at the charge.
Purple was his armor, hawk-beaked his helm and tall-spiked atop; black his
shield and the blade of his sword so that there was no gleam to announce its
onrush. Hanse drew, hurriedly shifted his buckler into place, thought of
Mignureal and knew he had no time to glance aside. Here came a god, armed and
armored, charging to end this now, right now.
The god did not, nor did Hanse. Sparks were struck by a blow parried, and feet
shifted and Vashanka was past and Hanse turning, unharmed.
The god came in with the arrogant precipi-tousness of a god set to slay a snotty
little mortal. In rushed his dark sword, to be caught and turned by a round
shield so that he was jarred by the impact and the snotty human’s return stroke
nearly bit his leg. Still Vashanka did not leam, could not respect this wiry
little foeman in its untested mail, and again he struck, his shield still down
from protecting his leg, and this time Hanse jerked his shield on impact so that
the god’s blade was directed aside, drawing Vas-hanka’s arm and thus his body
that way, and only the projections of his unorthodox, twisted body-armor saved
his neck from Hanse’s edge. The god grunted as he was struck but un-wounded, and
Hanse showed him teeth, sidestepping, back-stepping, feinting with sword and
then with buckler and showing a preparedness that turned another godly attack
into a feint.
Vashanka had been taught respect.
They circled, each with his shield-side to the other, each staring above the
arcing rim of the shield. Pacing, watching. Each a moving target and moving