CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

The shoals around Bordeleaux were numerous, and sharp toothed. Some of them still held the ships they’d wrecked up above the waterline: rotting trophies to warn the unwary. Others, infinitely more dangerous, lurked unseen below the waterline. Their granite fangs thrust up from the depths like stone gutting knives, accidental predators that were as dangerous as anything else in the vast ocean beyond.

Despite the aid of Bordeleaux’s hired pilots, Captain-Owner Gorth hadn’t wanted a gaggle of drunken mercenaries getting under his men’s feet whilst they coaxed their vessels past these guardians. So, with all the thoughtfulness of a natural despot he’d had them sealed in their cabins, and left them to curse and squabble as the flotilla cautiously nosed its way through the grey chill of the morning mist.

Now, however, with the coastline sinking under the far horizon, the hatches had been thrown open. The mercenaries clambered up from their confinement and blinked in the dazzling sunlight as they staggered and slid across the rolling deck.

Florin stood perched on the height of the stern deck, the ragged score of Bretonnians that comprised his command gathered on the deck below him. The few Kislevites who had so far recovered from the previous day’s drinking stood blearily around the gunwales, watching their foreign comrades like hungover bears. Their captain was still nowhere to be seen, and Florin took some scant comfort from this failing in his brother officer.

But for now, he was content to ignore both these northern savages and the sailors that swung overhead like clothed monkeys. For now all he was worried about were his own men.

Whether by accident or design they looked every inch the dogs of war, these Bretonnians. They wore their scars with as much unconscious pride as they did their weapons, and although many of them were as unshaven and dirty as peasants, their boots and their armour gleamed with professional care.

Not for the first time Florin wished that he’d taken the time to pick up some armour. He felt like an actor without a costume, and he wondered how much his fine town clothes had added to the mercenaries’ obvious resentment of him. It showed in every scowling face and muttered word, the atmosphere as tense as the ropes which hummed and sang above their heads.

He drew himself up in unconscious defiance of their hostility and spoke.

“I,” Florin began, meeting and holding each man’s eye in turn, “am Captain Florin d’Artaud. I am your new leader.”

The men greeted this news with a uniform expression of distaste. Quelling the urge to glower back at them, he pressed on.

“I don’t know you, or what you can do. For all I know you might be cowards, or traitors, or fools.”

A growl of resentment rippled through the men, and Lorenzo, who stood behind them, made a desperate chopping gesture at his throat.

“But then, for all you know, so might I be.” Florin grinned wide enough to show his molars. To his immense relief some of the men smiled back. “So I think that the sooner we find out about each other, the better.”

One of the mercenaries, a tall gangling figure, none of whose clothes seemed to really fit, barked with laughter.

“And how will we do that?” he asked. “Should we sail back to Madam Gourmelon’s and ask your mother?”

The tension erupted into a wave of raucous laughter as all eyes turned to see if their new captain would react to the insult.

Florin reacted.

Before even he knew what he was going to do he’d leapt from his perch and onto the deck, his boots thumping onto the Destrier’s

deck like a great fist. A couple of steps and he was standing close enough to the mercenary to count the broken veins on his nose. Up this close the man’s height was apparent, but any regrets Florin might have felt about this confrontation were lost beneath the glow of rage that burned in his chest.

“What did you say?” he hissed, following the mercenary as he took a step back.

The man swallowed, and pulled nervously at his chin, horribly aware of his friends’ avid observation and of Florin’s rage.

“I asked you what you said,” Florin repeated, edging closer. Once more the man stepped back, but now, beneath his comrades’ scrutiny, defiance had replaced anxiety in his eyes.

“I say what I like,” he boasted, a little uncertainly. “You can’t do anything about it.”

“Yes,” Florin grinned mirthlessly, “I can. Tomorrow, when the sun rises full over the horizon, you and I will fight. We’ll fight here, and until death or mercy. Lorenzo!” Florin bellowed for his manservant who appeared from behind the tall mercenary’s back. “You’ll be my second. Ask this gentleman what weapons he chooses.”

“What weapons do you choose?” Lorenzo asked unhappily.

“You can’t challenge me to a duel,” the mercenary began uncertainly. “Regulations say that…”

A chorus of jeers drowned out the rest of his sentence. He looked around, his eyes darting from one mocking face to the next. Like a rat caught in a trap he realised that this was not how things had been supposed to go.

