The Hostility of Hanno

by Angus Donald

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Alan Dale, a loyal soldier in the service of The Earl of Locksley, also known as Robin Hood, is part of a vast Christian army seeking to recapture the Holy Land from the Saracen hordes. Wounded and vulnerable, Alan encounters another injured fighter, a shaven-headed Bavarian named Hanno. But will this thuggish killer prove to be Alan's friend - or his foe? The legend continues in this short story in Angus Donald's masterly series The Outlaw Chronicles, perfect for devoted fans and newcomers alike. Also includes an extract from Warlord, the latest novel in The Outlaw Chronicles.

Release date: June 20, 2013

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 37

Sample

A fat fly looped through the baked afternoon air of the small infirmary, buzzing contentedly and crossing and recrossing the
sun-filled space with an aimlessness that seemed almost insolent. The low room, although spotlessly clean, smelled faintly
of wine and blood, with a background hum of bodily corruption that had drawn the fly in through the high stone window despite
the swelter of noon and the iron bars that guarded that small square opening. Catching the delightful stench of overripe green
grapes, the fly hung almost motionless in the air for a moment and then swooped, dropping to a wooden table that had been
placed between two cots, each of which contained a slumbering man, and which were part of a row of eight simple wooden-framed
beds that stood against the outside wall.


On that late July day these two were the only injured men occupying the ward belonging to the Knight Hospitallers of St John,
one of several in their recently reclaimed commanderie in Acre. The city had been captured from the Saracens a couple of weeks
before by a huge Christian army – mostly under the command of Richard the Lionheart, King of England. It had been lightly
looted and was now packed to its high white walls with victorious, wine-filled Christian soldiery of many regions, most of
whom had never before set foot in a city of its quality; and its narrow, shady, tight-twisting alleyways, gold-clad mosques,
magnificent palaces and cool courtyards with tinkling fountains seemed somehow somnolent, bruised and resentful in the summer
heat, like a drunk after a three-day debauch.


The fellow in the left-hand cot was long-limbed and yellow-haired, slim and very young, perhaps no older than sixteen years.
His face was browned by the Mediterranean sun, regular in shape and roughly handsome with prominent cheekbones and a square,
determined chin. He was deeply asleep, his unlined forehead filmed with sweat, his closed eyelids twitching minutely as he
dreamed. Contrasting with his tanned face, his upper body, which was bared to the hips, was pale as buttermilk below the collar
bone, and despite his youth the slabs of musculature indicating a highly trained swordsman created sculpted planes and shadows
on his smooth chest and arms. His right wrist, which lay on the sweat-damp sheet that covered his modesty, was strapped tightly
with crisp white bandages. And his lower belly, too, just above the hip bone, was swathed in a thick snowy linen band.


The man in the second cot also appeared to be asleep. Almost in opposition to the young warrior, he was squat and thick-bodied;
an ill-made creature with heavy pads of hair on his chest, back and the curve of his shoulders, and yet with all the hair
on his head shaven away to expose a large knuckle-like skull. His hairy sweat-gleaming upper body was a mass of lumped muscle
and a truly spectacular collection of scars. His lower left leg had clearly been broken; it had been set, bound and secured
between two pieces of split pine, and tightly bandaged from knee to ankle.


The fly alighted on the wrinkled green skin of a lone grape, unhooked its mouth parts and began to feed on the sweet juice
of the fruit …


CRACK!

A hairy hand smashed flat on to the surface of the table, crushing grape and fly into a green mush, and creating a sharp noise
like a breaking tree limb. The blond warrior sat up with a jerk, and immediately wheezed with pain and clutched at his belly
bandages. He looked angrily over at the man in the other bed who was wiping the mess from his hand on to his linen sheet.
The shaven-headed man looked back at him with dark, iron-hard eyes. The two men stared at each other for some moments, neither
speaking, neither willing to break their gaze, the heat in the already baking infirmary seeming to intensify around them,
as if their locked eyes were generating a blaze all of their own. Finally, the younger man looked away, and flopped back down
on to his cot. The shaven-headed man spoke then, a harsh unintelligible cackle, neither French nor English, nor any kind of
local Latin – languages the young man might have comprehended. But it sounded very much like a deadly insult, or some vile
curse.


‘What did you just say?’ the young man said, sitting up once again though this t. . .