‘Good morning,’ said Rek. The man ignored him; his dark eyes, seen through the slits in the helm, focused on Virae.
‘You are the messenger?’ he asked her.
‘I am. I wish to see Abbot Vintar.’
‘First you must pass me,’ he said, stepping back and drawing a long-sword of silver steel.
‘Wait a moment,’ said Rek. ‘What is this? One does not normally have to fight one’s way into a monastery.’ Once again the man ignored him and Virae drew her rapier. ‘Stop it!’ ordered Rek. ‘This is insane.’
‘Stay out of this, Rek,’ said Virae. ‘I will slice this silver beetle into tiny pieces.’
‘No, you won’t,’ he said, gripping her arm. ‘That rapier is no good against an armoured man. In any case, the whole thing is senseless. You are not here to fight anybody. You simply have a message to deliver, that’s all. There must be a mistake here somewhere. Wait a moment.’
Rek walked towards the warrior, his mind racing, his eyes checking for weak points in the armoured defences. The man wore a moulded breastplate over a mail-shirt of silver steel. Protecting his neck was a silver torque. His legs were covered to the thigh in leather troos, cased with silver rings, and upon his shins were leather greaves. Only the man’s knees, hands and chin were open to attack.
‘Will you tell me what is happening?’ Rek asked him. ‘I think you may have the wrong messenger. We are here to see the Abbot.’
‘Are you ready, woman?’ asked Menahem.
‘Yes,’ said Virae, her rapier cutting a figure-eight in the morning air as she loosened her wrist.
Rek’s blade flashed into his hand. ‘Defend yourself,’ he cried.
‘No, Rek, he’s mine,’ shouted Virae. ‘I don’t need you to fight for me. Step aside!’
‘You can have him next,’ said Rek. He turned his attention back to Menahem. ‘Come on, then. Let’s see if you fight as prettily as you look.’
Menahem turned his dark eyes on the tall figure before him. Instantly Rek’s stomach turned over: this was death! Cold, final, worm in the eye-sockets, death. There was no hope in this contest. Panic welled in Rek’s breast and his limbs began to tremble. He was a child again, locked in a darkened room, knowing the demons were hiding in the black shadows. Fear in the shape of bile rose in his throat as nausea shook him. He wanted to run . . . he needed to run.
Instead Rek screamed and launched an attack, his blade whistling towards the black and silver helm. Startled, Menahem hastily parried and a second blow almost got through. The warrior stepped backwards, desperately trying to regain the initiative, but Rek’s furious assault had caught him off-balance. Menahem parried and moved, trying to circle.
Virae watched in stunned silence as Rek’s blistering assault continued. The two men’s swords glittered in the morning sunlight, a dazzling web of white light, a stunning display of skill. Virae felt a surge of pride. She wanted to cheer Rek on but resisted the urge, knowing the slightest distraction could sway the contest.
‘Help me,’ pulsed Menahem to Serbitar, ‘or I may have to kill him.’ He parried a blow, catching it only inches from his throat. ‘If I can,’ he added.
‘How can we stop it?’ Serbitar asked Vintar. ‘The man is a baresark. I cannot get through to him. He will kill Menahem before much longer.’
‘The girl!’ said Vintar. ‘Join with me.’
Virae shivered as she watched Rek growing in strength. Baresark! Her father had told her of such men, but never would she have placed Rek in their company. They were mad killers who lost all sense of reason and fear in combat, becoming the most deadly of opponents. All swordsmen gravitate between defence and attack, for despite a desire to win there is an equal desire not to lose. But the baresark loses all fear; his is all-out attack, and invariably he takes his opponent with him even if he falls. A thought struck her powerfully and suddenly she knew that the warrior was not trying to kill Rek – the contest was but a test.
‘Put up your swords,’ she screamed. ‘Stop it!’