The baron of the ville smiled. "Not blasters. Our champion selects the weapon and the grounds for the challenge."

"Don't take fucking chances!" Jak spit disgustedly.

Ryan waited. Over the years he'd come across an occasional duel, generally over a woman. Or drugs. There'd been two stupes up near the northwest coast, logging country, who sat on adjacent, identical branches, eighty feet up a ponderosa pine. Each started sawing on the other's branch at the same point and finished sawing through at the same moment.

Both hit the ground at the same moment.

There'd been a skinny little kid in some pesthole gaudy house near a desert hot spot, someplace. He'd been challenged by a big bounty hunter to fight, and the kid picked pool balls from the length of a table. The big man laughed at that. The kid wiped him away with his first shot — an eight ball between the eyes, with a vicious snap of the wrist. Ryan could still see the look of shock in the dead man's eyes as he went down.

"I'm the champion of the ville of Markland, and Sharptooth here is my chosen weapon. We shall fight on the shore of the water. To the death, outlander. Aye."

Somehow, Ryan had guessed that it would be the slightly built Odo Crookback who would stand against them. Despite his physical disability the young man was light on his feet, the narrow sword in his hand dancing and darting in the crimson glow of the pine fire.

"Swords? We don't have a sword, Jorund."

Baron Thoraldson smiled. "We shall be happy to give one to you to fight against our champion. If you lose, then you will be dead. And she will also die on the stake."

"Sure."

Mildred watched him, biting her lip. "This is a shit-bad scene, Ryan. Why not just shoot them and run for it? We'd have a better chance than trying to sword-fight against the little weasel-prick."

"J.B. knows that if I go down, or look like I'm going down, he'll open up with the automatic rifle. That's when we move."

"But that guy looks like he could be real good with a sword."

"Yeah. But I have to go..." He stopped abruptly when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Theophilus Algernon Tanner, master of foil, epee and saber, at your service, Ryan," Doc announced, waving his ebony cane. "I'll fight him."

Chapter Twenty

There was a brief but bitter argument among the Vikings when Ryan announced that Doc Tanner would be the champion for the life of Mildred Wyeth.

The baron led his men to the far end of the longhouse for a degree of privacy. But Ryan and the rest couldn't fail to hear the raised voices or see the clenched fists. It was noticeable that Odo Crookback took no part in the discussion. He sat alone on a scarred table, swinging his feet and tapping the point of his sword against the earth floor. He whistled tunelessly to himself and smiled every now and then at the group of outlanders.

Jorund came back, the rest of the Norsemen clustered behind him. "We think that the old man should not fight in this matter."

Doc smiled. "I happen to disagree, and I think that the old man shouldfight in this matter."

The baron sighed. "Well, enough. I cannot and will not stop you. But Odo is the best swordsman in this steading. He will cut the old one to pieces. There will be no quarter given."

Again Doc answered him. "And no quarter will be asked for."

"You'll borrow a sword, old man?"

"No. I shall use this." He drew the slim blade of steel from its ebony lining, gripping it by the silver lion's-head hilt.

Thoraldson nodded. "Then let us to it."

The women and children were sent into the huts, and stray animals were safely penned. The bounds of the fight were quickly set. A rough square was marked out on the beach that sloped gently down to the edge of the water. The perimeters were gouged in the shingled sand, about twenty paces along each side, and a large, dying fire claimed the center. Doc was placed in one corner and Odo stood, light and easy, in the opposite corner, so that the burning logs lay between them.

Each man was allowed a second to assist him in his preparations. Odo had Sigurd Harefoot and Doc asked Ryan to stand with him.

"You sure you want to do this, Doc?" Ryan asked. "I don't want to screw up your confidence, but..."

"I fenced at Harvard and during my brief but pleasant sojourn at Oxford University. I was quite skilled, though I do say so myself."

"This won't be a game, Doc."

"I know it. There are times — too many — when my mind wanders from my control. But that doesn't mean that I am always a gull and a fool." He smiled, showing his peculiarly perfect teeth. "I rarely have the chance to pull my weight in this company, Ryan. Allow me this moment, will you?"

"Sure."

"And if it goes badly, you must not interfere on my part. Promise me that."

"Course, Doc. I promise."

But it was a promise that Ryan hadn't the least intention of keeping.

Doc discarded his frock coat, choosing to fight in his shirt. His pants were tucked into his cracked knee boots.

Jak appeared for a moment in the corner of the fighting area. "Get bastard face low sun, Doc. Blind fucker."

"Thank you, dear boy, thank you. I shall endeavor to retain that advice as best I can during the coming duello."

Ryan beckoned Thoraldson to come over. "Any rules in this, Baron?"

"None, outlander. Except that no man shall break the bounds of the fight. Down is down, and down shall be dead."

"Sure. Hear that, Doc? No rules. Anything goes. Right?"

There was a quick, nervous smile from the old man. He took several deep breaths, bending and flexing his knees, the joints creaking alarmingly in the quiet of the afternoon.

"Ready?" Baron Jorund shouted.

"Ready," Doc replied.

"May Odin aid my arm and speed Sharptooth to the belly of the graybeard outlander," Odo called in a reedy, mocking voice.

As the two men began to shuffle forward, Doc replied to the Viking's taunting. "And may this blade, Bloodsucker, drain your life, you disjointed lump of humanity."

"I'll sever every joint in your body for that, you stinking heap of tripe!" the advancing Norseman screamed.

There was a light wind from out of the east that raised small ripples on the limitless expanse of leaden water. Ryan stood close to the edge of the lake and noticed that his tiny rad counter was showing amber, warning of some middle-power hot spot that was fairly close by. But the start of the fight distracted Ryan from the thought.

Doc began to shuffle sideways, keeping a careful eye on the Viking on the far side of the fire. As Odo went left, Doc matched him, feeling for a footing, testing the ground. His sword hung loose from his hand, almost as if he'd forgotten he was holding it.

"Go for him, Doc!" J.B. called.

Far above them some gigantic mutie bird flew across the sun, giving a piercing, mournful screaming cry, its shadow sweeping the earth far below.

At Ryan's side, Mildred shuddered. "Like one of the Dark Riders," she whispered.

Ryan didn't know what she meant and was too involved in watching Doc to worry about asking her. His hand still rested on the butt of his pistol.

After a couple of minutes there had been no contact at all between the two men. Ryan noticed that Odo shuffled a little, dragging his left leg, the same side as his dropped shoulder. Doc was moving slowly, breathing easily.

"Must I chase you all the way to Valhalla, old man?" Odo called.

"You hobble like some bottled spider. If you prefer it, I shall stand here and wait for you, my friend."

With spots of hectic color standing out on his pale cheekbones, the Norseman rushed around the blazing logs to where Doc now stood his ground.