James McGee - Rapscallion

The Turk's movements seemed unhurried; almost nonchalant.

There was no sign of elation on the ebony face, no quiet smirk of satisfaction at having drawn blood. Neither did he appear out of breath, despite the bright sheen of sweat that coated his brow, shoulders and upper chest.

Another swing, this time towards Hawkwood's undefended left shoulder. Hawkwood spun towards the attack, slashing down, going for the tendon running up the inside of the Mameluke's right wrist.

He felt his heel slip in the shingle and knew he'd missed his target by a mile. For the first time, he saw the light of opportunity in his opponent's eyes. Fighting for traction, Hawkwood tried to fling himself aside. The Mameluke's blade arced towards him.

Had he found his feet and braced himself, the Turk's razor would have caught him full square. But Hawkwood was still falling backwards. The blade raked across his breastbone, paring shirt and skin in equal measure. This time he felt it: a sharp burning sensation searing across his chest.

He heard someone swear and thought it must have been Lasseur, and then he was pushing himself upright, bringing his stick round, more in a wild flail than any sort of coordinated riposte, but when he felt the steel bite, he knew he'd made contact.

Hawkwood's blade had taken the Mameluke across the back of his right forearm two inches below the elbow, slicing through flesh and clipping bone. The Turk bellowed in pain and turned. Hawkwood started to scramble clear, saw the threat homing in, parried the counterstrike more by luck than judgement, and swung his blade at the Turk's carotid.

It should have ended there and then. How the Mameluke evaded the cut, Hawkwood would never know. Whatever the reason, the blade missed by a hair's breadth. In that split second, Hawkwood tried to pull the strike but he was already committed. The razor struck the deck support with the full force of Hawkwood's body behind it, and snapped cleanly in two.

There was a gasp from the men around.

Blood dripped down the Mameluke's arm and belly. He was breathing harder now. The corners of his mouth lifted. He stepped forward eagerly, his blade raised.

But Hawkwood was already moving. His right hand shot out. The fistful of shingle struck the Mameluke's face like a flurry of hailstones. The Mameluke threw up his left hand to protect his eyes. Using the floor joist behind him as a fulcrum, Hawkwood launched himself towards his temporarily unsighted foe.

Hawkwood's shoulder charge lifted the Mameluke off his feet. Locked together, the two men crashed through the ring of watchers, who broke apart in alarm.

Hawkwood's left hand gripped the Mameluke's sword arm. The Turk drove his other fist into Hawkwood's gut. Air exploded from Hawkwood's lungs. The Turk clamped his left hand around Hawkwood's neck and began to squeeze.

The Mameluke's smell was overpowering; a combination of musk, sweat and blood. Hawkwood felt his throat start to close. A red mist began to descend. He rammed his knee into the Turk's crotch and brought his free hand up. He heard a brief exhalation, felt the grip around his neck loosen, bent back the Turk's wrist and slammed his forehead against the exposed nose. The Mameluke's head rocked back. Hawkwood side-stepped to his left, transferred his right hand to the Mameluke's sword arm and as he rotated and locked the Mameluke's wrist, let go with his left hand and drove the heel of it against the elbow joint. There was a dull crack. A spasm shook the Turk. His hand opened and the razor fell to the shingle. Hawkwood increased pressure on the injured arm. The Mameluke dropped to his knees. A keening wail broke from his lips. Blood from his broken nose was running down his chin. His face twisted in pain and he sank to the deck.

Hawkwood straightened and Lasseur yelled a warning.

Hawkwood turned. The Mameluke had retrieved the fallen razor. He was crouched on one knee. His right arm hung uselessly by his side. His left hand was drawn back. The razor blade glinted. There was a renewed look of savagery on his face.

Hawkwood's right foot lashed out. The edge of his heel caught the Mameluke on the side of his jaw. The dark eyes rolled back into his skull. His body slumped across the deck and lay still.

There was a stunned silence.

Dupin was the first to break ranks. He bent down and lifted the Mameluke's head. Letting it fall back, he stared hard at Hawkwood then turned to Matisse. "His neck's broke."

"Satisfied?" Hawkwood said coldly.

"Very impressive," Matisse said softly. "Not quite the result I was expecting. You've done for my champion, and so decisively, too. Who'd have thought it? You may be an officer, Captain Hooper, but my bones tell me you're no gentleman." The dark lenses glittered in the lantern light.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Hawkwood said. He felt suddenly tired and experienced an overwhelming urge for a strong drink.

Lasseur broke away from the cordon. "You left it a little late, my friend. You had me worried."

"You weren't the only one," Hawkwood said wearily, and winced. He waved away Lasseur's extended arm and lifted the edge of blood-soaked shirt to examine his injuries, noting the blood across his knuckles. The gash along his side didn't look too deep, but it would probably benefit from a stitch or two. As for the cut across his chest, the resulting scar would more than likely make it appear worse than it was. More war wounds, Hawkwood thought. He knew he'd been lucky. He looked down at the Mameluke's corpse. It could so easily have gone the other way.

Lasseur followed his gaze and his face clouded. He turned to where Matisse was standing with his arm around Lucien Ballard's shoulder. "It's over. Your man lost. Give us the boy."

Matisse said, "I'm sorry, Captain. I'm not with you. Why should I do that?"

Hawkwood went cold.

Lasseur nodded towards the Turk's prostrate body. "Our agreement. You said if Captain Hooper defeated your champion, you'd hand the boy over."

"You're mistaken, Captain. I said no such thing."

"What?" Lasseur said, his voice dripping venom.

A half smile played across the Corsican's lips. His hand rested lightly across the back of Lucien Ballard's neck. The boy was staring at the Mameluke's corpse.

Hawkwood looked around. Had a pin dropped, the whisper of it hitting the ballast would have sounded like cannon fire.

"The thing is, Captain," Matisse said, "the more I think about it, the more it occurs to me that it wouldn't be right. I've a reputation to maintain. I can't have newcomers coming down here and dictating terms. If I allow that to happen, what's to stop every other worm crawling out of the woodwork and questioning my authority? How would it look if I handed the boy over to you? It would make me seem weak. It'd give every other poor wretch on this ship ideas above his station. Where would it end? More to the point, where's the profit?"

"Did it occur to you that you might actually gain some respect?" Lasseur said.

"Respect?" The Corsican gave a coarse laugh. "That's my point, Captain. I don't want respect. I want them to fear me. If they fear me, they'll obey me. That's how I bring order out of chaos. You think I'd let one small boy jeopardize my standing here?"

"If you'd no intention of keeping your word, then what was the point of that?" Lasseur pointed angrily at the Turk's dead body.

The Corsican shrugged. "We all have to make sacrifices. But then, who says I'm breaking my word? Not me, Captain. You merely misinterpreted the terms. I never said I'd hand the boy over. What I said was, I would set him free."

"I don't understand," Lasseur said. "What's the difference?"

Matisse reached down and cupped the boy's face. He stroked the smooth cheek lovingly and in one swift move wrenched his hands sideways. There was a sharp crack and Lucien Ballard's body went limp. With a dismissive shrug, Matisse pushed the body away and dusted his hands. "There, it's done. I've freed him. The problem is solved." He jerked his head at Dupin. "Kill them both."