Nothing had been said about Ennar's not using his weapons in
defense, but Ross discovered that there was some sense of sportmanship
in the tribesmen, after all. It was Tulka who pushed to the chief's side
and said something which made Foscar roar bull-voiced at his youthful
champion.
Ennar's hand came away from the ax hilt as if that polished wood were
white-hot, and he transferred his discomfiture to Ross as the other
understood. Ennar had to win now for his own pride's sake, and Ross felt
_he_ had to win for his life. They circled warily, Ross watching his
opponent's eyes rather than those half-closed hands held at waist level.
Back at the base he had been matched with Ashe, and before Ashe with the
tough-bodied, skilled, and merciless trainers in unarmed combat. He had
had beaten into his bruised flesh knowledge of holds and blows intended
to save his skin in just such an encounter. But then he had been
well-fed, alert, prepared. He had not been knocked silly and then
transported for miles slung across a horse after days of exposure and
hard usage.
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