The result was a crescent of violence spreading from the doorway. At its farthest point, I watched Alvantes smash his hilt into the nose of a bald heavy, kick him aside as the other crumpled to his knees — and then roar, 'Where's Mounteban?'
The man was a whirlwind. I was entranced. So much so that I didn't notice the thug to my right until it was almost too late. Improbably, his weapon of choice for the cramped space was a double-headed axe. I barely ducked aside. If there hadn't been a table to roll beneath, even that wouldn't have saved me. As it was, the axe blade plunged deep into the wood and through its underside, ending a finger's breadth from my nose.
Crawling on my back, I came up hard against an unseen chair — until someone tumbled into it, driving both table and me halfway across the room. I pushed on through the wreckage of the now-demolished chair, catching a broken-off leg as I passed. Staggering upright, I swung it around me, not caring who or what I hit so long as I cleared a little space.
There was another table ahead, so I hopped up onto it. From that vantage, I had just time to absorb the carnage about me. Already, half the combatants were out of the fight, curled on the floor nursing wounds or not moving at all. That still left more than a dozen men locked in flailing violence — not least Alvantes, fencing at absurdly close quarters with an ugly brute near the base of the staircase ahead.
The sea of combat closed in. The only way out was those stairs. Abandoning my chair leg, I gathered myself and leapt, catching the steep-angled banister with both hands — not a moment too soon, as one of Mounteban's thugs tumbled, thrashing, across the table where I'd been, demolishing it to matchwood.
I swung over the banister. At the sound of my clumsy landing, Alvantes's assailant couldn't help but pivot to look at me. Alvantes took the opportunity to rake his blade across the brute's legs. The man's face contorted, though no noise came. He reeled down the stairs towards Alvantes, who deftly sidestepped, back against the wall.
His gaze passed over me; his eyes flashed a warning. I crouched instinctively, threw my weight left and upward, and crashed into the shins of my unseen foe. He tumbled past — but not without carrying me with him. Together, we rolled in a knot of grunts and curses that ended in the sharp crack of his head against the floor tiles.
I looked up to see Alvantes stepping over me. Shrugging through the hanging that led into the inn's back rooms, he bellowed, 'Mounteban! Face me!'
I dragged myself to my feet. Given the choice between taking my chances amidst the still-raging combat and following Alvantes, who seemed deadly and invulnerable as a landslide, I hurriedly chose the latter. I dashed through the curtain to find a long, low kitchen with a vast hearth at one end. Alvantes was already pushing through another door, and I hurried to catch up. Beyond was a sizeable coach yard, closed by the L-shaped wings of the inn and two opposing walls, with wide gates standing open on its farthest side. The yard's most notable features were the brewer's cart — drawn up against the building and recently unloaded, if the hastily stacked barrels beside it were anything to go by — and the small crowd gathered in and round the vehicle.
In the back of the cart stood Castilio Mounteban.
He hadn't yet noticed our arrival. His attention was all on the wing of the inn behind him. The stables there extended further into the yard than the rest of the building and bore their own shallow roof. Upon that roof, Guiso Lupa was shuffling towards the edge with a look of deepest terror on his face. Behind him, I could see where a double window had been smashed entirely out of its frame, along with much of the accompanying masonry.
It was clear what must have happened. Cornered on the higher floor, the only stairs cut off, Mounteban had been forced to improvise an escape route. Had he chosen a more agile lieutenant or been quicker to abandon the one he had, he'd be gone by now.
Instead, we'd caught up with him. Which was all well and good, except that 'we' meant Alvantes and me, and Mounteban still had half a dozen bodyguards around him. We were hopelessly outnumbered.
If Alvantes had noticed that fact, he was hiding it well. 'No more running, Mounteban!' he bellowed.
Mounteban, in turn, showed no hint of surprise at our appearance. 'Who's running?' he cried back — and before anyone could point out the obvious answer, he'd leapt from the cart and dragged his sword free of its scabbard. 'Come on then, Boar. We've put this off for long enough.'
