‘Yes, sir!’ Boots clattered as men moved to follow his orders. Lots of men. Monza watched them, jaw set aching hard. Too many, maybe, but there was no use weeping about it now. Killing Ganmark was all that mattered.
‘General!’ Cosca snapped out a vibrating salute. ‘We have Duke Salier.’
‘So I see. Well done, Captain, you were quick off the mark, and shall be rewarded. Very quick.’ He gave a mocking bow. ‘Your Excellency, an honour. Grand Duke Orso sends his brotherly greetings.’
‘Shit on his greetings,’ barked Salier.
‘And his regrets that he could not be here in person to witness your utter defeat.’
‘If he was here, I’d shit on him too.’
‘Doubtless. He was alone?’
Cosca nodded. ‘Just waiting here, sir, looking at this.’ And he jerked his head towards the great statue in the centre of the garden.
‘Bonatine’s Warrior.’ Ganmark paced slowly towards it, smiling up at the looming marble image of Stolicus. ‘Even more beautiful in person than by report. It shall look very well in the gardens of Fontezarmo.’ He was no more than five paces away. Monza tried to keep her breath slow, but her heart was hammering. ‘I must congratulate you on your wonderful collection, your Excellency.’
‘I shit on your congratulations,’ sneered Salier.
‘You shit on a great many things, it seems. But then a person of your size no doubt produces a vast quantity of the stuff. Bring the fat man closer.’
Now was the moment. Monza gripped the Calvez tight, stepped forwards, gloved right hand on Salier’s elbow, Cosca moving up on his other side. Ganmark’s officers and guards were spreading out, staring at the statue, at the garden, at Salier, peering through the windows into the hallways. A couple still stuck close to their general, one with his sword drawn, but they didn’t look worried. Didn’t look ready. All comrades together.
Friendly stood, still as a statue, sword in hand. Shivers’ shield hung loose, but she saw his knuckles white on the haft of his axe, saw his good eye flickering from one enemy to another, judging the threat. Ganmark’s grin spread as they led Salier forwards.
‘Well, well, your Excellency. I still remember the text of that rousing speech, the one you made when you formed the League of Eight. What was it you said? That you’d rather die than kneel to a dog like Orso? I’d very much like to see you kneel, now.’ He grinned at Monza as she came closer, no more than a couple of strides between them. ‘Lieutenant, could you—’ His pale eyes narrowed for an instant, and he knew her. She sprang at him, barging his nearest guard out of the way, lunging for his heart.
She felt the familiar scrape of steel on steel. In that flash Ganmark had somehow managed to get his sword half-drawn, enough to send her thrust wide by a hair. He jerked his head to one side and the point of the Calvez left him a long cut across his cheek before he flicked it away, his sword ringing clear from its sheath.
Then it was chaos in the garden.
Monza’s blade left a long scratch down Ganmark’s face. The nearest officer gave Friendly a puzzled look. ‘But—’
Friendly’s sword hacked deep into his head. The blade stuck in his skull as he fell, and Friendly let it go. A clumsy weapon, he preferred to work closer. He slid out the cleaver, the knife from his belt, felt the comfort of the familiar grips in his fists, the overwhelming relief that things were now simple. Kill as many as possible while they were surprised. Even the odds. Eleven against twenty-six were not good ones.
He stabbed a red-haired officer in the stomach before he could draw his sword, shoved him back into a third and sent his arm wide, crowded in close and hacked the cleaver into his shoulder, heavy blade splitting cloth and flesh. He dodged a spear-thrust and the soldier who held it stumbled past. Friendly sank the knife into his armpit, and out, blade scraping against the edge of his breastplate.
There was a screeching, rattling sound as the portcullis dropped. Two soldiers were standing in the archway. The gate came down just behind one, sealing him into the gallery with everyone else. The other must have leaned back, trying to get out of the way. The plummeting spikes caught him in the stomach and crushed him helpless into the floor, stoving in his breastplate, one leg folded underneath him, the other kicking wildly. He began to scream, but it hardly mattered. By then everyone was screaming.
