slashes.
Shikotenka was unimpressed. He’d survived enough knife fights to know that speed, strength and technique were all very well, but what really counted was having the sheer malicious will to do as much harm as possible to your enemy. By all accounts Guatemoc was brave and cruel in battle, but Shikotenka knew there were limits to the damage he would want to do today when his overriding concern must be to win honour by bringing in a high-ranking living captive for sacrifice.
Shikotenka had no such distractions. He would not take Guatemoc prisoner. His only interest, the entire focus of his will, was to kill him now, quickly and silently, and continue with his mission. So he weaved and ducked before the furious assault, keeping his own knife hand back, not yet committing himself to a counterattack, waiting for the right moment.
‘It must be difficult for you,’ he said conversationally as they circled.
Guatemoc blinked: ‘Difficult? What?’
‘To be the most accomplished warrior in Coaxoch’s army and yet see his windbag sons raised above you as regiment generals.’
‘They’re welcome to the job,’ laughed Guatemoc. ‘I fight for honour not position, and I take my orders only from our Speaker.’
‘Oh yes, of course, your uncle! But tell me – as a brave Mexica, how can you possibly endure the leadership of
that
stuffed tunic? Why even Coaxoch is a better man than him!’
‘Moctezuma is the greatest Speaker ever to lead the Mexica nation.’
‘Come off it, Guatemoc! You don’t really believe that, do you? The man’s an arse. I know he’s an arse. You know he’s an arse. Why not just admit it?’
‘He’s a great man.’
‘He’s an arse. He’s going to put you all in the shit if you don’t get rid of him soon. That’s what arses do.’
‘I’ll not hear your filthy insults against my Speaker!’ Guatemoc feinted as though about to strike upward and predictably stabbed down, aiming to disable Shikotenka with a wound to the thigh.
Shikotenka danced away from the blade. ‘Perhaps the rumour about the Lady Achautli is true?’ he suggested. He made the face of a man who has tasted something sour. ‘It would explain your insane loyalty.’
‘You dare speak of my mother!’
‘Not I, Guatemoc, not I, but every gossip on every street corner, every merchant, every fruit-seller, every masturbating schoolboy speaks of your mother – and of your mother’s loins …’
A thunderous look had settled over Guatemoc’s brow. ‘You go too far!’ he warned.
‘Apparently those loins of hers were famously loose—’
‘
Too far!
’ Guatemoc roared, and lashed out with his knife – a curling right hook that whistled past Shikotenka’s neck, missing him by the breadth of a finger.
Shikotenka danced away another few paces. He could feel the joy of battle rising in him. ‘Apparently,’ he said, ‘the Lady Achautli wasn’t just bedding your father Cuitláhuac – that poor cuckold! – when you were conceived. The hot little hussy was also bedding his brother Moctezuma. Five times a day I’m told, when she could get it. So no wonder you’re loyal to him! He’s not just your uncle, he’s your father as well!’
As Guatemoc charged, making strangled, choking sounds, drawing his dagger up into a brutal overhead strike, time seemed to slow for Shikotenka, and muscle memory from many battles took over. He slid his left foot forward, punched his blade into his opponent’s exposed flank, scraped it across his ribs and swung it up to parry his strike.
The knives clashed and locked a span above Shikotenka’s head, and the two men strained against each other, muscles knotted, grunting like animals. Shikotenka found himself close enough to Guatemoc to see the mad cruel Mexica arrogance in his eyes and smell the distinctive metallic reek of human blood on his breath.
Which of my brothers
? he thought.
Which of my sisters
?
Knife fighting was all about deception, so Shikotenka allowed
Shikotenka was unimpressed. He’d survived enough knife fights to know that speed, strength and technique were all very well, but what really counted was having the sheer malicious will to do as much harm as possible to your enemy. By all accounts Guatemoc was brave and cruel in battle, but Shikotenka knew there were limits to the damage he would want to do today when his overriding concern must be to win honour by bringing in a high-ranking living captive for sacrifice.
Shikotenka had no such distractions. He would not take Guatemoc prisoner. His only interest, the entire focus of his will, was to kill him now, quickly and silently, and continue with his mission. So he weaved and ducked before the furious assault, keeping his own knife hand back, not yet committing himself to a counterattack, waiting for the right moment.
‘It must be difficult for you,’ he said conversationally as they circled.
Guatemoc blinked: ‘Difficult? What?’
‘To be the most accomplished warrior in Coaxoch’s army and yet see his windbag sons raised above you as regiment generals.’
‘They’re welcome to the job,’ laughed Guatemoc. ‘I fight for honour not position, and I take my orders only from our Speaker.’
‘Oh yes, of course, your uncle! But tell me – as a brave Mexica, how can you possibly endure the leadership of
that
stuffed tunic? Why even Coaxoch is a better man than him!’
‘Moctezuma is the greatest Speaker ever to lead the Mexica nation.’
‘Come off it, Guatemoc! You don’t really believe that, do you? The man’s an arse. I know he’s an arse. You know he’s an arse. Why not just admit it?’
‘He’s a great man.’
‘He’s an arse. He’s going to put you all in the shit if you don’t get rid of him soon. That’s what arses do.’
‘I’ll not hear your filthy insults against my Speaker!’ Guatemoc feinted as though about to strike upward and predictably stabbed down, aiming to disable Shikotenka with a wound to the thigh.
Shikotenka danced away from the blade. ‘Perhaps the rumour about the Lady Achautli is true?’ he suggested. He made the face of a man who has tasted something sour. ‘It would explain your insane loyalty.’
‘You dare speak of my mother!’
‘Not I, Guatemoc, not I, but every gossip on every street corner, every merchant, every fruit-seller, every masturbating schoolboy speaks of your mother – and of your mother’s loins …’
A thunderous look had settled over Guatemoc’s brow. ‘You go too far!’ he warned.
‘Apparently those loins of hers were famously loose—’
‘
Too far!
’ Guatemoc roared, and lashed out with his knife – a curling right hook that whistled past Shikotenka’s neck, missing him by the breadth of a finger.
Shikotenka danced away another few paces. He could feel the joy of battle rising in him. ‘Apparently,’ he said, ‘the Lady Achautli wasn’t just bedding your father Cuitláhuac – that poor cuckold! – when you were conceived. The hot little hussy was also bedding his brother Moctezuma. Five times a day I’m told, when she could get it. So no wonder you’re loyal to him! He’s not just your uncle, he’s your father as well!’
As Guatemoc charged, making strangled, choking sounds, drawing his dagger up into a brutal overhead strike, time seemed to slow for Shikotenka, and muscle memory from many battles took over. He slid his left foot forward, punched his blade into his opponent’s exposed flank, scraped it across his ribs and swung it up to parry his strike.
The knives clashed and locked a span above Shikotenka’s head, and the two men strained against each other, muscles knotted, grunting like animals. Shikotenka found himself close enough to Guatemoc to see the mad cruel Mexica arrogance in his eyes and smell the distinctive metallic reek of human blood on his breath.
Which of my brothers
? he thought.
Which of my sisters
?
Knife fighting was all about deception, so Shikotenka allowed
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