Inigo paced the cliff edge, fingers snapping. Fifty feet below him now, the man in black still climbed. Inigo’s impatience was beginning to bubble beyond control. He stared down at the slow progress. Find a crevice, jam in the hand, find another crevice, jam in the other hand; forty-eight feet to go. Inigo slapped his sword handle, and his finger snapping began to go faster. He examined the hooded climber, half hoping he would be six fingered, but no; this one had the proper accompaniment of digits.
Forty-seven feet to go now.
Now forty-six.
“Hello there,” Inigo hollered when he could wait no more.
The man in black glanced up and grunted.
“I’ve been watching you.”
The man in black nodded.
“Slow going,” Inigo said.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” the man in black said finally, “but I’m rather busy just now, so try not to distract me.”
“I’m sorry,” Inigo said.
The man in black grunted again.
“I don’t suppose you could speed things up,” Inigo said.
“If you want to speed things up so much,” the man in black said, clearly quite angry now, “you could lower a rope or a tree branch or find some other helpful thing to do.”
“I could do that,” Inigo agreed. “But I don’t think you would accept my help, since I’m only waiting up here so that I can kill you.”
“That does put a damper on our relationship,” the man in black said then. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait.”
Forty-three feet left.
Forty-one.
“I could give you my word as a Spaniard,” Inigo said.
“No good,” the man in black replied. “I’ve known too many Spaniards.”
“I’m going crazy up here,” Inigo said.
“Anytime you want to change places, I’d be too happy to accept.”
Thirty-nine feet.
And resting.
The man in black just hung in space, feet dangling, the entire weight of his body supported by the strength of his hand jammed into the crevice.
“Come along now,” Inigo pleaded.
“It’s been a bit of a climb,” the man in black explained, “and I’m weary. I’ll be fine in a quarter-hour or so.”
Another quarter-hour! Inconceivable. “Look, we’ve got a piece of extra rope up here we didn’t need when we made our original climb, I’ll just drop it down to you and you grab hold and I’ll pull and—”
“No good,” the man in black repeated. “Youmight pull, but then again, you also justmight let go, which, since you’re in a hurry to kill me, would certainly do the job quickly.”
“But you wouldn’t have ever known I was going to kill you if I hadn’t been the one to tell you. Doesn’t that let you know I can be trusted?”
“Frankly, and I hope you won’t be insulted, no.”
“There’s no way you’ll trust me?”
“Nothing comes to mind.”
Suddenly Inigo raised his right hand high—”I swear on the soul of Domingo Montoya you will reach the top alive!”
The man in black was silent for a long time. Then he looked up. “I do not know this Domingo of yours, but something in your tone says I must believe you. Throw me the rope.”
Inigo quickly tied it around a rock, dropped it over. The man in black grabbed hold, hung suspended alone in space. Inigo pulled. In a moment, the man in black was beside him.
“Thank you,” the man in black said, and he sank down on the rock.
Inigo sat alongside him. “We’ll wait until you’re ready,” he said.
The man in black breathed deeply. “Again, thank you.”
“Why have you followed us?”
“You carry baggage of much value.”
“We have no intention of selling,” Inigo said.
“That is your business.”
“And yours?”
The man in black made no reply.
Inigo stood and walked away, surveying the terrain over which they would battle. It was a splendid plateau, really, filled with trees for dodging around and roots for tripping over and small rocks for losing your balance on and boulders for leaping off if you could climb on them fast enough, and bathing everything, the entire spot, moonlight. One could not ask for a more suitable testing ground for a duel, Inigo decided. It had everything, including the marvelous Cliffs at one end, beyond which was the wonderful thousand-foot drop, always something to bear in mind when one was planning tactics. It was perfect. The place was perfect.
Provided the man in black could fence.
Reallyfence.
Inigo did then what he always did before a duel: he took the great sword from its scabbard and touched the side of the blade to his face two times, once along one scar, once along the other.
Then he examined the man in black, A fine sailor, yes; a mighty climber, no question; courageous, without a doubt.
