“That there’s anyone suitable?” said Ondeges quickly. “I put myself forward, Commander. I’m far from your match, but since you’re hardly likely to need me…”
Ludovoco gave his fellow officer a sullen glare. “Not likely at all,” he agreed.
“Then again,” said Ondeges, “it wouldn’t do for anyone to misinterpret this as a mere brawl.”
“No,” Ludovoco said with heavy irony, “that wouldn’t do at all.” Then, louder, he continued, “I nominate Commander Ondeges of the Altapasaedan Palace Guard as my second in this combat. Should I be incapacitated and unable to fight on, he will take my part. As for yourself, Captain Alvantes?” Ludovoco looked with contempt towards our small band of survivors. “If you have nobody left who’s up to the task, I’m sure we can offer someone from amongst our ranks.”
Alvantes’s gaze swung over the handful of survivors, settled on Navare, his surviving sub-captain — and there was no mistaking his disappointment. For Navare was sagging beneath a savage gash to the right shoulder; he was only on his feet because another guardsman supported him. Navare wouldn’t be seconding anyone.
Estrada started forward then — but before she could speak, a palm on her shoulder held her back, and Castilio Mounteban moved to take her place. “I’ll do it,” he said. “No one else has the right.”
“Castilio…” Estrada’s tone was imploring.
Ludovoco held up his free hand, waved it in mocking exasperation. “That’s settled then. Is there anything else, before we begin? Anything anyone wishes to contribute?”
“No,” replied Alvantes, “I think we’re done here,” — and almost before the last word was free of his mouth, he was in motion.
If he’d thought to surprise Ludovoco, however, it was a wasted effort. The Pasaedan slipped smoothly into a guard stance, his footing perfect despite the spoiled ground. The defence lasted not even a split second, for in less time than that he’d whirled round and swung for Alvantes’s head. It was all Alvantes could do to twist his upper body, jar up his arm to fend away the blow and trip back into space.
Vivid memories of the last time these two men had fought sprang to my mind. Then, Alvantes had only held his own by fighting dirty. Now, it was obvious that something — no, everything — had changed. Ludovoco was both more confident and more wary. As he adjusted his stance once more, I noted how he held his arm outstretched, keeping Alvantes at a distance. Even without Alvantes’s disabling wound, Ludovoco had the advantage of height, the advantage of reach, the advantage of not having spent the last few minutes battling for his life. So far as I could see, all he had was advantages.
Alvantes readied to attack, a mere twitch of a muscle — but Ludovoco was faster, his blade whipping low. Alvantes was forced again to turn his own blow into a block, their blades ringing discordantly. Before, Ludovoco had fought with cruel persistence. Now he was pressing his offensive straight away, his sword point cavorting in a whirl. All Alvantes could do was to keep his own weapon up and retreat. Mere seconds in and sweat was already sheeting from beneath his grey-flecked hair; I could hear his laboured breathing even from where I was.
Then Ludovoco’s blade snuck past Alvantes’s guard to nick his arm. A thread of blood trailed in its wake. Just a scratch — but even as Alvantes recoiled, Ludovoco had scraped the tip of his sword in a neat line across his opponent’s thigh.
Alvantes gasped, tripped back two full paces. Did he realise how close he was to the Pasaedan lines? Once he was forced against that immovable barrier of men, any shred of hope he might have was vanished.
But perhaps Alvantes did recognise the danger, for he tried to counterattack then. Even one-handed, he was the stronger man; he thrust wildly for Ludovoco’s left side, and as soon as the Pasaedan countered, hacked at his right. Each blow Ludovoco slid aside was followed by another, another. It was clear what Alvantes was trying for: to wear down the lighter man, or at least to drive him away from his own lines.
Either goal was as futile as the other. Ludovoco parried almost carelessly; to see the way he tipped each blow aside, or else stepped smoothly to avoid it, it was hard to believe Alvantes was even trying to hurt him. In the meantime, attacking was costing Alvantes more in exertion than defending was Ludovoco. Even regaining ground was beyond him; Ludovoco was making sure that all Alvantes managed was to wade in helpless circles.
To see Alvantes lumbering, flailing, was like watching a blind bear try to wrestle an acrobat. This was play to Ludovoco. And it was clear from his face, from the glimmer in his dark eyes and the smile tugging always at his lips, that it was play he dearly loved. I knew then without a doubt that whatever had guided Ludovoco to his current position, whatever excuses he’d made, whatever gifts of birth had eased his way, it was this that drove him. As Alvantes had said back in the palace, the man was a killer — and this game would end the moment it bored him.
I didn’t have long to wait. Alvantes’s thrusts were growing cruder, more desperate; Ludovoco’s defence had only grown more graceful, as if in direct proportion. He’d never been moving slowly, but this time, as Alvantes drove for his flank, the Pasaedan was almost quicker than my eyes could follow. One moment he was before Alvantes. The next their blades met, flashed — and their chime hadn’t even begun to fade before Ludovoco was at Alvantes’s back and raking his sword across it.
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.”