David Gemmell – Rigante 4 – Stormrider

Movement to his right caught his eye. A large black dog had padded out onto the bridge. It was gaunt, its ribs clearly showing in the moonlight. Gaise gripped his cane, ready to strike the beast if it approached. The hound bared its fangs. Gaise suddenly smiled, and dropped to one knee, holding out his hand. The black dog backed away at first, then stood its ground. ‘Come on, boy,’ whispered Gaise. ‘Let us be friends.’ The dog stood for a moment, then ambled forward a few steps, sniffing at the outstretched hand. ‘Life is tough for you too, eh?’ said Gaise, stroking its long nose, then patting its emaciated flank. ‘I’ll tell you what. You can come home with me and I’ll find you a few morsels. You can sleep before my fire. How does that sound?’ The dog moved in closer, arching its neck and licking at Gaise’s face. Gaise grinned. Mulgrave would have been furious to have witnessed the scene.

‘Must you always take risks, sir?’ he would say. ‘The dog could have ripped out your throat.’

Moving slowly, Gaise came to his feet and turned. Two priests were walking towards him. He was about to offer a greeting, but something stopped him – something about the way they were moving. Their hands were thrust deep into the pockets of their long black overcoats, and their eyes were fixed upon him. Suddenly one of them threw open his coat, drawing a sabre. The other pulled a long knife from his pocket. Gaise twisted the silver handle of his cane, pulling clear the narrow sword blade it contained. The knifeman leapt forward. In that instant Gaise recognized him as one of the loaders from the duel with Person. Beside him the hound gave a deep growl and leapt at the knifeman, huge jaws clamping down on the man’s arm. The second man’s sabre slashed through the air. Gaise swayed back, parrying the blow with his sword stick. The knifeman had fallen to his knees and was hammering his fist into the dog’s head, trying to dislodge the beast’s grip. The Redeemer with the sabre moved round his fallen comrade and advanced on Gaise.

‘You have given yourself over to evil, Gaise Macon,’ he said. ‘The reward for such sin is always death.’

He attacked with great speed. Gaise parried and moved. The sword stick was shorter than the sabre, and half as thick. A solid blow from the Redeemer would shatter it.

Disadvantaged in this way most swordsmen would have faced defeat and death. Gaise Macon, however, was not most swordsmen. Blessed with great balance and speed, he had also been trained by one of the finest blade masters in the realm. Even so the fight was one-sided, all the advantages lying with the Redeemer. He attacked again, always perfectly in balance. Gaise blocked and slid away to his left.

‘You move well, Macon,’ said the Redeemer. Beyond the two swordsmen the second Redeemer had battered the hound senseless and was now standing by the bridge wall, holding his shattered arm.

‘Kill him, Petar,’ he called. ‘I am bleeding to death.’

‘Would you be Petar Olomayne?’ asked Gaise.

‘I would. It is gratifying that you have heard of me.’

‘I had heard you were a man of some skill with a blade,’ said Gaise. ‘Now I see you are naught but a clumsy bludgeoner.’

Petar Olomayne’s mouth tightened. ‘For that I’ll carve my initials in your heart,’ he said.

Launching an attack with blistering speed he forced Gaise back along the bridge. Both men needed to move with care here, for there was a gradient, and ice underfoot. Olomayne slipped. Gaise lunged. Olomayne parried and sent a slashing riposte that cut through Gaise’s coat.

Now the pace quickened, the blades clashing together in a whirl of flashing steel. One tiny misjudgement from either man would see sharp metal piercing soft flesh. Back and forth they fought on the treacherous footing, neither man giving ground. Now it was a true duel, as they probed for weaknesses, reading each other’s moves. Gaise fought coolly and with patience. As Mulgrave had taught him, all duels followed a pattern. They began with heat and fury, then settled into a contest of wills. With two equally matched opponents there would come a time when the worm of doubt entered the equation. The truly skilled recognized such moments, and fed them. It was at this time that the endgame would begin.