Out of Nowhere (The Immortal Vagabond Healer Book 1) by Patrick LeClerc Read Free Book Online Page A

into higher gear, landing two more touches in rapid succession. Bill is a better fencer than I am. I’m not really a fencer at all. I’m a swordsman. For all that I love fencing, it’s just playing tag with blunt swords. My years of training were all geared toward keeping sharp steel out of me and putting it in the other fellow. My instincts are less about lightning flicks of the point and more about firm, decisive attacks and overly secure parries. I’m good enough to beat novices, and hold my own with experienced fencers, but a master can land five touches on me without breaking a sweat.
    In a real duel, those five touches would be scratches that would hardly slow me down, let alone stop me shoving a foot of steel through him, but a touch is a touch.
    Now that he had me panting, he drove me back, holding his guard close and making swift attacks, steadily advancing. I parried frantically, giving ground, not really launching any offense of my own.
    Not seeing any ripostes, he pushed harder. As he came on, instead of retreating with a quick parry, I used a wide Italian lowline parry, sweeping his blade down and out with my guard while keeping my point in line with his body. I stepped into his attack as I blocked, driving my own point against his side.
    ‘ Touché, ’ he said, after a pause. He removed his mask. ‘Now what the hell was that?’
    ‘Counterparry with opposition in tierce, ’ I replied, stepping back and returning his salute.
    ‘You could be really good, you know,’ he sighed as he shook my hand. ‘Your timing is dead on, your instincts are all good, but you parry too wide and hold it too long.’
    ‘I learned Italian style,’ I shrugged. ‘Old habits are hard to break.’ Which was true enough.
    ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘Your name is Danet. Your ancestor codified French swordsmanship and you learned Italian? Nobody fences Italian anymore.’
    ‘My fencing instructor was old school,’ I replied. ‘He came from a different era.’ Again, true, but not the whole truth.
    He shook his head in disbelief, ‘What am I going to do with you?’
    ‘Use this opportunity to learn how to stop an Italian counterparry.’ I grinned. ‘Look, I’m too old for the Olympics. I work too many hours to travel with a school team. I’m just here to play with swords. No point trying to make me a real fencer.’
    I fenced a few students, just to see if ages of painfully acquired dirty tricks could still defeat the speed and strength of youth. Results were mixed. As we eventually cleaned up, I noticed a textbook in one of the students’ bags.
    ‘There’s a class on ancient languages here?’ I asked.
    ‘Oh, yeah,’ she replied. ‘Professor Deyermond teaches it. It’s really interesting.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘If you’re into that kind of thing, I guess.’
    ‘Where’s Professor Deyermond’s office?’ I asked.
    ‘At the library. You can probably still add the class, if you want. It’s not all that full.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll see about it.’

Chapter 7
    I MADE MY WAY TO THE LIBRARY directly from the gym. I did shower as a courtesy, despite my eagerness to talk to somebody about the inscription on that dagger, and walked into the building with wet hair, my fencing bag over my shoulder and a sloppy, one-handed, post-shower rebandaging job on my left hand.
    Behind the checkout desk sat an attractive redheaded undergrad doing her work study with a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for prison chain gangs. Her thumbs flew with blinding speed over the keypad of her cellphone. I asked her where I could find Professor Deyermond.
    Without any perceptible loss of thumb speed, she looked up at me and tossed her head to indicate the rear of the building. ‘Back wall,’ she said, going the extra mile.
    I thanked her and gave an ironic exaggerated bow, but it was probably wasted as she had already returned her attention to her phone. I made my way through dusty stacks to the back of