Amber Treasure, The by Richard Denning Page B

for the second guard.
    I recovered my senses as
Cuthbert’s second arrow left his bow and flew towards the wounded foe. It hit
him in the throat and the man’s hand flew up to grasp the arrow, shock and
disbelief showing in his wide eyes. Then he tumbled full length onto the grass;
already dead. I ran forward ten yards behind Eduard, feeling the blood pumping
through my veins and my heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. Suddenly,
the fear was gone and all I now wanted was to kill these bastards and make them
pay for what they had done to us.
    The women and children started
screaming and crouched down in the grass, shielding their heads with their
arms. As yet they did not recognise us: and why should they? We were bellowing
and screaming in fury, faces distorted with rage and vengeance − hardly
the friendly lads they all knew from around the village.
    The second guard, a man of maybe
twenty summers, looked more puzzled than surprised, as if he could not quite
understand what was happening. Eduard was five yards from him, when the warrior
finally spotted him and quickly tried to bring his spear point to bear. He had
been walking along with the shaft leaning casually against his right shoulder
and it took him a few moments to swing it down to point it at Eduard. Moments
later, Eduard arrived in front of him, running so fast that he could not slow
down in time. Had he arrived a heartbeat later, he would have taken the point
firmly in the chest and his own weight would have impaled him upon it.
    Fate and the Valkyries must have
been watching him that day for the point was angled still slightly up so,
although it hit him, it was deflected off his shoulder, piercing muscle and
ripping a gash right up to his neck. He gave an agonizing cry at the pain but
then ploughed headlong into the warrior. They both tumbled over and landed
heavily on the ground, which knocked the wind out of them, the guard ending up
underneath my friend.
    I now arrived at the floundering
pair, knife in hand. The Welsh lad was looking up at me, eyes showing the fear
he must now feel. Realising that I must thrust my blade into him, my rage
dispersed and all I could feel was the bile rising  into my throat. I knew I had
to do this thing: think of Aidith, think of Eduard, I told myself and I moved
towards the enemy.
    Fate now took a hand again and
spared me the choice. For, at that moment, the third Welsh warrior bellowed a
war cry full of hate. He was a dozen yards away, following the line of
villagers. I could see that he was some twenty-five years old and had the same
dark black hair as the other two. Indeed, there was a shape to the face and a
look in his eyes that was similar to the older warrior whom Cuthbert had shot.
The thought occurred to me then that these three might all be brothers.
    I had no time to debate such
matters: he was already moving towards me. He had dropped his spear and drawn a
sword, whose blade gleamed and shone red under the sunset light. He swung it
from side to side as he closed upon me, a man set on revenge for a dead
brother. He was close now: just five yards away. I glanced down at my short
knife and sighed. So it would end here. I would be just one more youth slain
this day. After all, he was a strong and fierce warrior; I was just a boy who, only
yesterday, was practising with wicker shields on the last spring afternoon of
my childhood.
    I should run, I thought. Get
away, survive − but I could not. Whether I was frozen in terror or held
by some feeling of honour and duty, I cannot recall. I tried to think of some
ferocious battle cry or threat to intimidate him, but it was already too late.
He moved in and swung back his blade to cut down on my shoulder. I moved my
knife up to block the blow, realising as I did, that he would knock it aside
with ease.
    Then, I heard a buzzing noise
past my right ear. An instant later, I could see an arrow embedded in the
warrior’s left arm. He gave a cry of pain, moved his right