André watched the man ride off, hoping that was the last Mameluke he’d ever see. Now, he stood facing Murat, alone in the entryway. I just saved your miserable life, André thought to himself, his hatred mixing with the salt and dust that parched his mouth. Murat’s shoulder was bleeding and his face was confused as he took in the scene. He panted, appearing more like a crazed animal than a brigadier general.
André kept his sword in his hands, noticing that Murat, too, was still armed. The general looked now from the two corpses to André. There it was, still. That burning hatred. André stepped back several feet, backing away from the interior of the entryway. “Murat.” He took another step backward. Soon he would be off stone and back onto the sand. Who knew what other foes waited out there in the desert, and how the rest of the French forces had fared? But he could not remain in here, alone, with Murat.
“When will this end?” André panted.
Murat strode forward, stalking him slowly, his eyes still intent on violence. “It will end, André de Valière, when I’ve killed you. Like I killed your brother before you. He took down three of my men, but I gutted him in the end. I saw the life leave his eyes—as I will now with you.”
André cried out in agony, emotional as well as physical pain, and he hoisted his sword, though his body was drained of all strength.
Murat growled, parrying André’s blow, his face coming close as their swords locked in a stalemate. “You shall be my last,” Murat snarled.
“Why?” André demanded, rasping for breath, stepping back from the man, his sword still lifted protectively. “How many have you taken? My brother, my father. Your friend Kellermann. The countless others condemned to death. Why must you do this?”
Murat laughed now, a mirthless laugh that brought no joy to his features. “ ‘Why me?’ You’re all the same, all of you spoiled noblemen. ‘Who could possibly hate me?’ Kellermann was the same way. You believe that anyone can be bought with your purse, charmed with your smiles. You act the humble hero, even as you allow the people to worship you.”
“Please.” André stumbled. There was no reasoning with this man. André limped out of the entryway now, and his eyes were flooded by the blinding desert light. The heat enfolded him and made him even dizzier, but he forced himself to focus on the man standing in front of him. “Hasn’t there been enough death?” His voice was hoarse, his leg throbbed, and he felt increasingly light-headed from the pain and loss of blood.
“Soon it will be enough. But before I kill you, André de Valière, there is one more thing you should know.” Murat and André were hugging the base of the pyramid. From a quick glance, André saw that they remained alone. “Something about…Sophie.”
André’s frame froze at the maniacal smile on his superior’s lips.
“You’ll never see Sophie again. You’ll never have her!” Murat laughed, the cackle of a madman. “I’ve found a punishment far worse—for both of you—than beheading by the guillotine.”
André lowered his sword, feeling his body slacken. He was so tired, weighed down by a fatigue that seeped beyond his limbs and throbbed into the depths of his very soul. But then he thought of her. Sophie. She loved him. She waited for him. He raised his sword once more.
“You see, my sweet little So-So is never going to be yours,” Murat continued, his features writhing and covered in sweat as they stepped, in unison, along the side of the pyramid’s base. “I’ve given my blessing for her to be married to my old friend.”
“Who?” André asked, his voice faint, his throat choked by dryness.
“Guillaume Lazare.”
André remembered the man: The lawyer who had tried to have him killed. The man who had convicted Kellermann and his father.
André stopped edging backward. Now, as he raised his sword, he lunged forward. He cried out in pain as he did so, and Murat easily sidestepped. Seeing the weakness in André’s legs, Murat turned and shuffled back a few paces. The blocks of the building beside them were broad, like steps, and Murat climbed a few so that he had the high ground.
André was undeterred, driven mad by his will to be rid of this man and carry on living, or else die in the attempt. He stepped forward, ignoring the pain as he lifted his sword and tried to hack into the general’s legs. Murat, on the high ground, parried the blow.
Murat answered by hammering down on him. André kept his gaze upward toward his enemy, but the midday sun shone directly behind Murat, blindingly bright. André parried several blows but knew he could not hold this position much longer.