at Blade's groin. Blade had an opportunity for a thrust and might have killed Horsa then and there, but he was hesitant— the chance coming so quickly— and contented himself with swinging the heavy sword at the man's neck. Only his point touched flesh, opening a trivial gash below Horsa's chin. He skipped nimbly back from danger, muttering obscenities at Blade, then came on again with renewed rage.
Blade, continually backed against the ringing flames, by now had some minor burns, trivial as yet, but holding grim promise if he slipped but once, made one mistake.
He had thought to tire Horsa— it was incredible that the man could persist so long in such frenzy— yet the other showed no signs of fatigue. He drove Blade around and around the fire ring, the giant axe singing and whistling bloody disaster while Blade feinted and slipped and dodged and fended as best he could. Every ringing blow of the axe against the sword was like a monstrous hammer beating on an anvil, sending shuddering vibrations through the hilt to sting Blade's hands. Twice he nearly had the sword torn from his grasp, a misfortune that would have given him a choice of deaths— Horsa's axe, the fire, or the swords beyond. Lycanto had given orders and the mob had been driven back a little way, and a circle of armed men stood there with weapons drawn and pointed. If one of the combatants turned craven and dashed through the flames it would be only to die on the swords. This had been promised as a duel to the death, and Lycanto meant to make it so.
The long minutes passed. Still Horsa did not tire, though once he rested his axe and wiped his streaming forehead with his arm, the while taunting Blade.
'Come and fight, spy! Cowardly bastard and son of a dung-eating mother! Come and have it over with— you skip nimbly enough, I vow that, but you cannot escape Aesculp forever. Her edge will feel your cods yet.'
Blade, needing all his wind, did not answer. Instead he leaped in and swung a mighty, and awkward, two-handed stroke at Horsa. He had not gone to the point yet, and wished to lull the man. So, when Horsa skillfully eluded the blow, Blade pretended to stumble and make a bad recovery. Horsa bellowed with laughter and leaped to attack again.
But this time, Blade noticed, Horsa was using both hands to swing the bronze axe. The man had flung away his shield, contemptuous of all protection, and began to batter Blade backward with two-handed swinging strokes, back and forehand, that again sent Blade perilously near the flames.
Now Horsa grunted with each stroke. Sweat spattered from his thick chest hair. He had newly painted himself for the fight and the blue dye ran, losing all design of rune or symbol, mixing with blood from the neck wound to make a purplish red lavage. Horsa, constantly wiping sweat from his face now, gradually acquired a demon visage.
Blade still retreated, yet with every passing moment his confidence increased. Horsa was tiring at last. Still Blade marveled at the man— they had been fighting for nearly half an hour.
The mob had fallen silent, with only an occasional gibe, and that at Horsa. Nothing so pleases the common folk as the fall of a great hero and, while they did not yet really believe it, or cry out openly for Blade, yet the undercurrent was there.
Sylvo, muttering to himself, offered to increase his abstinence from thievery to a full two years.
Blade was in little better shape than Horsa by now. He was arm weary and his lungs pained, sweat blinded him at times, and his back was sorely scorched, yet he judged himself in better shape than Horsa. Yet he was so near exhaustion that he decided it must be done now, quickly, or not at all.
Horsa swung a mighty blow which Blade ducked under. Horsa stumbled for the first time, and went sprawling. The bronze axe flew from his hand and Blade leaped to plant his foot on the haft. Horsa, on his knees six feet from his weapon, stared at Blade with narrowed eyes that reflected only surprise. And Blade knew then that fear was not in the man.
The throng gasped in unison, a single great indrawn breath, then waited for the end. Blade stooped quickly and picked up the huge bronze axe. It hefted sweetly in his hand, a thing of perfect balance.
Horsa stood up and faced Blade, waiting. His face, a hideous mask of blue dye and blood, was set in resignation. His eyes rolled skyward and he began to sing in a coarse low voice, ignoring Blade as he chanted his death song to Thunor.
Blade did not want it so. To gain status, to become legend, the end of an epic struggle must itself be epic. He did not miss his opportunity. There was superb contempt in his voice and gesture as he flung the axe at Horsa's feet.
'Take back your toy, man! I would not have it said that I slew an unarmed foe. Nothing shall taint my killing of you.'
The words were aptly chosen for his purpose. Shamed, outraged, Horsa seized his axe and ran at Blade with a berserk bellowing that clamored in the dank night. He implored Thunor as he slashed at Blade, the double-bitted bronze whispering past Blade's ear.
At last Blade went to the point. He went into a long lunge, for the moment daring to use the huge sword with one hand, and put the iron six inches into Horsa's left shoulder.
The crowd found its voice again and screamed. Horsa bellowed, more in rage than pain, and nearly decapitated Blade with a backswing. Blade had been off balance after the lunge and very nearly paid for it with his life.
Recovering, he managed to swing Horsa around so that for the first time the man was backed into the fire. Blade grinned maliciously through the sweat that soaked his face and black stubble.
'I trust the fire is warm enough for you on such a chilly night, Horsa. A taste, man, of things in store for you.' He thrust again, Horsa was slow in parrying with his axe, and Blade slashed him near the midriff.
Horsa was within inches of the roaring flame now and had to stand his ground. He breathed in tortured sobs and his eyes were wild, yet he fought on. Each time he sought to move away, to right or left, Blade herded him back with a sword that licked in and out like a serpent's fangs. Horsa was bleeding badly now and a smell of roasting flesh hung in the misty air.
The axe gleamed in firelight as Horsa swung again. It was a faltering stroke and Blade fended it easily, then went in for the kill. Two handed now, the massive sword before him like a lance, he leaped in and thrust with all his waning strength at Horsa's chest.
Horsa stepped backward into the flames. He stood rooted there, fire curling about his thick legs, blackening them, the hair scorching and the flesh beginning to char and curl from the bone. Horsa did not show pain as he slowly burned to death. He struck again at Blade and once more began to chant.
Sickened now, the joy of battle ebbing— his mind and heart staggered by such display of courage— Blade sought
