tedious little country. It's so small I'm surprised anyone knows where it is from one day to the next.'
Hawkwood presumed the most recent scars were from previous razor duels and the remainder legacies of the Mameluke's skirmishes on the battlefield. Whatever their cause, it was clear that Kemel Bey's expertise with weapons had not been achieved without personal cost and, presumably, a good deal of pain. Hawkwood had more than enough scars of his own, but they were few in number compared to Matisse's champion.
Matisse snapped his fingers. Hawkwood removed his jacket and passed it to Lasseur, who received it half- heartedly. The men backed away, pulling Lasseur with them, extending the radius. Some took up positions between the deck struts. Others found seats on the tops of barrels. A small amphitheatre formed in the centre of the hold.
Hawkwood could feel warm beads of moisture gathering uncomfortably in the small of his back. Strange, he thought, considering the back of his throat was as dry as sand. He glanced towards Lasseur. Even in the half-light he could see that the privateer's face was pale.
Dupin tossed the Mameluke the second razor stick.
'Begin,' Matisse said.
The Mameluke attacked.
Hawkwood sucked in air as the razor curved towards his belly, brought his own stick down against the outside of the Mameluke's stave and exhaled as he parried the blade away. The thwack of wood on wood was as loud as a pistol shot.
Hawkwood had seen the attack coming. The microscopic widening of the eyes, the tensing of the shoulders and the subtle shifting of weight on to the right leg had telegraphed his opponent's intention. Even so, the Mameluke's speed was impressive. So, too, was his strength. The shock from the collision shuddered through Hawkwood's arm, jarring nerve endings from wrist to shoulder.
Then the Mameluke was turning, bringing his blade around in a reverse strike towards the back of Hawkwood's sword hand. Hawkwood rotated his wrist, slanted away, and felt the bite of the Mameluke's blade as it scored across his knuckles.
Hawkwood stepped back quickly, adjusting his hold on the stick, extending his thumb in a rapier grip, testing the balance and the flexibility in the shaft. It wasn't a lot different to a duelling foil; slightly thicker but the length was about the same. The main difference was the sharp blade instead of a point. This was a weapon meant to sever and cleave, not pierce. There was no guard to protect the hand either. It explained the scarring across the Mameluke's wrist and forearm, and the cut in Hawkwood's flesh that was already welling blood.
The Mameluke advanced again, the thin blade swooping in from on high, cutting down and across. Hawkwood brought his stick round to block the stroke, anticipated and absorbed the impact, transferred his weight and aimed a backhand slash towards the Mameluke's throat. The Mameluke twisted violently and Hawkwood felt the almost imperceptible tug as his blade ripped across his opponent's ribcage. There was a collective intake of breath from the men watching.
'Bravo, Captain!' Matisse's voice, lightly taunting.
But the move had left Hawkwood exposed. The Mameluke grunted, checked, and whipped his blade towards Hawkwood's left flank. Hawkwood jerked back, but he was too late. There was no pain; not at first. Only when he straightened did he feel the tightening of skin at the point of the incision. There was no time to check for blood, because the Mameluke was coming in again.
The Turk's movements seemed unhurried; almost nonchalant.
There was no sign of elation on the ebony face, no quiet smirk of satisfaction at having drawn blood. Neither did he appear out of breath, despite the bright sheen of sweat that coated his brow, shoulders and upper chest.
Another swing, this time towards Hawkwood's undefended left shoulder. Hawkwood spun towards the attack, slashing down, going for the tendon running up the inside of the Mameluke's right wrist.
He felt his heel slip in the shingle and knew he'd missed his target by a mile. For the first time, he saw the light of opportunity in his opponent's eyes. Fighting for traction, Hawkwood tried to fling himself aside. The Mameluke's blade arced towards him.
Had he found his feet and braced himself, the Turk's razor would have caught him full square. But Hawkwood was still falling backwards. The blade raked across his breastbone, paring shirt and skin in equal measure. This time he felt it: a sharp burning sensation searing across his chest.
He heard someone swear and thought it must have been Lasseur, and then he was pushing himself upright, bringing his stick round, more in a wild flail than any sort of coordinated riposte, but when he felt the steel bite, he knew he'd made contact.
Hawkwood's blade had taken the Mameluke across the back of his right forearm two inches below the elbow, slicing through flesh and clipping bone. The Turk bellowed in pain and turned. Hawkwood started to scramble clear, saw the threat homing in, parried the counterstrike more by luck than judgement, and swung his blade at the Turk's carotid.
It should have ended there and then. How the Mameluke evaded the cut, Hawkwood would never know. Whatever the reason, the blade missed by a hair's breadth. In that split second, Hawkwood tried to pull the strike but he was already committed. The razor struck the deck support with the full force of Hawkwood's body behind it, and snapped cleanly in two.
There was a gasp from the men around.
Blood dripped down the Mameluke's arm and belly. He was breathing harder now. The corners of his mouth lifted. He stepped forward eagerly, his blade raised.
But Hawkwood was already moving. His right hand shot out. The fistful of shingle struck the Mameluke's face like a flurry of hailstones. The Mameluke threw up his left hand to protect his eyes. Using the floor joist behind him as a fulcrum, Hawkwood launched himself towards his temporarily unsighted foe.
Hawkwood's shoulder charge lifted the Mameluke off his feet. Locked together, the two men crashed through the ring of watchers, who broke apart in alarm.
Hawkwood's left hand gripped the Mameluke's sword arm. The Turk drove his other fist into Hawkwood's gut. Air exploded from Hawkwood's lungs. The Turk clamped his left hand around Hawkwood's neck and began to squeeze.
The Mameluke's smell was overpowering; a combination of musk, sweat and blood. Hawkwood felt his throat start to close. A red mist began to descend. He rammed his knee into the Turk's crotch and brought his free hand up. He heard a brief exhalation, felt the grip around his neck loosen, bent back the Turk's wrist and slammed his forehead against the exposed nose. The Mameluke's head rocked back. Hawkwood side-stepped to his left, transferred his right hand to the Mameluke's sword arm and as he rotated and locked the Mameluke's wrist, let go with his left hand and drove the heel of it against the elbow joint. There was a dull crack. A spasm shook the Turk. His hand opened and the razor fell to the shingle. Hawkwood increased pressure on the injured arm. The Mameluke dropped to his knees. A keening wail broke from his lips. Blood from his broken nose was running down his chin. His face twisted in pain and he sank to the deck.
Hawkwood straightened and Lasseur yelled a warning.
Hawkwood turned. The Mameluke had retrieved the fallen razor. He was crouched on one knee. His right arm hung uselessly by his side. His left hand was drawn back. The razor blade glinted. There was a renewed look of savagery on his face.
Hawkwood's right foot lashed out. The edge of his heel caught the Mameluke on the side of his jaw. The dark eyes rolled back into his skull. His body slumped across the deck and lay still.
There was a stunned silence.
Dupin was the first to break ranks. He bent down and lifted the Mameluke's head. Letting it fall back, he stared hard at Hawkwood then turned to Matisse. 'His neck's broke.'
'Satisfied?' Hawkwood said coldly.
'Very impressive,' Matisse said softly. 'Not quite the result I was expecting. You've done for my champion, and so decisively, too. Who'd have thought it? You may be an officer, Captain Hooper, but my bones tell me you're no gentleman.' The dark lenses glittered in the lantern light.
'I'll take that as a compliment,' Hawkwood said. He felt suddenly tired and experienced an overwhelming urge for a strong drink.
Lasseur broke away from the cordon. 'You left it a little late, my friend. You had me worried.'
