She said, tightly, "Explain."

"Perotto killed Angado. He was my friend. In fact I owed him my life. What else could I have done?"

The question was like a slap in the face and she stood, considering it, sensing that, somehow, she was being manipulated. A feeling which stiffened her earlier resolve.

"Nothing, perhaps, but for each action there is a penalty. Your honor has been satisfied. That of the Karroum has not. As you had to kill so must you be killed. Mharl!" A figure loomed behind her, a weapon lifted in its arms. "Aim and-"

"No!" The voice echoed from the crest as Massak shouted. "Fire and you're dead!" The bark of a rifle tore the air, slugs ripping into the ground, whining from buried stone. "Lower that gun. Lower it, I say!"

"My lady?"

"Obey." She didn't turn to look at the man. To Chenault she said, "What does this accomplish? Tonight you win-tomorrow your house will lie in rubble. How can you hope to oppose me?"

"I must try."

That answer gained nothing; trying he would fail and, failing, all would be lost. Dumarest glanced at him, then back to the woman, remembering how she had appeared on the screen, standing upright in the raft, face and body belonging to another age. As her code of honor belonged to a time long past. One of chivalrous concepts which had probably never existed but which still lingered to exert their charm.

He said, "There is a way, my lady… to settle this dispute with honor. To end it here and now and for all time. The old way." He saw by her eyes she understood. "The way of those who tread the narrow path. One against the other and let right prevail."

Trial by combat-he'd had no other choice.

* * *

Mharl was her champion, tall, younger than Dumarest by a decade, strong from a lifetime of arduous labor. Stripped, his torso was ribbed and roped with muscle, his biceps huge, the pectorals betraying his bull-like strength. A machine of flesh and brawn equipped with a shrewd and agile mind.

He stood poised, like a dancer, his eyes darting flickers beneath his brows.

In turn Dumarest studied the opposition.

Like Mharl he was stripped down to pants and boots; garments which gave mutual protection and offensive capability. A kick, correctly placed, could kill as effectively as a club or gun or knife. Weapons banned because of the advantage they could give to one or the other. In matters of honor Mirza liked to be precise. But her champion was trained, accustomed to wrestling, kicking, fighting with his hands. This Dumarest sensed from the way he stood, moved, shifted to present himself, the hands crossed before his loins, his weight always resting on one foot so as to free the other to kick.

"Ready?" Mirza Karroum looked from one to the other. "You know the rules: the first to yield admits defeat." An arrangement not as fair as it seemed; if Dumarest yielded he would admit his dishonor and merit summary execution. A fact she chose to ignore. "Begin!"

Dumarest moved, circling to put his back against the light, facing Mharl with the watching windows of the house before him. A small advantage, but lost as the man moved in turn, then, before he could settle, Dumarest dived in, throwing himself down to pivot on one hand, his boot lashing out to slam against Mharl's left knee.

That blow should have crippled but did no more than bruise; Mharl jumping back as it landed. A move preparatory to his own attack and he came in before Dumarest could regain his feet, kicking out, the toe of his boot like a club as it slammed against the hip. As Dumarest grabbed at it Mharl closed in, the hammer of his fists beating at Dumarest's face and torso, leaving ugly welts on the body, the taste of blood in the mouth.

The tattoo ended as Dumarest backed away, stooped, appearing more badly hurt than he was.

"Soon, my lady!" Mharl, excited, called the promise. "Soon honor will be satisfied."

The talk gained Dumarest time. He came in, watchful, noting the position of the hands, the feet, the tilt of the head. Ready when Mharl struck to dodge the blow, to strike in turn, to parry a driving fist, to strike at the corded throat, the edge of his stiffened hand lashing at the windpipe.

Speed offset by the other's massive build, his trained reactions.

Skill gained in the gymnasiums, added to by harsh experience, but Dumarest had lived longer, harder, had learned more. Stooping, he grabbed dirt, flung it into the other's eyes, followed it with a low attack, fist driving into the junction of the thighs. As Mharl screamed he struck again, higher, lifting a boot to rasp its edge down the man's shin. Stabbing at the eyes with his hand formed into a blunted spear, using the other to again attack the throat as Mharl threw back his head to defend his sight.

And felt the universe explode as hands crashed against the sides of his head.

Blows which would have killed had they been delivered with a little more force, a little more direction. Twin hammers driving at his ears in near-synchronization as Mharl, desperate, gambled on a quick victory. One he lost as Dumarest backed, blood streaming from his nose to dapple his chin, his naked torso.

"Mharl!" Mirza Karroum snapped her instructions. "Be wary. Wear him down. Don't let him get too close."

Good advice but Dumarest didn't let him follow it. Again he closed in, kicking, slashing, parrying the driving punches of the other man. Using his arms as if they had been swords, his hands as if they had been knives. Calling on the hard-won experience which had saved him so often before.

A blur and flesh yielded to his attack, blood marring the other's mouth and torso to match his own. Another and Dumarest grunted as a fist ground into his stomach, his own hand reaching out, stabbing, the tips of his fingers hitting the throat and driving deep. A blow followed by another in the same place then, as Mharl doubled, retching for breath, Dumarest was on him from behind, one arm rising to lock beneath the chin, the other completing the vise which held the head hard against his shoulder.

"Yield!" Dumarest jerked at his arm. "Yield, you fool, before I break your neck!"

He sensed rather than felt the lifted foot, the savage, backward kick which would have shattered bone had it landed. As Mharl staggered, his balance lost, Dumarest freed his right hand, lifted it, slammed it down hard on the other's temple.

As it locked back into place he said, "Why die when there's no need? Yield and let's have done with it."

"No! I-"

The words died as Dumarest crushed his left forearm against the windpipe. Against him Mharl squirmed, blood smearing, making a sticky film. As, again, he tried to kick, Dumarest sprang upward and wrapped his legs around the other's waist.

"Your last chance, Mharl. Yield or die."

It was no empty threat. Dumarest felt strength drain from him as he fought to retain his hold. Mharl was too dangerous to be given a chance, too determined to be underestimated. Too strong to be resisted if he should break free.

"Don't be a fool, man! Lift up your hands. Yield!"

A long moment then, as the hands fought to grip him, Dumarest began to close the vise formed by his arms. One powered by the muscles of his back and shoulders, the biceps, the corded sinews of his arms.

Mharl sagged, hands lifting to tear at the constriction, twisting, dropping to his knees as the pressure increased. He was dying, ears filled with the roar of his own blood, vision darkening, his chest a flame from need of air. Yet he would never yield: if nothing else he had pride.

A fact Dumarest guessed and, as Mharl fell toward the dirt he released his hold, lifted a hand, struck once and stood up with the unconscious man at his feet.

"My lady? Do you accept defeat?"