Fight Scene from my novel

Morgan's Truth

By Angela Tahara



A plume of road dust exploded up around the body of the young lad, flat on his back and gasping for air. The attacker drew his dirk from the leather holder tied to his leg as he straddled atop of the young man, intent on making the final kill, he grabbed the knot at the top of his dark hair and yanked his head to the side . The lad twisted and squirmed for all his worth, his own hair pulling from the roots but he could not completely break release of the hold or buck him off but he could knock him off balance.

Men shoved and pushed the circle smaller, yelling their favourites and confirming their bets, or groaning at what seemed inevitable, and no one cared to stop the fight.

Taller than his attacker, the young man was thinner from malnutrition, and with no armour or weapon in his hands, leaving him to rely solely on his quick wits, youthful agility and immense fear of a stabbing. Confidence glistened in the older man’s eyes and specks of spit shot out his thin lips as he hissed in frustration at every non lethal thrust. Wagers stopped and the crowd raised their voices above the lad’s screams with every twist and jarring squirm. Again, the attacker was almost knocked off balance but regained his position, grabbed him by the neck and pressed the knife under his nose. The lad lay still. The crowd grew quiet.

“Finish him,” someone yelled.

A glint of metal flashed through the air, over the heads of the crowd, narrowly missing the elongated nose of one spectator, and lodged deep into the attacker’s left eye.

Blood dripped down his cheek as his other eye glazed over in the throws death. He wavered a few seconds before crashing down on his stunned opponent. The young man pushed him off in haste and stumbled and scrambled to his feet in disbelief, looking around with the crowd for the source of his saviour.

A stones throw west of the fight, and high on a rocky knoll, sat Torvall on his dappled grey war stallion. His bearded chin raised in defiance, he challenged anyone to protest his decision in ending this fight. The crowd grudgenly dispersed and slowly returned to their morning duties. Torvall caught the eye of two men and pointed to them and motioned to the forest beyond. They knew they had been chosen to drag the body well away from the camp to be fed on by the wolves. No cremation for disloyalty.

Torvall urged his spirited horse to the centre of the encampment to coral and dismounted, handing the reins to his squire, Jil.

"Lord Raven requests your presence in the main tent, chief," Jil announced, flipping a curl of blond hair that fell across his freckled nose.

Torvall made his way across camp to the row of tents that were already being dismantled for the days ride ahead. Most hide tents were low and could only sleep four men, but the main plan tent was four times the size and the only structure that men could stand under without stooping.

Torvall drew the flap back and a brightly dressed child, nine summers young but a lifetime old, darted out from under his raised arm. Like a mouse being discovered, the boy's eyes met with Torvall's and for an instant, seemed to read him like an old sage. Torvall snarled at the boy, Qwan, who broke away and ran across the compound as fast as his stunted legs could carry him. Torvall knew it was freedom and not fear that drove the child to run whenever he could, and so he allowed him the space of the camp. Qwan was a strange watchful child who had never uttered a word since joining the company with Lord Raven. To most people, his lack of speech and penetrating blue eyes would send shivers down a man’s back, but Torvall felt a kind pity for the boy. The lad's life had not been easy to this point, and was not likely to get any better.

"What's going on out there?" Lord Raven said, as Torvall entered. “What was all the yelling on about?”

"Difference of opinions,” Torvall said. “It's been solved." He left the flap open to catch the morning air and waited patiently as Lord Raven looked down absently on his tattered map parchments.

Lord Raven was dressed in the same attire as Qwan, or more so, Qwan was dressed like Lord Raven. A bright yellow jerkin, forest green breeches and a red-dyed ermine cape covering a tall, thin, bony body. Lord Raven looked the part of a dandy and there would be no need for flags with him on this campaign.

"You people are always squabbling over one thing or another," Raven muttered under his long beak nose. "What was it this time . . . someone got more beetles in their stew than another?"

"The moon," Torvall answered, crossing his hands behind his back.

Lord Raven met his eyes and waited for further explanation. Thin brown hair, falling loose from his braid, fell from his balding forehead and whipped about in an errant breeze.

"Do tell, what does the moon have to do with anything?" Raven said impatiently.

Torvall drew a long breath before elaborating to the high born regent.

"The moon disappeared the night last. That is a time when Donn the Beast will likely cast his minion into our midst. This morn, Grann believed the cybol was in Rikan, so he attacked him. And, I killed him."

"So now a man is dead because of a stupid superstition. That’s just bloody wonderful. Was this Rikan a useful man?"

"It was Grann that I killed."

"Grann? I thought Rikan was the cybol?"

"That's what Grann thought. I decided that Grann was the cybol," Torvall said.

"Why would you assume that. . . nay, nay,” Raven said, waiving him off, “I don't want to know your heathen thought process. You just do what you have to to keep them in line, but please, no more killing of cybols without my authorization. You know very well that we have little enough manpower as it is and can’t afford to lose a single man."