Except . . . this time the prey was a lot better with a rapier than Caesare Aldanto ever had been, or could have been. The swordsman's movements seemed almost effortless, fluid. Yet the blade moved faster than Chernobog's slave physically could. Caesare was driven back, forced back down the hill toward the opening of the lowest cave, the water-cave, fencing with one who could kill him in a heartbeat.
It also took the Black Brain very few of the slave's heartbeats to realize something else: The master-swordsman didn't want to kill.
So he lowered the sword point. Took the blade itself in his left hand and held the hilt out to the man. "I surrender!" he called out.
As the master-swordsman stepped forward to take the sword, Caesare stabbed him with the stiletto shaken from his sleeve. It struck something hard and skittered, cutting—but not, as intended, piercing the heart.
As he did this Ambrosino, the traitor, shouted and rushed to him, and grabbed at him. "You promised you wouldn't kill him!"
Caesare hit the traitor with the butt, and pulled back the stiletto to stab again.
Something hit him so hard he sprawled yards away, the stiletto gone. He'd been hit by the lead weights of the bird-net that the yellow dog had so dreaded. The woman threw herself over the fallen swordsman, protecting him with her body. Caesare staggered to his feet, snatching up the rapier he had pretended to surrender, from where it had fallen conveniently near at hand. She was now trying to pick the swordsman up.
So be it. Two for the price of one.
Then, a voice like doom behind him.
"Aldanto."
Caesare turned, slowly, and realized it was Erik Hakkonsen. Hakkonsen was at that final stage of berserk, when sanity returns—just before the berserker collapses.
Hakkonsen was bleeding from a dozen wounds and swaying with exhaustion. He was also intent on killing Caesare, even if it meant dying himself.
Hakkonsen, had he been in the peak of physical shape, would have been very evenly matched to the old Aldanto. Now his muscles were quivering with fatigue. And yet a will, a spirit harder than adamantine made Erik Hakkonsen drive Caesare back, back toward the water-cave.
One quick double twist-disengage, riposte, twist . . . and Erik's sword fell, clattered to the rocks.
"Die!" Caesare lunged forward. Somehow Erik managed to move so that the sword passed between his arm and ribs. He trapped the blade, holding Caesare's sleeve. The tomahawk came up.
The part of Caesare that was elsewhere used powers that could only be released in fleshy contact. A coup de grace of spirit world . . . only hampered by this place. Magical force, huge amounts of it flowed through from Chernobog, to the slave, and then into the Icelander. Coruscating rivers of power that should have burned and shattered the victim. Should have, but did not. Instead it seemed to flow through him and into the earth of Corfu. Nonetheless, Hakkonsen fell back as if flung by some great force. He lay sprawled on the ground like a puppet with severed strings. The dry grass he lay on smoked.
* * *
"There's still me, Caesare."
The tiny part of Caesare that remained Caesare saw Benito Valdosta. An older, broader but not taller person, yet a very different boy from the one who had once idolized him. Benito had plainly hurt his one arm, as it was tucked inside his shirt.
"See this sword, Caesare Aldanto? It's my father's. Carlo Sforza. The Wolf of the North. He'd eat five of you for breakfast. I'm going to cut your head off with it."
The boy-man stalked closer. "You think you're a great swordsman, Aldanto."
"What's wrong with your arm, Benito?"
"Cut the tendons back there. The fingers aren't working. But that's all right, because I only need one hand to fence with you. If I hadn't cut it, I'd tie it behind my back."
Sheer bravado, Caesare was sure. Benito had always been prone to that mistake. He had the mental edge on the boy.
The boy was close now. Barely three yards off and walking in. Fool.
Benito stopped, just about within reach of a lunge. "I thought I told you not to brag when you fought unless you had a reason," said Caesare.
"You did." Benito smiled mockingly. "But I didn't always listen. You also said this business of saluting your enemy before you fence with them was an opportunity to kill someone, while they're sticking to fencing etiquette. But I've got a salute to give you from Maria."
Benito raised his sword.
As Caesare began to lunge . . . something slammed into his chest with the force of a mule kick, driving him down. His rapier went flying.
Dazed, Caesare looked up to see Benito drawing a wheel-lock pistol from the shirt where he'd hidden it—holding it in his supposedly maimed hand. The boy had fired right through the fabric. Some part of Caesare felt an odd little pleasure, then, realizing how much he'd taught the boy in happier days.
"It's Maria's," grunted Benito, holding the pistol up. Smoke was still drifting from the barrel. "It seemed a nice touch to me, you swine."
The cave was just behind the puppet, Chernobog realized. The puppet's vision began to blur. It was dying. But if he could lure the boy close enough . . .
Benito stepped in, hefting the sword.
Chernobog's power built—
And fled, hastily, from the mind and soul of the slave. The sword itself was blessed! And there was something about the boy himself—some strange virtue that would not allow the magic to even touch him.
* * *
Benito wished he could just turn away. But Caesare had always taught him: Finish it. Be sure.
And then the dying man spoke. The voice sounded . . . ecstatically joyful.
"Benito. Thank God! Kill me. Kill me, please. Kill me before it can get to me again. Please. Please! If you ever loved me—"
Suddenly something huge, black and slimy with a barbel-fringed long-fanged mouth launched out of the water. Benito barely managed to dodge aside, cutting at it.
Caesare didn't dodge and it seized him. The water closed over the monster and the blond assassin.
* * *
There might be a battle going on, but Benito sat down. There wasn't much of a battle left anyway. Caesare had been lying with his "I surrender," but the Hungarians had been similarly fooled. Unfortunately for them, it had been a case of "No quarter," after Caesare's treacherous about-turn.
Chapter 85
Some time later—probably somewhere near midnight, Benito guessed by the height of the moon—they were taking stock. Erik lay wrapped in a blanket beside Svanhild. His wounds were bandaged and the stump of one finger cauterized. He lay as still as death, his breathing weak, bloody and bubbling, his pulse, which could only really be felt in his throat, tremulous and faint. The physical wounds, even the one to the lung, he might survive. The greatest physical danger was that he had nearly bled himself white. But everyone knew it was that final magical blow that left him in the coma from which Benito doubted he would ever wake.
He looked dead. Svanhild was. It had seemed right to put them beside each other.