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miraculously come. He had only to mount Fireheel and wheel into
the nearby wood to escape under mantle of night and storm. He’d already
gathered the gray’s reins in hand when he stopped, for he was no longer alone
with his foe in the darkness. Rather, he saw those of whom the blademaster had
spoken, his mother—or, more accurately, as he had no recollection of her, the
pale death mask on her coffin—Micko and Duskwind. And over all was the death of
Hightower, merciless officiation of Archog.
    And all at once
he felt the desire to sneak away, to escape like some hunted animal and leave
more unavenged deaths behind him, driven out before another emotion, as one
incoming wave is broken and scattered by the next. Shame drained his fright;
fury made him contemptuous of his own helplessness.
    Springbuck
stood like a stone statue while the other struck flint to rekindle the lantern.
When it was done, Eliatim was astounded to see the son of Surehand waiting, an
unfamiliar light in his eye, but the martial instructor quit his mocking,
relieved laughter only when the Prince brought Bar slowly to guard.
    As he was
accustomed, Eliatim took the fencing distance that gave him maximum advantage:
close enough for him to hit, far enough to render many of the shorter
Springbuck’s moves overextensions. The Prince felt a despair coming over him,
born of countless humbling experiences at Eliatim’s hands. Tension began to rob
him of his natural fluidity.
    Swords crossed
tentatively in the wavering light, the master-of-arms waiting his pupil out. At
length, Springbuck began an attack-in-advance, feinting a disengage and hoping
to turn a final disengage into a lunge, but harbored little confidence of
success; sure enough, Eliatim’s blade was elusive lightning. Another thrust
from the Prince was met with a quick croise, and the son of Surehand was lucky
to escape with a slash along his upper arm which would have been serious, had
he not been wearing leathers. Springbuck changed lines of engagement several
times, and Eliatim, all cool control, followed suit almost indifferently.
    Springbuck made
a feint and was met with a flickering extension, but this was no news;
Eliatim’s defense was as strong as his offense, and the stop-thrust was his
heart’s delight. The Prince felt that Eliatim indeed foresaw his every thought,
and decided that a second-intent attack launched from a false one would be
foolish.
    Springbuck’s
heart was pounding, sweat slick on his face. He could think of no feasible
maneuver of the blade that he had not tried on Eliatim a hundred times in vain.
But this time, he thought as Eliatim gave his blade a ringing beat, a faulty
try would be met with deadliest rebuke.
    Eliatim
deceived the parry with which Springbuck replied to his beat, dropping his
point just low enough for the nervous parry to pass over it in derobement, then
deliberately forfeited his chance to attack in return, laughing at the Prince’s
hasty retreat.
    Now Eliatim
brought forth his virtuosity. His casual changes of tempo had Springbuck
flinching in anticipation. The threat of his bind and the menace of his false
attacks made the younger man feel humiliatingly inadequate. But the new
determination flared in Springbuck again; how he wanted to see laughing Eliatim
die!
    He thought of
the parrying dagger in his left boot top, and it occurred to him that if he
could bring it into play unexpectedly, the main-gauche might give him an
advantage for one critical exchange; but again, possibly not, since Eliatim
fought in the new profiled style, forcing Springbuck to do the same.
    Determined not
to be drawn out, but rather to wait out his chance, the Prince tried to put
aside his preoccupations and fence from the subcortical. In that combat, as in
lovemaking and music, immediate past, present and immediate future took on a
peculiar fusion. Neither man made much use of his edge, and their weapons
joined in whirling motion, springing apart again to punctuation