had been yelling, for they expected Leotes to begin chopping me up at once. Now they gradually became silent and fell into complete absorption with the spectacle. I held him off, then let my dagger slide just that fraction off line that would indicate an opening. He saw it, he feinted and pressed in, and I, confidently expecting a neat lunge finished with a flick to cut my exposed ear, instead barely managed to scrape my rapier up and across as his dagger flashed to my chest.
He leaped back, surprised he had missed.
I cursed. He’d been aiming to remove the last frills of my shirt, a nice showy beginning to the cutting-up process. But he’d almost had me. I could not afford to give any more free openings. Then he pressed in earnest, and I discovered how good this bravo-fighter from Zenicce really was.
He was good — very, very good.
And, good as he was, he quickly realized that he faced a master swordsman, also. A tense look crept about his eyes. He essayed simple attacks, and complicated linked series of attacks; I knew them all and beat him back. So far I had not attacked. The steel rang and slithered, our feet stamped, and gradually his breathing grew louder and more ragged.
“Come on, Leotes!” yelled a frustrated onlooker. “Start slicing him up!”
“Yes, by Havil! Let’s see the color of his blood!”
The blades sang together, dagger and rapier, rapier and dagger.
He flung himself in, now, seeking no longer to slice me but simply to kill me and so have it over with. I pressed him off, forced him back, and then instigated an attack. As I say, he was very, very good. He survived, but now the sweat collected at the corners of his nose, and his mouth hung open as he breathed. His trousers were cut away as I had bet Jefan.
With a delicate touch, finicky, I’d say, I slid the steel into his left arm, my rapier and dagger crossed and down.
“First blood!” I shouted.
“No! No!” screamed the crowd. They were raging. “To the death!”
Leotes looked ghastly. I felt sorry for him. I was quite prepared to let it go at that, and see about Garnath. But the bravo-fighter from Ponthieu rushed in, his left arm still in action, the hand still gripping the dagger. “No!” he shrieked. “To the death!”
I circled him around the central area, for with rapier-and-dagger-work the simple small-sword style of straight up and down is overmatched. There followed a quick passade and he staggered back, his shoulder staining dark with blood.
I caught the judge’s eye. “First and second blood!” I called. “Take witness! I do not desire this man’s death. By the law of Hamal I abjure his death, and place it upon his own head!”
“Kill him, you fool Leotes! Kill him!” screeched Garnath. He bent swiftly and spoke to a slave girl in the gray slave breechclout, but with a silver-tissue bodice, who he had brought to hand him his spiced wine.
I swung back. “Do you want to die, Leotes?”
“I shall surely kill you, rast!”
And he tried.
Fully intending not to slay the onker, I played his blades, and as his left-hand dagger grew weaker I cut in and thrust, intending to spit his thigh and, I hoped, make him fall down and thus be incapable of continuing the bout. But he sought at the end to be clever with his swordplay and spun sideways and ducked down to let me have that long, lunging, desperate throw, with his left hand on the ground. My rapier went clean through his throat.
He jerked back, writhed on the blade, and as I withdrew, he toppled. Before his seconds could rush to him I bent over. He stared up, sick with his own knowledge. He could just speak with the bright blood pumping up.
“Who — are — you?”
I bent close. He had earned this.
“You know of Strombor, Leotes of Ponthieu?”
He nodded, unable to speak now. His eyes glared madly. I said, very softly, “I am the Lord of Strombor.”
Then he died, this Leotes, Bladesman, sword-master of Ponthieu, bravo-fighter of Zenicce.
There was
He leaped back, surprised he had missed.
I cursed. He’d been aiming to remove the last frills of my shirt, a nice showy beginning to the cutting-up process. But he’d almost had me. I could not afford to give any more free openings. Then he pressed in earnest, and I discovered how good this bravo-fighter from Zenicce really was.
He was good — very, very good.
And, good as he was, he quickly realized that he faced a master swordsman, also. A tense look crept about his eyes. He essayed simple attacks, and complicated linked series of attacks; I knew them all and beat him back. So far I had not attacked. The steel rang and slithered, our feet stamped, and gradually his breathing grew louder and more ragged.
“Come on, Leotes!” yelled a frustrated onlooker. “Start slicing him up!”
“Yes, by Havil! Let’s see the color of his blood!”
The blades sang together, dagger and rapier, rapier and dagger.
He flung himself in, now, seeking no longer to slice me but simply to kill me and so have it over with. I pressed him off, forced him back, and then instigated an attack. As I say, he was very, very good. He survived, but now the sweat collected at the corners of his nose, and his mouth hung open as he breathed. His trousers were cut away as I had bet Jefan.
With a delicate touch, finicky, I’d say, I slid the steel into his left arm, my rapier and dagger crossed and down.
“First blood!” I shouted.
“No! No!” screamed the crowd. They were raging. “To the death!”
Leotes looked ghastly. I felt sorry for him. I was quite prepared to let it go at that, and see about Garnath. But the bravo-fighter from Ponthieu rushed in, his left arm still in action, the hand still gripping the dagger. “No!” he shrieked. “To the death!”
I circled him around the central area, for with rapier-and-dagger-work the simple small-sword style of straight up and down is overmatched. There followed a quick passade and he staggered back, his shoulder staining dark with blood.
I caught the judge’s eye. “First and second blood!” I called. “Take witness! I do not desire this man’s death. By the law of Hamal I abjure his death, and place it upon his own head!”
“Kill him, you fool Leotes! Kill him!” screeched Garnath. He bent swiftly and spoke to a slave girl in the gray slave breechclout, but with a silver-tissue bodice, who he had brought to hand him his spiced wine.
I swung back. “Do you want to die, Leotes?”
“I shall surely kill you, rast!”
And he tried.
Fully intending not to slay the onker, I played his blades, and as his left-hand dagger grew weaker I cut in and thrust, intending to spit his thigh and, I hoped, make him fall down and thus be incapable of continuing the bout. But he sought at the end to be clever with his swordplay and spun sideways and ducked down to let me have that long, lunging, desperate throw, with his left hand on the ground. My rapier went clean through his throat.
He jerked back, writhed on the blade, and as I withdrew, he toppled. Before his seconds could rush to him I bent over. He stared up, sick with his own knowledge. He could just speak with the bright blood pumping up.
“Who — are — you?”
I bent close. He had earned this.
“You know of Strombor, Leotes of Ponthieu?”
He nodded, unable to speak now. His eyes glared madly. I said, very softly, “I am the Lord of Strombor.”
Then he died, this Leotes, Bladesman, sword-master of Ponthieu, bravo-fighter of Zenicce.
There was
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