Out of Nowhere (The Immortal Vagabond Healer Book 1) (33 page)

Holding that weapon would make Ghandi want to pick a fight.

It was perfect. It was a first kiss, a nine-minute guitar solo, the first cup of coffee on deck on a brisk October morning, a twelve-year-old single malt, a lover’s satisfied sigh. It felt light and alive in my hand, an extension of my fingers and wrist and arm and thoughts.
Forget the Manhattan Project,
it purred seductively,
forget John Moses Browning. I am the most sophisticated instrument of death ever forged by the hand of man.
Just making a quick parry and thrust with it I wanted to fence the world, impale the heavens and spill an ocean of blood.

It was a very nice sword. I nodded approval.

Doors took the other sword, twin to the one I held, and we saluted, then came
en garde
.

I took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. I felt the roiling in my stomach subside, the energy of fear channeled into imminent action. My reactions felt keen, my step light, my senses sharper. I felt the electric surge humming through my body, the exhilaration of the moment.

That’s why men skydive and race horses and fight bulls. The addictive rush of adrenaline, the thrill of feeling life’s fleeting and fragile nature made it that much more precious. After the clean, sharp taste of life on the edge, some men found it impossible to return to the drabness of an ordinary existence.

For myself, I’d have been happier with a pint in my hand and a pretty girl on my knee, but I was grateful for the pick me up.

I took a careful look at my foe. His form was textbook. Knees bent, back erect, right foot pointed at me, left at a precise ninety degree angle. His body was turned almost sideways, his left hand out behind him to provide a counterweight to his extension and lunge. You could have drawn a line through both of his heels to me. Perfect for Olympic foil.

I kept my own stance just a bit more open, my body a shade more forward, my left hand out to the side, not behind. All that would shorten my lunge a bit, but gave me more lateral mobility. Here, we weren’t confined to a strip. We could circle, and while it probably wouldn’t make a difference, fending off a thrust with my left hand was better than taking it in the body.

When the judge gave us the command, Doors sprang forward, slapped my blade aside and lunged. I scrambled back, parried by a whisker. I began a riposte, but he stopped it almost before it started. He kept moving forward, testing my guard, throwing firm, quick attacks at me. I gave ground, circling to my left, keeping my guard close.

Damn, he was fast.

He was aggressive, but not rash. I hoped he would overextend, but he disappointed me, not leaving himself open for a sneaky counter or swift riposte. Fast, strong, and skilled. All that I could handle; but he was also smart, and obviously trusted on his talent to bring him victory so long as he didn’t make a mistake.

Good as he was, he was very orthodox. I held him off less by speed or skill than by instinct, reading where he intended to attack, subconsciously knowing where, thanks to centuries of practice and training and masters who had discovered that it was the right attack to make. That and the fact that actual dueling swords were just a bit heavier and stiffer than the sporting weapons he’d won medals with. That little difference that slowed his reactions just the tiniest bit. It probably kept me alive.

When I thought I had his measure, I threw my first real counter. He deflected it with a flick of his wrist, beat my blade to the right, then disengaged under my parry. I leapt back, reversed my blade into a circular parry in
sixte
, deflected his thrust and made a riposte to his chest.

With a speed he must have kept in reserve, he counterparried and drove his point back at me. I frantically backpedaled and parried, barely catching it in time. His point actually ripped through the sleeve of my shirt and I felt the cold steel slide across my shoulder, but doing me no harm beyond raising goose-bumps.

Seeing me almost impaled on my first real attack, he smiled a cold, predatory smile. More a baring of fangs than an expression of happiness. He increased the speed and power of his attacks, and I held him off with difficulty, straining to my limit.

I was fencing better than I ever had, but he was so fast and I was tiring and my bad ankle was starting to feel stiff. Sooner or later—no, sooner—I would stumble or lose the rhythm and it would be over. I shoved down my growing fear and focused.

What did I have that he didn’t? He was at least as skilled, he was faster, he was stronger, he was younger.

Younger.

And trained to compete.

My coach’s words came back to me.
Nobody fences Italian anymore
.

I increased the extension of my sword arm, started making wider parries. Doors’ smile grew. I must have looked tired. I let my point drift just a hair’s breadth too far to the right, giving him an opening he couldn’t resist.

His lunge was like a lightning bolt. He threw his whole body into the attack, extending his arm and launching himself explosively forward. His back leg, his shoulder, elbow, wrist and the point of his sword making one straight line toward my heart.

My blade was a bit high and right of his attack. Instead of sweeping my arm and weapon across to my left, I twisted my wrist in and down, catching the middle of his blade near the guard of my own weapon. Keeping my elbow at a slight angle out to my right, I guided his point down and to the side while driving my own toward his body. I advanced into his lunge, robbing him of the split second between his realizing what I’d done and being able to do anything about it. His body offered almost no resistance to the sharp, narrow point. I felt the blade slide along something solid, a rib maybe, or his spine. He gave a startled gasp.

The combined movement of his lunge and my advance brought us very close. His right foot actually landed on mine and I looked into his eyes from less than a foot away. The guards of our swords butted together, his point far out to my right, half of my blade buried in his body.

His face registered surprise more than pain. A tiny, strangled cough forced its way past his lips, and the sword dropped from his hand. I put my left hand on his chest.

‘Everybody stay right where you are!’ Pete shouted. I had no attention to spare him, I just hoped he’d keep the situation under control and didn’t squeeze the trigger by mistake.

I sent my awareness deep into my enemy’s body, exploring the wound. The sword had entered just below his right breast, passed through his right lung at a slight downward angle, piercing his descending aorta and going out just to the left of his spine.

