking stick. No doubt it left my seal of the Dragon embossed in a fine bruise, it certainly knocked him senseless.
However, his downfall only gave courage to his fellow sailors. Most of the others got to their feet, only one remaining seated. The next man made a mad rush, snarling in some Basque accent but a quick wrist flick ensured the steel tipped stick, took him in the eye socket. Not hard enough to blind, but certainly hard enough to drop him to his knees with both hands cupping his socket as if he knelt in prayer beseeching forgiveness.
I still remained seated on the Bodega bench because my old leg wound was painful and my head ached from too much sherry. I would be a little unsteady on my feet and it is not fitting for a man close to sixty years old to be dancing around in combat, as perhaps I would have done forty years ago.
The other two men now standing stopped abruptly at the sight of their fallen comrades. I inclined my head contemptuously, a big man perhaps in his fortieth year advanced a little more cautiously.
He cursed me to hell and back, but I was already there and simply smiled at his rant and took a swig of the fine Jerez sherry. My curse is a cool, hard temper and the Viking blood cursing through my veins. I kissed Algol and the ruby glowed a little brighter in that dark blood red dome; then whispered to myself our old battle cry ‘Santiago y cierra España’; ‘St James and strike for Spain’ .
Before I had finished he picked up a slender oak candlestick holder that stood in his way, almost shoulder high, slapping the candle to the floor with the back of his large hand and splattering hot wax over his huge forearm without regard. Our surroundings were now a little darker; he thought to counter me with this makeshift weapon.
I was leaning slightly forward with two hands on my walking stick pommel. My left hand ached a little from the ‘contraction’ a present from the seed of my pagan forefathers. I glanced again at the ruby ring ‘Algol’ on the little finger of my slightly curled left hand. Perhaps it was the extinguished candle, but it seemed to glow a deeper red, as if about to enjoy a familiar pleasure. Watching his progress with a curious and amused expression just seemed to further enrage the man. Snarling another Christian curse he drew the long turned wooden shaft over his shoulder for an arcing diagonal strike with the heavy wooden base. No doubt hoping to smash me into the oak bench I was still sat upon.
I was very familiar with my weapon, yet his was new to him. The candlestick reached close to its apex, the man grunted in effort, it was about ready to descend, but to the man’s dismay he had not taken into account his surroundings, the base of the candle holder snagged on the low ceiling beam above his head. It gave me more than enough time to deliver another easy wrist flick that smashed his nose on the black ebony shaft. The strike closed his eyes and blood gushed from his nose. Before the sticky torrent had reached his chin, my stick slammed into the side of his knee and his whole body buckled under the blow. As often happens in battle, a little fortune and humour came my way. As the man’s body hit the floor the snagged candle stick holder parted from the ceiling beam and dropped with a resounding thump onto his head.
The fourth man looked back to the seated man who shook his head vigorously and looked decidedly uncomfortable. I took it that he was advising against further action. This silent advice appeared to be ignored as the wiry smaller man lifted his hauberk, producing a nasty looking poniard, about two feet long. I also decided to shake my head at the man, but he was set on a course, all sheets to the wind, two lots of head shaking had only put more breeze in his sails. I will give them their due - they were persistent.
It is strange that when danger arises time seems to flow slowly. Thus I had plenty of time to think back to the past and consider many things before this jackanapes advanced.
I have been familiar with steel from my earliest days and a poniard can be a deadly weapon in close quarter combat. The long dagger type blade is neither knife nor sword, a sort of ‘in-between’ stabbing weapon.
Valencia is full of thieves, vagabonds and louts, such as these men. The siege had created unspeakable depravations. It is foolish to go unarmed, especially for a rich man such as myself.
One of my very good friends is a sword smith from Toledo and he made this stick of mine as a very lucrative commission. The finest black ebony wood from Africa, embellished with a sculpted heavy solid silver pommel, embossed with the Dragon symbol, a nod to my ancestors. A band of gold, a palms depth down from the pommel with one of the Masters sayings (God rest his soul), stolen from the Romans, engraved around the band; ‘carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero’.
I loved the translation he offered when he first used the phrase in an orchard feeding apples to Babieca;
“Pluck the day, trusting as little as possible in the future” .
The tip on the other end of the stick was forged from solid steel for balance and durability. On the hard cobbled streets it had its own hard, solid click as it struck the stone. Its secret was a long and flexible Toledo pattern steel welded blade, of square section, drawn out to fill the rest of the stick with a long and fine point, more than a match for a poor seaman’s poniard. Perhaps my investment in good steel will pay off this night?
But time, even running slowly, demands my attention.
I twisted the handle, the blade sound was of tempered steel as it sprang from its scabbard, bending and vibrating in the air as I presented it with flair. Toledo smiths made the finest steel in the world. Six bands of metal, two of them the famed Damascus, hammer welded and drawn out into a slither of sprung steel no thicker than a man’s little finger and narrowing to a needle sharp point. There are few such blades in existence and none; I like to think, with this quality of steel.
Presenting such a weapon would have made many men think twice, but jackanapes was undaunted. He rounded his fallen comrades and advanced from the side, as his path was blocked with bodies, one still moaning piteously.
I simply swivelled my arse on the bench top, to face him and lowered the point of ‘carpe’, I liked the name ‘pluck’, it suited the weapon well and every good sword stick deserves a good name. I considered for a moment what fruit it would ‘pluck’ from jackanapes.
The man took a stance, scribing meaningless patterns with the point of his poniard in the air an arm’s length from my nose. His gestures simply showed his inexperience with a blade.
I held a bored expression on my face and just waited for his lunge, knowing with some regret that I would have to lift my arse from this comfortable spot and demand some action from my stiff right leg.
He lunged, I countered, and I lunged, springing well for a man of my many years. The fruit I picked was hit with the precision I enjoy. For another fleeting moment I was back as a young man practicing at ‘the ring’ with Rodrigo the Master.
Jackanapes being a seaman, I decided it would be appropriate to give him a new piercing for his left ear, so skewered the man’s ear lobe to the Bodega’s oak support beam. If I had sent the point a hands breath lower, I could have easily severed the main artery from his skull, but I have killed too many men and have vowed to kill no more, that is of course unless I have no choice.
He screamed but there was no blood as the blade had made a firm impact with the wood and sealed the wound in one smooth action. I found it hard to withdraw the blade so left it hanging there quivering, the handle scribing a slow ellipse in the air. I smacked the man on the head with the heavy scabbard for good measure, to signal an end to the combat.