Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [303]
Around the ground, the noise rose and fell without cease. Towards the sea, there was no sound, and none from the Citadel. So far, nothing had interrupted the duel. If nothing would, and the duel was what it seemed to be, you would think that Tzani-bey would fight even harder. On the other hand, he was both vicious and fit. He might be teasing Nicholas; testing him; tiring him; so that, in a sudden real onslaught, he could have him at his mercy at last.
It might be that. Or it might simply be that his force of Mamelukes was coming late. Or was there, but awaiting a signal.
There was nothing that Nicholas could do for he, too, had to prevaricate. And that was best done on horseback, for as soon as one or both were unhorsed, the duel could not last very much longer. Nicholas renewed his grip on his sword, and felt his animal falter as he put it towards the emir again. The cut had gone deep, and there might be others. He might have to fight on foot after all. He said, as he came up, in Arabic: ‘Have you learned from your dancing-girl, emir? Why not fight like a man? I shall see that your widows are cared for.’
And that brought the serious fighting. He didn’t enjoy it. Twice, he made a hit with his sword-point, and heard the emir grunt, but he took a spent cut on the helm that dizzied him despite all the padding, and a slash in the side that filled his clothing with blood. Through it all he husbanded, as well as he could, what was left of his energy. No interruption. No disturbance. No relief. Face to face till the end, perhaps, as he said he had wanted. It came to him that soon he would have to decide to try and kill Tzani-bey, no matter what it did to anyone’s programme. Either that, or lose the fight and his life.
He had not quite made up his mind when the decision was made for him by Tzani-bey. They had circled, closed, circled, drawn off and were together again. This time, without warning, the emir changed his sword to the hand that held his buckler. And as he closed upon Nicholas, he snatched something from its place in his saddle and brought it down like an axe.
It was neither an axe nor a mace, but an iron bar. Astorre had warned him. Illegal even among Mamelukes, it could, at a blow, take off an arm. A mace might have been deflected by armour. The bar fell between the protective plate and his neck, on the left, on the wound of ten months ago. It shrieked its protest, although Nicholas did nothing but gasp. His eyes became dark. He managed, just, to disengage and ride and heard, through his nausea, the beating hooves as the emir came after him. He didn’t have very long, and he couldn’t see very well, but – play or not – he was fighting now for his life, and so was Tzani-bey. Nicholas turned, and used his spurs, and this time drove his blood-smothered horse straight at the Mameluke.
The animals crashed together and staggered. Nicholas, dropping his shield, struck the emir with the weight of his shoulder and, drawing his mace, half dislodged him with a blow from the saddle and leaped free as his horse foundered. Tzani-bey’s horse, ungoverned, started away; the emir’s sword hesitated as he fought to control it, his studded boot out of the stirrup. Nicholas stood in the field and, like a Roman thug, swung his mace to gain momentum and released it. It swept the emir from his horse, which snorted and fled. Tzani-bey rose, sword in hand, and confronted him.
There seemed no doubt, now, that the only battle today in Famagusta was the one taking