The fight spread out across the garden, spilled into the four beautiful hallways surrounding it. Cosca dropped a guard with a slash across the backs of his thighs. Shivers had cut one man near in half when the fight began, and now was hemmed in by three more, backing towards the hall full of statues, swinging wildly, making a strange noise between a laugh and a roar.
The red-haired officer Friendly had stabbed limped away, groaning, through the doorway into the first hall, leaving a scattering of bloody spots across the polished floor. Friendly sprang after, rolled under a panicky sweep of his sword, came up and took the back of his head off with the cleaver. The soldier pinned under the portcullis gibbered, gurgled, tore pointlessly at the bars. The other one, only just now working out what was happening, pointed his halberd at Friendly. A confused-looking officer with a birthmark across one cheek turned from contemplation of one of the seventy-eight paintings in the hall and drew his sword.
Two of them. One and one. Friendly almost smiled. This he understood.
Monza slashed at Ganmark again but one of his soldiers got in her way, bundled into her with his shield. She slipped, rolled sideways and scrambled up, the fight thrashing around her.
She saw Salier give a bellow, whip out a narrow small-sword from behind his back and cut one astonished officer down with a slash across the face. He thrust at Ganmark, surprisingly agile for a man of his size, but nowhere near agile enough. The general sidestepped and calmly ran the Grand Duke of Visserine right through his big belly. Monza saw a bloody foot of metal slide out from the back of his white uniform. Just as it had slid out through the back of Benna’s white shirt.
‘Oof,’ said Salier. Ganmark raised a boot and shoved him off, sent him stumbling back across the cobbles and into The Warrior’s marble pedestal. The duke slid down it, plump hands clutched to the wound, blood soaking through the soft white cloth.
‘Kill them all!’ bellowed Ganmark. ‘But mind the pictures!’
Two soldiers came at Monza. She hopped sideways so they got in each other’s way, slid round a careless overhead chop from one, lunged and ran him through the groin, just under his breastplate. He made a great shriek, falling to his knees, but before she could find her balance again the other was swinging at her. She only just parried, the force almost jarring the Calvez from her hand. He slammed her in the chest with his shield and the rim of her breastplate dug into her stomach and drove her breath out, left her helpless. He raised his sword again, squawked, lurched sideways. One knee buckled and he pitched on his face, sliding forwards. The flights of a flatbow bolt stuck from the nape of his neck. Monza saw Day leaning from a window above, bow in her hands.
Ganmark pointed up towards her. ‘Kill the blonde woman!’ She vanished inside, and the last of the Talinese soldiers hurried obediently after her.
Salier stared down at the blood leaking out over his plump hands, eyes slightly unfocused. ‘Whoever would’ve thought . . . I’d die fighting?’ And his head dropped back against the statue’s pedestal.
‘Is there no end to the surprises the world throws up?’ Ganmark undid the top button of his jacket and pulled a handkerchief from inside it, dabbed at the bleeding cut on his face, then carefully wiped Salier’s blood from the blade of his sword. ‘It’s true, then. You are still alive.’
Monza had her breath back now, and her brother’s sword up. ‘It’s true, cocksucker.’
‘I always did admire the subtlety of your rhetoric.’ The one Monza had stabbed through the groin was groaning as he tried to drag himself towards the entrance. Ganmark stepped carefully over him on his way towards her, tucking the bloody handkerchief into a pocket and doing his top button
up again with his free hand. The crash, scrape, cry of fighting leaked from the halls beyond the colonnades, but for now they were alone in the garden. Unless you counted all the corpses scattered around the entrance. ‘Just the two of us, then? It’s been a while since I drew steel in earnest, but I’ll endeavour not to disappoint you.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Your death will be entirely satisfying.’
He gave his weak smile, and his damp eyes drifted down to her sword. ‘Fighting left-handed?’
‘Thought I’d give you some kind of chance.’
