31

Within a quarter-hour, a fighting circle had been laid out in the square outside the Great House. A small army of servants set about raking the sand, placing torches, and erecting a dais for Dayan’s chair, while others of higher rank carried the ceremonial gear: masks, whips, and enormous padded gloves from which protruded three sets of long, curved, razor-edged claws. Gareth had heard stories of such weapons and how the Dry Towners were said to have adopted this style of fighting from the catmen.

Hayat went aside with three of the most elaborately garbed guards. Merach gestured for the other arms-bearer to follow him. Gareth watched, puzzled, as the Dry Towns lord motioned for Gareth to hold out his left hand.

“I don’t understand,” Gareth muttered. “You are Lord Dayan’s man, and you served Hayat. Why would you do this for me?”

“You know little of the ways of kihar, man of Carthon, for all that you have your share of bravery. By assigning his most trusted advisor to make certain all is correct with your weapons, my lord ensures that all the world knows of his impartiality.” Merach tightened the laces around Gareth’s wrists, then tested the glove to make sure it would not slip. “Let no man claim that any advantage was taken this night.”

“What about swords?” Gareth asked as Merach slipped the leather mask over his head. Gareth caught only a glimpse of the painted design, the exaggerated outlines of lips, the broad feline nose. The mask had a faint, unpleasantly musty smell, but the eyeholes were wide enough to not seriously impair his vision.

“In ancient times, we did not use swords.” Merach turned his body slightly so that Gareth, following the movement, saw one of the guards placing a single sword, point down, into the sand at the center of the arena. The first part of the duel would be fought with whips and claws, each striving to entangle the other, to weaken him with pain and blood loss. It would take a long time or extraordinary luck to kill a man that way. The sword was the prize and the key to victory.

Gareth flexed the fingers of his left hand to test the action of the claws. He wondered how much experience Hayat had with them. The glove felt like an alien thing grafted on to his own hand, yet it was not a dishonorable weapon like the Terranan blasters. Whoever used it must place himself within equal risk from his opponent.

The whip was of braided leather, except for the tip, which terminated in a handful of short thongs. It was stiff as if from disuse, with a heavy knot at the end of the handle that fit snugly into Gareth’s palm. He tested the balance, keeping his wrist loose. He’d probably get only one or two chances, with no time to practice, but a quick glance told him that Hayat was no expert, either.

As Merach finished checking Gareth’s gear, the sound from the crowd increased. Through the mask, it sounded like the rumble of thunder on distant peaks. It seemed that half of Shainsa had heard of the duel and gathered to watch. Then Dayan’s voice cut through and the murmurs died away.

Dayan, having commanded the attention of the audience, recited a brief speech in a dialect so archaic, so filled with unfamiliar terms and hissing accents, that Gareth wondered if it were not half in the speech of the catmen.

“The rules are these,” Merach said, bending close so that Gareth could understand his words, even through the mask. “You must stay within the arena. You must fight until one of you is slain or has yielded, in which case he may be killed as one without kihar. No one else may assist you. Do you understand?”

Gareth suppressed a shiver. There were no restrictions on the fight itself. He felt as if he had broken into a dozen pieces, one part of his thoughts trying to understand these unfamiliar weapons, another inventing a strategy of how he could possibly put an end to Hayat under these conditions, yet another part grappled with the certainty of his own death, all the while laboring under the dullness that had smothered his inner senses since Hayat had seized the Nebran amulet. . . .

“Take your place.” Merach pointed to a spot along the rim of the circle, directly opposite where Hayat waited. “Bow first to Lord Dayan and then to your opponent. Lord Dayan will then signal the commencement of the duel.”

How? Gareth wondered, but his mouth had gone too dry for speech.

The torches around the circumference of the arena flared, filling the center with surging red and orange light. The Terranan were said to believe in a fiery hell, and Gareth thought it might resemble this.

Dayan lifted both arms, and Gareth stepped into the off-worlders’ hell.

Across the circle, Hayat did the same. He crouched slightly, shoulders hunched. The Nebran amulet glinted from his open shirtfront.

Gareth kept his muscles loose, his grip on the whip just firm enough for control.

Dayan brought both arms down.

With a wordless scream, Hayat leaped forward. By some trick of the light, his eyes gleamed as if they had burst into flames. Instantly, Gareth saw that Hayat meant to seize the sword right away.

Gareth rushed forward, although he could not close the distance quickly enough. Then, as if a veil had been lifted from his sight, his vision came clear. He could see every detail of the fire-lit arena, every grain of sand, every star overhead.

He slowed, setting his balance, and brought the whip around in back of himself and then over his head. The thong uncurled in a long, lazy arc. His hand passed the top of the circle. His ears caught the faint whistle as leather cut through air, moving faster now, downward, and faster yet as he stretched out his arm. The tips of the thongs shot out with a thunderous crack!

Hayat skidded to a halt and scrambled backward. Whirling, he faced Gareth across the embedded sword.

Without taking his eyes off Hayat, Gareth circled to the left, keeping his whip hand toward his opponent. If he went for the sword, he’d be putting himself at the same disadvantage as Hayat had. Hayat had already shown he could be startled, perhaps even precipitated into panic.

Someone in the crowd began shouting, words Gareth couldn’t make out, only the general sense of them, urging the fighters to get on with it. Gareth struggled to block out the sound. This wasn’t like practice with a swordmaster, where the goal was the perfection of skill, the seamless flow of will and muscle and steel. It wasn’t like the ambush on the Carthon trail; then he had been taken by surprise, they all had, and he’d fought to save the lives of his comrades. This ritualized violence was another matter altogether, exultant in its cruelty.