“Go on, Jacques,” one of the friends called out, “you started this. Can’t back away now.”

The gathered men roared their agreement and Jacques, bowing to the inevitable, shrugged miserably.

“So, what weapons do you choose?” Lorenzo repeated.

The mercenary glanced down at the rapier Florin wore and pursed his lips. For all he knew this milky-skinned young fop, although obviously never battle hardened, had practiced every day of his life with the sword.

No matter, he thought, with rising confidence.

“Very well, then,” he said, “the weapons I choose are gutting knives.”

“That’s hardly usual,” Lorenzo complained, but Jacques wouldn’t be moved.

“Oh, well, if you want to call the whole thing off…”

“Not at all,” Florin interjected smoothly. “Gutting knives it is. Well then, gentlemen. I can’t see any point in wasting any more of each other’s time for the moment. You’re dismissed.”

And with that Florin turned on his heel and stalked up to the forecastle. A forbidden area to all but officers and seamen, it was now deserted. Florin gathered his thoughts as the cold wind mockingly. The occasional flecks of sea foam that splashed into his face feeling as cold as chips of ice. Behind him his men’s voices were raised in heated discussion, and he frowned with concentration as he tried to hear what they were saying.

“Well, boss,” said Lorenzo, coming up behind him, “that could have gone better.”

“I suppose it could.”

“Do you think he knows that you carry a knife in your boot?” Lorenzo asked innocently.

“I doubt it.”

“Well, I don’t suppose he needs to know.”

Florin just grunted, and turned his face to meet a fresh blast of wind.

“He’s a big fellow though.”

“So he’ll make a big example.”

“Let’s hope so,” Lorenzo muttered. “Let’s hope so.”

The two men fell into companionable silence as the Destrier pushed onwards, eagerly pursuing the setting sun. Behind them Jacques’ comrades were busy arguing about which knife he would use to remove their new officer, and the sound of whetstones on steel began to whisper throughout the ship.

 

“But why didn’t you just put him on a charge?” Lundorf asked later that night. “You can’t go duelling every time a soldier mutters.”

“He didn’t mutter,” Florin defended himself. “And anyway, I’ll make an example of him.”

Lundorf, who’d begged a boat to come and see if the rumours that had swept the flotilla were true, grunted cynically. They were sitting in the tiny cupboard of a cabin Florin had been assigned. He shifted uncomfortably on the bail of spare sailcloth on which he sat, and wiggled his foot beneath the single bunk.

“Yes, a fine example. This probably hasn’t occurred to you, but fighting with a sword like a gentleman and brawling with a gutting knife are two different things. Have you ever seen a gutting knife? Fishmongers use them. They’re no more than hooked razors. How can you expect to beat a man with such a peasant’s weapon?”

Florin ignored Lorenzo’s conspiratorial wink, and said nothing.

“This Jacques has quite a reputation too, or so my sergeant tells me. Apparently they call him Ribbons. Because of what he cuts his opponents into. Gutting knives! Horrible weapons. Give me cannon any day.”

“Yes, so much more civilised to blow a man up,” Lorenzo muttered with barely a hint of sarcasm.

“Yes,” Lundorf nodded distractedly. “Look, tell you what, old man. Why don’t you let me have a word with the Colonel? I’m sure we can find some sort of charge to lock your man up on.”

“Out of the question,” Florin shook his head. “Pull a stunt like that now and what would everybody think? Believe me, it’s better to take the risk and do it this way.”

“Yes, I thought you’d be keen to do the honourable thing,” Lundorf smiled approvingly.

Although that wasn’t quite what he’d meant, Florin nodded. Lorenzo just rolled his eyes, a flash of white in the shadows that nobody noticed.

“Well, anyway,” Lundorf continued, “If you’ll take my advice you’ll start keeping your men occupied rather than brawling with them. Of course I know you have military experience with the ‘count’.” He paused to wink heavily, the unfamiliar gesture twisting his entire face. “But I’m always keen to help a brother officer. So, I’m going to give you Orbrant.”

“Orbrant?” Florin frowned. “What’s an Orbrant?”

“Not a what,” Lundorf roared with laughter, “a who! Orbrant’s one of my lads, and one of the best sergeants I’ve ever seen. And he’s all yours, old man. Lorenzo, pop outside the cabin and tell Orbrant that he can come in and have your seat. He’s the fellow in the hood who rowed over with me.”