But could he fence?
Reallyfence?
Please, Inigo thought. It has been so long since I have been tested, let this man test me. Let him be a glorious swordsman. Let him be both quick and fast, smart and strong. Give him a matchless mind for tactics, a background the equal of mine. Please, please, it’s been so long: let—him—be—a—master!
“I have my breath back now,” the man in black said from the rock. “Thank you for allowing me my rest.”
“We’d best get on with it then,” Inigo replied.
The man in black stood.
“You seem a decent fellow,” Inigo said. “I hate to kill you.”
“You seem a decent fellow,” answered the man in black. “I hate to die.”
“But one of us must,” Inigo said.”Begin.”
And so saying he took the six-fingered sword.
And put it into his left hand.
He had begun all his duels left-handed lately. It was good practice for him, and although he was the only living wizard in the world with his regular hand, the right, still, he was more than worthy with his left. Perhaps thirty men alive were his equal when he used his left. Perhaps as many as fifty; perhaps as few as ten.
The man in black was also left-handed and that warmed Inigo; it made things fairer. His weakness against the other man’s strength. All to the good.
They touched swords, and the man in black immediately began the Agrippa defense, which Inigo felt was sound, considering the rocky terrain, for the Agrippa kept the feet stationary at first, and made the chances of slipping minimal. Naturally, he countered with Capo Ferro which surprised the man in black, but he defended well, quickly shifting out of Agrippa and taking the attack himself, using the principles of Thibault.
Inigo had to smile. No one had taken the attack against him in so long and it was thrilling! He let the man in black advance, let him build up courage, retreating gracefully between some trees, letting his Bonetti defense keep him safe from harm.
Then his legs flicked and he was behind the nearest tree, and the man in black had not expected it and was slow reacting. Inigo flashed immediately out from the tree, attacking himself now, and the man in black retreated, stumbled, got his balance, continued moving away.
Inigo was impressed with the quickness of the balance return. Most men the size of the man in black would have gone down or, at the least, fallen to one hand. The man in black did neither; he simply quickstepped, wrenched his body erect, continued fighting.
They were moving parallel to the Cliffs now, and the trees were behind them, mostly. The man in black was slowly being forced toward a group of large boulders, for Inigo was anxious to see how well he moved when quarters were close, when you could not thrust or parry with total freedom. He continued to force, and then the boulders were surrounding them. Inigo suddenly threw his body against a nearby rock, rebounded off it with stunning force, lunging with incredible speed.
First blood was his.
He had pinked the man in black, grazed him only, along the left wrist. A scratch was all. But it was bleeding.
Immediately the man in black hurried his retreat, getting his position away from the boulders, getting out into the open of the plateau. Inigo followed, not bothering to try to check the other man’s flight; there would always be time for that later.
Then the man in black launched his greatest assault. It came with no warning and the speed and strength of it were terrifying. His blade flashed in the light again and again, and at first, Inigo was only too delighted to retreat. He was not entirely familiar with the style of the attack; it was mostly McBone, but there were snatches of Capo Ferro thrown in, and he continued moving backward while he concentrated on the enemy, figuring the best way to stop the assault.
The man in black kept advancing, and Inigo was aware that behind him now he was coming closer and closer to the edge of the Cliffs, but that could not have concerned him less. The important thing was to outthink the enemy, find his weakness, let him have his moment of exultation.
Suddenly, as the Cliffs came ever nearer, Inigo realized the fault in the attack that was flashing at him; a simple Thibault maneuver would destroy it entirely, but he didn’t want to give it away so soon. Let the other man have the triumph a moment longer; life allowed so few.
The Cliffs were very close behind him now.
Inigo continued to retreat; the man in black continued advancing.
Then Inigo countered with the Thibault.
And the man in black blocked it.
He blocked it!
Inigo repeated the Thibault move and again it didn’t work. He switched to Capo Ferro, he tried Bonetti, he went to Fabris; in desperation he began a move used only twice, by Sainct.
