A hundred yards below the cabin a fifteen-foot ring was laid out, marked by a flat plastic rim of bright yellow and an outer fringe of gravel. The center was flat, finely barbered turf, a perfect disk of green lawn. This was the battle circle, heart of this world's culture.
The black-haired man removed his harness and jacket to expose the physique of a giant, great sheathes of muscle overlaid shoulders, rib-cage and belly, and his neck and waist were thick. He drew his sword: a gleaming length of tempered steel with a beaten silver hilt. He flexed it in the air a few times and tested it on a nearby sapling. A single swing and the tree fell, cleanly severed at the base.
The other opened his barrow and drew forth a similar weapon from a compartment. Packed beside it were dagger, singlesticks, a club, the metal ball of a morningstar mace and the long quarterstaff. 'You master all these weapons?' the girl inquired, astonished. He only nodded.
The two men approached the circle and faced each other across it, toes touching the outer rim. 'I contest for the name,' the blond declared, 'by sword, staff, stick, star, knife and club. Select an alternate, and this is unnecessary.'
'I will go nameless first,' the dark one replied: 'By the sword I claim the name, and if I ever take another weapon it will be only to preserve that name. Take your best instrument: I will match with my blade.'
'For name and weapons, then,' the blond said, beginning to show anger. 'The victor will possess them all. But, since I wish you no personal harm, I will instead oppose you with the staff.'
'Agreed!' It was the other's turn to glower. 'The one who is defeated yields the name and these six weapons, nor will he ever lay claim to any of these again!'
The girl listened appalled, hearing the stakes magnify beyond reason, but did not dare protest.
They stepped inside the battle circle and became blurs of motion. The girl had expected a certain incongruity, since small men usually carried the lighter or sharper weapons while the heavy club and long staff were left to the large men. Both warriors were so skilled, however, that such notions became meaningless. She tried to follow thrust and counter, but soon became hopelessly confused. The figures whirled and struck, ducked and parried, metal blade rebounding from metal staff and, in turn, blocking defensively. Gradually, she made out the course of the fight.
The sword was actually a fairly massive weapon; though hard to stop, it was also slow to change its course, so there was generally time for the opposing party to counter an aggressive swing. The long staff, on the other hand, was more agile than it looked, since both hands exerted force upon it and made for good leverage-but it could deliver a punishing blow only against a properly exposed target. The sword was primarily offensive; the staff, defensive. Again and again the sword whistled savagely at neck or leg or torso, only to be blocked crosswise by some section of the staff.
At first, it had seemed as though the men, were out to kill each other; then, it was evident that each expected his aggressive moves to be countered and was not trying for bloody victory so much as tactical initiative. Finally, it appeared to be a deadlock between two extraordinarily talented warriors.
Then the tempo changed. The blond Sol took the offensive, using the swift staff to force his opponents back and Off balance by repeated blows at arms, legs and head. The sworder jumped out of the way often, rather than trying to parry the multiple blows with his single instrument; evidently the weight of his weapon was growing as the furious pace continued. Swords were not weapons of endurance. The staffer had conserved his strength and now had the advantage.. Soon the tiring sword-arm would slow too much and leave the body vulnerable.
But not quite yet. Even she, an inexperienced observer, could guess that the large man was tiring too quickly for the amount of muscle he possessed. It was a ruse-and the staffer suspected it, too, for the more the motions slowed the more cautious he became. He refused to be lured into any risky commitment.
Then the sworder tried an astonishing strategem: as the end of the staff drove at his side in a fast horizontal swing, he neither blocked nor retreated. He threw himself to the ground, letting the staff pass over him. Then, rolling on his side, he slashed, in a vicious backhand arc aimed at the ankles. The staffer jumped, surprised by this unconventional and dangerous maneuver; but even as his feet rose over the blade and came down again, it was swishing in a reverse arc.
The staffer was unable to leap again quickly enough, since he was just landing. But he was not so easily trapped. He had kept his balance and maintained control over his weapon with marvelous coordination. He jammed the end of the staff into the turf between his feet just as the sword struck. Blood spurted as the blade cut into one calf, but the metal of the staff bore the brunt and saved him from hamstringing or worse. He was wounded and partially crippled, but still able to fight.
The ploy had failed, and it was the end for the sworder. The staff lifted and struck him neatly across the side of the
