Erik seized the dying thug with his free hand, turned and flung him across the room with a hip roll. The man crashed into his two companions and brought all three of them down to the floor.
Erik kept moving—fast—heading for the blond swordsman. He knew full well that was the truly dangerous one, and hoped he’d gained enough time to deal with him before the two surviving bravos could jump him from behind. If not . . . he had time for a quick prayer that Manfred’s mailshirt was as good as the Breton prince claimed. He might well need it to guard his back.
The blond swordsman was caught by surprise, both by the speed with which Erik had killed the first thug and his instant attack on him. Still, he was a cool one. He ducked under the first whistling hatchet blow, and lunged.
Erik managed to parry with the hatchet’s wirebound shaft. The swordsman made an excellent recovery, before Erik could riposte. Once again he pressed the attack. This was no amateur swordsman. The blond didn’t seem in the least confused by the fact that Erik fought left-handed. His sword skittered on the hatchet handle as he beat back the young knight. With the greater reach afforded by the sword and the blond’s obvious level of skill, Erik knew that he was in severe trouble, even if the other two did not intervene. There was certainly no chance he could finish the blond assailant before the other two were back in action. In fact . . .
He wondered why they weren’t back in action.
He risked a quick glance. And immediately saw the reason.
Manfred! You idiot!
Grinning cheerfully, Manfred had both of the remaining thugs in his fists, practically holding them up off the ground. Then, he began slamming them together, like a gleeful boy might pound cymbals. If he was carrying a weapon, Manfred showed no inclination to use it.
Cursing bitterly, Erik parried another sword thrust. The curse was aimed as much at Manfred’s recklessness as it was at the damnable expertise of his opponent.
He should have guessed. Of course the young Breton knight-squire had made no mention of his intention of being here! If necessary, Erik would have taken him to Abbot Sachs to prevent it.
Manfred knew that. He also had a habit of getting his own way.
Erik snatched at a curtain—ripping it off its rail. If he could get that wrapped around his left hand . . .
The blond swordsman chose that moment to close. Erik dropped the curtain and grabbed his opponent’s arm, staggering him. The bare arm was . . . hot. As the man twisted away, Erik’s hatchet slashed across fine linen. First blood spilled, but it was anything but over. The swordsman still had the advantage. A feint and a fleche and Erik was on the defensive.
He caught his foot in the carpet as he dodged away. The sword-point hit his side. The Koboldwerk links didn’t give; but Erik lost his footing, falling backwards over the body of the first thug.
The blond man rushed forward for the coup de grace. As he did so, Erik saw Manfred lift one thug and, with a huge grunt, fling him at the swordsman. The blond ducked, but was still knocked sideways by a flailing foot. Then was forced to duck again, to avoid the other thug whom Manfred heaved at him. Erik was impressed with the man’s agility—the more so since, judging from that one touch, he was suffering from illness.
I’d hate to see what he’s like when he’s well!
And then there was an outburst of shouts and whistles, and the sound of rattles from outside.
“Schiopettieri!” bellowed someone. “Open up in the name of the Signori di Notte and the Doge of Venice!”
The assault on the heavy door showed they weren’t waiting for it to be opened. By the shouting and female shrieks they’d already made entry by the water-door. The blond man stooped quickly, hefted the two thugs onto their feet, and darted down the short hallway toward the door at the other end. With much less agility, almost stumbling, they began to follow him. Then one of them stopped and stared back, his heavy face creased with emotion.