The clash of a gong and the champion appeared.

Yhma was tall, lithe, built with a feline grace, arms long, knotted with cords of writhing muscle, traced with the ropes of veins. He had legs to match and his torso, above the narrow waist, was a sculptor's dream. A barrel, rigid with clearly delineated muscle, swelling to the massive shoulders which in turn supported the surprisingly slender neck.. A man as dark as seasoned teak, glistening with oil, his hair a cropped fuzz, the blade in his hand an icicle of destruction. His face was that of a brooding idol, the nostrils flared, the bridge hooked, the mouth soft with a deceptive pout.

A veteran as the scars signified, thin cicatrices of healed tissue which traced a web over the oiled hide. The penalty paid for hard-won tuition and his eyes widened as he saw the matching lines which Dumarest displayed.

"A change, my Mend. You, I see, are far from a witless hunk of meat. We shall have fun, I think."

A blade slashing tendons, one slipping into the stomach, the edge used to cripple and maim-fun?

"You have nothing to say to me?" Light splintered as Yhma turned his blade. "No word of grace to give a man you would like to kill? How would you like to do it, my friend? A clean thrust into the heart? One into the spleen? A single blow which could make your fortune. You see those women in the front rows? Kill me and each of them will fall into your arms. And the men-" His smile widened. "Think of it, friend. A single thrust and all could be yours."

And, if he concentrated on making that thrust, he would be dead.

Dumarest knew it as he knew the talk was to distract and so to weaken. As yet the combat hadn't begun but no true fighter waited for the gong. If the knife couldn't be used then words also had an edge. As the ripple of muscle in the near-naked body could spell a message. As the stance could induce despair.

Dumarest backed until he felt the rope press against his back. Like Yhma he wore brief shorts and nothing else aside from the oil. Which numbed the flesh a little and which made it almost impossible for an opponent to retain a grip. Leaning back he studied the man who intended to kill him.

A sadist-that he had learned from the boy. A skilled fighter-that he had learned from the way the man stood and moved and kept himself in balance. A dangerous one-that was obvious from his victories. But how dangerous?

He straightened to the sound of the gong. When next it clashed combat would begin and a second's delay in getting ready could mean giving the other a chance. He watched the position of Yhma's feet, the ripple of muscle in calves and thighs. A man poised to leap in any direction, one set to twist and turn, to create a barrier of edged and pointed steel between himself and the one who opposed him. And smooth.

Dumarest lifted his eyes, checking minor points, assessing, noting the feline grace.

Smooth and quick and neatly precise. The knife was held in the usual sword fashion, thumb to the blade, the point slightly lifted. A normal grasp, but in Yhma's hand it looked like a scalpel in a surgeon's grip. Dumarest hefted his own weapon, a twin of the other. It was too long for his liking, lacking the fine balance needed for an accurate throw. But, in this ring, there would be no need of that.

"You sweat," said Yhma softly. "You betray your fear but, my friend, have no fear. We are to fight to the death but it need not come to that. A few exchanges, a little blood, a wound and you fall to lie still and so to live and maybe fight again. An arrangement, you understand? Life, my friend. Life. There is no need for you to die."

The promise offered, the lie which only a fool would believe. A fool or a man desperate to live no matter what the cost. Bait offered to a man who, mentally, was already beaten. A bribe to succumb to the kiss of his blade.

How many had died when thinking they would live?

"You mean that?" asked Dumarest. Like the other he kept his voice down. "You mean you'd give me a chance?"

"To live? Yes, my friend." Teeth flashed white as Yhma smiled. We will play a little first, you understand. A sop to the crowd. Some blood from minor wounds-you have my word they will be that. Then, when the time is right, I'll give the word. We meet, strike, you miss and I'll give you a wound. You fall and that will be it. You agree?"

"Yes."

"Good." The smile widened. "You are wise."

Wise in the ways of the ring and a liar when it came to the promise, but the lie can gain an advantage and all was fair when life was at stake.

A lesson Dumarest had learned when a novice. He had believed a man and had almost died because of it, only his speed saving him from a blow which would have gutted a normal man. The speed which would have to save him now.

He was moving before the clash of the gong had died, not toward Yhma but to one side, turning as the other lunged, steel clashing as the blades touched, rasping as they slid one over the other, ringing as they parted. An exchange which won a gasp from the crowd.

"Yhma get him!" A woman screamed the command. "A hundred if you hit him first!"

"Two hundred if you spike an eye!"

"Fifty if you make him hop!"

Offers born of the side bets and invitations to cruelty. Dumarest ignored them as he concentrated on his opponent. Yhma shifted like a cat, poised on the balls of his feet, light flashing from the knife, to vanish, to appear as the blade lanced forward, to cut, to miss and cut again.

To fetch a tide of red oozing from Dumarest's arm.

"A hit! First blood to Yhma!" The woman's scream echoed from the upper tiers. "Shout for the champion!"

Sardia? It could have been anyone. The voice had been disguised by echoes and passion. Dumarest backed, feeling the sting of the cut. A shallow wound which looked far worse than it really was. One he had invited and deliberately taken in order to increase the odds against him.

But Yhma looked puzzled and Dumarest knew why. The man hadn't intended to hit. His blade should have missed by a fraction and would have had not Dumarest moved into its path. A calculated maneuver-a wound chosen was better than one taken by chance.

Yet an ordinary fighter wouldn't have worried about it, imagining himself to be better than he'd thought. The victory would have been enough. Winning a hit would have made him a little more confident. A little less careful.

But Yhma?

Dumarest tensed as the man came in, twisting, blocking, the knives clashing as they touched to part to touch again in a metallic music which held the prelude to a dirge. A flurry of attack, parry, thrust and riposte, engage and counter-engage. Air whined as edges slicked toward flesh, to miss, to sweep back in protective glitters. Between them the naked steel flashed like mirrors and rang like hostile bells.

Yhma was fast. Faster than any normal man. Faster even than himself.

Looking at him Dumarest saw death.

Chapter Five

First it had been vile, bearable only because of the Job which had to be done, then, oddly and shamefully, interest had grown and with it an appreciation of the skills involved and now something else had been added, an emotion which threatened to overwhelm her with an intoxicating intensity.

The euphoria of blood! Where had she heard that? The aphrodisiac of pain!

Someone else's blood, of course, and another's pain, but the euphoria was real and also the sexual stimulation. She felt it, recognized the fever in her blood, the heat suffusing her loins. Touching her breasts she found the nipples hard, prominent against the thin fabric of her gown. If Dumarest had been at her side she would have clutched him with thoughtless abandon as other women clutched at their men.

Dumarest was not beside her but in the ring below fighting for the money they needed.