Nothing worked!
The man in black kept attacking.
And the Cliffs were almost there.
Inigo never panicked—never came close. But he decided some things very quickly, because there was no time for long consultations, and what he decided was that although the man in black was slow in reacting to moves behind trees, and not much good at all amidst boulders, when movement was restricted, yet out in the open, where there was space, he was a terror. A left-handed black-masked terror. “You are most excellent,” he said. His rear foot was at the cliff edge. He could retreat no more.
“Thank you,” the man in black replied. “I have worked very hard to become so.”
“You are better than I am,” Inigo admitted.
“So it seems. But if that is true, then why are you smiling?”
“Because,” Inigo answered, “I know something you don’t know.”
“And what is that?” asked the man in black.
“I’m not left-handed,” Inigo replied, and with those words, he all but threw the six-fingered sword into his right hand, and the tide of battle turned.
The man in black retreated before the slashing of the great sword. He tried to side-step, tried to parry, tried to somehow escape the doom that was now inevitable. But there was no way. He could block fifty thrusts; the fifty-first flicked through, and now his left arm was bleeding. He could thwart thirty ripostes, but not the thirty-first, and now his shoulder bled.
The wounds were not yet grave, but they kept on coming as they dodged across the stones, and then the man in black found himself amidst the trees and that was bad for him, so he all but fled before Inigo’s onslaught, and then he was in the open again, but Inigo kept coming, nothing could stop him, and then the man in black was back among the boulders, and that was even worse for him than the trees and he shouted out in frustration and practically ran to where there was open space again.
But there was no dealing with the wizard, and slowly, again, the deadly Cliffs became a factor in the fight, only now it was the man in black who was being forced to doom. He was brave, and he was strong, and the cuts did not make him beg for mercy, and he showed no fear behind his black mask. “You are amazing,” he cried, as Inigo increased the already blinding speed of the blade.
“Thank you. It has not come without effort.”
The death moment was at hand now. Again and again Inigo thrust forward, and again and again the man in black managed to ward off the attacks, but each time it was harder, and the strength in Inigo’s wrists was endless and he only thrust the more fiercely and soon the man in black grew weak. “You cannot tell it,” he said then, “because I wear a cape and mask. But I am smiling now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not left-handed either,” said the man in black.
And he too switched hands, and now the battle was finally joined.
And Inigo began to retreat.
“Who are you?”he screamed.
“No one of import. Another lover of the blade.”
“I must know!”
“Get used to disappointment.”
They flashed along the open plateau now, and the blades were both invisible, but oh, the Earth trembled, and ohhhh, the skies shook, and Inigo was losing. He tried to make for the trees, but the man in black would have none of it. He tried retreating to the boulders, but that was denied him too.
And in the open, unthinkable as it was, the man in black was superior. Not much. But in a multitude of tiny ways, he was of a slightly higher quality. A hair quicker, a fraction stronger, a speck faster. Not really much at all.
But it was enough.
They met in center plateau for the final assault. Neither man conceded anything. The sound of metal clashing metal rose. A final burst of energy flew through Inigo’s veins and he made every attempt, tried every trick, used every hour of every day of his years of experience. But he was blocked. By the man in black. He was shackled. By the man in black. He was baffled, thwarted, muzzled.
Beaten.
By the man in black.
A final flick and the great six-fingered sword went flying from his hand. Inigo stood there, helpless. Then he dropped to his knees, bowed his head, closed his eyes. “Do it quickly,” he said.
“May my hands fall from my wrists before I kill an artist like yourself,” said the man in black. “I would as soon destroy da Vinci. However”—and here he clubbed Inigo’s head with the butt of his sword—”since I can’t have you following me either, please understand that I hold you in the highest respect.” He struck one more time and the Spaniard fell unconscious. The man in black quickly tied Inigo’s hands around a tree and left him there, for the moment, sleeping and helpless.
Then he sheathed his sword, picked up the Sicilian’s trail, and raced into the night. . . .