'This belonged to Thoth,' said Redbeard. He drank and flung the skull at the servant.
'The last man to challenge me.'
Chapter Twelve
Redbeard advanced on Blade, his great arms spread wide. Blade retreated slowly, feinting with his head and body, knowing that at all costs he must avoid that deadly embrace. He did not doubt that, once Redbeard had him enfolded in those arms, the man could crush him to death.
Blade had never before played the role of David. In his former life his size and strength had given him an advantage; now the roles were reversed and he was David to this Goliath called Redbeard.
Redbeard, tired of playing about, rushed at Blade and swung a sledgehammer fist. Blade ducked under the blow, feeling a rush of air, and countered with a smashing right hand to the bigger man's belly. The impact nearly broke his wrist. It was like hitting a cast iron washboard.
Blade slipped deftly away from the tables where Redbeard had nearly cornered him. Redbeard grinned and followed patiently, taunting Blade.
'What is this, Prince of London? You will not stand and fight? Yet it was you who picked this quarrel.'
Blade did not answer. He was busy trying to remember— and he was going to need every bit of wind he could get. He knew one other thing— he must defeat this giant quickly or not at all. Here was a man who would not tire, as even Horsa had tired at last. Here was an enemy who could fight all night and all day. Guile, cunning, superior technique; in all these, plus speed, lay Blade's only chance. As he ran swiftly backward he saw the skull cup on a nearby table. He did not want to furnish a mate to it.
Redbeard leaped in again, pounding with both hands. One blow caught Blade on the shoulder and spun him a dozen feet. The watching raiders came to their feet in unison, screaming for the kill. Redbeard lunged after Blade, trying to grapple. Blade recovered balance just in time and stood his ground for a moment, shooting a left and right hand into the grinning bearded face. Memory and reflex served him well— Blade had not consciously planned the blows— and they were a perfect combination. Jarring left and a murderous right cross. Both landed squarely on Redbeard's chin.
Pain shivered up to Blade's shoulders. Redbeard, scowling now, annoyed with such insect bites, came on.
Blade leaped into the air, turned half to his right and kicked the giant in the face. A savate kick that came somewhere out of memory. His heel cut the flesh around Redbeard's right eye and a little blood trickled.
Redbeard laughed. 'Thunor take me! He fights like a maid— kicking and striking puny blows. How is this, Prince? I know you to be a warrior, for I have seen it, but you do not fight like one now. Come, Prince! Best have it over. Lock arms with me like a man and let us see who is stronger.'
Blade leaped again, turned, and kicked the man in the stomach. Futile. Blade went back to his fists and landed another left and several stunning rights. Redbeard stood rooted like a tree, his hands on his hips, his face bleeding into the beard, and took the blows laughing.
Blade was already beginning to feel arm weary— he had fought much of late— and he had a churning in his stomach that was worse. Panic. He could not do this thing.
The task was impossible. This was not a mortal flesh and blood creature he faced— Getorix was an automaton with bronze for flesh and iron for muscles.
Redbeard leaped in with a speed that surprised Blade and caught him off balance. The great arms, greasy with sweat now, twined around Blade's waist and began to lock behind him.
'Aha,' cried Redbeard. 'Now we shall hear how your bones crack.' The little blue eyes glinted cold at Blade over the flaming hair.
Blade nearly died then. It was more reflex than conscious effort that saved him. Reflex and fear. Pure clammy fear— and the cunning lower brain that Lord Leighton's computer had not touched.
Blade arched backward, at the same time clawing at Redbeard's eyes and kneeing him in the groin. It was not enough. The arms closed steadily around him and Blade felt a rib go.
Blade seized one of the beribboned plaits and tugged at it with all his might, wrenching at the beard with every ounce of strength he possessed. He pulled it out of that contorted face, so close to his own, by the bloody roots.
Redbeard let out a bellow of pain and rage. For an instant his hold loosened and Blade slipped out of that terrible vise.
He flaunted the plait, half of the man's treasured beard, at his opponent, and spoke for the first time since the fight had started.
'Here are your pretty ribbons. Come and take them back!'
Redbeard charged like a berserk bull, his pride and vanity outraged, his only thought to crush and maul this upstart stranger into a pulp.
Blade moved to one side, tripped the charging man, and whipped him in the face with his own beard. The red hair, tightly coiled and plaited, a good three feet long, was as flexible as a serpent in his hand. A new memory flashed into Blade's consciousness and he knew how he was going to kill Redbeard.
But quickly. It must be fast! He was weary, his chest heaving and legs trembling, while Redbeard scarcely breathed hard except for rage and chagrin.
When Blade tripped him and Redbeard went sprawling to his knees Blade had a flash of pure inspiration. The more demented with rage his opponent, the better Blade's chances.
With a look of utter contempt Blade kicked the big man squarely in the rear. A roar went up from the tables. Men were seeing what had not been dreamed of— the fabulous Getorix kicked like any common slave.
Redbeard, hurt only in his pride— and that damaged beyond repair— clambered to his feet, like a felled tree rising again, and charged back at Blade. He was insane with rage and lust to kill, his huge face swollen purple, his eyes rolling and showing the whites. He came at Blade like a battering ram.
