Xanka made a wild sideways cut with his left sword. Tol sprang into the air, high enough that the blade passed under his feet. The pirate followed with a savage downward sweep of his right blade, which Tol caught on his sword’s guard. This was the first close blow he’d taken, and it surprised him. Despite everything, Xanka was strong. Backed by all his weight, the blow drove Tol to his knees. The pirates went wild.

Tol kept his composure, and Xanka did exactly what Tol thought he would: he thrust with his left sword, while bearing down on Tol with the right. Tol turned Xanka’s attack with his stout dagger then drove the jeweled pommel into the pirate’s throat. There was no plate there, just a hanging screen of scale-mail. Gagging from the blow, Xanka staggered back.

Tol got up, spun his saber around in a furious disengage, and brought the keen edge down on Xanka’s left wrist. He pulled the blow, so the dwarf blade cut through the articulated gauntlet but not the flesh and bone beneath. Brass and iron rained on the deck.

Grunting with shock, Xanka backed away. The cheering faded. Some of the sailors could see their captain’s left hand was bare, but they couldn’t fathom what had happened.

Tol swiftly attacked again. Rather than waste energy slashing at armor, he thrust at Xanka’s face and throat. The stout captain parried heavily, breath puffing with every swing of his swords. Tol caught the right sword in a binding parry and spun it out of Xanka’s grasp. The cutlass flashed through the air and stuck point-first in the deck. Xanka promptly drew one of the swords on his back, but he was shocked at being disarmed.

Confident now, Tol toyed with his foe. He easily turned aside Xanka’s cuts, taking care not to let the bigger man close in where he could use his strength and bulk to advantage. Sweat flowed down Xanka’s face like a miniature waterfall, drenching the fancy plate armor. His breath came in audible gasps.

Tol drove him back to the sterncastle and spared a glance up at the watching pirate captains. The Firebrand brothers were pounding the rail with their fists and howling for blood. Hexylle, ignoring the battle, conversed with some of her crew. Morojin watched the contest keenly.

Xanka took advantage of Tol’s brief moment of inattention. He lashed out with his foot, driving his spiked sabatons into Tol’s leg. Bleeding, Tol fell. Xanka laughed and rained vicious cuts over him.

Although his right calf was covered in blood and the five wounds stung ferociously, Tol knew they weren’t deep. He rolled away from Xanka’s wild attack, vaulted to his feet and caught both of the pirate’s blades in a stunning cross-parry. Kiya, Miya, and Tol’s men jumped to their feet, shouting, and even the pirates cheered this bold move.

Tol drew back, swiftly sheathed his dagger, and took the hilt of Number Six in both hands. He bored in, straight at the pirate’s broad chest. Xanka tried to bind Tol’s blade and spin him away, but the hard dwarf metal would not be denied. First one then the other of Xanka’s cutlasses snapped close to the hilt. The point of Tol’s sword drove into the captain’s cuirass, where the raised image of a snarling bear caught the tip. Grunting with effort, Tol drove his sword point straight through the thin plate.

The roaring crowd fell instantly silent. Tol held his position, gazing implacably at Xanka’s closed helm. Slowly, the hulking pirate reached a hand up over his shoulder and drew his last sword. Frankly amazed at the man’s stamina, Tol recovered as the new blade whistled past his nose.

Gasping like a beached whale, Xanka tore off his helm. His hair was molded to his head with sweat. Blood ran down his breastplate.

“You’ll pay for this!” he rasped.

“Come, fat man. We haven’t got all day!” Tol retorted.

Boiling with rage, Xanka threw down his sword and seized a battle-axe, one of the weapons distributed around the ship. It outreached Tol’s saber. Xanka swung the long-handled axe in a circle around his head, forcing Tol to duck.

On the next circuit, Tol held up his sword. His blade cut through the axe handle without pause. Sailors ducked frantically as the wicked head went spinning by and sailed over the rail into the sea. Xanka wasted no breath or time. He simply grabbed the nearest weapon, a billhook.

It was a fortuitous choice. Tol had no experience fighting a bill and soon found himself caught. Xanka hooked him and jerked him off his feet, the bill tearing open Tol’s right shoulder. His saber skittered away. Tol scrambled after it, but Xanka grabbed his ankle and dragged him back. Wheezing with laughter, the pirate drew a wickedly curved dagger from the sheath in his right greave.

Tol suddenly changed direction and dived between Xanka’s legs. Emerging behind the ponderous buccaneer, he snatched up a stray cutlass from the deck and swung. The crude iron blade rang harmlessly off Xanka’s armor three times.

Frustrated, Tol threw the weapon at the pirate’s head. He needed Number Six!

It lay in the scupper on the port side. Tol ran around Xanka to reach it. Pirates in the rigging thought he was trying to escape and jeered. An archer put an arrow in the deck at his feet. Over the pirates’ hoots and catcalls, he could hear Xanka pounding after him. He fingers closed around Number Six’s grip just as Xanka barreled up behind him, billhook reaching for his limbs.

Bleeding from shoulder and calf, Tol had had enough. He swung once, lopping off the head of the bill, then struck again, slicing through a section of the hardwood shaft. Reversing direction and closing both hands on the hilt, he swung a third time. Number Six punched through the fancy brass pauldron and into the thick flesh of Xanka’s right arm.

The pirate screamed. His cry of pain silenced the crowd once more. Tol freed his sword and stood back, ready to strike again.

Xanka fell to his knees. “No more!”

“This is a death match!” Tol snarled.

“No! Please! Don’t kill me!”

His enemy was a braggart and a vicious, brutal thief, but Tol hadn’t expected him to cry craven.

Blood coursed down Xanka’s arm. Number Six had cut him to the bone, leaving his right hand useless. Tears streamed from his puffy eyes.

“On your feet!” Tol shouted.

“No more!” Xanka waved his left hand feebly.

Faerlac stepped out of the crowd. Standing over his wounded captain, he said into the awesome silence, “Rise and fight, if you can!”

“I cannot!” Xanka sobbed, clutching his wound. “My arm-!”

Tol had no illusions. If their roles were reversed, the pirate chief would slay him cheerfully and boast ever afterward about besting the great Tolandruth. Frez and Darpo would rot their lives away as slave rowers, while Miya and Kiya faced even worse fates.

As a boy Tol had watched the captured Pakin rebel Vakka Zan lose his head. Ever since, he’d had a horror of executions, felt only disgust at the killing of helpless prisoners. He’d risked his life to spare Makaralonga, chief of the Dom-shu and father of Kiya and Miya, after capturing him in battle. Ergothian tradition demanded that a conquered leader forfeit his head, but Tol could not kill a man who had yielded to him honorably He and Felryn had concocted a phony execution and delivered another man’s head to the emperor as Makaralonga’s.

Tylocost he had spared, too, for no other reason than he found the elf general an intriguing opponent. By that time Tol’s prestige was so high he could ignore calls for the mercenary’s death. So Tylocost lived as a paroled prisoner in Juramona.

Hundreds of other Tarsan officers had passed through Tol’s hands as the war went on. He spared them all, for they were fellow warriors, and honorable foes.

Xanka was neither.

All this flashed through Tol’s mind in only moments, and he looked to Faerlac. The bosun was regarding his captain with contempt. Lip curling, Faerlac turned away.