Jack Hight - Siege. Jack Hight

JACK HIGHT

www.johnmurray.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by John Murray (Publishers)
An Hachette UK Company

Jack Hight 2010

The right of Jack Hight to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law 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.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Epub ISBN 978-1-84854-345-4
Book ISBN 978-1-84854-294-5

John Murray (Publishers)
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH

www.johnmurray.co.uk

For Cate

OCTOBER 1448: THE PLAINS OF KOSSOVA

L ongo lay still under the bodies of two dead soldiers and waited for the last of the Turkish army to pass. The Christian crusade had been routed, and now the enemy marched around and over him, their boots squishing in the blood-drenched earth. He could just hear the distant horns of the scattered Christian army as it fled, followed by the cries and drums of the pursuing Turks. Finally the field fell silent save for the moans of the wounded and the harsh cries of the ravens that were arriving to feast upon the dead. One settled on a corpse near Longo and began to peck at the soft flesh of the face. If the ravens were here, then the battle was truly over. He had waited long enough.

He rose, stiff from lying so long on the cold, wet ground. He kicked at the raven, sending it flying away cawing in protest, and then drew his sword, a long thin blade of dark-grey steel. The battle might be over, but Longo was not done fighting. He scanned the horizon and saw a few distant enemy soldiers, pillaging amongst the thousands of dead. He ignored them; they were not the prey he sought. He was looking for one man: a Turk with pale-grey eyes and a gruesome scar stretching down the right side of his face from his temple to his jaw.

At the height of the battle, Longo had seen his quarry behind the Turkish lines, wearing chainmail covered in scarlet fabric. He rode beneath a golden standard from which hung three horsetails the mark of a vizier. Longo had no sooner spotted him, however, than the Christian line had broken and the retreat had been sounded. In the ensuing chaos, Longo had played dead. He had searched for this man for years, and now that he had finally found him, he would not let him escape.

Stepping over the bodies of the dead, Longo strode towards the Turkish camp. As he neared the first of the tents, five Turkish soldiers came out to meet him. They were ragged bazibozouks, peasant soldiers who were recruited to the defence of Islam whenever the Ottoman Empire went to war. Two carried heavy axes, better for chopping wood than fighting. One held a sword, while the last two carried crude wooden clubs studded with protruding nails. As they rushed Longo, they screamed the Allah! Allah! Allah! battle cry of the Turks, but Longo did not hear them. He heard only the blood pumping in his ears as he stood his ground and readied his shield and sword.

At the last second, Longo sprang to his left, outflanking the group so he only had to face one man. He knocked the Turks club aside with his shield and then slashed down with his sword, dropping his enemy. Then he waded straight into the rest: at close quarters the clubs and axes would be less effective. He sidestepped a clumsy axe blow and spun away in one fluid motion, slashing across the face of his attacker before thrusting up past the guard of the next man. Leaving his sword embedded in the Turks chest, Longo drew a dagger from his belt, turned, and threw. It caught the second to last Turk in the throat. The dying mans club dropped from his hands, and he fell in a mass of blood.

Longo felt the hard slap of a sword glancing off the chainmail along his side. He turned just in time to raise his shield and deflect another blow, this one aimed at his face. He stepped back, weaponless, and faced his final assailant, a huge Turk who wore a long beard. The man grinned, revealing yellow, rotting teeth. Now you die, infidel! he roared and swung in a huge arc for Longos chest. Longo feinted as if to block the blow, then ducked and came up under it, smashing the Turk in the face with his shield. The Turk staggered backwards, his broken nose pouring blood, then turned on his heel and stumbled away, fleeing for his life.

Longo retrieved his own sword and grimaced as he reached over to feel the bruise that was already forming along his side. He had been lucky. A more experienced swordsman would have killed him. Offering up a prayer of thanks to the Virgin, he stepped into the shadow of the nearest tent and peered deeper into the camp. Cooks were busy tending dozens of cooking fires, but there were relatively few soldiers and no sign of his quarry. He had almost given up hope when he heard a horse whinny behind him. Turning, he saw the vizier riding towards the camp, surrounded by some two-dozen black-armoured janissaries.

With no thought to anything but his blazing need for revenge, Longo raised his sword and charged. The janissaries saw him coming and formed a square of bristling spears around the vizier. Longo hurled himself into the guards. He deflected one spear with his shield and knocked another aside with his sword before charging into one of the janissaries, knocking him backwards and whirling away just in time to avoid a spear thrust. He hacked down, snapping the spear shaft in two, and then waded deeper into the fray, spinning and slashing in a mad frenzy as he pressed his way towards the vizier, each foot forward bought with blood and death.

A spear skipped off Longos shield and drove into his shoulder. Oblivious to the pain, he grabbed the spear and jerked on it, pulling the janissary forward and then slashing down to finish him. Longo saw a flash out of the corner of his eye and narrowly ducked a blow that would have decapitated him. He turned quickly, swinging his sword in a wild effort to keep the janissaries at bay. Swords were glancing off his chainmail, but Longo ignored them. A spear drove into his leg and he dropped to one knee. Still he kept fighting, striking out again and again as he yelled with rage and pain. The vizier was now only a few yards away. The mans thin face was lined and his beard and moustache had turned grey since Longo last saw him all those many years ago, but there was no mistaking his pale eyes or the jagged scar that Longo had left on his face. Longo crawled towards him, but a janissary stepped in front, blocking his path. Longo tried to stab at the man, but someone grabbed his arm from behind and wrenched away his sword.

As Longo raised his eyes, he saw death towering over him: a janissary with his long yatagan raised high, the swords inward-curving blade showing dark against the bright sun. He felt no fear, only bitter disappointment at having failed. He noticed a knick on the long blade, the smooth black leather of the pommel, the janissarys bulging arm, and then the sword began its fatal descent.