huger so that its tiny antagonist fell away. That still-growing cobra was
blooded again, however, and when it became horse with Vashanka atop or part of
it, it turned to canter away. And away, prancing easily over ugly shapes of
stone . . . only to wheel and come back at the gallop. Charging, hooves
pounding, striking sparks off stone, bounding over twisted rock-formations at
the small shape who seemed gone all fearful, scurrying back and forth in its
path, then whirling and racing away, fleeing on a straight line easily overtaken
. . .
The legs of that racing horse rushed into the long strip of leather Hanse had
just bound in place for it, and it stumbled with a scream and flew through the
air so that. Hanse, swerving, heard its mighty impact behuyd him. Then he
whirled and rushed back, shiald ready and sword up and back, gathering velocity
for the stroke to carry all.
He was forced to slow. A man-shape stood there waiting, a god in armor and helm
beaked in imitation of a bird of prey, shield up and ready, sword a dark silver
of death ready in his fist. Shield took blow and shield took blow, but its
bottom edge was banged in to impact Hanse’s body at the waist so that he groaned
and half-doubled and staggered back, trying not to fall, but falling, sprawling
backward, a grounded target ready for the death-stroke of a god he never should
have fought. His elbow banged into a snake-shape of ochreous rock and the sword
leaped from it as if eager to flee.
Hanse had the ridiculous thought I knew I should never have done this as he