Drebin must have reached the same conclusion at much the same time. His spear suddenly rose and flashed forward at Blade. It was aimed low so that if it missed, it would not go sailing into the crowd. Blade was not surprised; he sprang aside with no more than a grazed calf. But as he came down, he was off balance, and Drebin leaped forward and launched a spring kick at Blade's groin.
It almost connected. The hard-soled foot driven by the muscular leg with the whole weight of Drebin's powerful body jarred into Blade's hip bone only a few inches to the right of its target. Blade's efforts to regain his balance were shattered. But he still had his sword and spear. He swung inward with both of them. Again the distance was too close to bring the spearhead into play, but again the heavy metal shaft cracked into Drebin, this time just above the left shin. The sword came down and took a visible chunk out of the man's calf. Blood-the first in the fight-oozed out and mixed with the war master's glaze of sweat. Drebin backed clear, but now he was favoring his left leg and looking down at it.
Blade followed up his newly gained advantage in speed and went over to a continuous attack. Thrust and slash followed in eye-blurring succession. All his speed and strength went into each blow. He was not sparing his strength for the long haul any more. It was time to move in and finish while Drebin was slowed physically and upset psychologically. Most of the war master's victories had been gained without taking even a scratch. The weakened leg would be doing almost as much damage to his morale as to his fighting style.
But Drebin's defense held. As his blows clanged and crashed against Drebin's parries, Blade became aware of another sound in the background-the muttering of thunder, becoming rapidly louder. The sticky heat of the day was about to break in a thunderstorm. In a few more minutes he and Drebin would be fighting it out in a pouring rain.
The war master was definitely on the defensive now. But though his leg made him less mobile, his iron arms still kept that defense solid enough to avoid any more wounds. Blade knew that it would be impossible to suck Drebin out of his defensive stance by any ruse as simpleminded as the one he had used on the Wakers when rescuing Erlik.
Suddenly Drebin gathered both legs under him and leaped a full yard backward, dropping his sword as he did so. Before even Blade's hair-trigger reflexes could react, his opponent had clamped both hands on his spear shaft in a quarterstaff grip. Then the war master sprang forward again, the spear whirling blurringly ahead of him like the propeller of an airplane. There was another anvil clang as it came down on Blade's thrusting sword, beating it down until its point nearly sank into the ground. Then the spear whipped up and over and came down, the butt end crashing across Blade's left shoulder.
Blade wasn't sure, but he thought he heard the crack of bone as the spear butt came down. He certainly felt his left arm go limp and numb. He let go of his spear. Drebin was trying a rush job now; he might be careless. But could Blade take advantage of that with an arm and shoulder out?
His muscles reacting almost independently, Blade threw himself backward. He raised the sword point high as he came down on his back, rolled and then snapped his sword arm outward to the right. Drebin instantly shifted his grip on the spear for a thrust and raised it high to ram the point down into Blade's stomach. Blade was still rolling back, almost into a half somersault, as the point snapped downward. In the split-second while the point was in mid-air, he rolled back again, both legs fully extended. Both feet slammed full force into Drebin's stomach, simultaneously twisting his upper body frantically to the left so that the descending spear point only gashed his side and then grated into the pebbly earth of the courtyard.
Drebin doubled up and sagged forward. As his head sank down, Blade lurched upright into a half crouch and brought the sword around in a slash at the man's neck. It was a clumsy slash, a feeble one, a poorly directed one. But it was the end of Drebin. Blade felt the crunch of bone as the sword chopped into the spine. The war master jerked like a gaffed fish, gave a gargling scream, fell forward onto his face, and lay still. Any more sounds he might have made were drowned by a cataclysmic roar of thunder directly overhead. Seconds later came pattering drops and then a deluge that pounded down the open courtyard like a waterfall.
Whatever their reaction to Blade's victory, the whole crowd-free people, slaves, visitors, and all-was much too busy with a mad scramble for shelter to do or say much about it. The fighters swung their spears like riot clubs, driving the slaves into their tents. The visitors plunged down from the walls and dashed away to seek shelter in other nearby buildings. The People of the Blue Eye stampeded for the door of the tower. Blade threw a quick glance over his shoulder toward the gate, but there were a dozen fighters already standing in front of it. Besides, how would he find Narlena and snatch her out of this mob scene? He let himself be swept through the door and up two flights of stairs before the torrent of people began to break up as they scattered to their own living chambers.
He leaned against the wall, lungs heaving as they tried to claw in a little air. Then he gently probed his swollen left shoulder, trying to restore a little life and feeling into it. He could see through a window down into the rain-lashed courtyard, now deserted except for the last few slaves scampering into their tents and the guards on post. Drebin's body still lay where it had fallen in the middle of the arena.
Blade's shoulder had just reached the point where he could move it without gasping at the pain, when he became aware of someone standing beside him. He turned slowly and saw Halda standing there. The look in her eyes as she ran them over his body was even more unmistakable than before. She gave off the air of a she-wolf in heat who has just seen the old leader of the pack fall and presses close to the new leader, trying to wake a response in him.
She wore only her usual brief kilt, and her small, neat, bare breasts were almost brushing against Blade's side. But she did not awaken the response she wanted. For a moment Blade's right hand tightened into a fist to hammer her to the floor. Then reason took over and his fingers unclenched. He could not sign Narlena's death warrant by rejecting Halda. A satisfied Halda meant a safe Narlena, for the time being at least. And he had to be careful to gain time if he couldn't gain anything else.
So he did not resist when Halda pressed herself against him, lips burrowing into the side of his neck, and fingers running up and down over his bare chest. Then they moved urgently up under his kilt, and arousal came. Halda's eyes lit up, and she led him off down the hall toward her chamber. He was wearily confident that he could do as well by Halda as he needed to do.
Chapter Thirteen
Halda seemed to find Blade more exciting with the blood and sweat from the duel still on his body than she would have otherwise. She was almost insatiable in her demands. But before Blade had exhausted his carefully rationed energies, she had had enough. She was still snuggled close against Blade when she fell asleep.
He looked down at her, and found her more vulnerable and defenseless than ever before. For a moment he could not help feeling a little sorry for her. She was obviously from a different mold than her father, and there must be regrettably little sympathy between them. Krog would be left to bear the burden of his dreams alone. Halda had to seek out what consolation and companionship she could manage in the company of robust barbarians such as the late, unlamented Drebin. If she was warped, it was not surprising.