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WiR Chapter 17 sword fight

17 Generosità (Generosity)

Scholarsday, Hare Moon 22

The bells tolled one in the distance. Vincenzo, in no hurry, kept his pace steady. Mercurio clomped along behind, the hard soles of cheap boots veritably echoing in the near-empty street.

Vincenzo turned on his annoying shadow. “For a swordsman, you sure have heavy feet.”

Mercurio scoffed. “What do you know? You’ve never seen me fight.”

“I don’t need to,” Vincenzo said, amused he’d gotten a rise out of the young man. “Go get a pair of boots from Leonardo in the cordwainers’ guild.”

“Cordwainer? What do I look like, the belle of the ball? I’m not sure I’m in the market for fancy shoes.”

“Sure, they’ll cost eight times as much, but your speed and balance will improve.”

“You might want to take your own advice now that you have a pocket full of coins. Your boots are worn almost through and caked in horse shit.”

Vincenzo shrugged. There was no arguing with the truth. At least the youth was observant. “I’ve fallen on hard times.” Vincenzo shook his head, thinking hard times didn’t do his predicament justice. “Take it or leave it. It’s good advice.”

Mercurio got into a low ward and shuffled a few steps forward and back, showing off. “I think I know plenty about balance, signor. Maestro Moro says I’m his most promising student.”

“Is that why you’re so eager to jump into a fight with a band of angry foreign mercenaries?”

Mercurio stood straight again and tugged at his open collar. “I’ll jump into a fight with any man,” he said, his haughtiness becoming as tedious as his loud feet. “Besides, they aren’t mercenaries, they’re miners. About a dozen of them live in a workhouse down by the river.”

Vincenzo chuckled. “They’ll be looking for work a long time. The nearest mine is a hundred miles north of here.”

“They work for the church,” Mercurio said, parrying a blow from an unseen opponent. He spun and lifted his buckler hand. “They like to take in Kanassa’s sights when off duty, mostly the gambling dens and brothels. I’ve escorted them home more than once with their winnings since they scarcely know which end of the sword to hold.”

“What makes you think they work for the church?”

Mercurio, still showing off his fancy footwork, lunged at Vincenzo’s back with an imaginary sword in his hand. “Edrian guards posted outside the workhouse.”

Vincenzo, ignoring Mercurio’s antics, kept walking. A dozen foreign miners? Whatever Marcello was up to, it must be worth a pile of gold. Rumors abounded of vast catacombs under the cathedral, stacked with long-dead priests’ bones but never anything of value. Perhaps Marcello was working on a secret escape route. It still didn’t explain why he would hire Fjeri men from across the sea.

Mercurio grabbed Vincenzo’s sleeve. “Damn, I hate it when I’m right.” He nodded toward a group of dark shapes, following.

Vincenzo smiled. “Three? I thought you said they’d try to make it a challenge.”

Mercurio let go his arm. “There’ll be more in the shadows. They caught on quickly after a few of them got their winnings stolen. Might even have a couple hired swords ready to step in.”

Disregarding his suspicion that Mercurio could be working with the Fjeri, Vincenzo kept his pace steady. If the swordsman was in league with the ruffians, it would only make besting him that much more satisfying. When two of the foreigners stepped to intercept, Vincenzo stopped.

“In Fjera, we don’t look kindly on cheaters,” one of them said. His face lay somewhere under a fur hat and thick beard. “Give back the money or we gut you like dogs.”

“I’m no cheater,” Vincenzo said. It was only fair he give the men an opportunity to save face and retreat before they bled on his blade. “It’s a game of chance. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. No hard feelings.”

Vincenzo’s gambling opponent, the one with yellow teeth, stepped from behind his comrade. “You paid dealer to slip you cards.”

The accusation stung, even though Vincenzo wasn’t a professional card player. No one wanted to have his victory cheapened. “Even if that were true,” Vincenzo said, keeping a level tone, “I couldn’t have forced you to bet a pair to the end. We both played a loose hand and it just so happened, this time, I came out on top.”

The gnarly foreigner scowled while the bearded fellow said, “Give István his money and we forget your face.”

