to put all thoughts out of his mind, but it was like staring into his own eyes in a mirror. In combat, especially close combat, the mind had to be empty, free of any thoughts of winning or losing. The idea was to get into the rhythm of the deadly ballet, to flow with it without thinking. To think about winning was to admit the possibility of losing. To think about surviving was to dwell upon the spectre of death. Yet, try hard as he might to focus himself on the pure interplay of motion, Forrester’s mind kept drifting, like a boat with a sleepy captain that kept wandering off course, then lurching back as the captain caught himself and seized the wheel.
Drakov’s eyes were his eyes. It was like locking gazes with himself. His face echoed Vanna’s face so strongly that Forrester kept seeing her. He kept pushing the vision away, but the thought resurfaced again and again in his mind- I’m in deadly combat with my son, with my own flesh and blood.
Don’t think about it, he thought to himself, you’ll slip, you’ll make a mistake! And, having thought about it, he made one.
He recovered in the very nick of time, blocking madly, and Drakov’s blade opened up his forearm from wrist to elbow. The daggers were sharp, both at the points and on both sides of their narrow blades and the knife bit deeply. The blood flowed freely, dribbling down onto the stone floor. Forrester began to move more quickly, never staying for more than a second or two in the same spot, so that the blood would not puddle and create the danger of his slipping in it. For a brief instant, Drakov’s eyes left his and glanced quickly at his wound. Forrester lunged. Too late, he saw that he had been taken in. Drakov had done it on purpose.
Already committed, Forrester tried to recover and, for a second, he was caught off balance. Drakov dropped to the floor instantly. Using his leg as a scythe, he swept Forrester’s legs out from under him. As Forrester went down. Drakov rolled and in an instant he was on him, pinning him to the floor and grasping Forrester’s knife hand with his own free band while his other hand holding the knife flashed in on Forrester’s throat. Forrester felt the point of the dagger penetrate the skin at the hollow of his throat ever so slightly and in that moment, a great calm swept over him and he ceased to struggle. But the white heat of the killing thrust never came.
Instead, Forrester looked up into his son’s eyes and saw that they were wet with tars.
He saw the tremendous inner struggle going on as Drakov tried to will himself to finish it and found that he was unable to. He saw his son’s lips begin to tremble, whether from rage, sorrow or frustration, he did not know. Perhaps it was all three.
“It’s all right, Son,” he said. “It’s all right. I thought that I could do it, too, but now I know I never could. She never would have let us.”
He let his hand go limp, opened it and the dagger rolled off his palm and onto the stone floor with a gentle clink. Slowly. Drakov got up and backed away from him, saying nothing, his tears speaking more eloquently than any words he could have said.
“Come back with me, Son,” said Forrester. “You don’t belong here.”
Drakov shook his head violently, then turned and bolted out the door and down the stairs.
They fought fast and furiously, their sabres flashing almost quicker than the eye could follow. Hentzau was exultant, filled with seemingly boundless energy. He was in his element. Fighting without the slightest care for his survival, reveling in the sheer joy of the swordplay. It was, Falcon realized, what made him such a deadly swordsman. It was one thing to train for hours, days, weeks and years on end, refining one’s skill in constant practice until it was second nature, but it was something else entirely to put that skill to the test in earnest, deadly combat, where one would live and one would die: Hentzau was one of those rare people to whom it made no difference. Some people walked the razor’s edge, but Hentzau fairly danced upon it. He felt himself to be almost immortal, admitting the possibility of death in only the vaguest sort of way, with supreme indifference. His life would have meant nothing to him without the chance of casually tossing it away with the same abandon with which a gambler risked all on one turn of the wheel. He quite literally did not know fear and that frightened her. He was better than she thought he was, far better. The better his opponent was, the better he became, rising to the occasion. It suddenly occurred to her that she could lose.
