Lorenzo gestured with his blade to the eight-hundred pound cat on the hill above them. “I don’t suppose I can fight a mounted rider, but Atoq will slaughter the horse with you still on it. I imagine that scenario will end rather poorly for you.”
Fabris dismounted. “I’ve killed good men before. I won’t hesitate to do so now.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Salvator attacked and Lorenzo defended, and then the duel began in earnest. As he fell into his routines and his carefully choreographed circles of attack and defense, Lorenzo watched the Italian’s eyes.
What sort of man is he really? A patriot? A killer? A thief? A warrior? What does he believe in?
Their blades rang out again and again, echoing dimly across the flat beach below the road where the sand lay frozen under a layer of ice and grime. Salvator favored the press, driving forward, closing within half a pace of his opponent. But Lorenzo didn’t give him the control he was seeking. The hidalgo stood his ground and let the Italian squirm half an arm’s length away, their swords clashing fiercely until Fabris was forced to step back again, and Lorenzo pushed forward.
He’s stronger, but I’m faster. He’s taller, but I’m steadier. And he’s wearing the wrong shoes for this terrain. Very Italian of him.
Lorenzo swiped at Salvator’s legs regularly, forcing the man back to the edge of the dead grass above the beach. Fabris slashed at the hidalgo’s neck, keeping Lorenzo’s defense tight around his face.
After the first minute, Lorenzo’s injured arm was warm. After the second minute, his arm was aching. And after the third minute he knew he would have to win soon or else falter and be killed by a mustachioed man wearing the wrong shoes.
“The man you killed on the mountain was your countryman,” he said. “An Italian.”
Salvator smiled. “Most of the men I’ve killed were Italian.”
Try something else. “The skyfire stone isn’t natural.” Lorenzo shifted to keep his opponent pinned against the edge of the bluff above the frozen sand. “I know why it’s so hot. It drinks in aether and imprisons the souls of the dead within it. That stone is a tomb for ten thousand Espani men, women, and children. It belongs on holy ground, and it belongs here in Espana.”
“That will make a fascinating footnote in my journal,” Salvator replied.
“I’ll ask you again. Yield and go in peace.”
“Yield and I’ll kill you swiftly.”
Damn your pride. “Atoq!”
The saber-toothed cat roared and bounded down the hill, his heavy paws thumping and crashing through the light ice crust on top of the snow.
Salvator’s eyes flicked to the left, toward the cat.
Lorenzo lunged. Not his own lunge, the destreza lunge taught by his dear old master Carranza. This was an Italian lunge, a lunge many considered to be perfect, a lunge crafted by the master Ridolfo Capoferro.
Dear Lord, thank you for the gift of Silvio de Medici’s pride.
He felt his espada scrape down the length of the Italian rapier toward the man’s belly. Fabris twisted at the last moment and the espada sliced into his coat, piercing his flesh at the farthest edge of his kidney.
Salvator froze, his teeth clenched in a terrible rictus of surprise and pain.
Lorenzo held the strike for only half a moment before sliding his blade back out. Salvator pressed his left hand to the wound and grimaced, his own sword drooping toward the ground. On reflex, Lorenzo raised his boot and brought it down sharply on the Italian blade, snapping it just below the golden hilt. As Fabris raised his hilt to smash down upon the Espani’s head, Lorenzo snatched up the broken blade and shoved it through the Italian’s hand and deep into his side.
The hilt fell from Salvator’s hand and the Italian stumbled aside. His eyes were twisted into a miserable squint, his jaw shook, and a pinkish trail of spittle hung from his bloodless lip.
Behind him, Lorenzo heard Atoq growling at the horses. He raised his hand without looking back and the cat fell silent.
“You cheated,” Salvator rasped.
“I used what God gave me.” Lorenzo sheathed his espada.
Salvator glanced down at the wound. “You haven’t killed me.”
“Good. I haven’t killed anyone in almost four years. I would hate to start again now.” Lorenzo began walking back toward the horses.
“Why break my sword? You’re fast enough to have beaten me fairly. You drew first blood. You might have ended it cleanly. Why destroy something so beautiful?”
“You can dress up death in a hundred shades of gold and silk and pearl, but it’s still just a sharp stick for killing people.” Lorenzo shrugged. “Now there’s one less stick in the world.”
“I’ll just get another. I’m the killer, not the sword.”
“That’s right.” Lorenzo took the bag holding the skyfire stone from the Italian’s horse and then swung up into his saddle. “ You’re the killer. And may God have mercy on your soul.”
He trotted up the hill to the gates of the compound with Atoq padding silently beside him. At the turn in the road he glanced back and saw Fabris pull the broken blade from his side, and then stagger toward his own horse. Lorenzo grimaced. “I should have killed him. If not for his past crimes, then to prevent more in the future.”
“You’ve done enough, Lorenzo,” Ariel’s voice answered from the medallion on his chest. “You took back the stone, shattered his sword, split open his hand, and bled his flesh. You’ve upheld the Father’s command for justice and answered the Son’s call for mercy. And you walked away alive and unharmed. You’ve done well. Very well.”
Lorenzo called out to the lone guard at the gate. “I’m looking for my wife. You may have seen her a few moments ago. Black hair. Blue hat. Riding a giant bird.”
The guard smiled and opened the gate. “You must be Don Lorenzo.”
Chapter 29. Taziri
The Mazigh pilot peered up at the new steel plate bolted to the tail of the Halcyon. She sighed. Poor thing. Isoke’s going to stop trusting me with her aircraft one of these days.
“Is it broken? Or fixed?” Qhora asked. “What is it, exactly?”
“Technically, it’s an aeroplane, but these pontoons make it a seaplane.” Taziri climbed up into the cabin and glanced over her instruments. Everything was right where she left it. Sitting in her seat, she worked the pedals and watched in the mirror as the tail swung left and right, just like it was supposed to. She climbed back out to stare at the steel plate again. “On the one hand, they did a terrible job. On the other hand, they did fix it. And if she flies, then you can’t argue with the results, can you?”
“I suppose not.” Qhora wandered back toward the hangar doors.
Taziri circled back around to the nose of the plane and opened the engine cowl. For a moment she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. Then she giggled.
“What is it?” Qhora asked.
“They tried to wire it back into itself,” Taziri said. I can’t believe I laughed at that. I must be exhausted. “They must have thought the loose wires were disconnected from each other. I guess it never occurred to them that there was a piece missing.”
“What piece?”
Taziri set down her bag and pulled out the battery with its tangle of electrical leads. “The piece I’ve been carrying around all over this country.” She stepped up onto the end of a pontoon and carefully set the battery back down into its slot. As she twisted the wires back together, she said, “I’m sorry about all the trouble I’ve caused you and your husband. If it wasn’t for me, you never would have needed to leave your home, and those boys wouldn’t have been hurt, and Dante…”
“The obnoxious Italian with the eyebrows and the nose? What happened to him?”
Taziri focused on checking her wires. “Fabris. Dante and Shahera both.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I liked that girl.”
Taziri turned to the little woman in the tailored soldier’s coat. “Aren’t you worried?”
“About what?”