‘The least I can do is extend to you the same courtesy.’ He flicked his sword smartly from one palm into the other, switched his guard and pointed the blade towards her. ‘Shall we—’
Monza had never been one to wait for an invitation. She lunged at him but he was ready, sidestepped it, came back at her with a sharp pair of cuts, high and low. Their blades rang together, slid and scraped, darting back and forth, glittering in the strips of sunlight between the trees. Ganmark’s immaculately polished cavalry boots glided across the cobbles as nimbly as a dancer’s. He jabbed at her, lightning fast. She parried once, twice, then nearly got caught and only just twisted away. She had to stumble back a few quick steps, take a breath and set herself afresh.
It is a deplorable thing to run from the enemy, Farans wrote, but often better than the alternative.
She watched Ganmark as he paced forwards, gleaming point of his sword moving in gentle little circles. ‘You keep your guard too low, I am afraid. You are full of passion, but passion without discipline is no more than a child’s tantrum.’
‘Why don’t you shut your fucking mouth and fight?’
‘Oh, I can talk and cut pieces from you both at once.’ He came at her in earnest, pushing her from one side of the garden to the other, parrying desperately, jabbing weakly back when she could, but not often, and to no effect.
She’d heard it said he was one of the greatest swordsmen in the world, and it wasn’t hard to believe, even with his left hand. A good deal better than she’d been at her best, and her best was squashed under Gobba’s boot and scattered down the mountainside beneath Fontezarmo. Ganmark was quicker, stronger, sharper. Which meant her only chance was to be cleverer, trickier, dirtier. Angrier.
She screeched as she came at him, feinted left, jabbed right. He sprang back, and she pulled her helmet off and flung it in his face. He saw it just in time to duck, it bounced from the top of his head and made him grunt. She came in after it but he twisted sideways and she only nicked the gold braid on the shoulder of his uniform. She jabbed and he parried, well set again.
‘Tricky.’
‘Get your arse fucked.’
‘I think I might be in the mood, once I’ve killed you.’ He slashed at her, but instead of backing off she came in close, caught his sword, their hilts scraping. She tried to trip him but he stepped around her boot, just kept his balance. She kicked at him, caught his knee, his leg buckled for the briefest moment. She cut viciously, but Ganmark had already slid away and she only hacked a chunk from some topiary, little green leaves fluttering.
‘There are easier ways to trim hedges, if that’s your aim.’ Almost before she knew it he was on her with a series of cuts, driving her across the cobbles. She hopped over the bloody corpse of one of his guards, ducked behind the great legs of the statue, keeping it between them, trying to think out some way to come at him. She undid the buckles on one side of her breastplate, pulled it open and let it clatter down. It was no protection against a swordsman of his skill, and the weight of it was only tiring her.
‘No more tricks, Murcatto?’
‘I’ll think of something, bastard!’
‘Think fast, then.’ Ganmark’s sword darted between the statue’s legs and missed by a hair as she jerked out of its way. ‘You don’t get to win, you know, simply because you think yourself aggrieved. Because you believe yourself justified. It is the best swordsman who wins, not the angriest.’
He seemed about to slide around The Warrior’s huge right leg, but came instead the other way, jumping over Salier’s corpse slumped against the pedestal. She saw it coming, knocked his sword wide then hacked at his head with small elegance but large force. He ducked just in time. The blade of the Calvez clanged against Stolicus’ well-muscled calf and sent chips of marble flying. She only just kept a hold on the buzzing grip, left hand aching as she reeled away.
Ganmark frowned, gently touched the crack in the statue’s leg with his free hand. ‘Pure vandalism.’ He leaped at her, caught her sword and drove her back, once, then twice, her boots sliding from the cobbles and up onto the turf beside, fighting all the while to tease, or trick, or bludgeon out some opening she could use. But Ganmark saw everything well before it came, handled it with the simple efficiency of masterful skill. He was scarcely even breathing hard. The longer they fought the more he had her measure, and the slimmer dwindled her chances.
‘You should mind that backswing,’ he said. ‘Too high. It limits your options and leaves you open.’ She cut at him, and again, but he flicked them dismissively away. ‘And you are prone to tilt your steel to the right when extended.’ She jabbed and he caught the blade on his, metal sliding on metal, his sword whipping around hers. With an effortless twist of his wrist he tore the Calvez from her hand and sent it skittering across the cobbles. ‘See what I mean?’
