by James McGee
"I was hoping for a quicker response," Lasseur murmured.
Hawkwood wasn't listening. He was looking at the Mameluke's scars. Back on the orlop, they had been concealed by the darkness and the prison coat. Now, with coat discarded, they were plainly visible within the ring of lantern light. There was no symmetry to them. They formed a tapestry up his right arm from wrist to shoulder like a pattern of twigs cast haphazardly on to the ground. There were more scars across the firm flesh of his abdomen and along the ridges of his upper chest. The latter, however, looked quite old and showed as pale, raised streaks against his dark skin. The ones along his arm appeared more recent.
Matisse's voice broke into his thoughts. "Don't let the scars fool you, Captain Hooper. Kemel Bey's quite an expert with the razor, but then he's had the practice. How many have there been, Dupin? Is it four or five?"
"Six," Dupin muttered. "You're forgetting the Swiss."
"Ah, yes, the Swiss. I always forget the Swiss. Mind you, it's easily done. They're a forgettable race, like their tedious little country. It's so small I'm surprised anyone knows where it is from one day to the next."
Hawkwood presumed the most recent scars were from previous razor duels and the remainder legacies of the Mameluke's skirmishes on the battlefield. Whatever their cause, it was clear that Kemel Bey's expertise with weapons had not been achieved without personal cost and, presumably, a good deal of pain. Hawkwood had more than enough scars of his own, but they were few in number compared to Matisse's champion.
Matisse snapped his fingers. Hawkwood removed his jacket and passed it to Lasseur, who received it half-heartedly. The men backed away, pulling Lasseur with them, extending the radius. Some took up positions between the deck struts. Others found seats on the tops of barrels. A small amphitheatre formed in the centre of the hold.
Hawkwood could feel warm beads of moisture gathering uncomfortably in the small of his back. Strange, he thought, considering the back of his throat was as dry as sand. He glanced towards Lasseur. Even in the half-light he could see that the privateer's face was pale.
Dupin tossed the Mameluke the second razor stick.
"Begin," Matisse said.
The Mameluke attacked.
Hawkwood sucked in air as the razor curved towards his belly, brought his own stick down against the outside of the Mameluke's stave and exhaled as he parried the blade away. The thwack of wood on wood was as loud as a pistol shot.
Hawkwood had seen the attack coming. The microscopic widening of the eyes, the tensing of the shoulders and the subtle shifting of weight on to the right leg had telegraphed his opponent's intention. Even so, the Mameluke's speed was impressive. So, too, was his strength. The shock from the collision shuddered through Hawkwood's arm, jarring nerve endings from wrist to shoulder.
Then the Mameluke was turning, bringing his blade around in a reverse strike towards the back of Hawkwood's sword hand. Hawkwood rotated his wrist, slanted away, and felt the bite of the Mameluke's blade as it scored across his knuckles.
Hawkwood stepped back quickly, adjusting his hold on the stick, extending his thumb in a rapier grip, testing the balance and the flexibility in the shaft. It wasn't a lot different to a duelling foil; slightly thicker but the length was about the same. The main difference was the sharp blade instead of a point. This was a weapon meant to sever and cleave, not pierce. There was no guard to protect the hand either. It explained the scarring across the Mameluke's wrist and forearm, and the cut in Hawkwood's flesh that was already welling blood.
The Mameluke advanced again, the thin blade swooping in from on high, cutting down and across. Hawkwood brought his stick round to block the stroke, anticipated and absorbed the impact, transferred his weight and aimed a backhand slash towards the Mameluke's throat. The Mameluke twisted violently and Hawkwood felt the almost imperceptible tug as his blade ripped across his opponent's ribcage. There was a collective intake of breath from the men watching.
"Bravo, Captain!" Matisse's voice, lightly taunting.
But the move had left Hawkwood exposed. The Mameluke grunted, checked, and whipped his blade towards Hawkwood's left flank. Hawkwood jerked back, but he was too late. There was no pain; not at first. Only when he straightened did he feel the tightening of skin at the point of the incision. There was no time to check for blood, because the Mameluke was coming in again.
The Turk's movements seemed unhurried; almost nonchalant.
