There was a sudden immobility as Brion succeeded in clutching Lig-magte’s other arm. It was a good grip, and he could hold the arm immobilized. They had reached stasis, standing knee to knee, their faces only a few inches apart. The muffling cloth had fallen from the Disan’s face during the struggle, and empty, frigid eyes stared into Brion’s. No flicker of emotion crossed the harsh planes of the other man’s face. A great puckered white scar covered one cheek and pulled up a corner of the mouth in a cheerless grimace. It was false; there was still no expression here, even when the pain must be growing more intense.
Brion was winning—if none of the watchers broke the impasse. His greater weight and strength counted now. The Disan would have to drop the knife before his arm was dislocated at the shoulder. He didn’t do it. With sudden horror Brion realized that he wasn’t going to drop it—no matter what happened.
A dull, hideous snap jerked through the Disan’s body and the arm hung limp and dead. No expression crossed the man’s face. The knife was still locked in the fingers of the paralyzed hand. With his other hand Lig-magte reached across and started to pry the blade loose, ready to continue the battle one-handed. Brion raised his foot and kicked the knife free, sending it spinning across the room.
Lig-magte made a fist of his good hand and crashed it into Brion’s groin. He was still fighting, as if nothing had changed. Brion backed slowly away from the man. “Stop it,” he said. “You can’t win now. It’s impossible.” He called to the other men who were watching the unequal battle with expressionless immobility. No one answered him.
With a terrible sinking sensation Brion then realized what would happen and what he had to do. Lig-magte was as heedless of his own life as he was of the life of his planet. He would press the attack no matter what damage was done to him. Brion had an insane vision of him breaking the man’s other arm, fracturing both his legs, and the limbless broken creature still coming forward. Crawling, rolling, teeth bared, since they were the only remaining weapon.
There was only one way to end it. Brion feinted and the Lig-magte’s arm moved clear of his body. The engulfing cloth was thin and through it Brion could see the outlines of the Disan’s abdomen and rib cage, the clear location of the great nerve ganglion.
It was the death blow of karate. Brion had never used it on a man. In practice he had broken heavy boards, splintering them instantly with the short, precise stroke. The stiffened hand moving forward in a sudden surge, all the weight and energy of his body concentrated in his joined fingertips. Plunging deep into the other’s flesh.
Killing, not by accident or in sudden anger. Killing because this was the only way the battle could possibly end.
Like a ruined tower of flesh, the Disan crumpled and fell.
Dripping blood, exhausted, Brion stood over the body of Lig-magte and stared at the dead man’s allies.
Death filled the room.
XI
Facing the silent Disans, Brion’s thoughts hurtled about in sweeping circles. There would be no more than an instant’s tick of time before the magter avenged themselves bloodily and completely. He felt a fleeting regret for not having brought his gun, then abandoned the thought. There was no time for regrets—what could he do now?
The silent watchers hadn’t attacked instantly, and Brion realized that they couldn’t be positive yet that Lig-magte had been killed. Only Brion himself knew the deadliness of that blow. Their lack of knowledge might buy him a little more time.
“Lig-magte is unconscious, but he will revive quickly,” Brion said, pointing at the huddled body. As the eyes turned automatically to follow his finger, he began walking slowly towards the exit. “I did not want to do this, but he forced me to, because he wouldn’t listen to reason. Now I have something else to show you, something that I hoped it would not be necessary to reveal.”
He was saying the first words that came into his head, trying to keep them distracted as long as possible. He must appear to be only going across the room, that was the feeling he must generate. There was even time to stop for a second and straighten his rumpled clothing and brush the sweat from his eyes. Talking easily, walking slowly towards the hall that led out of the chamber.
He was halfway there when the spell broke and the rush began. One of the magter knelt and touched the body, and shouted a single word:
“Dead!”
Brion hadn’t waited for the official announcement. At the first movement of feet, he dived headlong for the shelter of the exit. There was a spatter of tiny missiles on the wall next to him and he had a brief glimpse of raised blowguns before the wall intervened. He went up the dimly lit stairs three at a time.
The pack was just behind him, voiceless and deadly. He could not gain on them—if anything, they were closing the distance as he pushed his already tired body to the utmost. There was no subtlety or trick he could
