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Chapter Eighteen
Ravenwood’s nod was miniscule. “The sun rises,” he said, raising his voice as Wells and Montgomery approached.
“It does indeed,” Percy replied.
Wells’s gaze flicked between them and came to rest on Percy. “Are you determined then, not to ask pardon for your abuses of yesterday?”
“I’ve said I will offer no apology,” he answered. “And t
o that I hold. My cause is just, and I will be vindicated. Let us delay this no longer.”
“Agreed.” Ravenwood moved toward Wells to take his sword.
As he took his own blade, Percy murmured to Montgomery, “Number four Crown Court. Tell Loxdon that Wells is keeping a young girl there, possibly the one for whom we’ve been searching.”
Montgomery nodded and backed away. “The usual distance, gentlemen,” he said, joining Wells.
As he turned, Percy saw Wells nod slowly at Ravenwood with eyes like twin stones. Their message was clear: kill his adversary or there would be hell to pay. Ravenwood’s face was inscrutable as he turned to face the field.
Though he’d reached a gentlemen’s agreement with the man, Percy was no fool to throw caution to the wind. He approached this battle as if their discussion hadn’t taken place for, indeed, he didn’t trust Ravenwood. He’d honor his part of their bargain, if at all possible, but if it came to it and he was hard-pressed, he’d not hold back.
Following the obligatory salute, they began to circle, each combatant finding his footing, learning the terrain. Percy had done this countless times in this exact spot, yet he treated it as if it were the first. Complacency was a man’s deadliest enemy.
Ravenwood lunged. Percy parried the thrust at his midsection and countered with a swipe across his opponent’s line of sight, his slightly longer reach providing him an advantage. The other man flinched back and brought up his blade to parry a subsequent feint to his left side.
Around and around they circled, testing each other’s reflexes, looking for patterns and weaknesses to exploit. Percy made sure to give him none. After about a quarter of an hour, he had a good fix on his adversary’s style.
He’s quick, but his parries are slightly wide, a waste of motion.
He launched a flurry of attacks with the intent of gauging just how large an opening he could expect. Once his curiosity was satisfied, he retreated.
Ravenwood’s face was pinched now. In his eyes lived the comprehension that defeating his enemy would be nigh on impossible.
Good. It meant he would either stick to their agreement…or attempt something desperate.
Now was the time for caution. Percy eased up and allowed him some space. He was warmed up now. In addition to learning his enemy’s weaknesses, he observed that Ravenwood’s breathing was ragged. The man didn’t practice on a daily basis or it would have been as steady and even as his own. Another potentially fatal error.
Again he lunged, pressing his opponent back, though not as hard as the last time. That had been to judge his strength, his endurance. This time he meant to draw blood and see if he could get the man to yield. Whipping up, he feinted to the left, purposely repeating the first half of his previous attack. But this time, instead of bringing his blade back around to the right in an attaque passé, he reprised. When Ravenwood lifted his blade to parry the thrust that never came, Percy lunged forward and aimed for his enemy’s exposed flank.
A line of red appeared in the linen of Ravenwood’s shirt.
“Do you yield?” Percy called out.
Ravenwood opened his mouth, but before he could, Wells shouted, “It’s to the death, man! Remember?”
Percy’s eyes never left Ravenwood’s. “Your call,” he said softly.
The other man’s jaw clenched. “We cannot stop now.”
“So be it.”
Before the last word left Percy’s lips, Ravenwood lunged forward.
Percy let him press his attack and circled back step by step, parrying each thrust with minimal movement, conserving his energy, resting while the other man wore himself out. When Ravenwood’s breath again grew rapid and uneven, he saw his opportunity.
He parried a sloppy lunge and then riposted, pressing his adversary with all his might, taking grim satisfaction in the surprise he saw spread over Ravenwood’s sweaty face as he beat him back. Ravenwood’s parries became wider and less controlled, and anger kindled in the depths of his slate gray eyes.
A cool head was essential in any battle, but especially in one matching skill with blades. Anger made one do foolish things. When the opening presented itself in an overreach, Percy slashed him across the sword-arm shoulder, made as if to back off, but at the last moment instead again lunged forward to execute a prise de fer, entangling his enemy’s weapon and forcing Ravenwood into close quarters.