Hayat took visible heart from the shouting. He straightened from his crouch. A swagger marked his step as he spiraled toward the center, his gaze fixed not on the sword but on Gareth.

“How long do you think you can stand against me, puny sandal wearer? Look at you, half-dead, shriveled up from the desert, your strength draining away . . .” As he spoke, Hayat’s voice settled into a rhythm, half sneer, half singsong. He flicked his whip once, twice, always following the rhythm of his words.

Gareth allowed his shoulders to sag, as if he knew he had no chance and there was no way out. He shrugged, dragging the long line of his own whip to the side, where a quick flip of his forearm would be enough to snap it out.

Hayat kept swinging his whip, fast and jerky. Every four or five steps, he let out a roar and made a swiping motion with his clawed glove. The claws fell so far short, they represented no credible threat. Hayat was indulging in empty show for the approval of the onlookers.

No, Gareth corrected himself as one of Hayat’s whip strikes came perilously close. Hayat was blustering as a distraction while he sidled closer.

Gareth jumped back, narrowly avoiding the tip of Hayat’s whip. He could see the pattern now, but his body was reacting too slowly. The energy from the meal eaten earlier with the yard owner would not last. His muscles felt thick with fatigue. He’d have to force the fight, and soon.

He gathered his ragged strength, lunging for Hayat as he brought his own whip around. Although he was not at all certain of his control, he directed the arc at Hayat’s face. Hayat swerved just as the whip cracked. A cry went up from the crowd, a mixture of outrage and scattered applause. Gareth couldn’t tell if he’d actually struck the other man.

Hayat lurched backward, but he didn’t drop his whip. He scuttled to the very edge of the arena. Chest heaving, he wiped his face in the crook of the elbow of his gloved hand. In the wavering torchlight, Gareth saw the blood welling from a small cut in Hayat’s forehead, just above the top of the mask.

For an instant, Hayat stared at his sleeve as if he could not believe he’d been cut. Screaming, swinging his whip with frenzied abandon, he hurled himself at Gareth.

Whipcracks shocked through the air, one after another. Swirls of dust and fine-grained sand shot upward as the tip of the whip struck the ground.

Gareth sank into a fighting stance, knees bent, weight balanced on both feet. Hayat was swinging so fast and closing so rapidly, timing would be tricky. If Gareth moved too soon, Hayat might swerve or back off or redouble the attack, but there was no way of knowing which.

Instinct urged Gareth to back away, to run. It took all his focus to hold his ground, to wait—wait—until Hayat’s whip came within reach.

Now!

Gareth pivoted, using his body to bring his own whip around in a horizontal path. The whip unfurled just as Hayat’s whip came down. The two whips tangled, faster than the eye could follow, twining around one another like snakes. The impact almost tore Gareth’s whip from his hand, but he was ready for it, his fingers tight around the handle knot.

Bracing his feet, Gareth jerked as hard as he could. Hayat, still holding on to his own whip, was pulled forward, but not close enough to come within reach of Gareth’s claws.

Hayat stumbled as he lost his grip. The crowd responded with a burst of shouting. Adrenaline and dust saturated the air.

The sudden lack of resistance almost broke Gareth’s balance. He recovered more quickly than Hayat did, tossing aside the entangled whips. His right hand was now free to grab the sword.

An instant later, Hayat regained his feet, blocking the way.

Gareth swiped at Hayat. The claws slashed through empty air. Hayat reeled backward, but now Gareth had the measure of his reach. He followed, striving to close the distance before Hayat recovered.

The oblique angle of Hayat’s leap took him beyond the arc of Gareth’s claws. With surprising speed, he jabbed his claws at Gareth, aiming for Gareth’s unprotected side. Gareth whirled, blocking with his glove. The two sets of claws gave a nerve-jangling shriek as they collided and slid past one another.

Hayat grabbed Gareth’s mask, bearing down with his greater weight. The mask twisted askew, partly blocking Gareth’s vision.

Gareth floundered, trying to escape the sudden, crushing load on his neck. He couldn’t see, and in another moment, Hayat would slam him into the ground. A muffled roaring filled his skull. The pounding of his heart and his labored breath mixed with the screaming of the onlookers.

Desperate, Gareth reached around with his free hand. Something cold lanced across his forearm. His fingers slipped over a rounded surface—Hayat’s mask?—and then found an opening, a hole.

Suddenly Gareth lost his balance. As he fell, he hooked his fingers into the opening. Hayat came down on top of him in a sprawling jumble of arms and legs and thrashing claws. Gareth dug his heels into the sand, fighting for traction, and tried to worm out from under his opponent. His fingertips met something soft and moist. With what little traction he had, he pushed as hard as he could.

Shrieking, Hayat arched backwards.

Gareth felt the lifting of Hayat’s weight. Rolling in the opposite direction, Gareth scrambled to his feet. He could see a little through one edge of the eyehole, enough to make out Hayat’s position. Gareth risked trying to shift his mask and by luck managed to get it more or less back in place.

Hayat clambered to his feet, his free hand covering his eye. Gareth judged the distance to the sword. He had only a fraction of a moment, a heartbeat, nothing more, before Hayat reacted.

Overhead, the night sky exploded in light.