There was no sign of elation on the ebony face, no quiet smirk of satisfaction at having drawn blood. Neither did he appear out of breath, despite the bright sheen of sweat that coated his brow, shoulders and upper chest.
Another swing, this time towards Hawkwood's undefended left shoulder. Hawkwood spun towards the attack, slashing down, going for the tendon running up the inside of the Mameluke's right wrist.
He felt his heel slip in the shingle and knew he'd missed his target by a mile. For the first time, he saw the light of opportunity in his opponent's eyes. Fighting for traction, Hawkwood tried to fling himself aside. The Mameluke's blade arced towards him.
Had he found his feet and braced himself, the Turk's razor would have caught him full square. But Hawkwood was still falling backwards. The blade raked across his breastbone, paring shirt and skin in equal measure. This time he felt it: a sharp burning sensation searing across his chest.
He heard someone swear and thought it must have been Lasseur, and then he was pushing himself upright, bringing his stick round, more in a wild flail than any sort of coordinated riposte, but when he felt the steel bite, he knew he'd made contact.
Hawkwood's blade had taken the Mameluke across the back of his right forearm two inches below the elbow, slicing through flesh and clipping bone. The Turk bellowed in pain and turned. Hawkwood started to scramble clear, saw the threat homing in, parried the counterstrike more by luck than judgement, and swung his blade at the Turk's carotid.
It should have ended there and then. How the Mameluke evaded the cut, Hawkwood would never know. Whatever the reason, the blade missed by a hair's breadth. In that split second, Hawkwood tried to pull the strike but he was already committed. The razor struck the deck support with the full force of Hawkwood's body behind it, and snapped cleanly in two.
There was a gasp from the men around.
Blood dripped down the Mameluke's arm and belly. He was breathing harder now. The corners of his mouth lifted. He stepped forward eagerly, his blade raised.
But Hawkwood was already moving. His right hand shot out. The fistful of shingle struck the Mameluke's face like a flurry of hailstones. The Mameluke threw up his left hand to protect his eyes. Using the floor joist behind him as a fulcrum, Hawkwood launched himself towards his temporarily unsighted foe.
Hawkwood's shoulder charge lifted the Mameluke off his feet. Locked together, the two men crashed through the ring of watchers, who broke apart in alarm.
Hawkwood's left hand gripped the Mameluke's sword arm. The Turk drove his other fist into Hawkwood's gut. Air exploded from Hawkwood's lungs. The Turk clamped his left hand around Hawkwood's neck and began to squeeze.
The Mameluke's smell was overpowering; a combination of musk, sweat and blood. Hawkwood felt his throat start to close. A red mist began to descend. He rammed his knee into the Turk's crotch and brought his free hand up. He heard a brief exhalation, felt the grip around his neck loosen, bent back the Turk's wrist and slammed his forehead against the exposed nose. The Mameluke's head rocked back. Hawkwood side-stepped to his left, transferred his right hand to the Mameluke's sword arm and as he rotated and locked the Mameluke's wrist, let go with his left hand and drove the heel of it against the elbow joint. There was a dull crack. A spasm shook the Turk. His hand opened and the razor fell to the shingle. Hawkwood increased pressure on the injured arm. The Mameluke dropped to his knees. A keening wail broke from his lips. Blood from his broken nose was running down his chin. His face twisted in pain and he sank to the deck.
Hawkwood straightened and La
sseur yelled a warning.
Hawkwood turned. The Mameluke had retrieved the fallen razor. He was crouched on one knee. His right arm hung uselessly by his side. His left hand was drawn back. The razor blade glinted. There was a renewed look of savagery on his face.
Hawkwood's right foot lashed out. The edge of his heel caught the Mameluke on the side of his jaw. The dark eyes rolled back into his skull. His body slumped across the deck and lay still.
There was a stunned silence.
Dupin was the first to break ranks. He bent down and lifted the Mameluke's head. Letting it fall back, he stared hard at Hawkwood then turned to Matisse. "His neck's broke."
"Satisfied?" Hawkwood said coldly.
