The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [153]
Wet grass feels wonderful, cold, fresh. Bastard’s been up all night, his eyes are red. He does look like a ferret—or a badger—without his wig. Should have polled my hair, but what the hell, too late now …
His saber touched Twelvetrees’s sword with a tiny chime of metal, and electricity ran smoothly up his back and over him, out to the tips of his fingers. He took a harder grip.
“Go,” said Captain Honey, and sprang back out of the way.
Jamie could see at a glance that both men were excellent swordsmen. Neither one was concerned with showing away, though; this was deadly business, and they set about each other with a concentrated ferocity, seeking advantage. A flock of doves erupted out of the trees in an uproar of wings, frightened by the noise.
It couldn’t last long. Jamie knew that. Most sword fights were decided in a matter of minutes, and no one could keep up such effort with a heavy saber for much more than a quarter hour. Yet he felt as though it had already lasted much longer. Sweat crawled down his back, in spite of the cool morning.
He was so attuned to the fight that he felt his own muscles twitch, echoing the surge, the lunge, the gasp and grunt of effort, and his hands were clenched at his sides, clenched so hard that the knuckles and joints of his bad hand popped and grated.
Grey knew what he was about; he’d got a knee between Twelvetrees’s thighs and a hand behind the other man’s neck, his sword hand held out of the way as he grappled to bring Twelvetrees’s head down. Twelvetrees was no novice, either, though, and pushed forward into Grey’s hold rather than pulling back. Grey staggered, off balance for an instant, and Twelvetrees broke loose and leapt back with a loud cry, swiping at Grey.
Grey dodged back, too, but not quickly enough, and Jamie heard a strangled cry of protest from his own throat as a line of red opened as if by magic across the top of Grey’s leg, followed by a rapid curtain of blood crawling down the cloth of his breeches.
Shit.
Grey lunged, disregarding—or not noticing—the injury, and though his hurt leg gave way and he fell to one knee, he caught Twelvetrees a ringing blow with the flat of his saber, over the left ear. Twelvetrees staggered, shaking his head, and Grey got laboriously to his feet and lunged, missing his aim and slicing through the meat of Twelvetrees’s arm.
Got you. Bastard. Got you!
“Pity it’s not his sword arm,” muttered Quarry. “That would end it.”
“Nothing will end this but death,” said Captain Honey. The young man was white to the lips, and Jamie wondered briefly if he’d ever seen a man killed before.
Twelvetrees fell back, opening himself, and Grey rushed him, realizing too late that it was a trap; Twelvetrees brought the pommel of his sword down in a vicious thunk on Grey’s head, half-stunning him. Grey dropped his sword and lurched forward into Twelvetrees, though, flung his arms about the other man’s body, and fell back onto his good leg, lifting Twelvetrees over his hip and slamming him to the ground.
Take that, arse-wipe! Christ, my ears are ringing, damn you … damn …
“Oh, very pretty, sir, very pretty!” cried Dr. Hunter, beating his hands enthusiastically. “Did you ever see a more beautiful cross-buttock throw?”
“Well, not in a duel, no,” Quarry said, blinking.
Grey stood, mouth open and chest heaving. He picked up his saber, half-leaning on it as he fought for breath. Wisps of hair clung wetly to his face, and rivulets of blood coursed slowly down his cheek and his bare calf.
“Do you … yield, sir?” he said.
Come on, come on! Get up, let’s finish it! Hurry!
Twelvetrees, winded from the fall, did not reply but, after a moment, succeeded in rolling over, slowly managing to get to his knees. He crawled to his fallen sword, picked it up, and got slowly to his feet, but in such a manner of deliberate menace as made his answer clear.
Grey got his own sword up in time, and the sabers met with a sliding clash that locked their