Lorenzo looked mutinously at Florin, who shrugged apologetically, before letting himself out of the tiny cabin. A moment later the door opened again and Orbrant stepped inside.

If he was the best sergeant Lundorf had ever seen, he certainly didn’t look the part. He was of average size, and average build. His clothes, although well mended, were of a washed-out black broadcloth, and he was wearing no armour.

He also lacked the bristling moustaches or waxed beards of his comrades, and unlike the others Orbrant carried a single weapon:

an ornately carved warhammer. Blunt on one side and spiked on the other, the metal of its construction glowed as silver as a winter moon despite the buttermilk glow of the cabin’s lantern.

Apart from this unusual weapon the only other distinguishing things about this undistinguished man were the smoothly shaved dome of his head and the piercing blue of his eyes. The wrinkles that creased the skin around them were the only things that gave his age away and Florin guessed that he was perhaps forty.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked as he stooped to enter the cabin.

“Yes, sergeant. Please, take a seat. This is Captain d’Artaud, the officer I was telling you about.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Orbrant nodded to Florin, who nodded back.

“Lun… Captain Lundorf tells me that you’re an excellent sergeant.”

“Yes,” Orbrant agreed, the blue depths of his eyes devoid of either modesty or hesitation. “Sigmar has blessed me with a proficiency in war.”

“I wish that I could say the same,” Florin admitted, and immediately wished that he hadn’t. But Orbrant didn’t seem to mind the slip.

“So I understand,” he said softly. “But did your god bless you with the gift of understanding?”

“Yes,” Florin decided after a pause, “I think that she did.”

“Very well, then. I’ll be happy to serve in your company, Captain d’Artaud.”

“Splendid,” said Lundorf. “Well done, Orbrant.”

“You don’t have to thank me, sir. I’ve always been keen to be away from the evil that you carry in your ship.”

“The evil?” Florin asked, surprised. “What do you mean?”

Lundorf sighed.

“It’s nothing. Sergeant Orbrant is just a little old-fashioned.”

Orbrant turned to regard his officer, his face a perfectly respectful blank.

“The Grand Theogonist has decreed that the followers of the colleges are to be spared,” Orbrant shrugged regretfully. “And yet, in all sorcery there is the taint of Chaos.”

The sergeant’s voice had hardened, and his eyes flickered with a cold blue flame of fanaticism.

Perhaps, Florin thought uneasily, he isn’t such an average man after all.

“Welt, sergeant, I don’t have your knowledge of these things,” Lundorf said. “But although I’m sure you’re right, you must admit that these fellows come in damned handy in a battle.”

Orbrant’s hand strayed to the haft of his warhammer as he nodded reluctant agreement.

“Aye, that they do. But faith and well forged steel serve just as well.”

“By the way, Florin,” Lundorf said, “how many men do you find yourself with?”

“A couple of dozen,” Florin told him. Although he was curious to know what exactly Orbrant considered to be the evil that Lundorf’s ship carried he could also see how obviously his old friend was trying to change the subject. “They’re a rough-looking lot, hardly like the troops that used to garrison Marienburg.”

Orbrant nodded with professional interest.

“Don’t let that fool you, captain. Mercenaries never look quite as polished as garrison troops, but they can be just as effective. How are your men armed?”

“Variously,” Florin explained. “They all seem to carry swords, daggers, a couple of pistols.”

“Don’t they have pole arms or guns stored below?”

“Well… I don’t know,” he admitted, fighting against the instinct to bluff.

“We’ll check on their arms tomorrow,” Orbrant decided. “What about NCOs? Do they have any? Or have you appointed any provisionally yet?”

“I don’t know,” Florin admitted uncomfortably.

Orbrant noticed his embarrassment and paused.

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. d’Artaud. You’ll learn all of this as we turn you into a real captain.”

“What do you mean ‘a real captain’?” Florin asked haughtily.

“You don’t have to be so prickly around the sergeant, you know,” Lundorf contorted his face into another conspiratorial wink. “Just listen to his advice and you’ll do fine.”

“Now then,” Orbrant pressed on, unmoved. “How long have your company been together for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have they ever fought as a unit before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Have they ever fought against orcs?”

Florin shrugged.

“Did you ask them?”

“No.”

“Have you ever fought against orcs?”

