must have trussed him well.
Khurav faced Hobart, who was still protesting innocence of wrong intent. The chief rasped: “You have no shield? Then I nod use either. Draw!” He put his left arm behind him like a German Sabel fencer and stamped his feet. His eyes reflected little yellow torch flames.
“But—” screamed Hobart.
Swish! The huge blade clipped a lock of hair from Hobart’s head. “Draw,” bawled Khurav, “or I keel you anyway!”
Rollin Hobart drew. He would probably be dead in a matter of minutes, but by God one howling barbarian would know he’d been in a fight!
There was little science on either side. Hobart sprang in with a full-armed slash. The blades clanged, and Hobart backed and parried the sham’s ferocious downright cut. The blow nearly disarmed the engineer, and twisted the blade in his hand. Then his eye fixed itself on a patch of bare skin: Kurav’s sword hand, protected by no more than a crossbar on the hilt. Hobart swept his blade up and then down in a backhand slash; felt it smack.
Khurav’s sword dropped to the sand, and the big man stared at his right hand. It had a weal across the back, but that was all, and Hobart realized in a flash that he had struck it with the flat. Time was wasting, though. The unwilling duelist brought his blade down hard, flat-wise on Khurav’s skull, thump!
Khurav reeled under the blow and sat down. He looked up, blinking; tried thickly to speak. Then he dragged himself slowly up. When he was drawn painfully to his full height, he folded his arms, facing Rollin Hobart.
“Kill me,” he said shortly.
“Why? I don’t want to!”
“Kill me, I say. I am much too proud to live after you have humbled me.”
“Aw, don’t be silly, Khurav! That was just an accident; shouldn’t have been any fight in the first place!”
“You will not? Very well.” The sham shrugged and turned to one of the circle of spectators. Words passed; the man took out a sword. Khurav knelt in front of him and bowed his head and pushed his hair forward from his thick neck.
Hobart stared in horrified fascination. The Parathaian spit on his hands, took a careful stance, and swung his sword up—and down. Hobart shut his eyes just before blade met neck; he could not, unfortunately, shut his ears. Chug, thump!
A strange sound rose from the circle of watchers, and grew: the sound of men sobbing. The tears were running down into the beards of the barbarians as they reassembled the corpse of the late Khurav and reverently removed it.
And now, wondered Hobart, what would they do with—or to—him? Probably kill him, though for several minutes they had let him stand unmolested with sword in hand. Their attention was on the group carrying off the corpse. Maybe he could slip away in the darkness . . . Wait, he’d have to release Theiax first. Of course it had been Theiax’s own idea to come, but still one couldn’t walk out on . . .
He began to pick his way toward the direction from which the social lion’s roars had come, and were still coming, muted to a continuous snarl. He had taken no more than ten steps among the tents when horny hands grabbed him from behind and hustled him back into the torchlight.
They were all around, shouting and waving lethal weapons. One of them stuck a whiskered face practically against Hobart’s own, screaming: “Fez parethvi ush lokh sham! Ush Sham Parathen!” All were howling, “Ush Sham Parathen!” No doubt they were telling him what was to be done to him for causing the death of the Sham of the Parathai . . .
A hawk-nosed oldster in a tall felt hat with earflaps was trying to hush them. When this had been accomplished, he addressed Hobart in very broken Logaian: “They—say—you—new—sham.”
“I—what?”
“You new sham; Sham of Parathai.”
“But—but I don’t want to be the new sham! All I want—”
“Too bad you not like,” said the old man complacently, “But too late. You beat Khurav; you sham anyway. Now
Khurav faced Hobart, who was still protesting innocence of wrong intent. The chief rasped: “You have no shield? Then I nod use either. Draw!” He put his left arm behind him like a German Sabel fencer and stamped his feet. His eyes reflected little yellow torch flames.
“But—” screamed Hobart.
Swish! The huge blade clipped a lock of hair from Hobart’s head. “Draw,” bawled Khurav, “or I keel you anyway!”
Rollin Hobart drew. He would probably be dead in a matter of minutes, but by God one howling barbarian would know he’d been in a fight!
There was little science on either side. Hobart sprang in with a full-armed slash. The blades clanged, and Hobart backed and parried the sham’s ferocious downright cut. The blow nearly disarmed the engineer, and twisted the blade in his hand. Then his eye fixed itself on a patch of bare skin: Kurav’s sword hand, protected by no more than a crossbar on the hilt. Hobart swept his blade up and then down in a backhand slash; felt it smack.
Khurav’s sword dropped to the sand, and the big man stared at his right hand. It had a weal across the back, but that was all, and Hobart realized in a flash that he had struck it with the flat. Time was wasting, though. The unwilling duelist brought his blade down hard, flat-wise on Khurav’s skull, thump!
Khurav reeled under the blow and sat down. He looked up, blinking; tried thickly to speak. Then he dragged himself slowly up. When he was drawn painfully to his full height, he folded his arms, facing Rollin Hobart.
“Kill me,” he said shortly.
“Why? I don’t want to!”
“Kill me, I say. I am much too proud to live after you have humbled me.”
“Aw, don’t be silly, Khurav! That was just an accident; shouldn’t have been any fight in the first place!”
“You will not? Very well.” The sham shrugged and turned to one of the circle of spectators. Words passed; the man took out a sword. Khurav knelt in front of him and bowed his head and pushed his hair forward from his thick neck.
Hobart stared in horrified fascination. The Parathaian spit on his hands, took a careful stance, and swung his sword up—and down. Hobart shut his eyes just before blade met neck; he could not, unfortunately, shut his ears. Chug, thump!
A strange sound rose from the circle of watchers, and grew: the sound of men sobbing. The tears were running down into the beards of the barbarians as they reassembled the corpse of the late Khurav and reverently removed it.
And now, wondered Hobart, what would they do with—or to—him? Probably kill him, though for several minutes they had let him stand unmolested with sword in hand. Their attention was on the group carrying off the corpse. Maybe he could slip away in the darkness . . . Wait, he’d have to release Theiax first. Of course it had been Theiax’s own idea to come, but still one couldn’t walk out on . . .
He began to pick his way toward the direction from which the social lion’s roars had come, and were still coming, muted to a continuous snarl. He had taken no more than ten steps among the tents when horny hands grabbed him from behind and hustled him back into the torchlight.
They were all around, shouting and waving lethal weapons. One of them stuck a whiskered face practically against Hobart’s own, screaming: “Fez parethvi ush lokh sham! Ush Sham Parathen!” All were howling, “Ush Sham Parathen!” No doubt they were telling him what was to be done to him for causing the death of the Sham of the Parathai . . .
A hawk-nosed oldster in a tall felt hat with earflaps was trying to hush them. When this had been accomplished, he addressed Hobart in very broken Logaian: “They—say—you—new—sham.”
“I—what?”
“You new sham; Sham of Parathai.”
“But—but I don’t want to be the new sham! All I want—”
“Too bad you not like,” said the old man complacently, “But too late. You beat Khurav; you sham anyway. Now
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