The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,80

Roderigo demanded.

“I don’t want anyone saying you weren’t ready.”

Roderigo snorted. Raising his sword high, he held the position as he returned Tycho’s gaze. What Tycho knew about swordplay he’d learnt from Atilo, whereas Roderigo had a lifetime’s practical experience. Both men held three-quarter swords suited to fighting in Venetian alleys or indoors. You’re faster, Tycho told himself. You’re stronger. You’re the better man.

There was a time he’d have believed it.

He fell back on Atilo’s training. Taking the position, he waited. When you don’t know what to do, do nothing. He kept his eyes on Roderigo’s, and it was Roderigo’s eyes that betrayed the man. As Roderigo feinted in one direction, his gaze flicked in another and Tycho blocked the blow, sparks jumping from their blades and the clash of steel echoing off the stone walls.

The fight was quick and brutal after that, and Roderigo nearly made good his promise when Tycho slipped on blood and rolled backwards as Roderigo’s blade came crashing down to smash a flagstone. Tycho took a face full of granite chips from the blow that stuck to the sweat on his face. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, blocking Roderigo’s next blow.

The cold slowed Tycho down. What feeding had given him, his arrow wounds and the cold had stolen. He needed to kill Roderigo; either that, or fight free of the wild archers in a circle around him, save Leo from the cold and hunger that were undoubtedly killing him and escape. But the real battle was with himself. All the battles that really mattered were with yourself.

Stepping back, Tycho flinched as a sword pricked his shoulder. The wild tribesmen grinned at his surprise. Lord Roderigo was also smiling. He was taller and broader, more experienced in battle and held the slightly longer sword. But he’s not me, Tycho reminded himself. And this battle’s not over.

“You should have surrendered,” Roderigo mocked.

Tycho slashed furiously. Roderigo’s retreat gave Tycho space to launch another blow that was blocked in turn. The two men stepped back from each other and Roderigo raised his sword high. For here he could strike to either side or straight down. The position let him block, while offering blows that would take Tycho off at the leg. Around them the wild soldiers fell silent, having decided the fight was nearing its end. All anyone could hear was wind along the valley and the drumming of a shutter somewhere above.

“Afraid?” Roderigo asked.

“Tired of this,” Tycho said. It wasn’t the answer Roderigo expected. The ex-Dogana captain had his legs apart to steady himself. His sword at the balance point to let him take its weight. If Tycho stepped back another pace he’d spear himself on the sword wall. If that happened he might as well let Roderigo take his head.

Tycho watched Roderigo’s eyes.

In the final moment, they narrowed and flicked to one side and Tycho read the warning in their movement and caught Roderigo’s blade on his, feeling both blades shatter. One clattered to the ground, the other scythed into the crowd and ripped a man open at the hip.

“Shit,” said Roderigo, grabbing for his dagger.

Tycho was already moving. Having launched forward, he dropped and slid feet first between Roderigo’s legs, slashing upward with his broken blade. Roderigo screamed like a gelded horse as blood spurted from his groin. By then, Tycho had rolled sideways, climbed to his knees and sliced the man’s hamstrings.

Turning for the rear doors of the fort, Tycho felt rather than saw the wild soldiers move aside to let him through. He stepped over the bodies of those killed by the porcupine, opened the rear door enough to slip through and shut it behind him. Up ahead he could see the slit in the cliff and the steps that led to it.

The wild archers let him go without protest.

A few minutes later he felt rather than heard them go. They left their dead unburied and their captain castrated on the fortress floor. If they had any sense they’d find a new captain and a different war.

34

“Prince Frederick, this is not fitting . . .”

The chamberlain’s voice was distant and disapproving. The man was the oldest of the servants at Ca’ Ducale. Marco the Just had lately been knighted when he joined the palace staff. Serving the Millioni had been his life. An emperor’s bastard wanting to stand guard over the body of his late master’s niece . . .

Nothing in a long life of studying etiquette and court ritual told him what to