Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,120

of the Blades. 'He is in the service of the Black Claw and is conspiring to bring about Your Majesty's ruin.'

The queen turned her worried but furious eyes to the Alchemist.

'What do you have to say, monsieur? Will you deny it?'

He shrugged. "

'What good would it do?' he replied before coughing, short of breath, into his handkerchief. 'It would seem the play is over, is it not?'

La Fargue frowned.

There were four Blades. Savelda and his men numbered ten in all and they were in possession of a most precious hostage. Taking that into consideration, the Alchemist's defeatism was troubling, to say the least.

It proved unbearable to Savelda.

'Enough!' he spat.

The queen's attendant screamed and promptly fainted when the one-eyed man seized her by the wrist and roughly threw her aside. Before anyone else could react, the Spaniard was clutching Anne d'Autriche against his body, threatening to slit her throat with a dagger.

The same exclamation escaped from the lips of both La Fargue and the Alchemist.

'No!'

'I won't hesitate!' Savelda promised.

'You fool!' the Alchemist swore at him.

'I won't surrender!'

'Don't you understand? We just need to wait!'

'Wait for what?'

In the castle, the musicians ceased playing.

The silence became immense.

'Oh, Lord!' murmured Marciac as realisation dawned on him.

There was a whistling noise . . .

. . . and the first rocket exploded in the night sky.

The Spaniard's men immediately fired their pistols. The detonations cracked and balls whizzed past the ears of the Blades as they charged forwards. One of them struck Lain-court in the shoulder, halting him in his tracks. A chaotic battle broke out beneath the boughs of the trees in the orchard.

In the underground chambers of the black tower, under the dome of the room paved with golden-veined black marble, Leprat was engaged in a duel to the death with Rauvin.

And he was losing.

It had not taken him long to realise that his opponent was of a different calibre to the mercenaries whose bodies lay scattered across the luminescent floor. Like them, Rauvin had experience. But he also had talent. His strokes were quick, precise and powerful. Although driven by a ferocious hatred of the musketeer, he kept his calm.

Surprised by a thrust, Leprat was forced to step back and parry several times as Rauvin launched a series of attacks, high and low, in rapid succession. Their blades ended up crossed near the hilts and the two men circled before shoving one another away roughly, both of them nearly stumbling.

Leprat moved back, seeking room to manoeuvre.

No longer able to conceal the fact that he was struggling, he feared Rauvin would try to wear him down. His combat with the freebooters had drained him and he sensed that he had still not recovered from the worsening of the ranse that had struck him the previous day. Indeed, he wondered if he would ever truly recover. He was also wielding a rapier made of ordinary steel, which demanded far more of his wrist than the elegant ivory blade to which he was accustomed.

All things considered, the only point in his favour was the fact that he was left-handed.

It was not much of an advantage.

Rauvin attacked, obliging Leprat to step back again. But with a wide swing of his blade, the musketeer forced the other man to expose himself and landed a nasty right hook with his fist. The hired swordsman staggered. Emboldened by this success, Leprat seized the upper hand and made his opponent retreat. Rauvin quickly pulled himself together, however, feinting and slashing at face height. That stopped Leprat's momentum as he had to duck in order to avoid being disfigured.

Rauvin managed to disengage and quickly discarded his doublet which was making him uncomfortably hot.

For his part, Leprat caught his breath.

He had lost a lot of energy in this last assault and his wrist was hurting him more and more. Sweat was making his hair stick to his brow and his eyes sting.

'It looks like you're having a hard time,' observed Rauvin ironically. 'Age, no doubt . . .'

Leprat, who was approaching forty, displayed a weary smile.

'I ... I still have some resources left . . .'

'Really? And for how much longer?'

Both remained en garde, circling and giving each other a measuring stare.

Rauvin suddenly delivered a cut, which Leprat parried and then riposted. After that, there was a whole series of parries and ripostes, one man retreating while the other advanced, and then vice versa as the advantage switched direction. Their soles slipped on the dark marble and the heels of their boots clattered