I looked him in the eye and gave him a smile. ‘This sword is through the biggest blood vessel in your body,’ I told him. ‘When I pull it out, you’ll bleed to death in less than a minute. You could fall backwards onto an operating table and the best surgeon in the world couldn’t save you. I think we can call that a mortal wound.’

I whipped the blade free. Blood surged out behind it, spattering thick and warm on my knee. I sent some energy quickly through to seal the hole in the great vessel, stopping the loss of the precious fluid. Once I was satisfied that the blood loss was staunched, I repaired the lung, then finally the connective tissues and skin, leaving only a matched pair of scars, front and back, for him to remember me by.

When I was finished I stood, stepped back and spoke, clearly enough that all potential witnesses would hear.

‘By every rule of single combat your life belongs to me. That does not mean that I want to take it now.’ I spoke the words that Conrad’s pen had put in General D’Hubert’s mouth. The words that Sarah had pointed out held the one loophole in this mad vendetta. I tried to plagiarize with a straight face.

‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.

‘By right of combat,’ I said, ‘I hold your life in my hand. As a gesture of good faith to your family, and to mend the rift between us, I will not take it. But I insist that in light of this meeting, you consider yourself, in all matters concerning me, a dead man.’

A bit formal, but it seemed to fit the occasion. I saluted, reluctantly placed the sword on the table and walked briskly away.

I didn’t look back. I just projected the absolute confidence that nobody would try to stop me. That’s one of the secrets to effective leadership: if you don’t believe it, nobody else will.

Plus, I wanted to get out of sight so I could resume limping and panting.

Chapter 36

THE FOUR OF US WALKED BACK to my apartment, laughing and joking in the hallway. I had my good arm around Sarah, who was still clinging to me, and Pete had my keys.

Pete opened the door and stepped in, reaching for the light switch.

There was a sudden rush of motion; Pete started to step back, and there was a silver blur as he reeled back into me, blood spraying from a cut throat. I shoved Sarah aside as a man came at me, bloody blade driving toward my chest. I grabbed the wrist, instinctively using my left hand. Block with the left, attack with the right had become ingrained.

In this case it was a mistake. The man swung his arm, banging my broken wrist against the doorjamb. The pain was literally blinding. The well placed punch I was going to deliver to his throat got lost somewhere and he drove a much less sophisticated but brutal fist into my ribs.

I staggered back, gasping. He yanked his knife hand free of my grip.

I stepped in and tried to swing at his body, to keep too close for him to use his knife, but he blocked my punch, and stiff-armed me.

I saw him poised, light on the balls of his feet, his knife held low, ready to strike. I ran through my options, unarmed, injured and taken by surprise. Against this guy, the only hope I had was to try to trap his knife, in my body if need be, for long enough so Sarah and Nique could do something.

Like escape.

Looking at him, I felt a rush of fear—fear of the pain of being knifed and the oblivion of death; for the women behind me; for Pete who was bleeding out in my doorway. But most of all I felt that this just wasn’t
fair
.

I had taken a Hail Mary of a plan and made it work, and now I was probably going to die here, when it should all be over.

When he made his move, I sidestepped, deflected his wrist with my good hand, and tried to catch him with an elbow to the neck, but he put his chin down and I only grazed him, then took another punch in the ribs for my pain. While I was busy sucking wind and feeling nauseous, he kicked my legs out from under me.

I went down in a heap. Whacked my head on the doorjamb, wrenched my bad ankle. I was waiting for either a boot in the gut or a knife blade when I heard the world explode.

I smelled burnt powder, and a hot brass shell casing landed on my neck as the .45 roared again.

‘Put your hands up!’ Sarah yelled.

My assailant turned away from me, took a step toward the hallway. I wrapped my left arm around his ankle and rolled into him, tripping him. He twisted around, drove his knife at me. I caught his wrist with my good hand this time, holding on for dear life.

‘Get out of here!’ I yelled to Sarah and Monique.

‘No!’ Sarah screamed. ‘Drop the knife or I swear I’ll shoot you!’

The thug ignored her, struggling to get his hand free. I held on with all my strength, but I was at the end of my stamina.

I felt the whole thing coming apart. My world collapsing. Sarah was screaming and sobbing, refusing to run. Pete spilling his lifeblood in my doorway, and a younger, stronger, bigger man than I straining to shove his blade into my vitals. My strength draining away, darkness swimming at the edges of my vision. My attacker loomed over me. I could smell his breath and see the sweat standing out on his brow and feel the pulse pounding in his wrist.

His pulse.

I wondered—

I reached out, feeling my way through his body, seeking any weak spot, just like I’d search for an injury in a wounded patient. I found a weak wall in one of his intercranial arteries.

I’d never done this before, but I applied a bit of force to the spot, weakening the bonds between the cells, letting the adrenaline push his pressure higher, until something...

Had...

To...

Give.

I felt the arterial wall part, the blood escaping and choking off the brain cells, the pressure in his cranium becoming unbearable.

I pulled myself out as fast as I could. The man stopped pushing, began to twitch and shudder. I butted my forehead into his face, wrenched the dagger from his failing grasp and drove it in between his ribs, just beside his sternum.

He jerked backward, leaving an artful spray of blood drops on my woodwork.

I rolled over, emptying my stomach on the floor. I heaved and retched myself dry. Trying to expel the taint of what I felt, what I had done.

I dragged in a ragged breath and checked the attacker. He lay spread eagle on the floor, a gash in his chest, just to the left of his breastbone. He wasn’t breathing,
per se
, but air made a rasping, gurgling sound as it escaped from him.