“N…” Florin stopped himself.

“No,” Orbrant said and exchanged a knowing glance with Lundorf. “Thought not. Might be best if you didn’t mention that to anyone else though.”

He held Florin’s eye for a moment; his own twinkling with what could almost have been good humour.

“Don’t look so miserable, captain,” he said. “I’ve run a dozen companies officered by much bigger idiots than you. At least you don’t have any illusions about your own capability.”

“Thanks,” Florin deadpanned. “But why are you so keen to help me? Do you want a bigger share?”

“No,” The spark of sympathy died in Orbrant’s manner as quickly as it had been born, “I’m helping you to help the expedition. And my reasons for doing that are my own alone.”

“Well, all right. But before you continue, sergeant, I might as well admit now that, apart from the fact that I’m due to fight a duel with one of them in a few hours’ time, I know nothing about my troops.”

“Then tomorrow we can call them in here one at a time to find out everything we need to know,” Orbrant decided. “If that’s acceptable to you, captain?”

“Um, yes. That’s acceptable sergeant.”

“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll go and find a place to sleep amongst them.”

“You can stay in here if you like,” Florin offered. “Nobody’s using the hammock. And I’m hardly in a position to stand on ceremony with you.”

“No, I’ll stay with the men. So should your manservant, if you don’t mind me saying so, captain. His eyes and ears would be better off in the midst of the lads’ quarters rather than wasted up here.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Very well. Goodnight, sir. Captain Lundorf.”

“Night, Orbrant,” Lundorf waved as the sergeant let himself out, pulling the door open so quickly that Lorenzo, who’d been intently eavesdropping, almost fell into the cabin.

“Just came to fetch my pipe,” he lied comfortably, before hurrying away to leave Florin and his friend alone once more. This time he really did leave them, too. After all, the ship was awash with excited men willing to bet on ill informed hunches about tomorrow’s fight, and as far as Lorenzo was concerned his duty was to make as much money from it as possible.

After he had gone the two men sat in a thoughtful silence.

“Well, old man, looks like you got Orbrant just in time. He’ll soon have your lot licked into shape.”

“Yes, them and me both,” Florin said ruefully. “But what’s all this about having evil on your ship?”

“It’s nothing,” Lundorf waved the question away. “We were lucky enough to pick up a wizard in Marienburg. He’s a decent enough fellow. Keeps himself to himself. And he comes with all sorts of references and guarantees from one of the colleges of magic. Sigmar alone knows why he’s thrown in his lot with us.”

“Which of the colleges is he from?” Florin wondered, and Lundorf just shrugged.

“Celestial, I think. Is that the one to do with comets? I’m not really sure. He doesn’t come out of his cabin much, so I’ve never been able to ask him. Orbrant reckons he’s in there consorting with daemons, but from the contents of the buckets his man brings out I doubt if he has the time.”

“Feels the sea, does he?”

“Oh yes. You can hear him hurling half way across the deck.”

The two friends laughed at the mage’s discomfort as Florin reached beneath his mattress and produced a bottle of brandy. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a swig before passing it to Lundorf.

“Cheers,” he said and took a pull of the burning liquid. “Damn, but that’s strong! Better watch it. Don’t want to wake up too groggy tomorrow.”

“No,” Florin agreed unhappily. For a while he’d forgotten all about the duel. He took another drink and cast about for something to take his mind off the approaching confrontation.

“So tell me, Lundorf, why are you here? I always knew you were going to be a soldier, but a mercenary? I thought that Karl Franz would have found employment for you back in the Empire.”

“The Emperor will have my services in time,” Lundorf nodded, his eyes darkening as he took the bottle. This time the liquor felt smoother as he poured it down his throat. “But I wanted to get away. Father’s a decent man, and the academy was an excellent institution, but… oh, I don’t know. I suppose I wanted to do something on my own. You know how it is.”

“Yes,” Florin agreed, thinking of the stuffy town house and the stuffy warehouses and the stuffy society his elder brother thought himself so lucky to have inherited. “Yes, I know how it is. Hey Lundorf.”

“Yes?”

“To glory and gold,” he said softly, and drank from the cheap glass of the brandy bottle like a knight from the grail.

“Yes,” Lundorf agreed, taking the bottle from his friend. “Glory and gold.”

Below decks the sound of violence broke out, but the two old friends ignored it. They were contemplating the violence yet to come.

