"Ready?" Ryan asked quietly.

"Yeah," J.B. replied. Jak simply nodded his agreement.

There was the unmistakable sound of sword blades clashing. A burst of sparks tumbled into the air between the two men.

Doc easily parried the first clumsy lunge of the Viking, twisting his wrist so that the thicker blade of Odo slid away from him.

"Try again, young man," Doc taunted, grinning wolfishly at the hunchback.

Odo gripped the hilt of his sword as though it were a tool, shuffling around Doc, feinting at groin and throat. The older, taller man held the rapier as if it were a delicate musical instrument and ignored most of the false attacks.

"Fight like a warrior, grayhead!" yelled one of the circle of watching men.

Doc ignored the shout, wisely fighting his own way, letting the younger man come to him, occasionally flicking away a tentative lunge with an almost contemptuous ease.

"Is this your best, Baron?" Ryan called, knowing that it would help Doc if Odo could be kept angry and off balance.

"The man whose wound heals first relishes the jest most, One-Eye," Jorund countered.

Odo tried again, feinting for the head, then closing in, dropping his point to try to hack at Doc's legs. It put the older man under pressure and drove him back toward the fire.

"Hold him!" Jak called, a note of worry riding his voice.

For a moment the combatants stood toe to toe, straining against each other, the metallic grating of sword against sword. As Ryan had feared, the young Norseman was stronger, fitter and more used to fighting with steel.

Slowly Doc gave ground, unable to move away quickly because of the blazing logs at his back, unable to disengage his swordstick without giving Odo a clear opening to thrust at him from close range.

The beach under their feet had harder patches of packed pebbles, interspersed with much softer areas of grayish sand. As he retreated, Doc's boot heels slithered into a soft patch and he lost his balance. He fell backward and sprawled defenseless in the sand.

"Farewell, champion," Odo yelled.

The SIG-Sauer was out of its holster, and Ryan's finger whitened on the trigger. Everyone's eyes were fixed to the frozen tableau.

As Odo braced himself for the thrust that he intended would spit the old man through the chest, Doc's outstretched hand grasped a handful of the white dust that lay around the edges of the fire, and he heaved it into the young man's face. Odo shrieked and staggered backward, his free hand rubbing furiously at his eyes.

"Screw him, Doc!" Mildred shouted, her voice rising into the startled stillness.

Doc made it to his feet and advanced remorselessly on the blinded man. "Foul fighting!" someone called.

"No rules," Ryan retorted. "You said no rules."

Odo waved his blade in a whirling mill of frantic defense, trying to hold Doc at bay. But the older man didn't rush in. He took his time, occasionally lifting his own rapier to flick at the other man's sword. There was only Crookback's labored, harsh breathing, and the clang of steel on steel.

Tears streamed down Odo's face, caking it with gray streaks from the ash. His retreat was taking him down the gently sloping beach, toward the edge of the lake.

Doc, his mouth set in a grim line of deadly intent, pursued him. He began to use his swordstick with increasing aggression, thrusting and making the Viking struggle to parry the blows.

"Lunge, riposte and lunge and riposte," Doc recited, as if he were at some Victorian fencing school.

Both men were knee-deep in the water.

"Now, Doc," Ryan breathed.

It was almost as if the old man heard his whispered words. With an easy cut of the wrist he caught Odo's flailing blade on his, turning it away. Half turning so that his shoulder dropped, Doc swung his rapier up and to the right, ripping the Norseman's steel from his hand.

There was a soft sigh from Odo's watching companions. Ryan holstered his pistol.

Odo Crookback stood and waited for his end, arms spread. His sword seemed to hang high in the air, the red sun bouncing bloodily off the steel. It finally fell with a surprisingly small splash, twenty yards away from the two men.

"Strike, outlander," he said to Doc. "Hard and clean."

"Yes."

Doc thrust his left leg forward, right arm and wrist extended. The point entered the body of the Viking a hand's span above his belt and a couple of inches to the left of his breastbone. It slid between the guarding ribs, slicing through the outer muscles of the heart, cutting open the lungs. The power of the blow brought Doc up close against the doomed man, the point of his weapon standing out under the shoulder blade by a good six inches of blood-slick steel.

Odo lurched away, ripping himself clear of the rapier. His fists punched at the sky and he screamed the single word "Odin!" and toppled sideways, falling in a flurry of foam, landing facedown.

"Looks like Mildred stays alive, Baron," Ryan said.

Jorund Thoraldson looked at him, his face betraying no emotion whatsoever. "The gods will it so. You must be hungered. We shall feed you. Come."

Chapter Twenty-One

Ryan and his companions were given a hut that had belonged to a family that had died recently. Harald Verillision, who had been the brewer of ale in the ville of Markland, his wife and both sons had fallen sick of a wasting illness after they'd returned from an expedition to fetch mountain spring water some miles along the coast.

The young woman who brought food to the outlanders told them about it in whispers, looking over her shoulder to make sure nobody overheard her.

"Great buboes grew in their armpits and between their legs. Blisters sprang up around their cracked lips. The nails dropped from their finger ends, and their teeth fell from their bleeding gums."

Mildred glanced across at Ryan, as though she were about to say something. But she chose to keep her own counsel.

"I've been in Markland all my life..." The girl laughed. "Stupid. Everyone in the steading has been here all their lives. Nobody ever leaves, and hardly anyone ever comes."

As she spoke she was fingering the neck of her dress, scratching at a small red spot at the side of her throat.

When she pulled down the woven material, the girl revealed the top of an iron collar, locked in place.

"What's that?" J.B. asked, pointing. "Some kinda punishment?"

The young woman looked puzzled. "My thrall ring? Is that what you mean, outlander?"

"Yeah. The iron collar."

"All thralls wear it."

"What's thrall?" Jak asked.

She turned to the boy, then glanced hastily away, making a strange sign with her fingers, almost as if she were averting some sort of evil.

"Thrall, my dear young man," Doc replied, "is simply an old word for slave. The Vikings built their social order upon thralls."

"You're a slave?" Krysty probed, unable to hide her shock at the idea. "There aren't slaves anymore."

"Tell that to barons like Teague," Ryan said, "and plenty more. Plenty of frontier plague pits have folks no better'n slaves."

"How many of you are thralls, child?" Mildred asked.

The girl repeated the same sign with her fingers, averting her eyes again. "Some."

"Who decides?" Ryan asked.

"What?"

"Who's a slave... thrall, and who isn't? Who makes the rules?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "Outlanders are double-stupes! A thrall is thrall-born. A freeman is free-born. How could it be any different way?"

Ryan nodded. "Yeah. I see that was sort of stupid. Thanks. And thanks for bringing us the meal. Looks good."

"Eat in fine heart and may Freya bless your dining," the girl replied. She curtsied and left the hut, taking care not to look at either Jak or Mildred.