08 A Little Hatred: Book One (The Age of Madness)

Leo shook his head. ‘He can pick.’

‘Men!’ And Isern rolled her eyes. ‘They never can commit. You’ll fight with what you brought, then.’ She tossed the shield back to Shivers, plucked her spear from the ground and pointed it at the men about the Circle, shields all facing inwards now, rims grating as they locked them together into a wall. ‘You lot, keep these two in here till it’s settled. And no more interfering than is seemly.’ She spat chagga juice, wiped her chin and nodded, like it was all set up to her satisfaction. ‘Let’s get to it.’

Where Names Are Made

Leo once heard someone say attack is the best defence. Couldn’t remember who, but it struck him as a bold philosophy. Words to live by. So his plan was to be the whirlwind. Give Stour no breath, no space, no chance to think. Leo would overwhelm that smirking bastard, put him in the mud and look forward to feasts in his honour and songs of his prowess.

But plans often crumble when swords are swung at them, and Leo’s lasted no longer than it took Isern-i-Phail to screech, ‘Fight!’

Stour came at him so shockingly fast, Leo had to twist his opening thrust into a clumsy parry, forced onto the back foot by a raking cut that jarred Barniva’s sword in his hand.

A flash of Stour’s grin and a flicker of bright steel and Leo stumbled back again, parrying, dodging, parrying, the quick scrape and clatter of their blades almost lost in the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd. He only just ducked a wicked cut that could’ve taken his head right off, but Stour gave him no clumsy backswing to work with, stepped scornfully away from Leo’s counter and pressed in again.

Seemed Stour had heard that thing about attack and defence, too. But he was better at it.

‘Kill him!’ screeched Antaup.

‘Come on!’ shouted Jurand.

‘Leo!’ roared Glaward, shaking his shield. But Stour was already on him again, three cuts so quick, Leo only dodged the first two by the barest instinct. He reeled away from the third, fishing with his sword in a weak effort to keep his opponent back. Stour was the whirlwind. Leo was the leaf blown around the Circle.

The speed of him. He used a heavy Northman’s sword – broad blade, solid crosspiece, weighty golden pommel – but he handled it nimbly as a Styrian rapier. Almost no backswing. Almost no recovery. Intentions masterfully disguised.

Apart from Bremer dan Gorst, who’d a fair claim to being the greatest swordsman of the age, Leo never saw a blade handled with such savage skill. He felt the doubt creeping cold up his spine. He was used to being swaddled in a blanket of self-confidence, and the chill as it was stripped away was all the worse for being unfamiliar.

But Leo once heard someone say there are many ways to crack an egg. Hadn’t been entirely sure of the meaning, but it struck him as a workmanlike philosophy. Words to live by. Stour might have the speed, but Leo had the strength. He had to watch for his opening, pin the slippery bastard down and crush him like a walnut on an anvil.

Stour’s next thrust came deadly fast, but Leo was ready. He twisted, forced it away, pressed forward instead of falling back, caught a satisfying glimpse of surprise on Stour’s face. He cut and cut again, blows heavy with his fear and frustration, jarring the sword in Nightfall’s hand.

Steel scraped as Stour caught Leo’s blade on his, held it up short, the edge almost brushing the pointed tip of his nose. They snarled in each other’s faces, straining for the upper hand, crosspieces grinding, knuckles almost rubbing together, shifting their stances in a bid to gain some hair of an advantage, locked together in a furious, frozen struggle while the crowd made a mindless thunder in which encouragement could hardly be told from insults.

The brief flicker of triumph went out as, ever so slowly, Leo felt himself losing the contest. He bared his teeth, growled, spat, but Stour forced him back, and back, until finally Leo was pushed off balance and had to stumble away, their swords ringing apart. He gasped as Stour’s blade came hissing at him, dodged desperately, slipped and nearly fell, reeled back into a little space, breathing hard.

The crowd on the Northern side bellowed their approval. The crowd on the Union’s murmured their disappointment. The Great Wolf gave a showy flourish of his sword and grinned. It was plain they were all coming to the same conclusion.

Stour was the better swordsman.

Still, Leo once heard someone say there’s always a way. He’d had his doubts at the time, but now it struck him as a hopeful philosophy. Words to live by? If he couldn’t beat the Great Wolf with speed or strength, he’d have to outlast him. Tire him with a dogged defence, a sullen determination, a stubborn endurance. He’d be the deep-rooted tree the hurricane can’t shift. He had to wear the bastard down.