ensure that no gun or other illicit weapon could be carried along secretly. The weapon the Master had specified was any of the recognized circle instruments: club, staff, stick, sword, dagger or star. Not rope or net or whip. Men of both groups would be watching from the fringes to see that neither climber was cheating on the terms in any other way.
Of course the fight on the mesa would not be very clear, because the watchers would be far below. But only the victor would descend alive, so there could be no doubt about that.
It was light enough. Var moved out, sticks anchored to his waist by a minimum harness. The chill of the morning pricked his skin. He was eager for the warming exercise and, privately, to get away from the too curious stares of the men at his exposed body. He knew he was not pretty.
He climbed. At first it was easy, for the slope was gentle and he avoided the crevices that might have trapped a foot in the dark. Then he struck the boulder strewn wastes. This was where he gained time over his prior ascent, because of the superior route he had worked out. One man, the day before, had led him at this point, and he had been careful to note the particular path that man had happened on. He knew the mountain's champion would have to be a remarkable athlete to better Var's own time, for the other man would not have had this practice.
Not recently, anyway. Of course he could have climbed Muse every day before the nomad siege began. That might be why such terms had been specified. Still, Var knew he was as fast as anyone, here.
And he was sure that the other side was no better than his own. He had checked that out from the summit. There was nothing in the agreement to stop him from circling to that side in order to ascend more rapidly or intercept the other man. And he had verified that there was no secret ancient built tunnel there either. So the terms were fair.
The last portion was the most difficult. Here the slope became so steep as to seem almost vertical. It wasn't; that was an illiusion of perspective. But he did not peer down as he mounted it.
There were steplike terraces and crevices, ranging from mere lines in the wall to platforms several feet wide. Here Var's stubby, callused fingers and hard bare toes were important assets, for he could find lodging on a minimum basis. Up, across, and around he went, traversing the open face of the mountain, keeping a nervous eye for falling rocks. If the other champion had somehow reached the summit first. But Var triumphed. No boulders were loosed on him, and when he poked his head over the brim, alert for attack, he found it bare. Now it would be up to his ability with the sticks.
He trotted to the far side of the little mesa. The platform was only about ten paces in diameter-twice that of the battle circle, but hardly seeming so because of the frightening drop-off all around. He peered over.
The underworld's warrior was climbing. Var observed his bare back, his round head, his moving limbs, but was unable to make out much detail. He judged the man to be about five minutes from the summit. That was a kind of relief, for it meant that Var's selection as the empire champion had been valid. The slower warriors would have reached the top too late. Particularly what good would Hul's skill and courage have done him, if his head was bashed in while he still climbed?
Var glanced at the available stones. Some were small, suitable for throwing. Some were good for athurate dropping. A few were large enough for rolling-and woe betide what lay in their crushing paths!
He picked up a throwing rock, nestling it in his palm. His grip was awkward, but he could throw well enough. He peered down at the warrior. The man was clinging to the rim of the shelf, inching from one narrow step to another. He was helpless; if be tried to dodge a falling object, he would fall himself. And he wasn't even looking up. It was as though the notion of such a premature attack had not occurred to him.
Var set the stone down, disgusted with himself for being tempted, and recrossed the mesa. The Master had invariably stressed the importance of honor outside the circle, until this present adventure. Within the circle there was no law at all except death and victory; outside there was no victory without honor. This plateau was the effective circle. The men of the underworld might not practise honor in the fashion of the nomads, but this one circumscribed case was plainly an exception. He had to let the warrior enter before making any hostile move.
Var was sitting crosslegged at his own side of the mesa as the other warrior clambered to the level section. The first thing Var saw was the sticks, slung from a neck loop. He was matched against his own weapon! The second thing he saw was that the other warrior was small in fact, diminutive to the point of dwarfism. His head would barely reach Var's shoulder-and Var, though large, was no giant. The third thing he did not see. The naked warrior was either castrated Or female.
'I am ready,' the mountain champion said, grasping the two sticks and dropping the harness over the edge.
It was a girl, definitely. Her voice was high, sweet. She had thick black hair cut short beneath the ears, delicate facial features, a lithe slender body, and tightly bound sandals on her feet. She could not be more than nine years old. Half his own age, by the Master's reckoning. There could be no mistake. She was here, she was armed, she was not
