Right, boss, she replied.

“Draw your blade and turn, Merle.”

“Doesn't sound too sporting to me, Borel,” I replied.

“You dare to accuse me of anything less than propriety?” he said.

“Hard to tell when I can't see what you're up to,” I answered.

“Then draw your weapon and turn around.”

“I'm turning,” I said. “But I'm not touching the thing.”

I turned quickly, snapping my left wrist, feeling Frakir depart. As I did, my feet went out from under me. I'd moved too fast on a very smooth patch of ice. Catching myself, I felt a shadow drift into place before me. When I looked up, I beheld the point of Borel's blade, about six inches from my right eye.

“Rise slowly,” he said, and I did. “Draw your weapon now,” he ordered.

“And if I refuse?” I inquired, trying to buy time.

“You will prove yourself unworthy to be considered. a gentleman, and I will act accordingly.”

“By attacking me anyway?” I asked.

“The rules permit this,” he said.

“Shove your rules,” I replied, crossing my right foot behind my left and springing backward as I drew my blade and let it fall into a guard position.

He was on me in an instant. I continued my retreat, backing past the big slab of ice from behind which he had appeared. I had no desire to stand and trade tecniques with him, especially now that I could see the speed of those attacks. Parrying them took a lot less effort while I was backing off: My blade did not feel quite right, however, and as I scanned it quickly I saw why. It was not my weapon.

In the glittering light from the trail, bounced off the ice, I saw the swirling inlay along part of the blade: There was only one weapon like this that I knew of, and I had only just seen it recently, in what might have been my father's hand. It was Grayswandir that moved before me. I felt myself smile at the irony. This was the weapon which had slain the real Lord Borel.

“You smile at your own cowardice?” he asked. “Stand and fight, bastard!”

As if in answer to his suggestion, I felt my rearward movement arrested. I was not run through when I ventured a quick downward glance, however, for I realized from his expression that something similar had happened to my attacker.

Our ankles had been seized by several of those hands which extended up through the ice, holding us firmly in place. And this made it Borel's turn to smile, for though he could not lunge, I could no longer retreat. Which meant—

His blade flashed forward, and I parried in quarte, attacked in sixte. He parried and feinted. Then quarte again, and the next attack. Riposte. Parry sixte– No, that was a feint. Catch him in four. Feint. Feint again. Hit—

Something white and hard passed over his shoulder and struck my forehead. I fell back, though the grasping hands kept me from collapsing completely. Good thing I sagged, actually, or his thrust might have punctured my liver. My reflexes or some touch of the magic I've heard may dwell in Grayswandir threw my arm forward as my knees buckled. I felt the blade strike something, though I was not even looking in that direction, and I heard Borel grunt surprisedly, then utter an oath. I heard Jurt mouthing an oath of his own about then, too. He was out of my line of sight.

Then came a bright flash, even as I flexed my legs, stabilizing, parried a head cut, and began rising. I saw then that I had succeeded in cutting Borel's forearm, and fire spurted fountainlike from the wound. His body began to glow, his lower outline to blur.

“It was by no skill you bested me!” he cried.

I shrugged.

“It isn't the Winter Olympics either,” I told him.

He changed his grip on his blade, drew back his arm, and hurled the weapon at me-right before he dissolved into a tower of sparks and was drawn upward and vanished above.

I parried the blade, and it passed me to the left, buried itself partway in the ice and stood vibrating there, like something in a Scandinavian's version of Arthurian legend. Jurt rushed toward me, kicked at the hands which held my ankles until they released me, and squinted at my brow.

I felt something fall upon me.

Sorry, boss. I hit around his knee, By the time I reached his throat he was already on fire, Frakir said.

All's well that ends well, I replied. You weren't singed, were you?

Didn't even feel the heat.

“Sorry I hit you with that piece of ice,” Jurt said. “I was aiming at Borel.”

I moved away from the plain of hands, heading toward the trail.

“Indirectly it helped,” I said, but I didn't feel like thanking him. How could I know where he'd really been, aiming? I glanced back once, and several of the hands Jurt had kicked were giving us the finger.

Why had I been wearing Grayswandir? Would another weapon have affected a Logrus-ghost as strongly? Had it really been my father, then, who had brought me here? And had he felt I might need the extra edge his weapon could provide? I wanted to think so, to believe that he had been more than a Pattern-ghost. And if he was, I wondered at his part in the entire affair. What might he know about all this? And which side might he be on?

The winds died down as we moved along the trail, and the only arms we saw extended above the ice bore torches which brightened our way for a great distance-to the foot of the far escarpment, actually. Nothing untoward occurred as we crossed that frozen place.

“From what you've told me and what I've seen,” Jurt said, “I get the impression it's the Pattern that's sponsoring this trip and the Logrus that's trying to punch your ticket.”

Just then the ice cracked in a numnber of places. Fracture lines rushed toward us from several directions, both sides. They slowed, however, as they neared our trail, causing me to notice for the first time that it had risen above the general level of the plain. We now occupied something of a causeway, and the ice shattered itself harmlessly along its sides.

“Like that,” Jurt observed with a gesture. “How'd you get into this mess anyway?”

“It all started on April thirtieth,” I began.

Some of the arms seemed to be waving good-bye to us as we commenced our climb after reaching the wall. Jurt thumbed his nose at them.

“Can you blame me for wanting to escape this place?” he asked.

“Not in the least,” I replied.

“If that transfusion you gave me really placed me beyond control of the Logrus, then I might dwell here for some indefinite period of time.”

“Sounds possible.”

“That's why you must realize I threw the ice at Borel, not you. Besides the fact that you're smarter than he was and might be able to find a way out of here, he was a creature of the Logrus, too, and wouldn't have had enough fire if the need arose.”

“That had occurred to me also,” I said, withholding a possible out I'd guessed at, to keep myself indispensable. “But what are you getting at?”

“I'm trying to say that I'll give you any kind of help you need, just so you don't leave me behind when you go. I know we never got along before, but I'm willing to put that aside if you are.”

“I always was,” I said. “You were the one who started all our fights and kept me in trouble.”

He smiled.

“I never did, and I won't do it again,” he said. “Yeah, okay, you're right. I didn't like you, and maybe I still don't. But I won t mess you up when we need each other this way.”

“The way I see it, you need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.”

“I can't argue with that, and I can't make you trust me,” he said. “Wish I could.” We climbed a little more before he continued, and I fancied the air had already grown a trifle warmer. Then, “But look at it this way,” he finally continued, “I resemble your brother Jurt, and I come close to representing something he once was-close, but not a perfect fit. I began diverging from his model beginning with our race. My circumstances are uniquely my own, and I've been thinking steadily since I gained my autonomy. The real Jurt knows things I do not and has powers I don't possess. But I have his memories up through his taking the Logrus, and I'm the second greatest authority there is on the way he thinks. Now, if he's become such a threat as you've indicated, you might find me more than a little useful when it comes to second-guessing him.”