The French Executioner (25 page)

‘That’s one for one,’ he cried, ‘for that dog was about to stick a spear up your arse. I wager I save you more than you save
me. Loser buys the first butt of wine!’

And with that, whirling his axe through the air, he ran back into the thickest part of the fray.

Despite the returning roar of battle, Jean was still able to hear his name being called. He ran, dodging, halfway down the
gangway. Januc was there.

‘Can you get that Viking back here? I have a plan.’

The Frenchman laughed because the Croatian was so calm, despite an arrow branching out, rather obviously, from his shoulder.
It didn’t seem to be affecting his mind though.

‘I’ll fetch him.’

‘Come to the foredeck,’ Januc said. Pausing only to snap the arrow shaft near the head, he disappeared from view.

Being above the main deck had allowed him to get a better view of things. He hadn’t been involved in as much fighting owing
to the number of the
Perseus’s
soldiers up there with him, but he had been in enough sea fights to know which way this one was going. The Black Crescent
galley, which Ganton had dismasted, had now righted itself, cleared its wrecked sails from the main deck and was even now
circling around the combatants to join the fray on the
Perseus’s
other side.
Once that manoeuvre was completed, the superior numbers would mean a speedy end to the fight. And a certain and painful death
for Januc, once Hakim saw him.

Big Nose was thinking along much the same tack. They had absorbed the early attacks and his soldiers were fighting better
than he might have expected under Augustin’s nervous command, but he too was aware of the reinforcements shortly to join his
enemy, and the consequences of that.

As he was thinking, that damned bowman appeared at his side.

‘Captain?’

‘You again. What now? Have you another target for my bow?’

‘A target, yes. But I think we need more than a well-placed arrow. I was at Tunis—’

De la Vallerie looked down his large nose at the man. ‘What of it? So was I.’

It was not the time to exchange stories, though a French captain fighting for Spain was an oddity, Januc thought. More so
even than a Croatian fighting for the Turk.

The captain seemed to sense the question. ‘A man may serve many masters in his life for many reasons. As I’m sure you know.’

‘True, my Captain. Now I only serve my own skin. And it will not be preserved if we lose this fight.’

Three more arrows glanced off de la Vallerie’s armour, causing Januc to duck. The captain swatted at them irritably.

‘I suggest you make your point, we are about to have more company. What about Tunis?’

‘Barbarossa’s escape.’

‘Ah yes. Driving at the heart of the enemy. You would have me and my soldiers do that? With you left on my ship, no doubt.’

‘With me and two other fighters beside you. These two,’ Januc said as Jean and Haakon hurled themselves over the guard rail
of the foredeck. The Norwegian had taken a small
cut to the forearm and Jean was nicked in the thigh, but behind them five bodies lay silent on the gangway.

‘Ah, my most recent purchases.’

De La Vallerie peered at the two men, clutching their strange weapons, then looked up to see the progress of the other galley.
They had maybe five minutes. Five minutes for a miracle to happen. For him to make it happen.

‘Augustin,’ he called to his harried subordinate. ‘First company to withdraw, load and fire on my command only. Second company,
hand weapons.’

The main deck, now that Jean and Haakon had left it, had rapidly been taken over by the pirates. The only two points of resistance
were the fore and aft raised decks. Ganton was back there with the third company of soldiers, about twenty in all, throwing
off assaults, losing men in each one. He could not last long.

With his orders obeyed, the companies prepared, de la Vallerie thought about a speech but realised there wasn’t time. With
a brisk ‘Forward the second company!’ he hurled himself at the nets that had been dropped over the side of the Arab vessel
to board the
Perseus.
Arrows bounced and pinged off him, but several of his soldiers, less protected, were less fortunate. When he was halfway
up, he yelled, ‘Now, Augustin!’ and a ragged volley swept the railings momentarily clear of the enemy. De la Vallerie, with
Jean, Haakon, Januc and the fifteen survivors of the first company, burst over the side of the Silver Serpent.

The force of the larger ship’s assault had carried it halfway down the
Perseus’s
length before they’d managed to grapple her. This meant the counter attack arrived near the aftdeck of the enemy, close to
where Hakim was now positioned, urging his men forward.

