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Amilcar recovered with such aplomb, I wondered whether the misstep had not been a ruse a subtle
feint designed to catch a greedy opponent unaware. However effective in the past, Arthur was not
overeager for an instant victory; he was content to allow his spear to probe a little without committing
himself to the first opportunity that came his way.
The white sun blazed along the keen-edged blades, and in the narrowed eyes of the combatants. Slowly,
slowly, edging sideways, the two warriors circled, searching for an opportunity to strike. Arthur seemed
prepared to allow this exercise to continue as long as it may; he would not be rushed into error. Nor did
the Black Boar seem anxious to grant Arthur another opening, false or otherwise.
So we stood in the hot sun the barbarian war host, silent, rank on rank, facing the mounted might of
Britain with little more than a spear-cast's distance between us every eye watching the dread dance
unfold, step by wary step. Around and around they went, never putting a foot wrong. Circling, circling,
ever watchful, scarcely blinking, they moved, their feet making a large ring in the dust. The first to lose
patience would make a strike, and the other would be waiting. But nerve held for both men; neither man
lost his concentration.
But someone lost patience, for across the battleground a shout went up from the Vandal ranks
whether of coarse encouragement for Amilcar or derision for Arthur, I could not tell. The cry cracked
sharp in the silence, and Amilcar's head turned towards the sound. Arthur saw his opponent look away
and leaped forward in the same instant, his spear level, the blade slashing.
The sunlight flared on the blade; I blinked. When I looked again, Amilcar's shield had knocked Arthur's
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spear wide as his own lance jutted forth. It happened so fast that I thought Arthur had surely caught the
spearpoint in the ribs. He threw his shield into Amilcar's face, forcing him back a step. I looked for
blood, but saw none; Arthur's mail shirt had saved him a brutal cut.
The Black Boar permitted himself a sly, wicked smile, giving me to know that the shout and his apparent
lapse had been another ruse. Clearly, the man was shrewdly deceptive and had taken care to arm himself
with many such deceits. Arthur had avoided the first of them, and narrowly escaped the second; I
wondered what Amilcar would try next and whether Arthur would see it in time to save himself.
The cautious circling resumed, and appeared likely to continue for some time; indeed, it had settled into
a dull, even rhythm, when Arthur suddenly stumbled. He went down on one knee, his spear slapping flat
to the ground.
Amilcar leaped on him in the same instant. The stout black lance darted forth. Arthur stretched forward,
grabbed the oncoming spear with his free hand, and pulled it towards him. Amilcar, unbalanced by the
unexpected tug on the end of his lance, fell forward with a surprised grunt.
Arthur leaped to his feet, snatching up his spear once more in the same swift motion. Amilcar, regaining
his balance, spun away, swinging his heavy shield before him. But Arthur's spearpoint had grazed his side
and blood now trickled down the Black Boar's gleaming flank. The Cymbrogi raised a tremendous cry,
signalling their approval of the daring manoeuvre.
Britain's king had drawn first blood, and perhaps more importantly served the barbarian warlord
fair warning that the Bear of Britain was not without a few tricks of his own. I had never seen this
stumbling feint of Arthur's and surmised that he had made it up by way of retaliation to temper Amilcar's
deceptions. The enemy war host did not care for the feat and they howled their disapproval from across
the plain.
The merciless sun mounted higher. The combat settled into a wary contest of stamina and will. Now and
then one of the warriors would venture a stroke, which was answered in kind; but neither man was so
hasty or inexperienced as to allow himself to be drawn into an impulsive exchange of blows.
Around and around they went, neither warrior presenting a weakness, nor finding any in his opponent.
They circled, and the burning sun peaked, hovered, and began to lower in its long slow plunge to the
western horizon. The Britons shielded their eyes with their hands and watched the contest, senses
numbed by the heat and light. On and on, the ceaseless circling went, and the day crept away.
Eventually, the light failed before either man gave in to fatigue or error. I took it upon myself to halt the
combat as the sun set and shadows began to claim the battleground. Signalling to Hergest, I indicated my
wish to confer, and he broughtMerciato me.
'It is soon dark,' I said. 'We can let this go on through the night, or we can agree to stop it and meet
again tomorrow.'
The captive priest delivered my words toMercia, who hesitated, regarding the fight thoughtfully. I sensed
in him a reluctance to interfere, so I added, 'It will be no hurt to either man to rest the night and begin
again atmiddaytomorrow.'
'It shall be done,' the barbarian replied through the priest, and the two approached the combatants,
calling for them to put up their weapons and withdraw for the night. This they did, though not without
some reluctance.
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Thus the day ended without victory.
ELEVEN
The Cymbrogi were relieved to welcome their king's safe return, but disappointed that the day's fight
should leave the issue unsettled. For his part, Arthur was tired, of course, hungry and desperately thirsty.
He desired nothing so much as a moment's peace to recover himself. The Cymbrogi, however, having
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