main reason the man had failed to specify more at a time was that he could count no higher.
Tyl, his curiosity provoked, sent in the first club to meet him. Bog launched into battle with no apparent science. He simply swept the club back forth with such ferocity that his opponent was helpless against it. Hit or miss, Bog continued unabated, fairly bashing the other out of the circle before the man could catch his footing.
Victorious, Bog grinned. 'More!' he cried.
Tyl looked at the tribe's erstwhile first clubber, a man who had won several times in the circle. He frowned, not quite believing it. He sent in the second club.
The same thing happened. Two men lay stunned on the ground, thoroughly beaten.
Likewise the two ranking swords and a staff, in quick order. 'More!' Bog exclaimed happily, but Tyl had had enough. Five top men were shaken and lost, in the course of only ten minutes, and the victor hardly seemed to be tired.
'Tomorrow,' he said to the big clubber.
'Okay!' Bog agreed, disappointed, and accepted the hospitality of the tribe for the evening. He polished off two full-sized meals and three willing women before he retired for the night. Male and female alike gaped at his respective appetites, hardly able to credit either department, but these were not subject to refutation. Bog conquered everything one, two or three at a time.
Next day he was as good as ever. Sol was on hand this time to watch while Bog bashed club, sticks and daggers with equal facility, and even flattened the terrible star. When struck, he paid no attention, though some blows were cruel; when cut, he licked the blood like a tiger and laughed. Blocking him was no good; he had such power that no really effective inhibition was practical. 'More!' he cried after each debacle, and he never tired.
'We must have that man,' Sol said.
'We have no one to take him,' Tyl objected. 'He has already wiped out nine of our best, and hasn't even felt the competition. I might kill him with the sword-but I couldn't defeat him bloodlessly. We'd have no use for him dead.'
'He must be met with the club,' Sos said. 'That's the only thing with the mass to slow him. A powerfull, agile, durable club.'
Tyl stared meaningfully at the three excellent clubbers seated by Bog's side of the circle. All wore large bandages where flesh and bone had succumbed to the giant's attack. 'If those were our ranked instruments, we need an unranked warrior,' he observed.
'Yes,' Sol said. He stood up.
'Wait a minute!' both men cried. 'Don't chance it yourself,' Sos added. 'You have too much to risk.'
'The day any man conquers me with any weapon,' Sol said seriously, 'is the day I go to the mountain.' He took up his club and walked to the circle.
'The master!' Bog cried, recognizing him. 'Good fight?'
'He didn't even settle terms,' Tyl groaned. 'This is nothing more than man-to-man.'
'Good fight,' Sol agreed, and stepped inside.
Sos concurred. In the headlong drive for empire, it seemed a culpable waste to chance Sol in the circle for anything less than a full tribe. Accidents were always possible. But they had already learned that their leader had other things on his mind these days than his empire. Sol proved his manhood by his battle prowess, and he could allow no slightest question there, even in his own mind. He had continued his exercises regularly, keeping his body toned.
Perhaps it took a man withOut a weapon to appreciate just how deeply the scars of the other kind of deprivation went.
Bog launched into his typical windmill attack, and Sol parried and ducked expertly. Bog was far larger, but Sol was faster and cut off the ferocious arcs before they gained full momentum. He ducked under one swing and caught Bog on the side of the head with the short, precise flick Sos had seen him demonstrate before. The club was not clumsy or slow in Sol's hand.
The giant absorbed the blow and didn't seem to notice. He bashed away without hesitation, smiling. Sol had to back away and dodge cleverly to avoid being driven out of the circle, but Bog
