The Steppeman went by just a little too fast. Blade saw the tip of his sword whistle by the back of the man's neck close enough to cut off one pigtail. He also saw a look of amazement burst onto the other's face. The man had just seen the impossible-or at least what all Steppemen had thought to be impossible until now!
If there was fear behind the Steppeman's amazement, it did not last long. With the pressure of his knees he swung his horse into an incredibly tight turn. It seemed to practically spin around on its hind legs. Then he was coming in at Blade again. This time he held his sword vertically and well out in front of him.
Blade did not move. He simply swung his own horse around on the spot, bringing its head and his face toward the Steppeman's attack. This time when Blade raised his sword he had both hands locked on the hilt, and this time it was he who struck first, swinging from the waist with all of his enormous strength.
If there had been any flaw in the other man's sword it would have split apart like a stalk of bamboo. If there had been any weakness in his grip, the sword would have flown out of his hands. If there had been any fault in his seat on his horse, he would have gone sailing over its rump and crashed to the ground. Steel and grip and seat on the horse were all sound. The clash of swords sounded like a stamping machine coming down on a sheet of metal, but the Steppeman rode on past Blade, still in his saddle and his sword still in his hands. He was shaking his head at the jolt Blade had sent up his arms, but he seemed unhurt.
Blade instantly swung his horse and kept it swinging as the Steppeman rode around him in a tight circle. He knew now that he faced a first-class opponent, strong and quick and tough. He would need to put all his own strength and skill and endurance into this duel and hope for good luck as well. He could not be certain of the good luck, but he could be certain of one thing.
This was going to be a long fight.
It was. The minutes followed each other in grim succession, until the first half hour was gone. Each of the duelists used every one of those minutes to do what he knew he had to do to win. The Steppeman circled and passed and backed and charged, trying to come in from an angle Blade could not hope to guard and get a stroke home. One stroke with the great two-handed sword would be enough.
He never succeeded.
Blade also circled and backed, but within a circle no more than a few feet across. He was happy to let the Steppeman ride around and around, working both himself and his horse into a sweat. Blade could stay where he was, meet each attack as it was launched, and try to get one of his own strokes home. He was not sure that one would be enough. Blade's enormous strength made it possible for him to wield the great Steppe sword with one hand, something that drew awed gasps from the spectators. He could not put all his power into a one-handed stroke, and half the time that was what he had to use. Still, one good cut sent home would be a good starting point toward his own victory and the victory of Prince Durouman.
Blade didn't succeed either.
Eventually the first half hour was gone. The Steppeman raised a hand to signal the trumpeters and drummers. They blew for a truce, and the Steppeman spurred his lathered horse to a trot, away from Blade.
Blade was tempted not to change horses. That would be a grand gesture, certainly. It would also be a dangerous one. His horse was sweating and beginning to lose speed. No doubt it would help his side if he put on a good show in this duel, but not at the risk of getting his head cut off.
So he rode back, inspected the harness and gear on his new horse, and rode out onto the dueling ground for the second round. As the Steppeman approached, Blade scanned every detail of his clothing and horse. There were no changes that he could see. So far the Steppeman seemed ready to play this game by the rules.
The second round went by in the same way as the first. By now both sides were shouting in amazement at the skill of both riders, so loudly that Blade could barely hear the drums and trumpets that signaled the end of the round.
The third round began and passed. So did the fourth round. Two hours in the saddle, two hours with the sword in his hand, two hours of split-second alertness.
By now the sun was well up, the wind had dropped, and a blanket of stifling, sticky heat had fallen over the dueling grounds. Blade felt his body pouring sweat until he swore he could feel and hear it sloshing around in his boots.
When he rode back out for the fifth round, he noticed that one of the bags on the Steppeman's saddle now bulged and bounced. Apparently the man had decided to fill it with water so that he could take a drink from time to time, whenever he moved out of Blade's range. Not a bad idea. Blade made a mental note to hook a water bag onto his own saddle at the next change of horses.
The duelists settled into the same grim, deadly routine as before. Blade forced himself to remember the danger and forget about the routine. Otherwise, he knew he might forget that things could still change drastically and murderously at any second.
On and on. The Steppeman's horse seemed to be losing speed, though. He was also looking down more and more often at his water bag, although he hadn't yet taken a drink from it. Blade wondered if he would, or if his warrior's pride would make him fall out of the saddle first.
Blade also wondered how long this duel could go on. Perhaps one or the other of them would get lucky. Perhaps one or the other would collapse from the heat. And perhaps they would go on and on, round after round, until all the horses in the Steppemen's camp were dead or exhausted. Then they would go on fighting on foot, still circling round each other, still swinging at each other, until the stars went out and the sun turned cold and the universe itself came to an end.
Blade knew that couldn't possibly happen, but it was hard to fight off the feeling that it might.
He forced himself back to alertness as the Steppeman rode in again. He seemed to be going more slowly than before, and Blade got ready to launch an attack that might finally get through. He allowed hope to rise in him. This might be the moment. This had to be the moment. This-
In a sudden explosive movement, the Steppeman shifted his sword to one hand. The other hand plunged down and snatched at the mouth of the water bag. A jerk, and it sagged open. Something long and dark and writhing spilled out, seeming to fly through the air to land with a hiss almost under the feet of Blade's horse.
Blade had only a split second to realize what was happening. As fast as his reflexes were, they were not fast enough. His horse's instincts about snakes took over. It reared with a scream, so high that no one who wasn't tied to the saddle could have stayed on its back.
Blade felt himself going down, knew in the same moment that he had to stay clear of both the horse and the snake and hold on to his sword as well, then hit the ground with a crash. His breath went out of him and consciousness nearly went with it. Somehow he rolled clear of the horse's flailing hooves as it also went down and thrashed about. Somehow he did not roll within range of the snake's fangs before the panic-stricken horse rolled over it and crushed it fiat.
Somehow, also, the sword flew from his hand and thudded to the ground yards away.
Blade sprang to his feet just as the Steppeman turned his horse and rode toward the fallen sword. Blade lunged at it too. The Steppeman swung his own sword wide, and Blade sprang back to avoid having his belly sliced open. The Steppeman swung his sword down like a polo mallet, catching Blade's fallen weapon. It sailed glittering into the air and fell to the ground nearly fifty feet away.