Flashman And The Tiger

Whether my blubbering had truly made him wonder or not, I couldn’t tell, but one thing was sure—he hadn’t fooled me. Oh, he needed me dead for his skin’s sake, right enough, but he wasn’t thinking of that now, nor of sacrificing me to Rudi’s shade, which was so much eyewash. No, what was gripping Master Starnberg was the sheer wanton delight in killing, of adding my distinguished head to his trophy room, of proving his mastery and seeing the fear in the eyes of the beaten opponent at his mercy—I know all about it, you see, for I’ve enjoyed it myself, but while it’s a luxury that a wary coward can afford, it’s a weakness in a brave man who’s sure of his own superiority, for he forgets what your cold-blooded assassin (and your coward) never forget—that killing is a business, not a pleasure, and you must keep your sense of fun well in check.

Another thing: he was an academic swordsman if ever I saw one, beautifully balanced as he glided forward and saluted, smirking, falling into the sabre guard with an ease that would have done de Gautet’s heart good to see. Well, I’d taken the brilliant de Gautet unawares (once), and I doubted if Starnberg was any smarter. So I gripped my hilt tight, like the rawest dragoon recruit, took a hesitant shuffle forward, and played my first card.

"It ain’t fair!" I whined. "I’ve been trussed like a fowl—and I’m an old man, damn you! By gad, if I were your age, you’d think twice, you prancing pimp! Ain’t you your father’s son, though, taking every mean advantage … wait, rot your boots, I ain’t ready—"

God, he was quick! One whip of his wrist and his blade was slicing at my neck, and if I hadn’t practised my favourite retire, which is to fall backwards, howling, my head would have been on the carpet. I scrambled up, shaken, one hope gone, for I’d intended to move close, mumping piteously, and give him the point unexpected. Now he came in like a dancer, unsmiling and bursting with blood-lust, cutting left and right, the blades clashing and grating, and I had to break ground to avoid being driven back to that awful chasm, side-stepping and tripping over those confounded rails, tumbling down the smooth slope almost to the water’s edge.

He bore up, swearing. "D’you do all your fightin' flat on your back, then? Come on, man, get up and look alive!"

"I can’t! I’ve jarred My elbow! A-hh, I think it’s broken—"

"No, it’s not, you lyin' skunk! You ain’t hurt, so pick up your sword and stay on your feet!" And the callous swine pricked me on the leg, drawing blood. I damned his eyes and came afoot, moving cautiously back to the level, and as he cut high and low I gave back again, towards the tunnel mouth. If I could lure him in among the clutter of beds and cases he’d be hampered, and might even stumble … but he knew a trick worth two of that and drove me clear of the obstacles—and hope leaped within me, for if I retreated into the tunnel at my back we’d both be fighting in the dark, and I could drop flat and slash at his ankles …

"You damned old fox!" shouts he, and with one lightning flurry of his blade he was past me while I cowered and scurried, warding his cuts any old how, and then he was after me again, snarling with laughter as he harried me back into the cavern proper. His sabre seemed to be everywhere, at head and shoulder and flank, and once he feinted low and gave me the point, but I turned it with the forte and in desperation loosed a wild scything sweep which he parried well enough, but paused, eyeing me with some respect.

"Why, you ain’t so old, you faker!" cries he. "Though how you troubled the guv’nor, blowed if I know! He must ha' been ill!"

"He was full o' wind and piss, like you!" I panted. "Ran like a whippet—aye, he didn’t tell you it ended with him turning tail, did he? No, he wouldn’t, not Slimy Starnberg!" I reviled Rudi with every insult I could muster, wheezing hoarsely as he drove me ever back, for I knew ’twas my only hope; my lungs and legs were labouring, and his young strength must prevail unless I could rile him into recklessness. But he was as cool as his father, damn him, chuckling triumphantly as I staggered away, swiping and swearing.

"Bellows to mend, what?" says he. "Best save your breath , . . oh, stop sprintin', can’t you? Come on, you old duffer, stand for once and let’s see what you’re made of!"