“Tempting as your offer is,” Vincenzo said, wrapping his fingers around his sword grip, “I won it fair. I’ll give you a chance to leave peacefully, before I have to spill your blood.”

The foreigner guffawed, throwing his head back. He stood a head taller than Vincenzo, a testament to the hardy stock of the eastern land, but Vincenzo was hardly intimidated by the motley assortment of axes and clunky swords the men boasted between them. He hadn’t tested his new shiavona against another blade and anticipated an opportunity to try its mettle. Giving the miners more chances to retreat than he would ordinarily entertain, he said, “I’m not adverse to a late-night brawl, in fact, I welcome it.”

From out of the shadows, a man with an axe approached, dressed in the same style as the other Fjeri, and flanked by two Kanassan men. Vincenzo recognized one of them from the card house, a spectator who had accepted his free beer. The bearded brute pulled an axe from his belt while the other two drew rapiers.

Mercurio, a step behind, put his hand on his pommel. “Last chance, signor, or I’ll clean up what they leave behind. A few florins for your safety?”

Vincenzo smiled. “Watch and learn. I was swaggering through these streets with a buckler and blade, before you were a glimmer in your father’s eye.” He drew polished steel and assumed a low guard, still out of measure but ready to close in on his target.

The bearded man hefted his axe, bringing it over his head. Sure, it might appear more intimidating but he’d be at a disadvantage against a fast opponent. First blood, Vincenzo told himself. Killing green fighters, even bold, stupid ones, verged on disgrace.

The foreigners fanned out, one more joining his friends from behind Vincenzo. Grossly outnumbering him, they exuded an air of confidence. Vincenzo maintained his posture, presenting the smallest target possible.

A burly foreigner wielding a sabre swung first, a sloppy slashing motion utilizing shoulder strength but little skill. Vincenzo shifted his weight and let the blade pass harmlessly by. While the attacker recovered from the momentum of his miss, Vincenzo caught one of the rapiers against his blade, twisting his wrist to immobilize his opponent with his quillons. Vincenzo punched the swashbuckler on the chin for good measure, watching him drop to a knee.

Still hoping to avoid deadly force, Vincenzo grabbed the fallen sword with the toe of his boot and flung it up. Dueling, for as much as it appeared a test of physical strength, was more a mental game. Opponents could easily be demoralized when they saw they were outmatched. Sometimes, it was more effective than showing them their own blood. Worth a try, anyways. He caught the blade in his left hand. István and his bearded friend grimaced, unimpressed as Vincenzo spun the two blades over his head and brought them to bear.

He used the light sword like a dagger, low and to the outside. Regaining his stance, Vincenzo advanced toward the bearded fellow, obvious leader of the band. Never one to deny stupid men the chance to learn a lesson, he prepared as his attackers all came at him as one. The four governors: timing, perception, distance and technique, were less a conscious strategy and more an instinct. Hundreds of hours spent in practice against well-trained opponents, ensured gut reactions were the right calls. Counters to every movement an opponent made, predictions of action based on the smallest twitch. Even in the dark street, Vincenzo could decipher enough indicators to know which men hesitated and which were confident enough to strike first.

István’s friend and the other hired local man darted in simultaneously. While the sword proved an easy parry, the weight of the foreigner’s axe carried Vincenzo’s left hand off line, that arm being notably weaker after an old injury.

Vincenzo disengaged the axe and retreated to regroup. With senses heightened from adrenaline, he caught the sound of shuffling feet behind him and narrowly dodged an incoming axe. He regretted giving the men the chance to walk away. If he had attacked first, one would have been dead before the others could react. Perhaps he had grown soft with age.

Loathing being called an old man, even by himself, Vincenzo beckoned for vitality he knew he still possessed—even after years spent telling himself he had nothing to prove. Lies. The sacrifices he made were the price of freedom. After all, what good did a seat in the senate do for a man who felt more comfortable in a sweaty shirt than a velvet doublet?
Vincenzo pushed back the bearded leader. Flexing the muscles in his better arm, he pounded the flat of his blade against the axe handle, right under the head, jarring the wood shaft in his opponent’s grip. He sidestepped as the local swordsman lunged, catching Vincenzo’s leather doublet with the tip of his sword, but scoring no wound.