She thrust and Hentzau parried, turning her blade. She beat and riposted, using the fleche attack to drive at his face, then shifted at the last instant to his chest, but he had anticipated her, He caught her blade in a circular parry and almost hooked it out of her grasp with skillful fingerplay and easy motion of the wrist. He engaged, she disengaged, he engaged again and had her on the retreat, cutting and slashing at her while she parried madly, the sabres singing their steel song as they danced. He was laughing now, laughing, like a small boy balanced precariously on a rooftop, oblivious of the danger, his eyes sparkling, his teeth flashing and if this were merely practice, she would be incredibly excited by him, but the sudden, cold emotion of fear drove out all else. He was a primitive, a damned 17th-century male and little more than a child, at that, and he was better than she was and they both knew it. She knew that he had staked everything on this, that he would always put greed and ambition way above all else, He would be merciless, just as she had been with Bersonin. In her entire life, she had only met three men whom she could not control, utterly and completely: Forrester was one. Drakov was another and now the third, Hentzau, whom she most belatedly realized to be the most dangerous of them, would kill her unless she could get away from him. One moment. One moment was all it would take to grab her remote out of her pocket and clock herself to the chronoplate she had hidden in the dungeon, then to safety. Only he would not give her a moment. He would not give her even so much as a second. He was on her constantly, driving, driving, that lethal blade buzzing around her like an angry hornet trying to sting. She was beginning to grow tired and he was indefatigable.
She had only one chance, she abruptly realized. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rudolf crawling towards the entrance, intent upon lowering the drawbridge. She willed him to move faster. In his weakened condition, he seemed to be moving in slow motion, though she knew that it was only an illusion created by the adrenalin coursing through her. She wanted to shout at him to get up and run. If she could only keep Hentzau at bay for a moment or two more, the king would release the drawbridge, the very thing she had intended to prevent, only now it was her only chance.
The hornet stung.
The sabre slashed her shoulder, and Hentzau gave a triumphant cry at having scored the first touch. It was not a deep wound, but it bled profusely. He was back at her again; the clashing of the sabres reverberated through the hall. She was no longer even trying to attack. Her one concern was to keep him at bay just a moment or two longer. She could not let it end like this. She could not allow herself to be killed by a mere boy to whom this was no more than a game.
“Hah hah!” he cried, sensing victory near at hand. “I’ve broken you, my dear! Where is that indomitable spirit now, eh? Come on, come on, don’t run away, have at me!”
She almost sobbed with relief when she heard the clanking of the drawbridge coming down. Almost immediately, shots were fired and she heard shouts, followed by the sound of rapidly approaching hoofbeats. Hentzau’s reaction was extremely brief, just a quick glance toward the drawbridge, but it gave her time to bolt. She fumbled for her pocket as she ran, but she would have to break stride, if only for an instant, to get out the remote and Hentzau was already running after her. She swore and ran with all the speed that she could muster, through the archway to the old part of the castle, down the long main corridor with Hentzau hot on her heels. Her only chance was Drakov now. She had to reach him.
Sprinting hard, she reached the open courtyard and ran across it towards the keep, failing to increase the distance between Denizen and herself. She kept trying to pull the remote free and she almost had it. If he would only trip, just for a moment…
She ran at full speed, gasping, bolting through the entrance to the keep with Hentzau only yards behind her. She had managed to pull the remote out of her pocket finally and-the force of the impact stopped her cold for a nanosecond, then she rebounded and fell. She heard a deep grunt and realized that she had run right into Drakov. The remote was gone from her hand. She had fallen in the entrance, in clear sight of Hentzau. Drakov was on the stairs, out of his view. Hentzau stopped. As Drakov stood, she saw that he had her dropped remote held in his hand.
“Give me that!” she said.
He held it up and looked at it, knowing it for what it was, her escape, the unit slaved to the chronoplate that she had hidden from him.
“There’s no hiding in that, Sophia,” Holm called. “Come now, I thought that you were going to give me more sport than I could handle!”