 

Orbrant led the Bretonnians out onto the deck, the chill pre-dawn breeze tugging at his threadbare clothing. Amongst the shadows that haunted the ship his smooth scalp gleamed as white as bone, and his eyes were dark pits.

But there was a spark of contentment in those cold eyes this morning, and in the way that the sergeant paced slowly across the deck. He looked as happy as a terrier that had just spent a night in a barn full of rats.

Some of the men who followed him, however, looked far from content. Two of them had their arms in slings. One hobbled. Others sported ugly grey bruises or beards matted with darkly dried blood. As they passed Orbrant to find places around the deck some of them looked sullen, others rueful, most resigned.

He emerged now, the last man in the procession. Although his confidence had survived Orbrant’s kindness, Jacques had spent a long and sleepless night. Insomnia had left dark bruises beneath his eyes and had coloured his skin as grey as his collar.

But by now his pulse was already beating, adrenaline lifting his spirits as he greeted the ragged chorus of his mates’ cheers with a swaggering bow, and a wide grin that might almost have been genuine.

The sky to the east reddened with the light of the approaching sun. It wasn’t until the fiery orb had finally emerged from the sea that Florin appeared. He strolled casually onto the deck, Lundorf and Lorenzo following in his wake, and greeted the assembled men.

“Good morning,” he said, the well-practiced confidence of his voice flawlessly smooth despite his dry mouth and damp palms.

The knots of Bretonnians, Kislevites and sailors that had by now surrounded the fighting deck like an amphitheatre of unwashed flesh, returned his greeting impatiently. Rumour and counter-rumour had swept through the ship’s company, each new conjecture fuelling a dozen more. By now so much money was riding on the outcome of this duel that Jacques and Florin weren’t the only ones who had learned to dread the warmth of this new day.

They looked at each other now, the light of the growing sun already painting them both blood-red. Despite their bravado both men saw their own fear reflected in the other’s eyes, and both men respected it.

For a moment they stood almost as comrades in the face of the danger into which they were both headed. The arrogance and the anger which had brought them here had gone now, washed away by a night of phantoms and anxious reflection. All that remained, all that held them on this collision course, was pride.

As the sun cleared the distant horizon and began its long track over a world still full of promise, that hardly seemed enough.

Jacques considered apologising. More used to action and insults than diplomacy he struggled to find the words, some way of taking back the meaningless insult of the day before without losing face with his comrades.

But it was too late. Before he could find such words Lorenzo, his voice booming with all the professionalism of the world’s ugliest ringmaster, pushed his way into the centre of the deck to address the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, sparking a torrent of catcalls and raucous laughter, “we are here this morning to settle a matter of honour between two of our gentlemen colleagues.”

He waited for the nervous jeering to die down before carrying on.

“The duel is to be fought between Captain Sir Florin d’Artaud, late of Bordeleaux, and Jacques Ribbon who, according to his second, is from ‘nowhere in particular’. A fine town, I’m sure.”

“I think it’s in Kislev,” one of the sailors shouted from the safety of the rigging, provoking a dozen bloodcurdling threats from below.

“And now the sun has risen,” Lorenzo pressed on, “and the appointed time has come. It remains only for me to remind the more simple-minded among you of the rules. Only the participants may fight, and only with their chosen weapons: gutting knives.”

Lorenzo paused to see if the crowd would respond to the jibe, but now, with the promise of blood drawing so near, they were no longer really listening. Instead they were busy jostling for position, leaning hungrily forward like wolves over a fresh kill.

“The duellists will fight until death or surrender,” Lorenzo concluded. “Now if you gentlemen will shake hands and return to your starting posts we can begin.”

Florin, who had stripped to the waist in defiance of the dawn chill, weighed his knife carefully in his left hand and stepped forward, right hand outstretched. Jacques did the same and they briefly clasped hands. Their cold sweat mingled as their frightened eyes met. Stripped of his friends and his arrogance Florin realised for the first time how young his opponent was.

And how nervous.

“If you gentlemen will stay in your corners until I count down to zero,” Lorenzo said, no longer having to raise his voice. The catcalls and cheers had died away. Now there was nothing to rival his voice except for the eerie song of the wind in the rigging.

“Five,” he began, and watched Florin rolling his shoulders, muscles clenching and unclenching beneath the rough marble of his goose pimpled skin.

“Four.”