"Very impressive," Matisse said softly. "Not quite the result I was expecting. You've done for my champion, and so decisively, too. Who'd have thought it? You may be an officer, Captain Hooper, but my bones tell me you're no gentleman." The dark lenses glittered in the lantern light.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Hawkwood said. He felt suddenly tired and experienced an overwhelming urge for a strong drink.
Lasseur broke away from the cordon. "You left it a little late, my friend. You had me worried."
"You weren't the only one," Hawkwood said wearily, and winced. He waved away Lasseur's extended arm and lifted the edge of blood-soaked shirt to examine his injuries, noting the blood across his knuckles. The gash along his side didn't look too deep, but it would probably benefit from a stitch or two. As for the cut across his chest, the resulting scar would more than likely make it appear worse than it was. More war wounds, Hawkwood thought. He knew he'd been lucky. He looked down at the Mameluke's corpse. It could so easily have gone the other way.
Lasseur followed his gaze and his face clouded. He turned to where Matisse was standing with his arm around Lucien Ballard's shoulder. "It's over. Your man lost. Give us the boy."
Matisse said, "I'm sorry, Captain. I'm not with you. Why should I do that?"
Hawkwood went cold.
Lasseur nodded towards the Turk's prostrate body. "Our agreement. You said if Captain Hooper defeated your champion, you'd hand the boy over."
"You're mistaken, Captain. I said no such thing."
"What?" Lasseur said, his voice dripping venom.
A half smile played across the Corsican's lips. His hand rested lightly across the back of Lucien Ballard's neck. The boy was staring at the Mameluke's corpse.
Hawkwood looked around. Had a pin dropped, the whisper of it hitting the ballast would have sounded like cannon fire.
"The thing is, Captain," Matisse said, "the more I think about it, the more it occurs to me that it wouldn't be right. I've a reputation to maintain. I can't have newcomers coming down here and dictating terms. If I allow that to happen, what's to stop every other worm crawling out of the woodwork and questioning my authority? How would it look if I handed the boy over to you? It would make me seem weak. It'd give every other poor wretch on this ship ideas above his station. Where would it end? More to the point, where's the profit?"
"Did it occur to you that you might actually gain some respect?" Lasseur said.
"Respect?" The Corsican gave a coarse laugh. "That's my point, Captain. I don't want respect. I want them to fear me. If they fear me, they'll obey me. That's how I bring order out of chaos. You think I'd let one small boy jeopardize my standing here?"
"If you'd no intention of keeping your word, then what was the point of that?" Lasseur pointed angrily at the Turk's dead body.
The Corsican shrugged. "We all have to make sacrifices. But then, who says I'm breaking my word? Not me, Captain. You merely misinterpreted the terms. I never said I'd hand the boy over. What I said was, I would set him free."
"I don't understand," Lasseur said. "What's the difference?"
Matisse reached down and cupped the boy's face. He stroked the smooth cheek lovingly and in one swift move wrenched his hands sideways. There was a sharp crack and Lucien Ballard's body went limp. With a dismissive shrug, Matisse pushed the body away and dusted his hands. "There, it's done. I've freed him. The problem is solved." He jerked his head at Dupin. "Kill them both."
Lasseur's scream of rage reverberated around the hold. Before anyone could stop him, he leapt forward, scooped up the Mameluke's discarded razor and scythed it towards the Corsican's throat.
If there was a look of shock in Matisse's eyes, it was eclipsed by the dark lenses. Only his mouth showed animation, opening and closing soundlessly as he tried clasping his hands about his neck in a futile attempt to staunch the jet of blood that spurted like a fountain from his severed artery.
As the Corsican collapsed in a bloody heap across Lucien Ballard's still body, Lasseur swung round, the razor still in his fist. Teeth bared, he had the look of a berserker, his appearance made all the more extreme by the crimson splashes on his face and clothes. He stepped quickly to Hawkwood's side and they turned back to back.
"Who's next?" Lasseur roared.
A curse sounded from Hawkwood's right. One of Matisse's men came out of the shadows, barrel hoop raised. Hawkwood ducked and drove his elbow into the attacker's belly. The man faltered. Hawkwood slammed his boot against a knee and as the man went down Hawkwood wrested the hoop out of his grip and drove it across the back of his attacker's skull.
