“Draw your sword,” Inigo called.

The six-fingered man sneered in response. “You’re a true gentleman.”

“I’ve been pursuing my revenge for two decades. But it would all be for waste if I did not give you a chance to fight with honor.”

“Today your quest will come to an end, I’ll make sure of that.”

“So why haven’t you drawn your sword yet?”

“Because you’re still a child. You haven’t got it in you.”

“I haven’t, have I? I have come a hundred miles to murder you just as you murdered my dear father before my very eyes so long ago.”

“Then you’re serious,” said Rugen, unsheathing a gleaming rapier.

“Indeed I am.” Inigo lunged and the air rang with the sound of steel against steel. The six-fingered man swung for Inigo’s midsection; the Spaniard parried with a deadly riposte that barely missed Rugen’s throat.

Suddenly a voice cried from the swamp. “Inigo, help!” Rugen kicked a mound of sand into Inigo’s distracted face and scurried up a tree with the kind of dexterity that only a six-fingered man could possess.