'With a great bronze axe, master. He will have a shield, too, but since he always attacks he will not use it skillfully. But with the bronze axe he is a fiend. He calls his axe Aesculp— smasher of skulls. Well named. It is long hafted and double bitted and I myself could not lift it. I doubt you can match him in axe play, master.'
It so happened that Richard Blade, in his former persona, had been very proficient with a battle axe. Ancient weaponry, the study and use thereof, had been a serious hobby with him. He had been a member of the Medieval Club and, where other men boxed, or played tennis or handball to keep in shape, Blade spent many an afternoon in simulated combat with lance and broadsword, axe and mace, long bow and arbalest.
But he would be a fool indeed to play Horsa's game. In the armory he selected a stout buckler of bronze and leather, with a shiny convex boss that might partially deflect a blow. The sword he chose was nearly as tall as Sylvo, with a two-handed hilt. It was of thin iron, pointed and edged with bronze, and immensely heavy. Yet Blade swung it with ease.
He could hear the crowd in the town now, squalling thirstily for his blood. Blade smiled thinly. That could change. He knew something of mobs. Let him blood Horsa first and they would change their tune. It was blood they wanted, blood to go with their beer and frolic, and whose blood did not greatly matter.
The sub-chief was chafing and cursing, yet Blade insisted that a new edge be put on the great sword. Let Horsa wait— and begin to wonder. Every moment of delay worked for Blade.
There was a great stone, and water and fish oil, and Blade carefully, with deliberate stalling, keened the edge himself. At last he was satisfied and they left the armory.
All of Sarum Vil was thronged about the open square, so close packed that for once there was no room for reckless chariot drivers. With Blade and Sylvo in their center the men-at-arms fought their way through the pushing, shoving, shouting mob. Some shouted vilification at Blade, some encouragement, and a drunken woman tried to hand him a pan of beer. Sylvo was well cursed, and gave as good as he took.
They came at last to the circle of fire. Faggots and peat had been lain roundabout and flamed with fish oil so the ring glowed cruelly crimson and leaped high, a great gaping eye staring from hell up to the dank and mist shrouded sky. Men continually heaped faggots and peats, and poured oil, so that the fire roared and hissed, in sinister whisper, and leaped as high as Blade's waist.
Lycanto's throne had been carried from the great hall. He sat on it now, beer horn in his hand, talking with the gathered chiefs and captains. They all turned to stare as Blade appeared. Behind the throne, well back in the shadows, he saw a robed and heavily cowled woman amid a gaggle of other women. The Lady Alwyth?
A thunderous howl roared from the pressing mob. Blade nodded in reluctant admiration as Horsa vaulted the flames and strode to the center of the ring. There was a rich barbarity in the scene that Blade could not but appreciate.
Horsa scorned a helmet, since Blade had none, and his bald head glinted in the flames. His legs were bare, but for cross-gaitering, and he wore a rich cloak of scarlet caught at the throat by a golden clasp. On his left arm was a small round shield, and in his right hand, which was badly scarred by an old wound, he swung a huge bronze axe.
Horsa smirked at the screaming crowd, then swung the axe several times about his head. Blade, studying the weapon more than the man, saw that it had perfect balance, was long hafted enough to reach an awesome distance, and both edges gleamed bright as razors newly ground.
I must go to the point, Blade thought. It is doubtful this one understands point, but I must be careful in learning that. Swing with him at first, match him blows that cut only air, then when the time is ripe go to the point.
Horsa took off the scarlet cloak and flung it away. He was naked to the waist, his barrel chest covered with thick dark hair. He was a shorter man than Blade, and not so prettily muscled, yet Blade knew the man's strength would match his own.
Horsa, leaning on his axe, scowled across the ring of fire at Blade. 'You called my blood white, stranger. What of yours? You have thought of urgent business elsewhere, mayhap? You would be off to report to your master, Redbeard? That may not be. I have claim on your cods— which I will cut off and cast into the fire.'
Blade ignored the gibe. The crowd screamed and laughed. King Lycanto made an impatient sign.
Blade turned.to Sylvo. 'Remember well what I have said. Timing is important. When I have killed Horsa I will make claim for privacy, for food and rest, and so will be able to come to you. I will be near, and when I hear the screams I will go in to fetch Taleen. You will know what to do then?'
Sylvo grimaced. 'Run, master!'
Blade patted his shoulder. 'Good. Serve me well in this, Sylvo, and you will not be sorry.'
The man's squint was rueful. 'I am already sorry, master, but too late for that now. Look— Horsa mocks you again!'
Blade vaulted the fire and stalked toward Horsa. He saluted Lycanto with his sword, but kept his eye on Horsa, which was well. With a snarl the man leaped and the great bronze axe caught the firelight, mirrored it, flashing, as it slashed at Blade's head in a glittering circle. The axe sang a threnody of blood and death.
Sylvo, squinting and open mouthed, whispered a promise to Thunor.
'Grant my master the victory, Thunor, and I make firm promise that I will not thieve for a year! I swear it. On my misbegotten soul I swear it!'
Chapter Six
Horsa attacked with unrelenting fury. At first Blade could do nothing but parry and retreat as the great bronze axe beat a ringing tattoo on the broadsword. Flames nipped at Blade's backside and he sidled first to left, then to right, somehow fending off a killing blow and at the same time evading the fire.
Sylvo was right about Horsa's manner of fighting. He bore in constantly, disdaining use of shield, and a dozen times already had been open to a thrust, had Blade been able to deliver it. Blade could not. Harried and driven constantly back and to either side, it was all he could do to turn aside the vicious glittering axe. Time after time the keen axe blade missed his bare head by less than an inch; once a lock of his dark hair was clipped and floated downward.
The mob, already sensing a kill, howled like the bloodthirsty hydra it was. There was much reference to Blade's cods and Horsa was constantly bade to cut them off and toss them into the fires.
Horsa grinned evilly and, in a sudden crouch, changed his tactics and lowered the arc of the scything axe, striking
