David Tallerman - Prince Thief

Maybe it was Alvantes’s leather brigandine that saved him. I could see it through the slice in his cloak, despite the blood already darkening both garments. More likely, though, was that Ludovoco could have killed him then had he wanted to. For while Alvantes was panting, sweating, barely keeping his feet, the only effort I could see in Ludovoco’s face was the strain of concealing the fullness of his pleasure.

Though Alvantes turned in time to fend off another blow, it was obvious Ludovoco had left him that moment’s opening. It went likewise for their next few exchanges, Alvantes escaping each by only the slightest of margins. Ludovoco wasn’t giving him a chance, or even a moment’s breath — only whittling him down. This was no longer a fight, if it ever had been. It was simply a protracted murder.

Then — and I couldn’t say what tipped me off, perhaps a change in Alvantes’s posture or in the tempo of the fight — it struck me that maybe things weren’t quite so simple. I’d seen him fight many a time now, known him for longer than I cared to think about, and I felt more than saw the change in how he was handling himself.

Finally I understood. Alvantes had used the same ploy when he’d fought against Mounteban. It was a move unexpected enough to win him an edge — the sort of edge he urgently needed.

Even as I realised it, Alvantes dropped back on his right foot, lowering his defence a fraction. He was luring Ludovoco in, drawing the Pasaedan’s focus away from his left side — because the last thing Ludovoco would expect from an enemy with a stump in place of a hand was a punch to the face. It would hurt Alvantes far more than it would Ludovoco, but it would buy him a moment’s surprise — and just then, any chance was better than none.

Alvantes stumbled. For all his obvious exhaustion, his acting was impressive. Even I couldn’t be sure whether this was his final gambit or just the last of his strength failing. His sword dipped further. In a moment, helplessly propelled by his duellist’s instincts, Ludovoco was thrusting for his opponent’s right side. But the stumble became a pivot, as Alvantes rolled on his left foot, shifted all his strength into his left arm — and lashed out.

Ducking effortlessly beneath the clumsy swing, Ludovoco flicked his blade across Alvantes’s calf. Alvantes didn’t cry out, but as he staggered, he did moan through gritted teeth.

“Really, Captain?” asked Ludovoco, with a joyful chuckle. “A cheap trick for so honourable a fighter.”

Alvantes dropped to his knees. He looked surprised — whether at Ludovoco seeing so easily through his ruse or because his body had finally refused to stay up, I couldn’t guess.

When Ludovoco took a step closer, Alvantes flailed for his legs. Ludovoco blocked, forced Alvantes’s blade down, and — so quickly I could hardly register it — sliced Alvantes’s arm. As his sword slipped from his grasp, Alvantes cried out for the first time, a sob of hopeless rage. He made to cradle his bleeding right wrist with his left hand. Then, realising the impossibility, he pushed to his knees and tried instead to fling himself at Ludovoco.

Ludovoco sidestepped; his foot crashed into Alvantes’s ribs, sent him tumbling sideways. An instant later, it was followed by the point of Ludovoco’s sword.

Behind me, Estrada screamed — a sound so naked and pained that I couldn’t believe it could come from a human throat. It was almost loud enough to muffle Alvantes’s own choked cry.

Ludovoco stepped round, careful to avoid Alvantes’s hand, which still grasped spasmodically for his ankles. He put his foot on Alvantes’s shoulder; it seemed to take only the slightest pressure to drive him down into the mud. Ludovoco levelled his sword, adjusted its angle carefully.

“A last mercy, Guard-Captain,” he said. “A quick death. Much more than you deserve.” As he raised his blade, I saw where it would land: across Alvantes’s bared throat.

“Stop, damn you!” Mounteban’s roar was huge amidst the unnatural silence; it actually froze Ludovoco in place. “Captain Lunto Alvantes is incapacitated,” Mounteban cried. “Your fight is with me now.”

Ludovoco looked as if he had every intention of going through with his execution, regardless of what Mounteban or anyone else thought. But Mounteban already had his own sword in hand, had already halved the distance between them; in the time it would take to end Alvantes’s life, Mounteban would be on him. Reaching a swift decision, Ludovoco stepped away and dropped easily into a defence.

Mounteban hit him like a bull charging — and Ludovoco actually staggered. He span away into clear space, a half dozen quick steps carrying him free of Mounteban’s first furious assault. Caught off guard, Ludovoco seemed momentarily to forget just who he was fighting, for when he scythed a blow towards Mounteban’s left side, his steel span off a buckler in place of Alvantes’s missing hand. Mounteban shoved the almost-delicate stroke aside and continued to chop wildly, pressing Ludovoco back still further.

Did Mounteban really think he could beat a fighter of such calibre by chopping like a woodsman? But whatever else he’d achieved, he had managed to drive Ludovoco away from our fallen guard-captain. As the two fighters paced round each other like angry dogs, Estrada was already running to recover Alvantes. Without quite thinking about it, I fell in behind her. As we drew near, Alvantes managed to push himself up onto hands and knees. He was alive, then — for the moment, at least.

Meanwhile, Mounteban had barely paused in his attack. Nor had it become less clumsy; it was still more a charge than an assault. I couldn’t see what he hoped to gain by so inelegant a tactic. Rather than trying to hit his foe, it was almost as though Mounteban were flinging himself at him — which meant that for Ludovoco, it could only be a matter of waiting for the right opening.

Yet, for all its inevitability, when the end came it still caught me by surprise. One moment, Mounteban was hurling another blow at Ludovoco’s head. The next, Ludovoco had flicked his entire body sideways, stepped with feline grace inside his opponent’s defence. His sword wove a sinuous pattern in the air; it danced from Mounteban’s thigh to his arm, and ended in a leisurely swipe across his forehead.

If Ludovoco had expected to stop him, however, he was bound for disappointment — for all the injuries did was make Mounteban press on all the harder. Though he was limping, hardly holding his sword, half blinded by blood, Mounteban opened his mouth and bellowed mindlessly and ploughed forward. Ludovoco’s eyes went wide with shock that edged straight away into fear. For an instant, I thought he might really be in trouble.

Then the fear vanished, composure returned, and Ludovoco ran his sword clean through Mounteban’s stomach.

Mounteban let go of his sword, watched vaguely as it tumbled earthward. His gaze drifted on, to note the blade run cleanly through his prodigious gut. Still clutching the hilt, Ludovoco made no effort to withdraw his weapon; only held his enemy’s eyes and smiled. This time, however, there was relief mingled with his usual cruel glee — and I tried to take some slight comfort from that. Mounteban might have thrown his life away and all of ours with it, but at least, for a moment, he had made the bastard doubt himself.

Then, rather than try to pull away, Mounteban threw his arm around Ludovoco. He drew the other man close.

“What…?” asked Ludovoco, in horrified surprise. He was already struggling to get free, but Mounteban was a great deal bigger than him, surely twice his weight, and there was barely a thing Ludovoco could do. Mounteban reached with his free hand inside the folds of his cloak and then flung that arm too around Ludovoco’s back, dragging the Pasaedan even more fiercely into his embrace.