The Hostility of Hanno: An Outlaw Chronicles short story Read Free Page B

standing behind Alan and Hanno. The young Englishman stared hard at Chiavari, trying to keep any trace of shock
     or fear from his face.
    ‘I see that you have heard of us – that is good. It will make things more simple. So now, finish your drink and go. There
     need be no trouble between us.’
    Alan did know of the Chiavari brothers, a vicious gang of five siblings and their followers, all cut-throats and thieves who
     served in the Italian contingent under Ubaldo Lanfranchi, the Archbishop of Pisa. They had been in the Holy Land longer than
     most of the other Christian forces and had built themselves a reputation for ruthless dishonesty, outrageous thievery, extortion,
     murder and mayhem that was a disgrace to their noble cause. For a moment, Alan considered getting meekly to his feet and leaving
     that tavern, which now stank of menace. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see drinkers hurriedly finishing their drinks
     and making for the doorway. He owed nothing to Hanno – he had already gone out of his way to be kindly to him on two occasions
     with scant thanks. There was no bond between them, nothing to stop him walking away. It was the right, the wise, the sensible
     thing to do.
    ‘What business have you with my friend Hanno here?’ asked Alan. All his senses were extended: he was listening for any sound
     of movement from the men behind him, while keeping his eyes fixed on the fellow sitting across the table. The bar had nearly
     emptied. Even the obsequious dwarfish owner had found some hole to burrow into. Alan felt the chilly fire of battle ignite
     in his belly. His mouth was dry, the thrill of mortal peril puckering the skin on his arms and neck.
    The dark-haired Rudolfo smiled like a satisfied wolf. ‘Since you ask, your friend killed my brother Petrus, in a common brawl,
     in a place like this up in Tyre, over some fat slattern who brewed ale there.’ The man looked around at the dingy surroundings.
     ‘Yes, he died in a place very much like this one. Petrus was a drunken sodomite, a lazy, useless, foul-mouthed slug-abed much
     of the time, but he was my brother, and you know how these things are. So, will you go now, and leave us to our business,
     sonny? Absolutely your last chance.’
    But the man was lying. With a slow, dream-like clarity, Alan could see Rudolfo already reaching for the axe behind his belt.
     And the dead, fear-stinking air was moving behind Alan’s back; he felt the whisper of it on his bare neck, although he had
     not seen Rudolfo give the slightest signal. It was beginning.
    Alan felt a heavy hand thud on to his shoulder – and he raised his left hand and flipped the full beaker of wine up behind
     him into the face of the Chiavari standing at his back. A splash, a vile oath, and a clatter as the empty beaker hit the floor.
     Alan’s poniard was already unsheathed in his right hand and without turning he jabbed the long blade backwards blindly, under
     his left elbow between his arm and his ribs, and felt it sink home into the man’s groin. A squeal of rage and a wash of blood
     over his fist, and Alan was on his feet and turning, tugging the blade free, moving to finish the wounded man with a second
     plunging poniard strike to the belly.
    If Alan Dale thought that he had moved swiftly to combat the Chiavari looming behind his stool, his brisk actions were as
     nothing beside those of Hanno. The moment Rudolfo began to reach for the axe, the Bavarian put his right boot up on the edge
     of the table and shoved it hard towards the man seated opposite, skidding the heavy wood across, smashing the table’s side
     into his enemy’s chest and knocking him to the floor. Hanno was already twisting and rising, his dagger in his fist. He surged
     up at the man standing behind his chair, the blade driving up, the soft pop of a knife-filled fist meeting slack jaw flesh,
     and the dagger had buried itself under the chin of the Chiavari, ploughing through tongue and soft palette