Page 88 of The Crown's Fate
The drunk soldiers around them looked from Bogdan to Pasha for a moment. Then a cheer swept the crowd. “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The soldier who’d been serving as judge of the wrestling matches appeared with two swords. He gave Pasha first choice.
Pasha picked up both blades and weighed them in his hands. He chose the lighter one. Not as strong, but easierto maneuver. Agility was often underestimated in the face of strength.
Bogdan grabbed his sword with one hand, and his crotch with the other. The gesture that followed was the opposite of polite.
All right. This wouldn’t be anything like the gentlemanly fencing matches to which Pasha was accustomed. But he’d adjust. It couldn’t bethatdifferent, could it?
Bogdan swung his sword in a broad arc, viciously enough to sever Pasha’s head. Pasha yelped and leaped backward.
Never mind. It was very different.
“Pretty Boy is quick on his feet,” Bogdan said. The crowd jeered.
Pasha advanced and attacked.
Bogdan parried and lunged at Pasha.
Pasha deflected and attacked again. Their swords moved quickly, like flashes of violently choreographed silver. Once in the rhythm of the fight, it was not so different from the beat of fencing.Parry-riposte, parry-riposte, parry-riposte. Deflect-attack, deflect-attack, deflect-attack.
Bogdan lunged again, but Pasha suspected it was a feint. He didn’t parry. Bogdan quickly recovered and changed tactics.
Pasha dodged. But then he stumbled as a muscle in his abdomen cramped, exactly where Vika had extracted Nikolai’s poisoned gear.
Luckily, Bogdan was slow, at least in comparison to Pasha. Pasha inhaled sharply, forcing himself to ignore the cramp, and advanced to execute his own feint.
Bogdan moved to parry. Not fast enough, though. Pasha circled his sword under Bogdan’s and pressed the point ofhis blade against Bogdan’s hairy chest, right in the center above his heart.
Bogdan’s nostrils flared like those of an incensed bull. He scowled down at Pasha.
Pasha’s muscles ached, but his hand was steady. A bit more pressure from his sword, and Bogdan’s blood would spill.
Bogdan glared at Pasha for another long moment. Then he dropped his sword on the ground and raised both hands in defeat. Suddenly, he began to laugh, a deep, rumbling belly laugh. “Not bad, Pretty Boy. Not bad.”
Pasha held the cramp at his stomach. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re the best fighter here. Other than me, of course.”
Pasha didn’t point out that he had actually just defeated Bogdan.
“How long are you in town, Pretty Boy? And how strong is your allegiance to the imperial family? Do you really care about that bastard tsesarevich, or were you just defending the late tsarina’s honor out of respect, as any good man should?” Bogdan shot a glare at Yuri. Yuri shrugged and giggled.
Pasha carefully set his sword on the ground. As carefully as he could he answered, “I don’t think it’s fair to insult the dead. They cannot defend themselves.”
“And what about the living?” Bogdan asked.
“The living can fight.”
Bogdan grunted in agreement. “We could use more men like you. Especially since your company is stationed outside the city.”
Pasha borrowed a bottle from a nearby soldier and took a couple of drinks before he spoke again. “What do you mean, you could use more men like me?”
“Do you believe in Russia?”
Pasha nodded.
“And do you believe all men are worth the same in God’s eyes?”
