“That be the way of it!” one of Della Morte’s men shouted.
Back and forth they parried. With expert skill, Della Morte drove Blake back, forcefully slashing this way and that so fast, Blake had difficulty fending him off.
But fend him off he did, meeting each blow with one of his own. Jarringclanksandclingsrang across the shore. The muscles in his arms ached. Sweat stung his eyes.
The Jesuit raised his sword for a mighty blow. Blake swung about and drove his cutlass in from the left, hoping to catch the man off guard and wound him again.
Della Morte dipped his sword in defense just in time, then quickly brought it up, catching Blake’s side.
A woman screamed.
b
Emeline flung a hand to her mouth. She hadn’t meant to scream, but when Della Morte’s blade struck Blake, she thought he was done for.
And that thought frightened her more than anything ever had.
Blake gripped his side, but did not fall to the sand. Nay, rather the wound seemed to give him renewed strength.
“Ah, ha! You do bleed,” Della Morte cackled. “For a moment, I thought you might be part reptile.”
“’Tis you who are the snake.” Blake paced before the fiend, cutlass extended, breath heaving.
In an action almost too quick to see, Della Morte rammed his blade at Blake.
With ease, Blake slashed it away and charged the monster head on.
Leaping out of the way just in time, Della Morte brought his sword across Blake’s blade arm.
Emeline gasped, her heart pounding.
Moans and curses flew from Blake’s crew, mingled with cheers from Della Morte’s.
Blood spilled down Blake’s arm onto the hilt of his cutlass. He gripped it tighter.
Oh Lord, please help him. Help him win. Don’t allow him to die.
An odd realization struck her. Her fears did not hail from fear of becoming a prisoner of the Jesuits yet again, nor even that they would still have the Ring. Nay, ’twas more the thought of losing the man she loved. Even if he wasn’t the hero of her dreams.
Raising his cutlass, Blake swooped down upon Della Morte, who met his blade with a roaringclangthat sent birds flapping from a nearby tree. Hilt to hilt they battled, growling and grinding their teeth, pushing and shoving this way and that.
Emeline had witnessed many a sword fight in her short life, witnessed the exquisite skill of her father, brother, and grandfather. Blake possessed that same skill, albeit a bit less refined. Which could prove to his advantage over Della Morte’s more polished approach.
Sweat streamed into Blake’s eyes. Blinking it away, he freed his blade from the monster’s and shoved him backward. Then, before Della Morte could recover, Blake lunged, thrust, and slashed toward the man with more rapidity and strength than he should possess after being wounded. The rounded muscles in his arms and chest glistened in the sunlight as they bunched and rolled beneath the exertion.
Hugging herself, Emeline swallowed a lump of fear.
A flicker of uncertainly danced across the Jesuit’s face as he fumbled to defend himself and bring his sword to bear.
Before he could, Blake chopped it with his cutlass. Della Morte lost his grip. His sword flew out of his hand and landed in the sand a few yards away.
Emeline breathed a sigh of relief.
Someone grabbed her arm.Tight. Pain etched up to her shoulder as the person spun her around and yanked her into the jungle.
b
Della Morte made a dash to retrieve his sword. Blake leveled his cutlass at the man’s throat. A drop of blood joined the sweat dripping onto his shirt as one of his eyes began to twitch uncontrollably. He glanced at something behind Blake and gave a nod before his nervous gaze returned to Blake.