She took a shocked step back, saw the gleam of light as Ganmark’s sword darted out. The blade slid neatly through the palm of her left hand, point passing between the bones and pricking her in the shoulder, bending her arm back and holding it pinned like meat and onions on a Gurkish skewer. The pain came an instant later, making her groan as Ganmark twisted the sword and drove her helplessly down onto her knees, bent backwards.
‘If that feels undeserved from me, you can tell yourself it’s a gift from the townsfolk of Caprile.’ He twisted his sword the other way and she felt the point grind into her shoulder, the steel scrape against the bones in her hand, blood running down her forearm and into her jacket.
‘Fuck you!’ she spat at him, since it was that or scream.
His mouth twitched into that sad smile. ‘A gracious offer, but your brother was more my type.’ His sword whipped out of her and she lurched onto all fours, chest heaving. She closed her eyes, waiting for the blade to slide between her shoulder blades and through her heart, just the way it had through Benna’s.
She wondered how much it would hurt, how long it would hurt for. A lot, most likely, but not for long.
She heard boot heels clicking away from her on cobbles, and slowly raised her head. Ganmark hooked his foot under the Calvez and flicked it up into his waiting hand. ‘One touch to me, I rather think.’ He tossed the sword arrow-like and it thumped into the turf beside her, wobbling gently back and forth. ‘What do you say? Shall we make it the best of three?’
The long hall that housed Duke Salier’s Styrian masterpieces was now further adorned by five corpses. The ultimate decoration for any palace, though the discerning dictator needs to replace them regularly if he is to avoid an odour. Especially in warm weather. Two of Salier’s disguised soldiers and one of Ganmark’s officers all sprawled bloodily in attitudes of scant dignity, though one of the general’s guards had managed to die in a position approaching comfort, curled around an occasional table with an ornamental vase on top.
Another guard was dragging himself towards the far door, leaving a greasy red trail across the polished floor as he went. The wound Cosca had given him was in his stomach, just under his breastplate, and it was tough to crawl and hold your guts in all at once.
That left two young staff officers, bright swords drawn and bright eyes full of righteous hate, and Cosca. Probably they would both have been nice enough people under happier circumstances. Probably their mothers loved them and probably they loved their mothers back. Certainly they did not deserve to die here in this gaudy temple to greed simply for choosing one self-serving side over another.
But what choice for Cosca other than to do his very best to kill them? The lowest slug, weed, slime struggle always to stay alive. Why should Styria’s most infamous mercenary hold himself to another standard?
The two officers moved apart, one heading for the tall windows, the other for the paintings, herding Cosca towards the end of the room and, more than likely, the end of his life. He was prickly with sweat under the Talinese uniform, the breath burning his lungs. Fighting to the death was undeniably a young man’s game.
‘Now, now, lads,’ he muttered, weighing his sword. ‘How about you face me one at a time? Have you no honour?’
‘No honour?’ sneered one. ‘Us?’
‘You disguised yourself in order to launch a cowardly attack upon our general by stealth!’ hissed the other, face pinking with outrage.
‘True. True.’ Cosca let the point of his sword drop. ‘And the shame of it stabs at me. I surrender.’
The one on the left was not taken in for a moment. The one on the right looked somewhat puzzled, though, lowered his sword for an instant. It was him that Cosca flung his knife at.
It twittered through the air and thudded into the young man’s side, doubling him over. Cosca charged in behind it, aiming for the chest. Perhaps the boy leaned forwards, or perhaps Cosca’s aim was wayward, but the blade caught the officer’s neck and, in a spectacular justification of all the sharpening, took his head clean off. It spun away, spraying spots of blood, bounced from one of the paintings with a hollow clonk and a flapping of canvas. The body keeled forwards, blood welling from the severed neck in long spurts and creeping out across the floor.
Even as Cosca yelped with surprised triumph, the other officer was on him, slashing away like a man beating a carpet. Cosca ducked, weaved, parried, jerked helplessly back from a savage cut, tripped over the headless corpse and went sprawling in the slick of blood around it.
The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country Page 37