Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [275]
“What do you mean?”
“O’Byrne. He wants us to follow him.”
Harold received this news in silence. They rode on for another quarter mile.
“We’ll hunt him down,” he growled.
They continued their progress as before. O’Byrne kept his distance; they never got any closer. Ahead, the dark shape of the wood came into sight and slowly grew more definite. They drew closer. The men ahead entered the wood and were instantly swallowed up. They were nearly at the wood themselves now. Another moment and they’d be in. Walsh was still beside Harold, and Harold was pressing forward strongly.
“Stop!” Walsh called out. He couldn’t help it. An overwhelming instinct, a certainty born of years living on the frontier made him do it. He pulled up his horse. “It’s a trap,” he cried.
The other riders brushed past him. He heard Harold curse. But they did not pause. A moment later they were swallowed up in the darkness ahead, pressing on regardless.
It was a trap. He knew it in his bones. In this deserted wood up on the high ground, miles from any kind of help, they made a perfect target for an ambush. O’Byrne undoubtedly knew every yard of this woodland; he could probably ride through it with his eyes shut. It would be easy for him to double round in the blackness and slaughter them all. They were doing exactly what he wanted. Walsh listened. At any moment he expected to hear the cries of anguish ahead as his friends were ambushed. He heard nothing; but it was only a matter of time.
He sighed. So what was he doing, waiting out here? Was he going to turn back? Leave the others to their fate? Of course not. He couldn’t do that. However foolish, and whatever the consequences, he had to go in after them. He drew his sword, and walked his horse forward, into the darkness of the wood.
The track was like a tunnel. The branches overhead closed out the stars. The trees on each side were tall presences, felt rather than seen in the blackness. He strained to hear the sound of hoofbeats ahead or of any movement in the surrounding woods, but there was nothing. Only silence. The track made a turn. Still nothing. His horse almost stumbled, but he caught him. He wondered how far ahead the others could be and whether to call out.
The movement from his right was so sudden that he hadn’t even time to think; a crash from the undergrowth as a horse and rider sprang forward onto the track and almost collided with him. Automatically, he slashed with his sword towards where the rider seemed to be, but his blade met nothing. He wheeled to strike again. But how do you fight in the pitch dark, when you might as well be blind? You fight by instinct, he realised, because there is nothing else to do. He raised his sword and struck again. This time the blow was met. There was a ringing bang of metal on metal, and a wrenching shock down his arm. He winced; there was a red-hot pain in his wrist. The sword in his hand felt suddenly heavy, but he started to swing it up to strike again.
A crash. The blow smashed into the base of the blade so hard that it drove the sword clean out of his hand. He gave a gasp of pain. His wrist was bent over at a crazy angle and he did not seem to be able to move it. He heard his sword strike the ground. He had just time to wonder where his assailant was and if he could somehow see in the dark when, to his horror, he felt a hand seize his foot and heave it up, toppling him from his saddle and sending him down to fall with a heavy thud on the ground. Half winded, his wrist now sending hot daggers of pain up his arm, he groped with his free hand for his sword, which had to be lying near, but couldn’t find it. Then a voice spoke, above him.
“You’re beaten, John Walsh.” The words were spoken in Irish.
He tried to look up, and answered in kind. “You know my name. But who are you?”
“Not a name that will do you any good.”
Walsh didn’t need any further telling. It was O’Byrne himself. He couldn’t see his face, but he knew it all the same. His left hand was still trying to locate his sword.
“You’re done for, John