«It shall be so!» came back in a roar from nearly a thousand throats. Even the slaves and onlookers from other gangs joined in to swell the uproar. Blade sensed a blood-lust in the crowd, a blood lust that was already stirring them at the prospect of seeing a duel to the death. Except for Drebin's supporters they would probably not care in the least who won. If they showed any partisanship at all, it would most likely be for the one who offered them the best show. That might be a key to getting the crowd on his side, Blade thought. He made up his mind to give them the best show possible without risking his own neck in the process.

Drebin's mind was apparently working along much the same lines. He was prancing about like a stallion during the mating season, kicking up gravel with his bare feet, shooting his arms and legs out in straight swift strokes, and leaping half his own height into the air. The crowd was eating it up, cheering almost continuously. Blade stood silent, watching Drebin make an ass of himself, giving away clues to his speed, and wasting energy. Blade was not going to play the showman game in such a silly way. He would save his fireworks for the actual fight.

Eventually Drebin's cavorting was ended by a silent glare from Krog. The war master stood silent, watching Blade. Blade noted that his opponent showed no sign of hard breathing. Then Krog stepped forward into the middle of the arena, raised his voice, and called out to both fighters, «Are you ready?» They nodded. Krog stepped backward to the edge of the arena and raised his sword again. «When I drop my sword, the fight shall begin.»

Blade stood flat-footed and outwardly unalert, but he was watching Drebin, like a cat watching a mouse. It would be a fine, showy trick for the war master to attempt a swift, clean kill in the first few seconds of the fight, like a fool's mate in chess. He would have to watch for this. Drebin showed no signs of tension either, but his eyes never left Blade.

Krog raised his sword until the point was aimed straight up at the gray sky and held it there. The murmurings in the crowd died away, and a silence filled the courtyard, hanging like something visible in the muggy air. Then with a snap of Krog's wiry arms, the sword came down.

Drebin moved forward but not in a senseless bull's rush this time. He had seen that Blade was too strong an opponent to make that safe. He came in at a slow sidling crouch, sword held low, well in front of him, a spear raised and held back of the other hand-he was ready for a quick throw. From the way Drebin held his sword, Blade realized that the war master knew how to thrust as well as slash-another trick that would not surprise the man, then. But would he be wise to all the tricks Blade might use? Time to find out.

Blade stalked forward in a crouch that was a mirror-image of Drebin's, his weapons held in identical positions. As he moved forward into the arena, Drebin began sidling to the right. He was trying to maneuver Blade around into a position where Blade could not throw his spear without risk of hitting the crowd if he missed. He himself would have nothing but bare wall to hit if he missed Blade.

Blade closed in, slowly at first. Then just as Drebin was about to throw, he covered the last six feet in a rush. In a criss-cross pattern his sword whipped up and smashed into Drebin's poised spear, knocking up the point and nearly smashing it out of his hand. At the same time Blade jabbed sharply downward with his spear at Drebin's sword arm. The man jerked his arm aside, dropping his guard long enough for Blade to aim a spear thrust at his neck. There was not room enough to bring the point up effectively, but the heavy spear shaft smacked hard into the side of Drebin's neck. Blade saw the man wince. Then he sprang clear. Drebin was too fast and strong to make it safe to stay at close quarters until he had taken a lot more punishment than a bruised neck.

Now it was Drebin's turn to attack, his weapons reversed. His spear jutted low and well out in front of him to thrust home like the ram of a galley. His sword hovered menacingly over his other shoulder, ready to slash downward. Could Drebin switch a stroke with the blade-heavy Maker sword from a slash to a thrust in mid-flight?

Blade tightened his own defense and watched Drebin move the spear point, weaving a pattern in the air ahead of him. Blade ignored its gyrations and shifted position only enough to keep the war master from drawing an easy bead on him. Then with a whistle of air the sword flashed back and snapped forward with the full stretch of Drebin's arm, coming down in a stroke intended as a single spectacular blow to split Blade down the middle like a log of wood. With a lightning jerk of wrist and shoulder Blade swung his spear forward and sideways to intercept the slash, but not to meet a thrust. The thrust never developed. The sword came straight down on the spear shaft with a clang like a hammer on an anvil. Although the jar nearly numbed Blade's hand, he held onto the spear. At the same time he struck down Drebin's spear and rode in over it with the point of his sword, slashing the left side of the war master's kilt open without touching the skin. Drebin's breath hissed between his teeth as he inhaled sharply, and his face was grim as he backed hastily away. Blade noted that Drebin was prone to over-commit himself to a single line of attack.

So things went on-and on and on and on. Time seemed to stretch from minutes into half-hours, from half-hours into hours, and from hours into an endless, formless time. It seemed unnatural to Blade that twilight was not moving in upon the city, although he knew that it could hardly be more than three-quarters of an hour since he and Drebin had squared off against each other. Both were pouring with sweat in the humid air, and both were breathing hard. But neither showed signs of weakening, and neither had any visible wound.

Blade knew that he and Drebin were evenly matched. If he could not force some change in the pattern of the fight, it might really go on for hours until both were too exhausted to continue. Or perhaps only one of them — and Blade was not completely certain that he would be the one left on his feet. Drebin seemed as tireless as a machine.

Drebin must have reached the same conclusion at much the same time. His spear suddenly rose and flashed forward at Blade. It was aimed low so that if it missed, it would not go sailing into the crowd. Blade was not surprised; he sprang aside with no more than a grazed calf. But as he came down, he was off balance, and Drebin leaped forward and launched a spring kick at Blade's groin.

It almost connected. The hard-soled foot driven by the muscular leg with the whole weight of Drebin's powerful body jarred into Blade's hip bone only a few inches to the right of its target. Blade's efforts to regain his balance were shattered. But he still had his sword and spear. He swung inward with both of them. Again the distance was too close to bring the spearhead into play, but again the heavy metal shaft cracked into Drebin, this time just above the left shin. The sword came down and took a visible chunk out of the man's calf. Blood-the first in the fight-oozed out and mixed with the war master's glaze of sweat. Drebin backed clear, but now he was favoring his left leg and looking down at it.

Blade followed up his newly gained advantage in speed and went over to a continuous attack. Thrust and slash followed in eye-blurring succession. All his speed and strength went into each blow. He was not sparing his strength for the long haul any more. It was time to move in and finish while Drebin was slowed physically and upset psychologically. Most of the war master's victories had been gained without taking even a scratch. The weakened leg would be doing almost as much damage to his morale as to his fighting style.