Read Online The Pride of Lions by Marsha Canham - Free Book Online Page A

double oak doors as if a demon were snapping at her heels. She ran along the fine gravel of the drive and onto the manicured lawns, slipping on the dew-laden grass and giving her ankle a painful wrench in the process. She did not stop. She kept running toward the rear courtyard, and long before she rounded the corner of the house, she could hear the angry bite of steel on steel, the shrill metallic screech of offense and defense.
    The duelists faced each other, left arms bent and raised for balance, right arms in straight thrust, parrying, engaging, counterthrusting without a break in the stride or rhythm of their movements. It was like a ballet—a lethal, deadly ballet that had the crowd holding its collective breath, knowing from the first few strokes that these were no fainthearted academy duelists who would be worried more about the art of their footwork than the presentationof their blades. Each step was precise, calculated for the most efficient use of speed and strength. Each thrust and riposte was effected with a terrifying grace and beauty; a less experienced swordsman meeting one or the other would have been dead after the first pass.
    Hamilton had been pleasantly surprised by Montgomery’s level of skill. It meant he could display his own without fear of censure for having taken advantage of a lesser opponent. With that in mind, when they came together, their blades sliding to the hilts, Hamilton spun away, feinting to the left while he cut an agile backhand low across Montgomery’s exposed thigh. The crowd gasped as first blood was drawn, and, as was the custom, the men parted and paused a moment to acknowledge the point of honor.
    Montgomery waved away the physician with an impatient gesture, then raised his blade in a mocking salute. His face was hard, his jaw squared, his eyes catching the glow of the lanterns and smoldering like embers in a fire.
    At the call to encore , Hamilton went on the full attack, his teeth bared in savage delight. A slash. A stinging whip of steel on steel, and Montgomery was pressed briefly back into the shadows. Instinct found another opening, and the tip of the lieutenant’s blade sliced the flesh from Montgomery’s temple, just above his right ear. A dark red ribbon of blood spilled from the wound, running down the smooth-shaven jaw to splash the front of the white silk shirt. He barely registered the injury or the further cries of approval from the crowd of onlookers. He bared his own teeth in a snarl and launched himself at his adversary, the power of his counterattack driving Garner from one side of the ring to the other, their swords scattering the guests like leaves in a strong gust of wind. Montgomery forced him all the way into the lee of the stable, where a thundering riposte reversed the impetus again, carrying it back into the circle of yellow lantern light.
    The crowd was cheering now, wagering among themselves as both men, drenched in sweat, began toshow signs of strain. Hamilton bore cuts to his arm and neck; the front of his shirt was slashed open from shoulder to waist. Montgomery’s thigh was bleeding profusely, and the entire left side of his face and throat was wet with blood. Garner suspected the merchant’s last attack had cost him in stamina—such a sustained onslaught could not help but weaken the wrist, deplete the reflexes. He could even detect the subtle shifting in the fluid stride as Montgomery began to compensate for the wound in his thigh. He willed aside his own fatigue, for he knew his victory would come at any moment. He could feel it, taste it, smell it in the damp, dark air as they fought and slashed a wide, furious circle around the stone fountain.
    The opening came with the next double touch, when both blades struck exposed flesh and came away red. Montgomery flinched and retreated, but Garner followed through, putting every last ounce of strength he possessed into the thrust. Montgomery appeared to fall, to stumble off balance, but at the