"Moidor has a reputation," mused the prince. "It could be that she was afraid of the outcome." He leaned forward a little, eyes glowing as he studied the lithe figure of the girl. "Her maid?"
"The Lady Thoth, My Lord."
"I have a thought," whispered the prince. "If you could arrange for me to have a private, personal match with her you would be the richer by the wealth of a city."
"You have excellent taste, My Lord. She is indeed a lovely woman." Crowder took care not to look at the subject of their discussion. The woman-guards had keen eyes and were jealous of the honor of their charges. "Stir her passion with the sight of blood and—who knows?"
Emmened smiled and Crowder felt a sudden chill. His prince was a creature of cruel whims and sadistic notions. Should he order the courtier to deliver the girl to his bed, and should he fail as fail he must, then it would be wiser for him to swallow poison.
"Raise the offer," said Emmened abruptly. "Tempt the fools to fight—and tell Moidor not to be gentle. We need the sight of blood." He looked deliberately at the girl, his eyes hot with anticipation.
Dumarest followed the direction of his stare. He saw the old woman, the girl at her side. His face hardened as he recognized the scarlet robe of the cyber. Megan whispered at his side.
"That's the party which arrived with you."
"I know." Dumarest had nothing to thank them for. He tightened his stomach against its emptiness. Sweat ran down his face. The heat was that of an oven.
Crowder came forward, walking the perimeter of the cleared space.
"A traveler's passage to any who can win a single fall," he shouted. "High travel to anyone who can kill." Dumarest swayed forward.
"Earl!" Megan clutched at his arm. "Has that grass sent you crazy? You wouldn't stand a chance against an animal like that."
Crowder had noticed the slight movement. He came closer, smiling, repeating the offer and adding a little more bait.
"A passage for a single fall. High travel if you kill. A hundred units if you try." Coins shone hypnotically in his hand. His smile widened as Dumarest stepped forward. "You?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to strip, oil, prepare yourself?"
"No." Dumarest was curt. "Give me the money."
"A moment. Would you prefer to fight armed? Knives, perhaps?"
"As I am." Dumarest held out his hand. "Give me the money."
Crowder shrugged and passed over the coins. Dumarest threw them to Megan, rubbed his hands on the sides of his shirt, then stepped toward the fighter, Moidor smiled.
He was a beautiful animal and he knew it. He postured, flexing his muscles so that the sun gleamed on lumps and ridges of tissue, throwing shadows into the hollows and concave places. He had spent his life developing his body. He looked indestructible.
"Come," he smiled as Dumarest stepped forward. "Come into my arms, my brave one. Feel my embrace —and die!"
His voice was a little slurred, his smile and gesture a little slow. His eyes needed time to change focus. Quick-time still lingered in his blood and compressed the passing seconds. His reflexes were not operating at their normal speed but he was still dangerous. Dumarest didn't have to look at the two dead men to remind himself of that. But it gave him a thin chance, whereas, if the fighter were normal, he would have had no chance at all.
"You wait," purred Moidor. "You hesitate. Do not be afraid. I bring death as a friend."
He stepped forward, smiling, his arms raising to shoulder height.
"Now," he whispered.
Dumarest kicked him in the knee.
He lashed out with his full force, throwing his shoulders back from the reaching hands, pivoting on his hip. He knew better than to aim for the groin. His foot would have had to travel twice as far; it would have given twice the time to dodge. And he doubted if such a kick would have been effective. The target was too small, the spot too vulnerable not to have been protected.
He felt something yield beneath the impact of his heavy boot. He let himself fall backward, not fighting the natural movement, rolling as he hit the ground. He scrambled back on guard, ducked as a hand reached for his throat and winced as its companion slammed against his side. He backed quickly. Moidor followed him, stumbling as he rested his weight on his injured knee. Dumarest kicked again as the fighter gripped his shoulder. Moidor sucked in his breath.
"Quick," he applauded. "Vicious. You make a worthy opponent, my friend." His hands clamped around Dumarest's throat. "You have damaged my knee," he purred. "For that I shall not be kind. I will hurt you in return—badly. You will take a very long time to die."
His hands began to close. Dumarest flung himself backwards, jerking up his knees and pressing them against the oiled barrel of the fighter's chest. He exerted the strength of his thighs, forcing himself backward against the throttling hands. He was trying to utilize the whole power of his body against the strength of the fingers around his throat. Blood began to pound in his ears and his lungs to burn. Reaching up and back he found the little fingers. Taking one in each hand he pulled outward, levering them from his throat. Moidor opened his hands.
Impelled by the pressure of his thighs Dumarest fell backward, landing heavily on his upper shoulders. He grunted as a naked foot, as hard as stone, kicked him in the side. He rolled as the same foot lashed at his kidneys. He staggered to his feet, the taste of blood in his mouth, sweat running into his eyes. He dashed it away, looking for the fighter. Moidor stood a few feet away, watching.
"A taste," he said, "of what is to come."
Dumarest gulped for breath. Red welts marked his throat and the shirt he had retained as protection against the fighter's nails hung in shreds. He dared not take the time to rip it off. Cautiously he backed, panting as he filled his lungs to oxygenate his blood. He circled so that his back was toward the sun.
Moidor lunged forward and stumbled. "My knee!" His teeth shone in the cavern of his mouth. "You will pay for that!"
He hopped forward and Dumarest moved barely in time. He stooped and snatched up a handful of dirt. He darted forward, hurling it into the snarling face, the gleaming eyes. He might as well have thrown a handful of mist.
He threw himself down and to one side as his rush carried him within reach of the fighter's grasp, his right hand hitting the dirt. He pivoted on his stiffened right arm, swinging his boot in a slashing arc toward the damaged knee. Bone yielded. Off-balance he tried to roll, to spin away from danger.
He was too slow. Moidor, balanced on one leg, caught his as he scrambled to his feet. Dumarest twisted as hands gripped his shoulders, slamming the edge of his palm across the fighter's nose. Blood spurted, mingling with the sweat and oil, staining the bared teeth vivid crimson.
"Now!" snarled Moidor. "Now!"
His hands were steel traps as they closed on the biceps, the fingers digging in to rip the muscle from the bone. Dumarest groaned, tore himself free with maniacal strength of desperation, flung himself behind the gleaming body. Savagely he kicked at the back of the uninjured knee.
Moidor fell.
Immediately Dumarest was on his back, one arm locked around his throat, knees grinding into his spine, his free hand clamped on his other wrist. He forced strength into his arms and shoulders and pulled upward against the chin.
The watching crowd sucked in its breath.
He pulled harder. His ears began to sing and blackness edged his vision. From somewhere he could hear yells of encouragement but they sounded thin and distant. Beneath him Moidor stirred, hands groping at the dirt for leverage. A moment and he would be free. Dumarest lifted his eyes toward the sun. He heaved.
Bone snapped.
The sky turned the color of blood.