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“Then give yourself up,” Nicolo said plainly. “You know I won’t let you go.”
Wylder held Nicolo’s gaze, strong and unafraid. “You are on the wrong side of this, Nicolo. One day you’ll realize it. Though I doubt I’ll live to see that day, most unfortunately.”
“A man can live a long time in the castle dungeons,” replied Nicolo on a shrug of indifference. “And it will seem so much longer.”
Wylder gave a half-smile. “I don’t doubt it.”
“Call this what it is, Wylder, you have lost. Give up and perhaps I’ll go easy on you.”
But Wylder’s expression was still as reserved as was Nicolo’s. “I don’t intend to surrender, yet if we keep fighting, then I will lose good men and so will you,” Wylder continued. “Why don’t we put an end to it—just the two of us? You and I, as warriors and gentlemen.”
“A duel?” Nicolo asked and a note of interest sounded in his voice.
“To the death,” nodded Wylder. “Does that satisfy you?”
Nicolo nodded. “It’ll do.”
At a sign from the duke, his men backed off.
“Stand down,” said Nicolo, and the King’s Guard stepped back, though I saw a look pass between Nicolo and Whitethorn, and the sergeant gave a barely perceptible nod.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Nicolo cut me off before I could even begin.
“I know you’re not about to question my order.”
I paused. “There’s risk,” I started.
“I am fully aware of the risk,” said Nicolo, firmly.
It wasn’t just his own life at stake, it was the prince’s. That was what Wylder was banking on. Perhaps he rated his own chances pretty slimly, he wasn’t the young buck he’d once been, but if he could get in one lucky hit, he could kill Nicolo which would mean he’d kill the prince, eventually.
It wasn’t like Nicolo to risk Balduin’s life, but he was angry, and he’d been challenged as a warrior and a gentleman, and I sure as hell couldn’t stop him. And, certainly, if he were killed, it would make my job that much easier.
The two men faced off, swords bared, eyes locked, then, in a flash, they went for each other, Wylder lunging and Nicolo forced to back off and parry the thrust away. Their blades clashed, they came together, broke, met again, threw each other off and exchanged blows. A vicious slash from Wylder made Nicolo spring back and he replied with an overhead that sliced through the duke’s leonine mane of hair.
“That’s why I grew it,” Wylder joked, grimly. “Better than a helmet.”
If they’d been on equal terms, it would have been a very close fight, as it was, it was a closer one that I could have anticipated. All the youthful energy, all the speed and stamina was on Nicolo’s side. He had strength too, but was surprisingly well-matched in that department by Wylder, whose strength was of a different sort, more solid and heavy, the strength of an ox versus that of a jungle cat.
Both men were equally skilled with the blade, but Wylder did have the edge of experience that came with age. The wily old campaigner had learned in battle rather than on the practice field, and what you learned in battle, more than anything else, was how not to die. They might both have the same levels of skill, but Wylder had learned to use it better, his style was economical (another thing that came with age; you didn’t do more than you had to), he understood there were no rules as there might be in a polite court duel—if you had to stab your opponent in the foot to get the win, that was what you did.
Wylder fought like a man with nothing to lose, while I was quite sure Nicolo always had Balduin at the back of his mind. When Wylder’s sword came a hair’s breadth from Nicolo’s throat, I saw the realization in the master’s eyes that this might have been ill-judged on his part. He hadn’t given the older man a chance, but all it took was one slip. And with the fate of Balduin on his mind, suddenly Nicolo started fighting more defensively, letting Wylder push him.
But though he was cautious and compromised by the knowledge of what was at stake, Nicolo was still Nicolo. He might have let Wylder have more chances than he should have, but the older man couldn’t get through Nicolo’s guard, the master was too quick, too sure-footed, too agile. In the end, it was that youthful athleticism that saw Nicolo through, spotting his moment and striking, sweeping the older man’s legs so Wylder went to the ground, then treading on his wrist so the sword dropped from Wylder’s hand. Nicolo leveled the point of his blade to Wylder’s throat.
Hatred snarled across Wylder’s face, then vanished in a rueful smile.
“I gave you a fight of it, damn you.”
“You did, at that,” acknowledged Nicolo. “I hope I’m half the fighter you are when I reach your age.”
But Wylder shook his head. “You’ll never reach it, son. That ‘friend’ of yours won’t allow it. You don’t see it now, but the day will come. You’re much better than he is and that’s the reason he won’t allow you to live.”
Nicolo said nothing, but I saw the contempt in his eyes. He didn’t accept a word of it and wouldn’t be thrown off by the older man.
Wylder let his hands drop to his sides and raised his chin to bare his throat. “Make it clean.”
Nicolo didn’t move. “If I kill you, then another will take your place.”