He had given everything up to join the Radan church, forsaken an education for the opportunity to become a man of the cloth. And where had it gotten him? Thrown out on his ass when he refused to see things Marcello’s way. The frustrated miner retreated when Vincenzo bound up his axe and stripped it from his hands.

Vincenzo didn’t have a chance to press forward, the swordsman lunging again. Dancing the scandiaglio, Vincenzo feinted and probed to test his adversary. Perhaps it was a bit indulgent, the amount of flourish he put into his movements, but just then, he felt ready to prove something—maybe only to himself. After Marcello decided Vincenzo was more valuable as a weapon than a spiritual leader, he presented a choice: work as a glorified guard or remain a nameless priest forever under Vescovo Ranosi or Vescovo Vioni. Vincenzo took the only choice he thought he had and signed on as Marcello’s personal guard.

But he wasn’t hired muscle, or even a priest any longer. Years of loyalty washed away as soon as Vincenzo refused to murder one of his friends. Near the age of forty, he took up his blade for himself for the first time. Men like Massoli didn’t offer a retirement security, but they paid well and always had work for a swordsman embittered by the world.

Vincenzo reverted to a low guard, turning up his knuckles on his left hand to use the flat of the blade to parry. The hired swordsman disengaged Vincenzo’s parrying blade and almost scored a touch to the slow left arm, but Vincenzo pushed in with his right, trying to slip under the buckler. It wouldn’t do to distract himself with laments for his lost life. Dueling angry could be a fatal mistake. He filled his lungs with air and darted in, sweeping the blade aside and crouching lower to avoid the buckler aimed at his face.

Time seemed to slow as Vincenzo pressed forward, striking. His opponent gave ground, unable to block every thrust and cut. Bleeding from two gashes, one at the elbow and the other at his hip, the swordsman’s movements became frantic.

“Yield,” Vincenzo said, sweeping his opponent’s blade off line again and lunging. His sword struck the shoulder. The buckler clanged onto the cobblestones.

“Desist!” Two city guards approached, swords drawn. One of them held a lantern, illuminating the street and brawlers.

Vincenzo kept his eyes on the swordsman.

The Fjeri, like whipped dogs, retreated to the outer edges of the light. When the swashbuckler’s hand dropped to his side, Vincenzo sheathed his blade. He tossed the other on the ground.

“What’s going on here?” a guard asked.

No one said anything.

“Someone starts talking or you’re all under arrest.” He spoke with conviction, though Vincenzo doubted two guards could arrest eight men in the street. The guard glanced at the bleeding swashbuckler and shined the lantern toward the miners. “I told you lot if I caught you fighting again, you’d be in prison for disturbing the peace.”

The bearded fellow opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again in good judgment.

“Who drew first?” the guard demanded.

Mercurio shuffled his feet and István shifted uncomfortably.

“I see.” The guard handed off the lantern to his companion and sheathed his sword. “Go home, all of you. If I see any of you again tonight, I’ll cart you off to prison. Is that clear?”

Heads bobbed silently. Vincenzo motioned to Mercurio. “That’s our cue to leave.” With Mercurio following like a lost pup, he strode north. It wasn’t but a few blocks before the young man laughed. His feet fell notably softer. “I stand corrected. You could do better than me.”

Vincenzo reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins, not bothering to count them. “I still aim to pay you for your services.”
Mercurio stopped walking. “But, you took care of those men by yourself.” He shifted his belt and adjusted his sword. “Hell, you didn’t need my help.”

Vincenzo grinned, holding out the coins. “Not bad for a man with shit on his shoes?”

“That move, where you beat beardy’s axe and pulled it from his grasp… that’s one of Maestro Moro’s specialties.”

“I was one of Antonio Moro’s tutors for a short time when he was a cocky youth with a hard head. I hope he’s a better teacher than he was a student.”

Mercurio scratched his throat. “What are you paying for if you don’t need a swordsman?”

Vincenzo clapped Mercurio’s shoulder. “I want you to show me where the workhouse is.”

*

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