"Oh, cheese it, you daft dummy!" He grabbed my neck and pushed me prone, and the cords at my wrists fell away as he cut them through. He stepped swiftly back, as though expecting me to go for him, and watched me warily—he absolutely wasn’t sure whether I was bluffing or not. That’s what a reputation does for you. Then he wheeled about, strode away to the camp-bed, picked up the other sabre, and sent it slithering and clinking over the stone in my direction.
"`Play-actor', the guv’nor called you, didn’t he?" says he. "Well, I don’t know—and what’s more, I don’t much care, but I’m gettin' cold, and if you don’t take up that tool double quick I’ll pitch you down that hole without benefit of clergy, d’ye hear? So get up and come on!"
"You can’t mean to butcher me!" I wailed. "My God, man, haven’t you any bowels?"
"Ne’er mind about my bowels!" sneers he, casting aside his jacket. "You’ll be admirin' your own presently. On guard!"
There’s a moment, and I’ve faced it more often than I care to remember, when you’re rat-in-the-corner, all your wriggling and lying and imploring have failed, there’s nowhere to run, and your only hope is to do your damnedest and trust to luck and every dirty dodge you know. For a split second I wondered if his last threat had meant that he’d tackle me bare-handed, and if perhaps I was stronger than he … but no, in my lusty youth perhaps, but not now against that lithe young athlete, all steel and whipcord. I must just take my chance with the blade.
I picked it up, and somehow the feel of the wire-bound grip steadied me, not much, but enough to face him as he waited, poised on his toes, sleek as a panther, the fine tawny head thrown back and the arrogant smile on his lips—and I felt the tiniest spark of hope.
Whether my blubbering had truly made him wonder or not, I couldn’t tell, but one thing was sure—he hadn’t fooled me. Oh, he needed me dead for his skin’s sake, right enough, but he wasn’t thinking of that now, nor of sacrificing me to Rudi’s shade, which was so much eyewash. No, what was gripping Master Starnberg was the sheer wanton delight in killing, of adding my distinguished head to his trophy room, of proving his mastery and seeing the fear in the eyes of the beaten opponent at his mercy—I know all about it, you see, for I’ve enjoyed it myself, but while it’s a luxury that a wary coward can afford, it’s a weakness in a brave man who’s sure of his own superiority, for he forgets what your cold-blooded assassin (and your coward) never forget—that killing is a business, not a pleasure, and you must keep your sense of fun well in check.
Another thing: he was an academic swordsman if ever I saw one, beautifully balanced as he glided forward and saluted, smirking, falling into the sabre guard with an ease that would have done de Gautet’s heart good to see. Well, I’d taken the brilliant de Gautet unawares (once), and I doubted if Starnberg was any smarter. So I gripped my hilt tight, like the rawest dragoon recruit, took a hesitant shuffle forward, and played my first card.
"It ain’t fair!" I whined. "I’ve been trussed like a fowl—and I’m an old man, damn you! By gad, if I were your age, you’d think twice, you prancing pimp! Ain’t you your father’s son, though, taking every mean advantage … wait, rot your boots, I ain’t ready—"
God, he was quick! One whip of his wrist and his blade was slicing at my neck, and if I hadn’t practised my favourite retire, which is to fall backwards, howling, my head would have been on the carpet. I scrambled up, shaken, one hope gone, for I’d intended to move close, mumping piteously, and give him the point unexpected. Now he came in like a dancer, unsmiling and bursting with blood-lust, cutting left and right, the blades clashing and grating, and I had to break ground to avoid being driven back to that awful chasm, side-stepping and tripping over those confounded rails, tumbling down the smooth slope almost to the water’s edge.
He bore up, swearing. "D’you do all your fightin' flat on your back, then? Come on, man, get up and look alive!"
"I can’t! I’ve jarred My elbow! A-hh, I think it’s broken—"
"No, it’s not, you lyin' skunk! You ain’t hurt, so pick up your sword and stay on your feet!" And the callous swine pricked me on the leg, drawing blood. I damned his eyes and came afoot, moving cautiously back to the level, and as he cut high and low I gave back again, towards the tunnel mouth. If I could lure him in among the clutter of beds and cases he’d be hampered, and might even stumble … but he knew a trick worth two of that and drove me clear of the obstacles—and hope leaped within me, for if I retreated into the tunnel at my back we’d both be fighting in the dark, and I could drop flat and slash at his ankles …
"You damned old fox!" shouts he, and with one lightning flurry of his blade he was past me while I cowered and scurried, warding his cuts any old how, and then he was after me again, snarling with laughter as he harried me back into the cavern proper. His sabre seemed to be everywhere, at head and shoulder and flank, and once he feinted low and gave me the point, but I turned it with the forte and in desperation loosed a wild scything sweep which he parried well enough, but paused, eyeing me with some respect.
"Why, you ain’t so old, you faker!" cries he. "Though how you troubled the guv’nor, blowed if I know! He must ha' been ill!"
"He was full o' wind and piss, like you!" I panted. "Ran like a whippet—aye, he didn’t tell you it ended with him turning tail, did he? No, he wouldn’t, not Slimy Starnberg!" I reviled Rudi with every insult I could muster, wheezing hoarsely as he drove me ever back, for I knew ’twas my only hope; my lungs and legs were labouring, and his young strength must prevail unless I could rile him into recklessness. But he was as cool as his father, damn him, chuckling triumphantly as I staggered away, swiping and swearing.
"Bellows to mend, what?" says he. "Best save your breath , . . oh, stop sprintin', can’t you? Come on, you old duffer, stand for once and let’s see what you’re made of!"
So I did, not from choice but ’cos I was too used up to run, employing the rotten swordsman’s last resort, the Khyber-knife guard of the Maltese Cross, up-down-across with all your might. No opponent can touch you, but he don’t need to, since you’ll die of apoplexy from exertion, as I’d discovered back in ’60, when old Ghengiz the Mongol and I repelled Sam Collinson' s bannermen at the Summer Palace—leastways, old Ghengiz did while I lit out for pastures new.[See Flashman and the Dragon] But there was no Ghengiz now to bear the brunt, and I knew I couldn’t last but a few moments more, and then my aching arm and shoulder must fail, and this grinning, handsome sadist would beat down my feeble guard and drive his old steel through my shrinking carcase … and it would end here, in this clammy cavern, with the two tiny mannikins hacking away across its floor and the echoes of clashing swords resounding from the great stone arch overhead. I’d be cut down to death in this forgotten desolation, I who had survived Balaclava and Cawnpore and Greasy Grass, Fort Raim dungeon and Gettysburg and the guns of Gwalior, slaughtered by this mountebank who wasn’t more than half a swordsman anyway, for all his academic antics, or he’d have settled an old crock like me ages ago, and the hellish injustice and meanness of it all was like gall to my craven soul as I felt my strength ebbing and gave voice yet again to what I dare say will be my dying words one day:
"It ain’t fair! I don’t deserve this—no, no, wait, for God’s sake, not yet … a-hhh, I’m done for … the doctor was right …" And I dropped my sabre, clutching at my heart, face contorted in agony, and sank to my knees.
"What the devil!" cries Willem, as I clasped both hands to my bosom, groaning in unutterable pain, gaping wide to emit a croaking wheeze—and he stopped dead, sabre raised for the coup de grace.