He lunged inquarte. Giff parried, dropped back, took a second violent swing with a wild aim on his sword and beat it off with a strength that near tripped his opponent as he fell back. From the corner of his eye Giff saw Rhoades step in from his position on the side lines, sword at the ready. Did he mean to intervene?
Piers cursed, regained his balance and his guard both, his wary gaze on the point of the sword Giff was holding steady.
“Had enough, Piers?”
For answer, his cousin lunged again, his aim uncertain. Giff parried, retired, and parried again as his cousin kept up a frenzied attack. Trying for confusion? It would not work. Giff saw how he lunged without bothering to try for a proper opening, without knowing which part of his opponent he meant to wound. The man had been angered by Giff’s taunt, just as he’d hoped. Foolish when facing a naked sword. A cool head was essential.
Giff parried mechanically, looking for the sign that Piers’s wrist was tiring. As his cousin retired, ready for another lunge, he saw the point waver. It was time.
He went into the attack, feinted as Piers sought to parry, and threw his strength into the lunge, his point aimed high for Piers’s sword shoulder. Just in time the man managed to deflect the intended target, but uttered a cry as the point sliced across his upper arm instead. A red stain sprang up.
Next instant, Rhoades leapt in. “Put up!”
His sword clashed with Giff’s just as he pulled back. Giff cursed.
“Leave be, man! Did you think I meant to do more damage?”
The captain did not answer, but sheathed his own sword and turned instead to his principal. Piers was clutching his injury with his free hand, staring blindly at the welling blood, his sword still held at the ready. Rhoades seized Piers’s sword at the hilt.
“Enough! You’re bleeding, sir. Let go!”
Piers’s nerveless fingers opened and the captain took the sword and tossed it aside, out of the way.
“At least you did not strike some vital part, Giffard.”
This was Tarporley, coming up to relieve Giff of his sword. He gave it up to his second, but his eyes remained on Piers, who had gone deathly pale and was swaying alarmingly.
“I think he’s going to swoon. Sattar!”
The shout brought his henchman at a run, but the captain was already at Piers’s back, lowering him to the ground where he sat in a dazed stupor. Sattar was unwinding the cravat from about his own throat. He dropped to his haunches next to the injured man, addressing the captain.
“Give me leave, sahib. I will arrange.”
“I’ll hold him. He’s losing consciousness.”
Giff eyed his cousin’s pallid features. He was lying heavily against Rhoades with his eyes closed. “Have I damaged him badly, then?”
Sattar was engaged in slicing off Piers’s shirtsleeve with his dagger. “It is the bleeding, sahib. Some men it shocks.”
He ripped the sleeve down and laid bare a gash, seeping red. Tarporley handed down a pocket handkerchief and Sattar used it to staunch the blood. He looked up at Giff.
“Give me yours too, sahib, to make a pad.”
Giff dug his handkerchief out of his breeches pocket, studying the wound as he did so. It looked to be more long than deep. He handed over the square of linen. “A flesh wound. Tit for tat, then.”
“What do you mean?”
“His men gave me one when they shot at me,” Giff told Tarporley.
“They also gave you a black eye and a split lip. Or had you forgotten?”
“Devil a bit. But the other kept me down for days. This evens the score a little. He’ll be out of action for a while.”
Piers’s lids lifted and he managed a hoarse mutter. “Not for long. Should’ve killed me while you had the chance.”
“Be quiet, man,” snapped the captain. “Will you not own yourself bested even now?”
But Piers made no answer. A sighing breath escaped him and he sank a little more sluggishly into Rhoades’s hold.