Behind him, Lasseur, wild-eyed and blood-splattered, wielded the razor like a man possessed. Another of Matisse's crew reeled away, shrieking, his cheek ripped through to the gums. "Come on, God damn you!" Lasseur yelled. "I'll take you all with me!"
Hawkwood felt warm liquid flowing down his left side and knew his brief exchange with the last attacker had aggravated the wound made by the Turk's razor. His right hand was also slick with blood. He adjusted his grip on the barrel hoop. Small beads of blood bubbled out from the cut across his knuckles and dribbled between the cracks in his folded fingers.
Hawkwood wondered about the irony of dying with a Frenchman defending his back. Nathaniel Jago would have thought that funny. In fact, he'd have thought it bloody hilarious.
He wondered too why Matisse's men were still willing to wage war with their leader dead. It didn't seem to make sense, unless they thought that he and Lasseur had designs on Matisse's kingdom. No time to debate the matter now, though.
Lasseur swore suddenly and Hawkwood had a half-formed view of a hoop sweeping towards the privateer's head. He sensed that Lasseur had widened the distance between them to give himself room to manoeuvre. There was the sound of a blow, metal on wood, followed by a cry and then he was turning to fight his own corner as two more of Matisse's men waded in. Hawkwood swung the hoop to block the strikes. He managed to evade one, but the second attacker's home-made blade caught him high on the shoulder. His left arm went numb.
Lasseur was still trading blows when there came a splintering sound and the noise of a body hitting the shingle, followed by a cackle of glee which could only have come from one of Matisse's henchmen. He heard Lasseur call out; the words unintelligible. Then, too late, from the corner of his eye he saw Dupin. The Corsican's lieutenant was behind him, swinging the hoop-like club above his head.
Hawkwood felt a massive impact across his back and something hard caught him a glancing blow at the base of his skull and he was falling. He tried to keep hold of the barrel hoop, knowing it was his only means of defence, but he couldn't feel his fingers. They'd gone numb, too.
He crashed to the deck and looked up through pain-filled eyes.
"Nice boots." Dupin grinned above him. He raised the hoop.
Hawkwood watched, helpless, as the hoop began its descent. Then there was a sharp report and the back of Dupin's head exploded.
More detonations followed, then a mass of surging bodies, as suddenly the hold was filled with scarlet uniforms. He looked for Lasseur and tried to sit up, but the task proved beyond him. His head felt as though it was about to burst. It was a lot less painful just to lie back and let himself drift. The strategy seemed to work. Sensation in his limbs w
as slipping away. It was rather a pleasant feeling. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a hand touched his forehead and he jerked back. The movement sent pain shooting through his skull and into his chest. Then he felt an arm under his shoulder and a face came into view. It was bearded and looked vaguely familiar.
He was still thinking that as the darkness rose up to claim him.
CHAPTER 9
Hawkwood realized his mistake when he tried to move. Opening his eyes hadn't been a problem. In fact, that had been the easy part; no real expertise involved: a quick flicker of the eyelids and, presto, he was back in the land of the living. But when he tried to raise himself on to his elbows to find out where he was, it was like getting hit across the back of the head and shoulders all over again, only a lot more painful.
He lay back down, lowered his eyelids, and waited for the hammering inside his skull to abate. The seconds, or it could well have been hours, ticked by. Hawkwood was more than content to wait, feeling no obligation to repeat the experiment until he was sure he could cope with the immediate after-effects.
When the pounding had eventually dwindled to a dull ache, he took a deep breath and tried again, cautiously.
His second attempt was more successful; though not by much. His head still felt as if it was being skewered by a hot poker, and when he saw what lay around him, he wondered if the view had been worth the effort.
As usual there wasn't much illumination. A couple of lanterns hung from the beams and there was a square grating set in the deckhead at the far end of the compartment through which light was slanting, enough to inform him that dusk had yet to fall - though it was probably not far off - and that he was in a part of the ship he'd not been in before. He was lying on a cot, surrounded by other cots. Most, as far as he could tell, were occupied. It was too gloomy to see by whom, but from the sniffling, coughing, wheezing and retching noises it wasn't hard to guess.
The fact that he could still smell vinegar confirmed his suspicions.
