Near-silence fell through the firelit dimness of the big turf-walled hall.

"And since he might fear my sword is enchanted, let us fight here and now with only the weapons the gods give to every man," he went on, holding up his clenched fists. That provoked a surprised rumble. "To the death, of course."

Laughter at that, fists and the pommels of knives pounding trestle boards until the pottery tableware rattled. That bitch Alston wasn't completely wrong, he thought. This is a lot like a biker gang. Guts and toughness were everything. He'd put his stock up considerably by challenging Man Mountain here, and he'd have lost everything if he'd backed down.

Daurthunnicar's fork-bearded face swung back and forth between them, little blue eyes narrowed. On the one hand, Tautanorrix was a valued supporter. On the other, Walker had made the chief rich-and unlike virtually every other subchief of the tribe, he'd consistently deferred to his patron, thrown his weight behind him in council, and given him shrewd advice on how to increase his own power, make himself a real king. The idea was strange to the Iraiina chieftain, but he'd taken to it like a Russian to vodka. And Walker had a strong following of his own among the younger Iraiina warriors.

The rumbling voice of the high chief went on:

"You are both warriors of note, forward in shedding blood and manslaying, generous in feeding the Crow Goddess. Indeed, it might be said that you're among the best of us. If you fought, the tribe would lose whoever died." A long pause. "But words have been passed which cannot be brought back. Hear the word of the rahax! Let these men fight. Let the Wise Man see that no enchantments are used, only strength and skill and luck."

More rousing cheers from the warriors and warrior guests and their women, and cat-yowls of excitement as the betting began. Daurthunnicar was a shrewd leader in his way; he knew when to rule by taking this pack of wolves in the direction it wanted to go. Tautanorrix bellowed with glee.

The rahax held up his sword again. "The tribe must be one, here in our new lands. So I, your rahax, will pay the blood and honor price to the kindred of the man who falls. Let both of you swear, in the name of your kindred, that they will take the price and not seek blood for blood; that is honorable, because this is no killing by stealth, but an honest challenge."

Walker nodded. "Hear the wisdom of our rahax!" he said. Sotto voce in English, to Cuddy: "If I lose, kill the bastard."

Tautanorrix sneered: "I will break him between my hands and give his body to the Blood Hag. Yet the word of our rahax is wise."

Daurthunnicar went on: "And the victor shall be acknowledged by all men as the champion of the rahax, first among the warriors of the Iraiina folk, with an honor price of a hundred horses and two hundred cattle. In acknowledgment of this, he who is victor here shall take as his wife my daughter Ekhnonpa."

That brought full silence. The rahax had no living sons, although he was well provided with nephews. That made the marriage all the more significant, since whoever wed the chiefs daughter would be a member of the chieftain's kin by tribal law, and eligible himself to become rahax.

Oho! Walker thought. Well, maybe I will stay.

He vaulted over the trestle table into the open space between the firepits. Isketerol was leaning back with a raised eyebrow; Walker slipped him a wink as he stripped off coat and shirt and T-shirt. Tautanorrix blinked surprise but did the same, save for the gold bands on his arms and neck. His chest was shaggy with the same yellow hair that swung in a braid down his back and cascaded from his chin; the skin was almost blue-white where it hadn't been exposed to the sun. Blue-and-crimson rings of tattoo circled his biceps under the gold armlets.

The American looked at him critically; about two-forty on the scales, he judged, and built like a Swedish weight lifter. So, he's fifty pounds heavier, stronger, and probably fast too, Walker estimated, taking slow deep breaths. He put right fist to left palm and bowed slightly, then brought both fists up.

Normally he thought of fair fights as something for suckers, but this time there had to be a real battle, something the audience could understand.

Tautanorrix bellowed and leaped, arms wide to grip and crush.

The attackers came at her steadily, unintimidated, moving the shields just enough to block. Alston took a deep breath and launched herself forward in a shoulder strike, pinning the other short sword back as she did. Her armored shoulder punched into the shield before her with a metallic crack. The man behind the shield staggered backward, away from his companion. She followed up, slamming at him until the shield boomed and he was wavering back on his heels. Then she had to wheel herself as his companion came up, boring in and stabbing.

"Stop," she called.

The trainees did, leaning on the shields and panting, the double-weight wooden training swords dangling from their hands. Elsewhere in the high school gymnasium the noise continued unabated, the whack of wood on the pells, or on the metal of armor. Most of the trainees were wearing wire face protectors as well; they'd had quite a few accidents involving broken noses or lost teeth, and Alston had been utterly intolerant of any toning-down of the regimen. Others were doing unarmed combat, or climbing up ropes and over barricades in armor. There was a heavy smell of whale-oil lanterns and sweat, and a cold damp tang to the air; snow lay a foot deep outside, and the huge empty spaces had been designed for central heating, not wood stoves.

She controlled her own breathing, keeping it slow and deep as she felt the sweat soaking her padding turn chill, and watched the purple faces of the two youngsters. Siblings, Kenneth and Kathryn Hollard, about two years between them; they had the Yankee look, light brown hair and blue eyes, long bony faces.

"You two have been really practicin'," she said.

"Yes ma'am," they chorused, with grins of enthusiasm.

"Why do you want to volunteer for the expedition?" she said.

They looked at each other. "Ah…" the young man said. "It needs to be done."

Good answer, she decided. More thoughtful than most his age. They weren't talking about the other reasons, of course: boredom, longing to travel, even the desire for adventure. Her mouth quirked slightly at the corner.

"Mr. Hollard, Ms. Hollard, remember that adventure is someone else in deep trouble a long way away. I can tell you that having a spear through your leg is no… fun… at… all. Sterowsky!"

The sailor barking at a group ramming spears into a wall-mounted target came loping over. He'd recovered reasonably well from the blow of the obsidian rake across his face, but the scar was still purple along its edges and his beard was growing in white along the line. It pulled up his mouth into a continual half-sneer.

"Want to show me off again, ma'am?" he said.

"If you don't mind."

"De nada, ma'am."

The two young islanders had turned a little pale.

"Not everybody can come, and there's militia work to be done here, too. We'll need qualified instructors. Listen, you two-people are going to get killed, people are going to get cut up, crippled for life."

"Ma'am… I'd rather go with the expedition." They spoke in almost-unison, like a bad mixing job on a record.

Alston nodded. "You understand that you'll be under military discipline?" she said.

"Yes ma'am. Our dad was in the Marines."

"All right then; you can both sign up and move into barracks." She wanted the teams that would be fighting together to live tight for as long as possible first. You did better with people who knew each other than with strangers. Her eyes went to the girl. "After you report to the clinic and get the IUD fitted."