Herkam frowned; he had no liking for anyone but himself making such prophecies, especially not visiting traders. And things were not going as he had planned. He had expected a quick verdict of guilty in which case the woman could have been disposed of and the incident forgotten.
He said sharply, "We know full well the might of the All Powerful. What does your verdict imply?"
Nimino smiled, white teeth flashing in the torchlight. "The woman denies being a witch," he said. "We have decided that the matter be judged by a Higher Power. If her cham shy;pion falls then she is proven guilty. If not, then she must be allowed to depart in peace."
The thing had its possibilities. The chief elder pondered them, conscious of the watchful eyes in the hall, the air of anticipation. A fight would provide the needed spectacle, the necessary blood and, in the remote event of the woman's champion winning, he would be able to castigate those who had made the accusations. In either case he would be rid of the troublemaker. But it would be best if the woman did not win.
He said, "Who is the woman's champion?"
Dumarest rose. "I am."
Herkam felt a glow of inner satisfaction. A trader. One who, by the nature of his employment, must of necessity lack the strength of a manual worker.
"I bow to your verdict," he said sonorously. And then, to the guards, said, "Find Gilliam and bring him here."
The man was an atavar, a monster, a mutated freak spawned from radiation-distorted genes. Seven feet tall, his shoulders and arms heavy with ridged and knotted muscle, his legs as thick and as strong as the boles of gnarled trees, he lumbered from the rear of the hall and stood blinking in the cleared space before the platform. Matted hair fell to just above his deep-set eyes. Bare feet, callused and scarred, toed the ground. His hands clenched as a voice rumbled from the depths of his chest.
"You want Gilliam, chief elder?"
"I want you to fight." Herkam pointed towards Dumarest. "This is the man."
"To kill?"
"To kill." Herkam gestured at the guards. "Take him and prepare him for battle."
"Earl, I'm sorry." Nimino sucked in his breath. "I didn't know. I thought they would use one of the guards. You're fast and could have taken any of them without trouble. Who would have guessed they had a monster like that?"
"Win or lose I want that oil." Sheyan's face was furrowed with worry. "If you fall, Dumarest, I'm sorry; but it will be just too bad. There's nothing we can do to help you. You go and the girl goes with you."
Dumarest looked to where she stood, the full lips blood shy;less now, her eyes like those of a trapped beast. The hands at her sides were clenched, the knuckles showing white be shy;neath the skin. She turned and caught his eyes, her own following him as he stepped from the platform and moved towards her.
"Mister," she said flatly, "I thank you for what you're try shy;ing to do, but you haven't got a chance. That freak can't be stopped."
"You want me to pull out?"
"No." Her voice was resonant, musical beneath the harsh shy;ness of strain. "This way I've got a slim chance," she ad shy;mitted. "The other way I've got none at all. These crazy people want my blood and if you quit they'll get it." She shivered a little. "Look at them! Animals! And Gilliam's the worst. He's an idiot, solid bone and muscle with the intel shy;ligence of a five-year-old. They use him to haul up the boats and do all the heavy stuff. Sometimes he goes insane and then they have to catch him in nets and tie him down. As a reward they let him slaughter the cattle. He thinks it's fun."
Dumarest looked to where men clustered around the giant. They were stripping him, coating him with oil, fastening a loincloth of leather around his hips. Dwarfed by his stature the chief elder stood to one side, hands lifted, lips moving as he called a blessing down on the champion of the people.
Nimino came to stand beside the girl and Dumarest.
"You'd better get ready, Earl," he said, his voice reflecting his worry. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Fetch him a laser," said Lallia. "That or a score of men to help him out."
The navigator ignored the comment. "Well, Earl?"
"No." Dumarest flexed his toes in his shoes, his shoulders beneath the material of his uniform. The plastic was firm and would give some protection against the claws of his opponent. "Do we fight bare-handed?"
A guard came forward and handed him a stave. It was a plain length of wood, six feet long and two inches thick; both ends were bound with leather. Nimino stepped back, pulling the girl with him as Gilliam moved to the center of the open space.
"I kill," he said. And rushed forward.
Dumarest ducked and felt the wind brush his hair, the drone of the staff's passing sounding like a deep-toned bee. Immediately he sprang aside as Gilliam, turning with amaz shy;ing speed, again lashed out with the staff. He held it in one great hand, wielding it as a boy would a stick, lashing with the full power of his arms and shoulders at the darting figure in the cleared space.
"Good luck, Earl!" called Nimino.
"Kill him, Earl!" said the girl.
Dumarest ignored the encouragement as he warily darted from the attacks of his opponent. He held his own staff horizontal before him, each hand a third of the way from either end, ready to parry or strike as the opportunity pre shy;sented itself. The weapon was clumsy, awkward to handle, needing much practice before a man could become pro shy;ficient in its use. Had Gilliam used it properly Dumarest knew that he would already be dead.
He ducked again, darted to one side, sprang back as a vicious downswing caused the air to strike his eyeballs. It was useless to attempt to tire his opponent, those great mus shy;cles would house inexhaustible energy and, too, they pro shy;tected the bone beneath. Letting trained reflexes govern his evading movements Dumarest studied the weak points against which he must aim his attack: the groin, joints, eyes, and throat. The groin presented too small a target and was protected by the swell of thighs and the ridged muscle of the belly. A successful attack could win the contest but the chances were against it being successful. The deep-set eyes were set with ridges of overhanging bone; the spade of the chin lowered over the vulnerable throat. The elbows were awkward to get at.
Only one thing was really in his favor: the limited intel shy;ligence of the giant. Gilliam had been given a staff and told to kill his opponent. He tried to do it with the staff alone instead of adding the weapon to his natural armory. Also he was using it as a saber-and any man armed with a quarterstaff could beat a swordsman.
If he were skilled with its use.
If the swordsman had normal strength.
Again the giant swung his staff through the air. Duma-rest ducked, straightened, and saw the length of wood sweeping in a backhand slash towards his skull. Desperate shy;ly he threw up his own staff, the wood meeting with a vicious crack, the force of the interrupted blow knocking his own weapon hard against the side of his head. Dazed, Duma-rest fell to the ground, rolling frantically as the staff whined down towards him, the end gouging deep as he sprang to his feet.