Free Tenacious by Julian Stockwin
Authors: Julian Stockwin
the end of a blade who must be killed by the plunge of that same steel in his body—before he killed you.
“Laffin,” Kydd called. The dark-featured boatswain’s mate came forward. “Take this!” he snapped, throwing one of the two wooden practice swords at him. “On y’r guard, sir!”
Laffin waved his sword sketchily but Kydd performed a crisp
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63
front prove distance manoeuvre and tapped his ear smartly. The man recoiled and brought up his sword to point, which Kydd had no trouble evading. Nettled, Laffin began a laborious assault. Instantly Kydd’s sword slithered along the inside and in a last flick laid the way open for a fatal lunge.
“You’re a dead man, Laffin. Ten seconds.” Kydd’s eyes took in the rest of his division. “Ye’re all a lubberly crew who are going t’ leave me alone on an enemy deck while you’re all being pig-stuck around me. Now we’ll learn some real fightin’.”
Using Poulden, a fair swordsman, as his opponent, he dem-onstrated the positions—guard, assault, half-hanger—and the importance of footwork. He knew his swordsmanship did not have the elegance of a fencing master but was workmanlike, forged in the struggle for survival in the short, brutal encounters of boarding.
“Now, shall we see what ye’ve learned? I’ll take th’ first dozen, Mr Rawson.” The deck by the mainmast was soon filled with figures flailing and clacking at each other under the amused eye of the watch on deck.
Suddenly Kydd bellowed, “Prince o’ the poop!” The fighting stopped. Kydd leaped up the ladder to the poop-deck, where he leaned over the rail and looked down with a devilish smile. “I’m defendin’ my poop—any who dares t’ take it from me?”
Rawson made the first challenge with a creditable show but was transfixed after tripping over a taffrail knee. The next two were quickly disposed of, but then a voice came from the rear: “I, sir! I do answer your challenge!” Renzi mounted the ladder and came to an elegant salute at the top.
Kydd knew his friend was a truly accomplished swordsman, who had been tutored by masters in his youth, but did not believe he would use his skill to disgrace him before his men. Kydd answered the salute gracefully and ceremoniously proved distance.
64
Julian Stockwin
The tips of the plain wooden blades held each other at point, then began their lethal questing: flicking, clacking, from inside guard to St George and assault; left cheek, point, shift and guard again. The thrusts were thoughtfully considered, held off for that fraction of a second that allowed a perception of intent by the audience.
Renzi’s expression was polite, amused. For some reason this annoyed Kydd and he dared a thrust of force. Renzi retreated to a series of guards as Kydd continued to smack at his blade with loud cloks.
Kydd was about to overbear Renzi when Renzi’s face hardened. His sword flicked out like a barb of lightning, never the same move, probing, testing, vicious.
It chilled Kydd: this was not his friend—this was a terrifying enemy with lethal intent who would batter his way past his defences and finish the contest in death. There was no sound from the onlookers. Renzi moved forward, forcing Kydd into a tiring defence, everything he did of no avail against the faultless au-tomaton bearing down on him.
The end must come—unless . . . He tensed, let his right leg bunch and sank as if brought to his knees. Renzi drew back his blade for the final downward thrust that would end with the point at Kydd’s throat—but Kydd’s blade flashed out low, and took him squarely in his unprotected upper thigh.
“Ha! You see!” Kydd cried loudly. “My man is now spit, wounded. He falls to the deck—he is now helpless, at my mercy.”
Kydd knew his unfair move would never be seen in a gentleman’s fencing studio, but where was the referee on an enemy deck?
Renzi drew back slowly, his gaze reptilian. He let his “sword”
drop to the deck
“Laffin,” Kydd called. The dark-featured boatswain’s mate came forward. “Take this!” he snapped, throwing one of the two wooden practice swords at him. “On y’r guard, sir!”
Laffin waved his sword sketchily but Kydd performed a crisp
Tenacious
63
front prove distance manoeuvre and tapped his ear smartly. The man recoiled and brought up his sword to point, which Kydd had no trouble evading. Nettled, Laffin began a laborious assault. Instantly Kydd’s sword slithered along the inside and in a last flick laid the way open for a fatal lunge.
“You’re a dead man, Laffin. Ten seconds.” Kydd’s eyes took in the rest of his division. “Ye’re all a lubberly crew who are going t’ leave me alone on an enemy deck while you’re all being pig-stuck around me. Now we’ll learn some real fightin’.”
Using Poulden, a fair swordsman, as his opponent, he dem-onstrated the positions—guard, assault, half-hanger—and the importance of footwork. He knew his swordsmanship did not have the elegance of a fencing master but was workmanlike, forged in the struggle for survival in the short, brutal encounters of boarding.
“Now, shall we see what ye’ve learned? I’ll take th’ first dozen, Mr Rawson.” The deck by the mainmast was soon filled with figures flailing and clacking at each other under the amused eye of the watch on deck.
Suddenly Kydd bellowed, “Prince o’ the poop!” The fighting stopped. Kydd leaped up the ladder to the poop-deck, where he leaned over the rail and looked down with a devilish smile. “I’m defendin’ my poop—any who dares t’ take it from me?”
Rawson made the first challenge with a creditable show but was transfixed after tripping over a taffrail knee. The next two were quickly disposed of, but then a voice came from the rear: “I, sir! I do answer your challenge!” Renzi mounted the ladder and came to an elegant salute at the top.
Kydd knew his friend was a truly accomplished swordsman, who had been tutored by masters in his youth, but did not believe he would use his skill to disgrace him before his men. Kydd answered the salute gracefully and ceremoniously proved distance.
64
Julian Stockwin
The tips of the plain wooden blades held each other at point, then began their lethal questing: flicking, clacking, from inside guard to St George and assault; left cheek, point, shift and guard again. The thrusts were thoughtfully considered, held off for that fraction of a second that allowed a perception of intent by the audience.
Renzi’s expression was polite, amused. For some reason this annoyed Kydd and he dared a thrust of force. Renzi retreated to a series of guards as Kydd continued to smack at his blade with loud cloks.
Kydd was about to overbear Renzi when Renzi’s face hardened. His sword flicked out like a barb of lightning, never the same move, probing, testing, vicious.
It chilled Kydd: this was not his friend—this was a terrifying enemy with lethal intent who would batter his way past his defences and finish the contest in death. There was no sound from the onlookers. Renzi moved forward, forcing Kydd into a tiring defence, everything he did of no avail against the faultless au-tomaton bearing down on him.
The end must come—unless . . . He tensed, let his right leg bunch and sank as if brought to his knees. Renzi drew back his blade for the final downward thrust that would end with the point at Kydd’s throat—but Kydd’s blade flashed out low, and took him squarely in his unprotected upper thigh.
“Ha! You see!” Kydd cried loudly. “My man is now spit, wounded. He falls to the deck—he is now helpless, at my mercy.”
Kydd knew his unfair move would never be seen in a gentleman’s fencing studio, but where was the referee on an enemy deck?
Renzi drew back slowly, his gaze reptilian. He let his “sword”
drop to the deck