They circled each other, watching the placements of feet and balance of torso rather than face or hands. The expression in a face could lie, but not the attitude of the body; the motion of a hand could switch abruptly, but not that of a foot. No major commitment could be made without preparation and reaction. Thus Sol seemed to hold the twin blades lightly while Sos hardly glanced at them.
Sol moved, sweeping both points in toward the body, one high, the other low. Sos's hands were there, closing about the two wrists as the knives were balked by protected shoulder and belly, and So! pinioned. He applied pressure slowly, knowing that the real ploy had not yet been executed.
Sol was strong, but he could not hope to compete with his opponent's power. Gradually his arms bent down as the vice-like grip intensified, and the fingers on the knives loosened. Then Sol flexed both wrists-and they spun about within the grip! No wonder his body shone: he had greased it.
Now the daggers took on life of their own, flipping over together to center on the imprisoning manacles. The points dug in, braced against clamped hands, feeling for the vulnerable tendons, and they were feather-sharp.
Sos had to let go. His hardened skin could deflect lightning slashes, but not the anchored probing he was exposed to here. He released -one wrist only, yanking tremendously at the other trying to break it while his foot lashed against the man's inner thigh. But Sol's free blade whipped across unerringly, to bury itself in the flesh of Sos's other forearm, and it was not the thigh but the hard bone of hip that met the moving foot. It was far more dangerous to break with Sol than to close with him.
They parted, the one with white marks showing the crushing pressure exerted against him, the other with spot punctures and streaming blood from one arm. The second testing had passed. It was known that if the nameless one could catch the daggers, he could not hold them, and the experienced witnesses nodded gravely. The one was stronger, the other faster, and the advantage of the moment lay with Sol.
The battle continued. Bruises appeared upon Sol's body, and countless cuts blossomed on Sos's, but neither scored definitely. It had become a contest of attrition.
This could go on for a long time, and no one wanted that. A definite decision was required, not a suspect draw. One master had to prevail or the other. By a certain unvoiced mutual consent they cut short the careful sparring and played for the ultimate stakes.
Sol dived, in a motion similar to the one Sos had used against him during their first encounter, going not for the almost invulnerable torso' but the surface `muscles and tendons of the legs. Sol's success would cripple Sos, and put him at a fatal disadvantage. He leaped aside, but the two blades followed as Sol twisted like a serpent. He was on his back now, feet in the air, ready to smite the attacked. He had been so adept at nullifying prior attacks that Sos was sure the man was at least partially familiar with weaponless techniques. This might also explain Sol's phenomenal success as a warrior. The only real advantage Sos had was brute strength.
He used it. He hunched his shoulders and fell upon Sol, pinning him by the weight of his body and closing both hands about his throat. Sol's two knives came up, their motion restricted but not blocked, and stabbed into the gristle on either side of Sos's own neck. The force of each blow was not great, since the position was quite awkward, but the blades drove again and again into the widening wounds. The neck was the best protected part of his body, but it could not sustain this attack for long.
Sos lifted himself and hurled the lighter man from side to side, never relinquishing the cruel constriction, but his position, too, was improper for full effect. Then, as his head took fire with the exposure of vital nerves, he knew that he was losing this phase; the blades would bring him down before Sol finally relinquished that-tenacious consciosness.
It would not be possible to finish it gently.
He broke, catching Sol's hair to hold his head down, and hammered his horny knuckle into the exposed windpipe.
Sol could not breathe and was in excruciating pain.. His throat had been crushed. Still the awful daggers searched for Sos's face, seeking, if not victory, mutual defeat. It was not in Sol to lose in the circle.
Sos used his strength once more. He caught one blade in his hand, knowing that the edge could not slip free from his flesh. With the other hand he grabbed again for the hair. He stood up, carrying Sol's body with him. He whirled about and flung his friend out of the circle.
As quickly as he had possession of the circle, he abdicated it, diving after his fallen antagonist. Sol lay on the ground, eyes bulging, hands clasping futilely at his throat. Sos ripped them away and dug his fingers into the sides of the neck, massaging it roughly. His own blood dripped upon Sol's chest as he squatted above him. -
'It's over!' someone screamed. 'You're out of the circle! Stop!'