‘Most of them are on our ship!’ Januc yelled. ‘At them!’ And with the janissary cry of ‘Allah is great!’ – startling to many
of the enemy, who were yelling the same thing – he rushed, scimitar swirling, toward the aftdeck and the man in
black screaming orders and waving his own scimitar under his serpent banner.

‘For France!’ cried de la Vallerie, a cry echoed by his men, his sword thrusting at his enemy.

‘Hoch, Hoch!’ Jean and Haakon let out the mercenaries’ war cry, terror of the battlefields of Europe.

Though they were outnumbered, the suddenness of their appearance, the ferocity of their attack and the soldiers’ heavier armour
caused momentary panic in the pirate ranks. They scattered before them, and the assault carried them right to the steps of
the raised deck that was their target.

A huge Arab in breastplate, helm and shield held the stairs. Two of the company were brushed away before de la Vallerie lunged
up at him; but the man pushed his sword aside with his scimitar and used the flat of the blade to deal the captain’s helmet
a huge blow, knocking him off the stairs to crash at the feet of a swarm of pirates. He disappeared under a shower of sword
blows, hammers on the anvil of his armour, while his soldiers rushed to his aid.

Haakon swept the stairway with his axe and the Arab warrior jumped over it, to land just in time for the Viking to crash his
shoulder into him. They rolled off the stairs, two vast men locked together, hitting the deck with a huge thump. Jean charged
for the gap, his sword cutting down the two who tried to take the big warrior’s place. When he reached the deck there were
just five men on it. When Januc joined him there were three. Jean hurled himself at the two white-clad bodyguards, driving
them back in a flurry of strokes. That left Januc facing the man in the black robes.

‘Hello Hakim,’ he said. ‘Remember me?’

A look of such astonishment appeared on the Arab’s face that Januc could only tip back his head and laugh.

‘That’s right. Januc.’ He bowed slightly. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the man who speared your brother like a pig.’

Astonishment changed to malevolence. Hakim i Sabbah was feared throughout the Mediterranean for the purity of his
hatred, the skill of his sword and the savagery with which he dealt with any and all of his enemies. Only one man had ever
escaped his terrible vengeance. That man stood before him now.

‘By the beard of the Prophet,’ he bellowed, ‘I am His most fortunate child to have you delivered again into my hands.’

‘Not quite in them yet. I’m here, Hakim, the serpent who slithers on his belly away from any real fight. Slither over here
and see what you will get.’ And with that, Januc dropped into his fighting stance, left hand reaching forward, sword arm curled
back.

In a riot of silver and black, Hakim i Sabbah drove at his most mortal foe. It was an attack fuelled by fury, vicious but
unfocused. Januc parried and deflected the shower of blows, dodging to left and right, not attempting to strike back, letting
the attack move him around the square aftdeck. One glance at Jean told him the stairs would be held; indeed, the Frenchman
had already despatched the two warriors who had tried to join their leader. Below him, the soldiers of the
Perseus
had formed a solid rank of armour over their stricken captain. And in their midst, leaping over their heads to strike down
with his axe on any foe foolish enough to draw near, as if from behind some ancient shield wall, was Haakon.

Hakim’s assaults had tired him and exhausted his initial fury. He remembered now the prowess of the man he was facing, how
he’d despatched Hakim’s brother, a noted swordsman himself, with arrogant ease. Hakim also remembered that he was the captain
of the Silver Serpent, and men would soon be rushing to his aid. Patience, and Allah’s favour, would bring him more than Januc’s
mere death – a drawn-out agony, lasting days, while he destroyed all that made his enemy a man.

Januc noted the pause, the calculation, and hoped that Hakim’s first attacks had been enough to weaken his sword arm a little
– his left arm, which made the Croatian’s
preparations more complex, for left-handers were difficult to fight.

