Vienna Blood

Начало книги

The Italian lunged forward. He was a small, lean man, but very muscular. Any disadvantage he suffered because of his lack of height was amply compensated for by his sharp eye and astonishing speed.

Liebermann successfully deflected the foil's thrust but lost his balance. He was unable to produce a counterattack and his opponent advanced yet again. The tip of the Italian's foil came perilously close to the protective quilting over Liebermann's heart. Recovering his footing, Liebermann chose to make a passe-darting behind the Italian and taking a few steps backward. A trickle of sweat slid down his hot cheek. The Italian shrugged and walked away, flexing his foil in a gesture of indifference. After a few paces he swung around and adopted the preparatory stance, his chin tilted upward in an attitude of arrogance. Liebermann edged forward.

The Italian seemed to relax, his foil wilting a little in an apparently weaker grip. Liebermann noticed the subtle change and struck. A violent brassy clang was followed by the shriek of scraping metal: the Italian's foil yielded, offering no resistance. Liebermann congratulated himself, believing that he had taken his opponent by surprise-but the concession was merely tactical. The Italian's blade deftly flicked around Liebermann's, displacing it with a powerful grazing action, and, once again, the tip of his opponent's foil effortlessly penetrated Liebermann's defenses. Liebermann retreated, executing a series of deflective maneuvers that barely contained the Italian's renewed fierce attack.

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