‘You blasted numbskull,’ he shouted, the bell vibrating sympathetically with his words. ‘Do yer want to kill us both?’
Conor held the makeshift foil behind his back.
‘No. Not both of us.’
Malarkey’s expression changed to the peeve of a kindly schoolmaster who has finally been exasperated beyond the limits of his patience.
‘I did you quick yesterday, soldier boy. A single punch and that’s a talent. Today, I’m going to be taking my sweet time, and not minding so much about bruises or bones.’
‘That’s right, sheep,’ said Conor. ‘Keep talking, waste the air.’
Malarkey reached out, grabbing Conor by the throat.
‘Now you pop yourself back up on my shoulders and pull out that plug and I might strike you once, but charge for two.’
It was obvious from his tone that Malarkey thought this a great kindness.
Conor pulled out the trident so quickly it whistled.
‘The plug is staying in,’ he said, thrusting the tiny fork heads into Malarkey’s leg.
The Battering Ram dropped Conor, yelping like a kicked mutt. He reared back, striking his head a sound bong against the bell. The impact crossed his eyes and set his ears ringing.
Conor used the moment to settle his stance: knees bent, makeshift foil extended and left arm cocked behind him.
Attack now! his good sense urged. No time for sportsmanship.
But this was not sportsmanship. Conor wanted Malarkey to realize what was happening to him. The hired thug must never be able to convince himself that Conor had triumphed through luck. And so he waited until Malarkey’s vision cleared, then spoke, two words only.
‘En garde.’
Malarkey growled.
‘You think those words scare me? You think I haven’t heard them from a score of prissy officer types what are now no more than bones in their uniforms?’
Malarkey spread his arms wide, advancing through the water. ‘En garde it is then, soldier boy.’
Conor could almost hear Victor’s voice.
Wait for the move. Wait for him to commit.
The wait was not a long one. Malarkey swung in with the same haymaker that he had landed the day before. Conor found that it was not so lightning fast when you were waiting for it.
Conor used a simple attaque au fer, which sets up an offensive by deflecting the opponent’s blade, though in truth he was deflecting himself more so than Malarkey’s arm, which he was addressing as a military-type broadsword.
Now. Facing Malarkey’s flank, he slashed down three times, the fork blurred with speed, like a golden fan. Three red stripes appeared on the band of flesh between Malarkey’s shirt and trousers’ band.
These strikes were for pain.
Malarkey yelped once more, then howled lustily as the pain settled to a steady burn. Conor threw his shoulder into the man’s buttocks, not the most pleasant place to be even for a second, but it did have the effect of clanging Malarkey into the bell curve. His forehead collided with the brass, setting the bell ringing once more.
Now, to the rear, Conor thrust deeply through the water and above Malarkey’s heel, feeling the tines puncture the tough flesh.
That strike was for immobility.
Malarkey collapsed like a wall under cannon shot, filling the bell with spray. The Battering Ram continued to howl, demented with pain and anger. Conor felt his resolve falter.
‘Kill you,’ sobbed Malarkey. ‘I will skin the flesh from your frame.’
Conor’s resolve was firm once more.
He laid several flat strikes around Malarkey’s back and shoulders, forcing him deeper into the sea. With his free hand he shoved straight-fingered jabs into the man’s kidneys, causing him to reflexively inhale half a gallon of water. A trick adapted from karate.
Malarkey was effectively helpless. Wallowing in the shallow water, blinded by pain and salt. An infant with a mean disposition could kill him.
Conor leaned back against the bell curve, panting. His hatred for Malarkey had disappeared as quickly as it had flared up. And yet, this issue of a bounty must be solved today. Was Linus Wynter right? Must he kill this man?
Malarkey rolled on to his back and lay there sobbing, his face inches above the surface, wavelets from his own thrashings slopping water down his gullet.
Conor placed a soldier’s boot on the man’s neck, contemptuously knocking aside Malarkey’s weak grabs.
‘You see now what I can do?’ he hissed, surprised at the venom in his own voice.
Malarkey could not answer. Even if there had not been a boot at his throat, he was beyond words.
Stop talking. Kill him!
Conor jammed the trident deep into the folds of flesh beneath Malarkey’s chin. One more push and the tines would pierce the skin and sever an artery.
‘This is no lucky accident. I can kill you easy as a Sunday chicken.’
Malarkey’s eyes suddenly focused. The thought of visiting the afterlife helps to concentrate the mind.
‘Do you understand that, Mister Battering Ram? I could kill you.’
Do it. Stop your jabbering.
Conor tightened his grip on the fork, the muscles along his arm tensed. Three drops of blood pooled round the trident heads.
One last push and his tormentor would torment him no more.
‘Please,’ said Malarkey, the word gurgling in his throat.
A bead of sweat trickled into Conor’s eye. Water lapped at the bell curve, humming gently.
‘Please, spare me,’ said the mighty Battering Ram.
I can’t do it. I have no wish to kill this man.
Conor realized that he was not a killer and this filled him with warm relief, because it showed that he had not lost himself entirely in spite of all he had endured. He hadn’t been raised to gain the upper hand through murder, not if there were other avenues.
There must be another way. A more intelligent way.
Conor chewed on his problem without relieving the fork’s pressure on Malarkey’s neck. The Battering Ram must be made an ally. This struggle could not go on day after day. He quickly cobbled together a possible way out, for both of them.
‘Listen to me, sheep,’ said Conor, twisting the trident. ‘I am going to float out of this bell, just like yesterday.’
Otto Malarkey’s brow creased. ‘But I -’
‘Quiet!’ shouted Conor, with an authority he hadn’t known he possessed. ‘Listen to me now. We are hatching a plan, you and I. We will come down here every day, and you will supposedly give me my two shillings’ worth. That way, you can still be king of the sheep. The big ram. In reality we will have ourselves a quiet talk, and you can help me to survive in here.’
Concentration was not easy for Malarkey in his distressed state, but he did think of something.
‘What about my foot? I can’t walk.’
A problem, true. Water dripped from the bell curve, spattering them both with indoor rain. Conor wracked his brain for a solution.
‘After I leave. Wait an hour, perhaps two, then make a great commotion on climbing out of the bell. Thrash around underwater and say the bell trapped you. Blame your ankle injury on Flora. It is a painful wound, but not serious. I missed the Achilles tendon, luckily for you. Strap it tight, and stay off it for a few hours. You will be solid as an oak tomorrow.’
Malarkey was growing brave again; Conor could see it in the squint of his eye. He had his breath now, and fancied his chances. Any moment he would make a lunge for his young tormentor, then Conor would be forced to kill him. This newfound courage must be nipped in the bud. Conor lashed him once on each forearm, temporarily deadening the nerves.
‘Is it more stripes you want? Are you too mutton-headed for life? Accept my proposition, sheep, and you can live with your honour intact. If not, you can suffer defeat at the hands of a boy.’