Patience,
Januc thought,
remember the rule of the sword. It is not this attack, or the next, or even the one after that. Feint, retreat, lure his sword
each time a little more out of true. And then …

Januc launched a side cut at Hakim’s forward knee. The Arab withdrew it sharply, sweeping down with force to encounter the
slashing blade, but Januc had halted its sweep suddenly and pushed the curving weapon, with wrist reversed, upwards towards
Hakim’s groin. Once more the black robes swirled back, Hakim’s sword cutting down before him. Once more it encountered air,
for Januc jerked it swiftly backwards over his own head, gathered his rear leg up to his front heel and lunged with a scything
downward chop. Hakim saw the blow aimed to split open his head, a final commitment that, countered, would leave his opponent
stretched out and exposed.

I
have him,
Hakim i Sabbah thought exultantly, and stepped back, raising his scimitar with both hands to perfectly square-parry the blow,
to catch the sharp of the blade on the sharp of his own, to sweep and throw the weapon aside to feel his own curved steel
pressed so delightfully against his enemy’s throat.
I’ll take an ear now,
he thought,
the rest of him later, and in pieces.
Visions of languid days of torture rose before him even as his weapon rose, his wrist braced for the shock of a collision
… that never arrived. For behind Januc’s head, as he brought his sword over, as his back heel came up to lightly touch his
front one, even as he lunged again, a turn of a supple wrist delivered the blade level with the ground, straight into the
armpit of Hakim, arm raised and triumphing in the symmetry of his party.

The scimitar’s keen blade bit deep into the flesh, severing all the power that sustained the beautiful parry in an instant.
Like a marionette with its strings suddenly cut, Hakim dropped his weapon and crumpled onto the deck, wrapping himself
around Januc’s blade as if to prevent it from causing further damage. Januc followed him down, and only when the pirate lay
propped against the mast did he withdraw the sword.

Hakim’s eyes were glazed in surprise and pain, but open. Januc brought his face down level with his.

‘Allah is kind,’ he spoke softly, ‘for He has given me a great victory.’

Hakim tried to say something vicious but he died before he could form the words.

Looking up, Januc saw Jean regarding him.

‘Will you take his head, Jean? We could use it.’

Wordlessly, Jean did as he was asked, while Januc swiftly severed the ropes of the serpent flag. It plunged to the deck, tongue
and scales enveloping and swallowing up the body of he whose symbol it was. There was a despairing cry when the war banner
fell, but it was as nothing to the cry that greeted the raising of Hakim’s decapitated, still turbaned head. Wailing and cheering
was all that could be heard for the battle on both boats had ceased instantly, the pirates losing all their will to fight.

But they were not the only pirates still around. The crack of a cannon suddenly reminded them of the presence of more.

The other ship, the Black Crescent, had finally cleared its rigging and wreckage and had borne around. It was nearly as big
as the Silver Serpent, which meant that it still had twice the number of men onboard that had started the fight on the
Perseus.
Januc had hoped that the execution of their leader might have taken their appetite for battle away, but if its captain, Tarrak
ben Youseff, had not the mad courage of his former leader, he knew an advantage when he saw one. His cannon shot was aimed
at the front of the
Perseus,
the high foredeck just protruding ahead of the Silver Serpent’s aft. Fortunately for Ganton and his men the shot was high,
but Youseff was not concerned. Once he’d swept around the front of his former commander’s vessel and grappled the
Perseus
on the other side, the day would be his.

After the elation of his victory, this vision of imminent defeat was hard to bear for Januc. Suddenly very tired, he sank
down upon one knee, rolling the head of his enemy like a ball across the deck where it buried itself in the serpent’s silver
mouth.

‘By all the devils, Jean,’ he sighed, ‘we were so close.’

But the Frenchman was paying him no attention. Instead he was looking intently at the bow of their ship, before which the
Black Crescent was soon to pass.

‘Did you,’ he said, turning suddenly to the prone janissary, ‘hear this ship fire any shots at us?’

‘No. The Black Crescent did, but Hakim wanted us undamaged. Why?’

But he received no reply, for Jean was racing away from him towards the bow of the ship, picking up Haakon in his wake, brushing
through the weary victors and the less sullen defeated who now saw their salvation about to pass the front of their vessel.

Two men still stood on the gun platform, holding swords. Taking no chances, Haakon lifted his axe and butted them with the
haft in their faces. Jean ran forward and looked down the cannon’s mouth. As he suspected, a large ball lurked in its depths.