Battle with MacHaddish

Chapter 17 Part 3

We're gettttting close now... the first bit of oc is coming up either next or the chapter after, if I split this part into two

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The sheer speed of the attack took Will by surprise. As he had approached the Scotti, he had heard the man's low grunt of pain, and seen his obvious distress as he tried to move his injured hand. The impression was of a man who was virtually helpless. Will's lack of experience with these fierce fighting men from the north now lead him to make a mistake. An injured hand would not put a Scott warrior out of action. The Scotti would fight with hands, feet, knees, elbows and teeth as the need arose.

MacHaddish's shoulder hit him just below the breast bone and drove the air from his lungs in an explosion whoof of sound. He staggered, felt his legs go from underneath him and crashed backwards into the thick snow. Unsighted for a moment, he rolled desperately to the side, sure that the Scotti would be following up his advantage. Then as his vision cleared, he saw that the other man was doubled over awkwardly, his right knee raised as he scrabbled at the top of the boot with his left hand.

It was the fact that MacHaddish had to reach across with his left hand to draw the dirk that probably saved Will's life. It was a clumsy action and it gave Will time to regain his feet. 

Almost as soon as he did, he had to leap aside to avoid MacHaddish's slashing attack with the dirk. He felt the blade slice easily through his cloak and kicked out flat-footed at the Scotti's left knee. MacHaddish danced sideways to avoid the crippling blow, giving Will the moment he needed to draw his saxe knife. 

MacHaddish heard the sinister whisper of steel on leather and his eyes narrowed as he saw the heavy blade gleaming in the dull light under the trees. They circled awkwardly. The dirk was almost as long as the saxe, although the blade was narrower. Normally, the two might have closed, grappling with each other, each seizing the other man's knife hand, turning it into a contest of strength, but the fact that MacHaddish was using his left hand against Will's right made this impractical. For either to grab the other's knife wrist would mean turning the unarmed side towards the enemy, momentarily withdrawing his own weapon and exposing himself to attack. 

Instead, they duelled like fencers, alternately darted their blades forward, lunging at each other, clashing blades as one lunged and the other parried. Their feet shuffled in the snow as they made sure they retained their footing, not daring to raise their feet in case they landed on uneven ground. As they circled, the two antagonists eyes narrowed in concentration. Will had never seen an enemy move as quickly as the Scotti general. For his part, MacHaddish had never before faced an adversary could match his lightning speed.

Left hand or not, Will thought, this man is very, very skilled. He knew if his concentration lasped for an instant, the Scotti could well be upon him, the dirk sliding through his guard and between his ribs. He could very well die here, he realised.

He tried to reach for the throwing knife in it's concealed scabbard beneath his collar. The movement nearly cost him his life. The cowl of his cloak impeded the attempt and as he fumbled, MacHaddish lunged forward. 

Desperately, Will skipped backwards, feeling the point slash through his jerkin and a trickle of blood began to run down his ribs. His mouth was dry with fear and he slashed sideways at the Scotti, driving him back in his turn. Then they began their circling again.

The problem will faced was that he needed to take MacHaddish alive. Not that killing him would be any easy matter, he reflected grimly. MacHaddish, on the other hand, was under no such restriction. He had one aim only: to kill his opponent as quickly as possible and fade away into the forest before reinforcements arrived.

Where the hell is Horace? Will thought as they circled, lunged, parried and blocked. He realised that the young warrior may well have lost touch with them. He'd given Will the chance he needed to catch up to MacHaddish, by making as much noise as he could and moving off to the west so that MacHaddish would think he'd given them the slip. Now, the chances were that Horace had no idea where he was, or what was happening. Will realised that he was going to have to do this alone, and that there was a distinct chance that he would die here among these gloomy trees, his lifeblood leaking away into the snow.