Both men strode to close the gap between them, mutual hatred in their every movement. Only a half-dozen paces separated them when a cataclysmic crash resounded in the distance. Everyone froze in place; all eyes turned at the massive noise. No one failed to flinch, not even Mounteban or Alvantes, when it was followed by another, another and another — ten detonations in all, ending in a crack like a sky-load of thunder, which rolled and rolled and rolled.
Then Mounteban struck.
It was a wild, inelegant blow, and no less dangerous for that. He'd evidently hoped to catch Alvantes off guard — and it seemed he had. Alvantes's posture was clumsy, his stance half-formed.
Only at the last instant did I recognise his feint for what it was. Alvantes slid Mounteban's blade expertly across his own, before twisting his own sword up towards Mounteban's throat. Mounteban only saved himself by a leap backwards, with athleticism that should have been impossible for a man of his dimensions.
'Did you hope it would be easy?' Alvantes curled his sword point in a complex gesture halfway between threat and salute. If one-handedness had ever impeded his skill, that time had passed.
Mounteban, for his part, finally looked shaken. Perhaps he'd been counting on Alvantes's disability to even the odds. When a couple of his men drew nearer, however, he raised a hand. 'This is between us.'
The question of whether they'd have obeyed became irrelevant just then, as Navare appeared in the doorway behind us, four guardsmen close on his heels. Blood was dripping down Navare's face from above the hairline, ghastly against the puckered whiteness of the scarring there, and all the guardsmen sported equally apparent injuries — but no one could have doubted they were ready to fight on.
Mounteban's one advantage was gone. His expression shifted to something like acceptance, as he gripped the hilt of his long scimitar with both hands. Three steps bridged the distance between them, and Mounteban swung with all his considerable strength.
Alvantes blocked, with less flourish this time. The blow rang like a bell breaking. Maybe Mounteban still had an edge after all; one-handed, Alvantes couldn't absorb the force of such attacks.
Then again, maybe he didn't need to. When Mounteban tried the same move again, Alvantes slipped smoothly aside. He was a large man, but positively waiflike in comparison with Mounteban. When Alvantes countered with a raking slash, Mounteban just barely edged the blade aside with his own.
I'd been thinking it would come down to strength against speed. But Alvantes was the infinitely better swordsman — and he was no longer defending. This time, he struck first, and with precision. He aimed high, for Mounteban's head. Mounteban caught it with ease, but another blow followed straight away, and another. Faster and faster, Alvantes's blade coiled — high and then low, to left and right, and then in no pattern at all. Each time, Mounteban deflected by a slighter margin. He was losing ground — and there was only wall behind him.
Alvantes drew blood for the first time. It was only a nick, and Mounteban didn't cry out, only gritted his teeth. But Alvantes inflicted it with such casual ease that it was clear he could have done worse had he wanted to. He was sure of himself now. He didn't need to rush.
Mounteban must have reached a similar conclusion. When the next blow came, he blocked in the clumsiest fashion imaginable, throwing his blade across his body like a shield. Rather than retreat or dodge, he shoved forward instead. Taking the full shock of the impact, snarling against it, he pushed on, not giving Alvantes a moment to recover. Then, with a howl of fury, Mounteban threw all his momentum into a great swing. Still he refused to slow, nor to pull back when Alvantes blocked. Rather, he hurled his weight behind his leading arm, turning the clumsy assault into a barge.
On and on he pressed, until Alvantes couldn't help but stagger. I'd been right after all; one-handed, he couldn't defend against sheer brute force. It was hard to see how he was even keeping to his feet. One slip and Mounteban's sword would crush his skull like a blown egg.
Alvantes wavered, struggled to steady himself, all the while back-treading before Mounteban's ceaseless advance. It was hopeless. His balance was gone, and all his fighting poise. Only stubbornness had held him up this long.
Then, even as he began to fall, Alvantes did the one thing I hadn't seen coming. He smashed the stump of his handless arm into Mounteban's jaw.
Pain scorched across Alvantes's face like fire — but it did the trick. Mounteban staggered aside, fingers flying
