Timeline - Michael Crichton [103]
Fifty yards.
Sir Charles still held his lance high. But now he couched it, leaning forward in the saddle. He had more control of the lance now. Would he feint again?
Forty yards.
There was no way to know. Marek decided to go for the chest strike. He put his lance in position. He would not move it again.
Thirty yards.
He heard the thunder of hooves, the roar of the crowd. The medieval texts warned, “Do not close your eyes at the moment of impact. Keep your eyes open to make the hit.”
Twenty yards.
His eyes were open.
Ten.
The bastard raised his lance.
He was going for the head.
Impact.
:
The crack of wood sounded like a gunshot. Marek felt a pain in his left shoulder, stabbing upward and hard. He rode on to the end of the course, dropped his shattered lance, extended his hand out for another. But the pages were just staring at the field behind him.
Looking back, he saw that Sir Charles was down, lying on the ground, not moving.
And then he saw Sir Guy prancing and wheeling around Chris’s fallen body. That would be his solution, Marek thought. He’d trample Chris to death.
Marek turned and drew his sword. He held it high.
With a howl of rage, Marek spurred his horse down the field.
:
The crowd screamed and pounded the railings like a drumbeat. Sir Guy turned, and he saw Marek coming. He looked back down at Chris, and kicked his horse, making it move sideways to stomp him.
“Fie! Fie!” the crowd shouted, and even Lord Oliver was on his feet, aghast.
But then Marek had reached Sir Guy, unable to stop his charge but sweeping past him, shouting, “Asshole” as he struck Guy’s head with the flat of his sword. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him, but it was an insulting blow, and it would make him abandon Chris. Which it did.
Sir Guy immediately turned away from Chris as Marek reined up, holding his sword. Sir Guy pulled his sword from the sheath and swung viciously, the blade whistling in the air. It clanged off Marek’s blade. Marek felt his own sword vibrate in his hand with the impact. Marek lashed out in a back-swing, going for the head. Guy parried; the horses wheeled; the swords clanged, again and again.
The battle had begun. And in some detached part of his mind, Marek knew that this would be a fight to the death.
:
Kate watched the battle from the railing. Marek was holding his own, and his physical strength was superior, but it was easy to see that he did not have the expertise of Sir Guy. His swings were wilder, his body position less sure. He seemed to know it, and so did Sir Guy, who kept backing his horse away, trying to open space for full swings. For his part, Marek pressed closer, keeping the distance between them tight, like a fighter staying in the clinch.
But Marek could not do it forever, she saw. Sooner or later, Guy would get enough distance, if only for a moment, and make a lethal blow.
:
Marek’s hair was soaked with sweat inside the helmet. Stinging drops dripped into his eyes. He could do nothing about it. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. It didn’t help much.
Soon he was gasping for breath. Through the slit of the helmet, Sir Guy appeared tireless and implacable, always on the attack, swinging repeatedly in a sure, practiced rhythm. Marek knew that he had to do something soon, before he became too tired. He had to break the knight’s rhythm.
His right hand, holding the sword, already burned from constant exertion. His left hand was strong. Why not use his left hand?
It was worth a try.
Spurring his horse, Marek moved closer, until they were chest to chest. He waited until he had blocked one swing with his own sword, and then with the heel of his left hand, he punched upward at Sir Guy’s helmet. The helmet snapped back; he felt the satisfying thunk as Guy’s head struck the front of the helmet.
Immediately, Marek flipped his sword over and slammed the butt of the handle against Guy’s helmet. There was a loud clang, and Guy’s body jerked in the saddle. His shoulders slumped momentarily. Marek struck again, banged the