The Left-Handed Swordsman

The man took a step backwards and evaded the thrust with ease. In a single swift gesture he threw away his cloak and unsheathed his rapier. The steel of the finely crafted blade shone under the pale moonlight. It had been made in Nîmes by a man who had paid a hefty price for the secret he had learned and it was a sword that could even match one of the famed Toledo blades.

The man's foes were wielding the ordinary blades that cutthroats and murderers for hire could boast of. They launched a synchronized attack that any other swordsman would have had much difficulty to counter but the man had been thoroughly trained to fight against several opponents. He seemed to stand by waiting to make a retreat when he ended up circling around the group of assailants to flank them. The man was quietly taking his time to make a move while seemingly entirely focused on the pass of arms. His movements were controlled perfectly and the thrusts of his blade swift and gracefully balanced. He never overextended his reach, something that would have made him vulnerable to a counter. Twirling his blade against those of his assailants he finally found an opening while they were trying to catch some breath. The man seized the opportunity to plunge his blade into the chest of one of his attackers. The wound was deep enough to be lethal but not so deep that it would have prevented the man from taking his blade out of his enemy's body with ease. The would be killer collapsed down like a ragged doll while blood splurted from the gaping wound. He would be dead in seconds.

Still, the combatants didn't show any sign of giving up. Thrust, parry, feint, riposte and another thug had dropped his blade, holding an arm that was cut so badly that it would never completely mend. The man was displaying such a superiority with arms that it was now obvious that he had been toying with his foes. It was now clear that he was no longer holding back. He suddenly switched his blade to his left hand revealing by that move that he was indeed left-handed and that he had only been pretending to fight to the peak of his abilities so far. What had been a sudden attack by a group of seasoned ruffians had turned into a real fight and now it was something else. For the thugs it had become a desperate fight for survival whereas for the man it was clear by now that it had all been simple practice and that he hadn't displayed his finely honed skills yet.

Three foes were still standing. One was most probably dead and the other was clutching a bleeding arm that looked mangled beyond repair. The man stepped forward, drew his blade back and gently seemed to offer it like a delicate flower to a reluctant lover. Another one fell as the man's blade swiftly struck him right on the throat, severing the carotid vein showering the remaining foes in blood. As they recoiled they lunged but their attacks looked as clumsy as if they had been infants playing with wooden swords and not the cold blooded killers that they were. The man's blade twirled as if it were possessed with a life of its own or was indeed an extension of the man's left arm. Another swordsman fell from a backhanded thrust that had required no effort but was nonetheless fatal as it cut through the man's nape. The last foe had just the time to realize that his accomplice was dead before the body hit the ground. Blindly thrusting forward in a flurry the thug missed by a wide margin and with a wicked smile the man plunged his sword deep into the killer's groin making him squeak like a pig. Such a wound would cause him to bleed to death in a short time but the man in an uncharacteristic show of mercy decided to put an end to the swordsman's suffering right then and there. He demurely thrust his rapier between the shoulder blades causing the dying man to gasp for breath and his limbs to twitch wildly as his arms and legs were desperately trying to cling on to life as it was running away from him and spilling on the ground wet with his warm blood. The man seemed to be bored by the display and he thrust his blade into the back of the killer for hire's skull. The thug died suffocating in his own blood, uselessly digging through the dirt with grimy fingers as his body couldn't accept that it was now nothing more than an empty husk.

Turning back to the one he had purposefully wounded but not killed, the man grinned like a wolf. The thug had soiled himself with fear and he was now clutching his useless arm, the fingers of his left hand clenched over his bloodied limb. The man lunged forward in an offhand manner severing the wounded fighter's right ear with a single thrust. Smiling like a fiend and totally oblivious to his victim's sobs he drew a large incision on the thug's face. In time this would leave a beautiful scar. The thug had passed out but the man had made sure that he would never forget what had happened. He wiped the blade of his fine sword on the survivor's coat and sheathed it. Its thirst for blood had been sated and the night was still young. As the man walked away from the carnage he started to whistle to himself. It was a fine night indeed...

"They say that for more than three days the Seine was red with the blood of the Huguenots. It must have been quite a sight."

Despite his ecclesiastic garb the man who had just spoken looked more like a courtier than a priest. Middle-aged, he sported a carefully trimmed goatee but his eyes were severe and were used to probe the hearts of men.

"But I digress... What about the survivor? Has he been able to shed some light on that embarrassing failure of yours."

The Cardinal had stressed the last word. The implication was not lost on his interlocutor.

"Your Eminence, I can vouch for these men myself. They were hand picked from the best soldiers who served against the Huguenots and the English at the siege of La Rochelle and I know full well that they were entirely devoted to my person. They were used to that sort of work. The sort that requires some discretion. The man who survived was badly mangled and is now a cripple but according to his account the man fought like a devil. I hardly can believe that any single man could have defeated them and yet that is what happened. I knew my men, I've seen them fight, they would have been more than a match for a score of the King's Swiss Guards."

The nobleman cleared his throat he could see that he wasn't helping his case.

"You clearly underestimated your mark. I trust you will not fail me again. Now leave and don't show yourself before me unless you have some good news to report."

The nobleman bowed and retreated like a whipped dog, as he put his hat back on his head he could feel that his brow was wet with perspiration. Left alone the Cardinal sighed. He had many subjects left to ponder, most of which matter of state, politics and religion. Problems with war and taxation that was needed to get the money to pay for these wars but made him impopular. Scheming to prevent the Habsburg from becoming too powerful and keeping Spain at bay had required all the statesman's acumen. There were many problems with protestant bastions and revolts that had to be repressed. He was now pondering over the course to take towards that unruly priest in Loudun but his mind kept going back to what he had just been told. He knew the swordsmen should have got the job done and their failure was of some concern to him. It was disquieting and the cardinal needed an untroubled state of mind to think clearly in order to deal with Catholic Spain and French Protestants. The cardinal believed in reason, order and controlling events. He saw the petty squabbles of nobles as a waste at a time when able bodied men were needed in the army. Duels had become such a nuisance that the cardinal had forbidden them. He even had a count beheaded to make an example and enforce the King's edict. That a man would violate the law of the realm in the most blatant fashion and remain unpunished was to the cardinal more than a personal slight but a direct offence. The man was a dangerous lunatic who could single-handedly defeat six highly trained killers. The matter was complicated by the fact that there was no purpose in the man's actions, no method in his madness...