Birds of Prey - Smith Wilbur (версия книг TXT) 📗

It was a dazzling display that drove Vincent, desperately parrying and retreating, against one of the water kegs that marked a corner of the square. Pinned there, he was at Schreuder's mercy. Abruptly Schreuder broke off the assault, turned his back contemptuously on the younger man and strode back into the centre. There, he took up his guard again and, blade poised, waited for Vincent to engage him once more.

All the watchers, except Cumbrae, were stunned by the Dutchman's virtuosity. Clearly Vincent Winterton was a swordsman of superior ability but he had been forced to call upon all his skill to survive that first blazing attack. In his heart Llewellyn knew that Vincent had survived not because of his skill but because Schreuder had wanted it that way. Already the young Englishman had been touched three times, two light cuts on the chest and another deeper wound on the upper left arm. His shirt was slashed in three irregular tears and was turning red and sodden as the wounds began to weep profusely.

Vincent glanced down at them, and his expression mirrored the despair he felt as he faced the knowledge that he was no match for the Dutchman. He lifted his head and looked across to where Schreuder waited for him, his stance classical and arrogant, his expression grave and intent as he studied his adversary over the weaving point of the Neptune sword.

Vincent straightened his spine and took his guard, trying to smile carelessly as he steeled himself to go forward to his certain death. The rough seamen who watched might have bayed and bellowed at the spectacle of a bull-baiting or a cockfight, but even they had fallen silent, awed by the terrible tragedy they saw unfolding. Llewellyn could not let it happen.

"Hold hard!" he cried, and vaulted over the rope. He strode between the two men, his right hand raised. "Colonel Schreuder, sir. You have given us every reason to admire your swordsmanship. You have drawn first blood. Will you not give us good reason to respect you by declaring that your honour is satisfied?"

"Let the English coward apologize to me in front of all the present company, and then I will be satisfied," said Schreuder, and Llewellyn turned to appeal to Vincent. "Will you do what the colonel asks? Please, Vincent, for my sake and the trust I pledged to your father."

Vincent's face was deathly pale but the blood that stained his shirt was bright crimson, as full blown June roses on the bush. "Colonel Schreuder has this moment called me a coward. Forgive me, Captain, but you know I cannot accede to such conditions."

Llewellyn looked sadly upon his young protege. "He intends to kill you, Vincent. It is such a shameful waste of a fine young life."

"And I intend to kill him." Vincent was able to smile now that it was decided. It was a gay, reckless smile. "Please stand aside, Captain." Hopelessly Llewellyn turned back to the sidelines.

"On guard, sir!" Vincent called, and charged with the white sand spurting from under his boots, thrust and parry for his very life. The Neptune sword was an impenetrable wall of steel before him, meeting and turning his own blade with an ease that made all his bravest efforts seem like those of a child. Schreuder's grave expression never faltered, and when at last Vincent fell back, panting and gasping, sweat diluting his streaming blood to pink, he was wounded twice more. There was black despair in his eyes.

Now, at last, the seamen from the Golden Bough had found their voices. "Quarter! You bloody murdering cheese head they howled, and "Fair shakes, man. Let the lad live!"

"They'll get no mercy from Colonel Cornelius," Cumbrae smiled grimly, "but the din they're making will help Sam to do his job." He glanced across the lagoon to where the Golden Bough lay in the channel.

Every man still aboard her was crowded along the near rail, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the duel. Even the lookout at her main top had trained his telescope on the beach. Not one was aware of the boats that were speeding out from among the mangroves on the far shore. He recognized Sam Bowles in the leading boat, as it raced in under the Golden Bough's tumble home and was hidden from his view by the ship's hull. Sweet Mary, Sam will take her without a shot fired! Cumbrae thought exultantly, and looked back at the arena.

"You have had your turn, sir," said Schreuder quietly. "Now it is mine. On guard, if you please. "With three swift strides he had covered the gap that separated them. The younger man met his first thrust, and then the second with a high parry and block, but the Neptune blade was swift and elusive as an enraged cobra. It seemed to mesmerize him with its deadly shining dance and, darting and striking, slowly forced him to yield ground. Each time he parried and retreated, he lost position and balance.

Then suddenly Schreuder executed a coup that few swordsmen would dare attempt outside the practice field.

He caught up both blades in the classical prolonged engagement, swirling the two swords together so that the steel edges shrilled with a sound that grated across the nerve endings of the watchers. Once committed neither man dared break off the engagement, for to do so was to concede an opening. Around in a deadly glittering circle the two swords revolved. It became a trial of strength and endurance. Vincent's arm turned leaden and the sweat dripped from his chin. His eyes were desperate and his wrist began to tremble and bend under the strain.

Then Schreuder froze the fatal circle. He did not break away but simply clamped Vincent's sword in a vice of steel. It was a display of such strength and control that even Cumbrae gaped with amazement.

For a moment the duel lists remained unmoving, then slowly Schreuder began to force both points upward, until they were aimed skywards at full stretch of their arms. Vincent was helpless. He tried to hold the other blade but his arm began to shudder and his muscles quivered. He bit down on his own tongue with the effort until a spot of blood appeared at the -corner of his mouth.

It could not last longer, and Llewellyn cried out in despair as he saw that the young man had reached the furthest limits of his strength and endurance. "Hold hard, Vincent!"" It was in vain. Vincent broke. He disengaged with his right arm at full reach above his head, and his chest wide open.

"Ha!" shouted Schreuder, and his thrust was a blur, fast as the release of a bolt from a crossbow. He drove in his point an inch below Vincent's sternum, clear through his body and a foot out of his back. For a long moment Vincent froze like a figure carved from a block of marble. Then his legs melted under him and he toppled into the sand.