The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,117
by combat,” the captain muttered.
Stepping forward, Tycho drew his sword. “I am the duke’s champion.”
“You?” Alonzo snorted. “The freak will fight for the fool?”
Tycho held his gaze until the ex-Regent looked away. “I’ll have your head if it’s what’s on offer. Although a goose quill through the heart is what you deserve.”
Alonzo flushed. “No champions. I will fight Marco if he dares face me. If not, then I declare him a coward and my innocence is proved.” He looked slowly round his accusers. “This is the law. You know this is the law.”
“I accept.” Marco didn’t even stutter. When Captain Weimer opened his mouth to argue the duke held up a hand forbidding it. He was in armour already and had his sword at his side. Both men wore helmets, breastplates and vambraces. Though it would be hard to argue one was better armed, the difference in size and strength was obvious and huge. “I h-have the c-choice of w-weapons.”
Prince Alonzo nodded.
“We already fight alla m-macchia.”
“On common ground,” Captain Weimer muttered. Tycho nodded his thanks.
“But the s-slope h-here is uneven.”
“I cede you the high ground.” Alonzo was impatient.
“I r-refuse to accept. We will f-fight somewhere l-level.”
“Up there, highness,” Amelia said. “Next to a waterfall, with a shepherd’s hut empty in ruins.” She saw Tycho’s surprise and muttered, “We had time to examine it, God knows.” She glanced at Rosalyn and he wondered what she wasn’t saying.
Marco smiled. “T-that s-sounds ideal.”
“He can’t mean to fight him?” Captain Weimer asked. The captain dropped back to walk beside Tycho, who had a gaggle of urchins around him, but was watching Marco and Rosalyn walk side by side ahead. The duke was chatting politely like someone taking an afternoon walk.
It was obvious to Tycho that every last urchin in Rosalyn’s wild brood could see almost as well in the dark as he could. She’d created the army he’d failed to produce for Alexa – wild and fierce and under a single person’s control. And Marco walked beside her as if doing anything except go to his death.
“T-this is n-nice,” he said.
The passing place for carts was as level as Amelia had promised. Except for a handful of tracks in the thawing earth it was also smooth. A waterfall cascaded from high above into a pool below that bubbled with dark water. Marco walked to its edge and peered down. He whistled.
“Satisfied?” Alonzo demanded.
“V-very impressive.” Marco turned to Amelia. “T-thank y-you.” He made it sound as if she’d levelled the ground herself and carved him a pool into which water could fall. “I’ll h-have a p-proper look afterwards.”
“He must have a plan,” Captain Weimer whispered. “My lord, tell me the duke has a plan . . .”
Possibly, thought Tycho. Although it might not be what those around him called a plan. He sighed when Marco began to remove his helmet.
“It’s h-heavy,” the duke explained.
Alonzo grinned. “I hope you don’t expect me to remove mine?”
“Oh n-no,” Marco said. “It suits y-you.” He looked around and spotted the small axe hanging on Captain Weimer’s belt. Its armour-piercing spike was dark with dried blood. “We’ll f-fight with t-those.”
His uncle looked disgusted.
It made sense though. A wrist loop secured the handle to stop it being dropped, the head was reasonably light and the spike fierce enough to puncture plate. With a weapon like that, speed was as valuable as strength. One of Marco’s foot soldiers handed Alonzo his own axe with a bow, then stepped back and stared straight ahead. If the ex-Regent won he might well become the next duke. The Nicoletti, Arsenalotti and Castellani liked their politics simple. A victorious Alonzo outranked an untried Giulietta.
“W-when you’re r-ready.”
Alonzo flushed at the implied insult.
His answer was brutal. He simply charged at Marco and swung the spike axe at his head. The duke dropped under the blow, tripped on a cart rut and rolled away from a second swing. Standing, he then waited while Alonzo wrestled his axe from the hard dirt. “Should have counter-attacked,” Captain Weimer complained.
Tycho could only agree.
Alonzo made the next attack as well. A fierce swing that would have spiked Marco through the heart if he hadn’t twisted away, his uncle’s axe squealing down the side of his breastplate.
“Close,” the captain said.
Way too close . . . And Tycho suspected Alonzo would be launching all the attacks. Working his way round those watching the fight, Tycho hurried to where Amelia stood next to Rosalyn.