The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [24]
Manuel’s right fist was shaking and could not hold on to the heavy sword, his wrist sprained from the awkward parry. The sheath fell off the end of Manuel’s hand-and-a-half as he clumsily traded the weapon into his butter-slickened left hand, and then Werner was bringing his sword down again. Manuel hopped back out of the way, slipping down the hillside, but Werner did not hesitate, pressing the advantage. Manuel knew he had a moment or two before Bernardo was up and swinging behind him, to say nothing of the Kristobels, and he had to put Werner down at once or all was lost. More precisely, he thought fuck fuck fuck, but surely the veteran was aware of the rest.
Both of their swords were long and heavy, and once committed to a maneuver difficult to alter in their deadly course. Manuel waited for Werner to swing again, and when the blow fell he again jumped out of range, only this time he swung his own sword sideways as he dodged, his swing perfectly timed to cut into Werner’s overextended sword arm. Unfortunately, the rancid butter coating Manuel’s palm collaborated with his momentum to send the sword leaping out of his hand, flying past Werner and embedding in the dirt.
“Fuck!” Manuel screamed as his botched attack sent him stumbling into Werner, but rather than trying to get his sword up in time Werner threw his elbow into Manuel’s ribs. Manuel fell past Werner but one of his kicking feet caught the mercenary behind the knee and Werner lurched forward down the hill. Manuel’s sword was right there, and he planted one hand on the ground beside it and snatched the weapon with the other, propelling himself to his feet. That was the idea, at least, but his sprained wrist buckled as he tried to push himself up and he fell back down, his buttery left hand slipping off the hilt of his weapon.
Werner was charging back up the hill toward him and, still on his knees, Manuel could gain his feet or his sword but not both. He chose the sword, and as Werner’s steel blade arced down at him Manuel twisted around. Seeing the flashing metal above him, the artist pitched himself forward to avoid it, belly-flopping onto the cold ground only to feel something stop his sword.
It was Werner, the tip of Manuel’s sword flush with the man’s spine. The hand-and-a-half had bounced off the top of Werner’s codpiece and passed through his linen and silk shirts and into his stomach. The momentum of Werner’s own missed swing carried him over to the side, skin and cloth tearing as he was disemboweled on Manuel’s sword. Werner was still screaming as he fell, his uncoiling intestine tangling on Manuel’s handguard and arresting the man’s fall for a long and terrible pause until his gut tore and he hit the earth. Werner screamed and screamed as Manuel rolled onto his back, knowing Bernardo or one of the Kristobels was right behind him, knowing he was about to die but laughing in spite of it because at the very goddamn least he had field-dressed Werner like a deer.
There was no one there. Scrambling up and peeling Werner’s innards off the guard of his sword, Manuel saw two bodies at the base of the hill, and then a scream came from deeper in the wood just as Werner’s finally trailed off. Trotting cautiously down, he saw that the Kristobels lay side by side, their shirtfronts soaked with blood as though they were conjoined brothers fallen victim to an unsuccessful separation, clean swords still held in lily-white hands. Hearing the high scream again, he set off after Bernardo and the witch, delaying further investigation of the corpses.
Beyond the base of the hill was the undergrowth Manuel had longed for on the hillside, and when the scream did not come again he slowed to a walk, every juniper patch and hornbeam thicket carefully examined. Then he found a blood splatter on the ground, and, following the trail toward another hillock rearing up among the budding hazels, he heard a moan. Pushing through a clump of junipers,