"Keith Laumer - Retief !" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

***
After four more events and three teams of determined but colorless competition, only a dozen
men were left on the field awaiting the next event, including the tall blond youth whom Retief
had been watching since he had recognized him. He himself, he reflected, was the reason for the
man's presence here; and he had acquitted himself well.
Retief saw a burly warrior carrying a two-handed sword paired off now against the blond
youth. The fellow grinned as he moved up to face the other.
This would be a little different, the agent thought, watching; this fellow was dangerous.
Yellow-hair moved in, his weapon held level across his chest. The big man lashed out suddenly
with the great sword, and the other jumped back, then struck backhanded at his opponent's
shoulder, nicked him lightly, sliding back barely in time to avoid a return swing. The still
grinning man moved in, the blade chopping the air before him in a whistling figure-eight. He
pressed his man back, the blade never pausing.
 There was no more room; the blond fellow jumped sideways, dropping the point of his sword
in time to intercept a vicious cut. He backstepped; he couldn't let that happen again. The big man
was very strong.
The blade was moving again now, the grin having faded a little. He'll have to keep away from
him, keep circling, Retief thought. The big fellow's pattern is to push his man back to the edge,
then pick him off as he tries to sidestep. He'll have to keep space between them.
The fair-haired man backed, watching for an opening. He jumped to the right, and as the other
shifted to face him, leaped back to the left and catching the big man at the end of his reach to the
other side, slashed him across the ribs and kept moving. The man roared, twisting around in
vicious cuts at the figure that darted sideways, just out of range. Then the blond brought his
claymore across in a low swing that struck solidly across the back of the other's legs, with a noise
like a butcher separating ribs with a cleaver.
Like a marionette with his strings cut, the man folded to his knees, sprawled. The other man
stepped back, as surgeons' men swarmed up to tend the fallen fighter. There were plenty of them
available now; so far the casualties had been twice normal. On the other mounds in view, men
were falling. The faint-hearted had been eliminated; the men who were still on their feet were
determined, or desperate. There would be no more push-overs.
"Only about six left," Fitzraven called.
"This has been a rather unusual tournament so far," Retief said. "That young fellow with the
light hair seems to be playing rough, forcing the pace."
"I have never seen such a businesslike affair," Fitzraven said. "The weak-disposed have been
frightened out, and the fighters cut down with record speed. At this rate there will be none left for
the Third Day."
There was delay on the field, as referees and other officials hurried back and forth; then an
announcement boomed out. The Second Day was officially concluded. The six survivors would
be awarded Second Day certificates, and would be eligible for the Third and Last Day tomorrow.
Retief and Fitzraven left the box, made their way through the crowd back to the inn.
"See that Danger-by-Night is well fed and exercised," Retief said to the squire. "And check
over all of my gear thoroughly. I wish to put on my best appearance tomorrow; it will doubtless
be my last outing of the kind for some time."
Fitzraven hurried away to tend his chores, while Retief ascended to his room to pore over the
contents of his dispatch case far into the night.
***
The Third Day had dawned gray and chill, and an icy wind whipped across the arena. The
weather had not discouraged the crowd, however. The stands were packed and the overflow of
people stood in the aisles, perched high on the back walls, crowding every available space.
Banners flying from the Imperial box indicated the presence of the royal party. This was the