Jacques took a long, drawn out breath, and twitched his knife from side to side in nervous anticipation.

“Three.”

A Kislevite called out drunkenly, and was quickly silenced by his mates.

“Two.”

Lorenzo, his pulse racing, was seized by a sudden and irrational reluctance to continue.

“One,” he whined, and swallowed the lump in his throat.

He glanced to one side to notice that Jacques had become still, his breathing had calmed, his stance had relaxed. A real professional.

Damn, thought Lorenzo, and said, “Zero.”

Nothing happened.

Florin and his opponent both stood and watched one another, seemingly more relaxed than any of the breathless crowd that surrounded them. In the silence the wind blew, and the planking creaked, and the sails snapped and bulged greedily.

And then Jacques attacked.

With a sudden, wild yell he hurled himself forward. His spindly frame pirouetted across the deck with a surprising grace, and the crowd erupted into a roar of excitement as he closed on Florin.

The sickle-shaped blur of his knife whipped through the air towards his opponent’s throat and Florin side stepped, dipping out of the way as the blade flickered over his head.

But as he ducked, Jacques’ fist rocketed out to catch him on the chin. The punch connected with a dull thump that sent Florin flying back against the gunwale, stars floating through his field of vision and the taste of blood sharp on his tongue.

He barely had time to spit before Jacques was on him again, yellowed teeth bared in a snarl as he flicked the razored hook of his knife towards his captain’s eyes.

This time Florin jumped forward, trying to get inside the blow, but Jacques saw the movement in time and leapt to one side. He let Florin rocket past him. Then he reversed his grip on the knife and struck, slashing the gutting knife across the muscles of Florin’s back with a wide, easy swing.

A spray of blood, ruby bright in the morning sunlight, burst through the air. The crowd howled out in a storm of appreciation.

Florin, his face deathly pale, turned to face Jacques. He tried to ignore the deep burning pain and the terrifying flow of blood that pulsed down his spine. Instead he concentrated on his enemy.

He couldn’t believe how agile the mercenary was, how quick. For the first time, he realised that he was facing an opponent who was much, much better than he was.

Deep within his stomach the first hint of panic twisted and stretched, like some slowly awakening beast.

Think, Florin told himself. Think.

Jacques circled around, taking his time now that his enemy was bleeding. He watched him raise the unfamiliar blade of his knife uncertainly and take a step forward. Then another. And then he stumbled, staggering back to his feet.

The crowd howled at the scent of exhaustion, their faces contorted into masks of greed satiated or denied.

Jacques watched his opponent shaking his head like a bull in the ring as he retreated across the deck, leaving a trail of bloody droplets behind him. He realised that he must have opened an artery as, weak from blood loss, Florin dropped his unused razor onto the hard planking of the deck and sank to his knees.

The cacophony of the crowd grew deafening as he cautiously approached his dying officer, grabbed a fist full of his hair and lifted his head. The vulnerable flesh beneath Florin’s chin was pale and untanned, and for a second Jacques found himself hesitating. Then he steeled himself and brought the razor down.

But he was too late.

Before he could administer the coup de grace he felt his ankles gripped and his feet leaving the floor. With a shout of surprise he fell backwards, arms flying out instinctively to break his fall. Florin, yelling through a mouthful of bloodied teeth, leapt to his feet and spun his opponent around so that he hit the deck nose first.

There was the crunch of breaking cartilage, followed by a gout of blood, but before the mercenary had a chance to feel the pain of his broken nose Florin had pulled his ankles as wide apart as the handles of a wheel barrow and kicked him between the legs.

Jacques’ scream rose even higher than the roar of the crowd as Florin, eyes wild with desperation, drew back his foot and kicked again. Jacques, his mind blank of everything but for the incredible pain that had exploded in his groin, dropped his razor and reached down to protect himself.

As he did so, Florin flipped him onto his back, lifted his foot, and stamped down. Through the prism of his tears Jacques saw the descending horse shoe of his captain’s heel as it snapped down onto his upturned chin.

And then it was all over.

“Stitch that!” Lorenzo, suddenly a much richer man, howled with glee.

“Well done,” said Lundorf, relieved if a little uncertain of his friend’s technique.

But the last thing that Florin heard before he collapsed was the voice of the crowd, roaring like some great monster as he fell backwards into the warmth of unconsciousness and a pool of his own blood.