Ruark’s eyes caught Harripen’s as the man exchanged gold pieces with the Dutchman.
“Sorry, me lad,” the Englishman laughed with a shrug. “But I must recoup me losses. The purse you have goes to the winner as does all the loser’s possessions.”
The grizzled man completed his wager with gusto. It was only Shanna who was dismayed by the forthcoming event. Her gaze followed Ruark’s every movement. Within her wearied mind a thousand thoughts clashed in riotous confusion. This man who made ready to defend her was the same one she had lain with in passion and cast away in anger. Her ire seemed only a memory of another day, unreal and irrational now with her anxieties for him.
Pellier’s own light épée was no match for the sabre, so he snatched up a cutlass that hung with his pistols on the back of his chair. It was a broad, heavy piece, shorter by inches than the sabre Ruark held.
“A man’s weapon!” he sneered. “One made for killing. To the death, bondsman!”
Leaping away from the table, he plunged into immediate attack. His rush was vicious and intense, but Ruark fell into a comfortable stance and parried each thrust easily. For too long he had been forced to depend on the decisions of others for his survival, but now he could rely on his own skill. Come what may, at least once more in his life he was nobody’s man but his own. He cut and thrust and now began to swing the blade into attack. Feeling out his opponent, he was aware that he faced no neophyte. Pellier was determined and adept, but as their blades met again and again, Ruark began to sense the lack of finesse in the other man’s arm. He gave a quick quartet of attacks, and a small gap appeared in Pellier’s jacket as if by magic. The man fell back in surprise.
The cutlass was a weapon for killing, but it was also weighty and cheaply made. The edge nicked, caught, and hung again and again on the fine steel of the sabre. The victory was not going to be as swift as Pellier had expected. This was no farm-reared colonial he fought! The effort of swinging the unbalanced cutlass began to tell, and when it caught, he had to jerk it free to parry the continual ripostes.
Seeing an opening, Ruark reached deep and low on the outside, drawing blood from Pellier’s shoulder. A shallow cut, but he drew back, prepared to give quarter. Pellier’s challenge was not an idle threat. He followed, swinging the heavy cutlass with both hands. Shanna cringed in trembling fear, expecting to see Ruark sliced through, but he braced the back of the sabre with the scabbard and took the blow full, edge to edge. The fine steel held. For a moment the two men stood nose to nose, the swords crossed above their heads as every muscle strained. Pellier quickly retreated, and Ruark jumped back to escape a wicked slash to his belly. He riposted, and Pellier barely recovered in time to parry.
Now the battle became wearying. The swords met repeatedly in heavy-handed blows. Pellier thrust and as Ruark parried, a wide nick in the cutlass blade caught on the curved back of the sabre. The thick, soft blade was turned sideways, and, already weakened, it snapped as Pellier fought to free it. In surprise he stumbled back several paces and stared at the empty hilt. Dropping the useless thing, he spread his hands as if in defeat. It would have been murder to charge him through, and Ruark nodded and began to sheath his sabre.
Shanna’s scream alerted him. His head snapped up as Pellier’s hand came clear of his boot top, clutching a long stiletto. Pellier raised his arm to hurl it. Ruark was too far away to strike, but he swung the sabre, sending the scabbard sailing to strike full across the pirate’s face. Pellier cursed and stumbled again, and his knife clattered to the floor. The Frenchman caught himself, faced Ruark, and read his gaze.
A slim rapier was quickly handed to him, and Pellier defended himself with all the skill he could muster. Ruark no longer smiled or enjoyed the game. He understood the rules. To the death! His attack was relentless. Ruark could smash through the light defense, but he would then leave himself open, unable to match the speed of recovery with the heavier sabre. His sword flashed blue fire, ever touching Pellier’s. Ruark could give no room to allow Pellier a thrusting attack. He pressed his own. His visage was stern, and he began to feel the effort in his arm, but still he gave no relief. Now a slash opened the front of Pellier’s shirt. Another thrust caught his thigh and dark red blood stained his trousers. Ruark’s riposte took him under the arm. For the barest moment the point of the rapier dipped, and the sabre hummed with the force of the blow. Pellier fell backwards, taking Ruark’s weapon with him. His body arched once against the floor, then lay still.
Ruark’s face was dark as he glanced around to meet the astonished and gaping stares of the brigands. None challenged him further. After a moment he retrieved the sabre and wiped it clean on Pellier’s short jacket. Sheathing it, he rested its end on the floor and then leaned on the hilt as he faced the others again. He looked to Mother who still sat in his strange hunched posture.