The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 8 Beserkir

The road ahead was thick with troops, filling the space between the trees as far back as I could see. King Bratislav had brought his whole army with him, not just a small chasing body of knights. Our hopes were utterly, utterly gone. Strangely, I felt a weight lifting from me, as though my soul was ascending to heaven.

To the amazement of the knight alongside me, I laughed again, no longer afraid of being unlucky or that my lack of battle experience would bring me or my comrades to ruin. It didn't matter what I did. Nothing mattered but to die well, like a knight of legend.

Up ahead, as our small band of cantering knights came into their view, there was consternation and urgent cries from among our enemies. Whatever their marching formation had been, they were disorganised now. Soldiers were spilled all over the road and off to the side of it, while some dozen footsoldiers were dragging the treasure cart away. Most of King Bratislav's troops on our side of the cart were on horseback and were hurriedly attempting to form a line to face us.

'Gallop!' shouted Count Stephen.

Although I urged my mount to change his gait, I also let enough of a gap open up to the courser in front that I could safely lower my lance. We all did. These knights knew their business.

Let go the reins.

A thunderous pounding of iron on stone filled my ears and then an even louder sound: my own voice, as I screamed all my hate and rage at those who would kill me.

Leaning forward in the stirrups, I felt a huge shock as my lance struck a horseman in the chest. He went flying backwards off his steed, his body wrenching my weapon away. Sword drawn, shield high, my stallion carried me on.

Arm. Neck. Thigh. Get down. I slashed out repeatedly with my sword as I urged my courser onwards with my legs. It was surprisingly easy to kill these men. Their movements seemed slow and predictable. Cut through a wrist, to send a hand flying into the air. Stab into the teeth of an anguished face.

Now a terrible scream drowned out even the shrieks of metal on metal that were ringing out from all directions. It was my stallion, whose front left leg had been cut away at the knee.

My feet slipped my stirrups and I scrambled clear of his rolling body.

Take this for Shalk! And this for me!

I knew nothing of the battle but for what took place within a spear length of me. But in that small space, I felt invulnerable. Not that I was reckless. With cold calculation I ducked, blocked, parried and sometimes stepped inside the swing of mace and sword. I positioned myself so their own men shielded me from those further back and, as my balance allowed, I hewed and thrust through armour and flesh with raging blows of my sword.

Get down! And you!

The battle began to press tight around me now and it was cruel fighting, where you could see the clenched teeth and the pain in the expression of the man crushed against your shield. I could hardly swing my sword properly and was resorting to punches at mouths and eyes with the hilt.

All at once, a dangerous sense of my own mortality broke into the red battle craze that had possessed me. Here I was, in this confined space, Guibert, with a terrible ache in my left arm, wrist and shoulder. And this self-knowledge would have been fatal, I'm sure, but for the fact it was dispersed by the heavy crunch of a mace into the back of the head of one of my opponents.

'Come on!' Rainulf was a blood-drenched ogre, whose eyes were filled with insanity. He was screaming to his men behind him. 'Come on!'

Instantly revitalised, I struck out again and pushed, chopping away a mail-clad leg that I saw exposed below a shield.