“I’d not have wagered on you, else,” he muttered, then sighed. “I have known women who handled a blade as well as any man, and better than most. ’Tis not a weapon of brute muscle, as is an axe. The need is for endurance, and agility and quickness of hand. Only a fool denies a woman can be agile, or quick.”
“But—to defeat a man!” she breathed. “I have never even held a sword before.” Abruptly she frowned at the blade. “This will not cut. Swords are supposed to cut. Even I know that.”
Conan mouthed a silent prayer. “I chose it for that reason, for practice. Now it will serve you better than another. The point can still draw blood, but you’ll not kill this sailor by accident, so I’ll not have to kill Muktar.”
“I see,” she said, nodding happily. Her face firmed, and she started past him, but he seized her arm.
“Not yet, wench,” he laughed softly. “First listen. These smugglers are deadly with a knife, especially in the dark, but they are no warriors in the daylight.” He paused for that to sink in, then added. “That being so, were this a true fight, he would likely kill you in the space of three breaths.”
Dismay painted her face. “Then how—”
“By remembering that you can run. By encouraging his contempt for you, and using it.”
“I will not,” she protested hotly. “I have as much pride as any man, including you.”
“But no skill, as yet. You must win by trickery, and by surprise, for now. Skill will come later. Strike only when he is off balance. At all other times, run. Throw whatever comes to hand, at his head or at his feet, but never at his sword for those objects he will easily knock aside. Let him think that you are panicked. Scream if you wish, but do not let the screaming seize you.”
“I will not scream,” she said sullenly.
He suppressed a smile. “It would but make him easier to defeat, for he would see you the more as a woman and the less as an opponent.”
“But the sword. What do I do with the sword?”
“Beat him with it,” he said, and laughed at her look of complete uncomprehension. “Think of the sword as a stick, girl.” Understanding dawned on her features; she hefted the sica with both hands like a club. “And forget not to poke him,” he added. “Such as these usually think only to hack, forgetting a sword has a point. You remember it, and you’ll win.”
“How long will you talk to the wench?” Muktar shouted. “Your minutes are gone. An you talk long enough, perhaps Bayan will grow old, and even your jade can defeat him.”
Beside the bearded sea captain stood a wiry man of middle height, his sun-darkened torso stripped to the waist. With his bare tulwar he drew gleaming circles of steel, first to one side then the other, a tight smile showing yellowed teeth.
Conan’s heart sank. He had hoped Muktar would indeed choose his fat ship’s cook, or one of the bigger men of the crew, so as to intimidate Yasbet with her opponent’s sheer size. Thus Yasbet’s agility would count for more. Even if it meant eating his words, he could not allow her to be hurt. A bitter taste on his tongue, he opened his mouth to end it.
Yasbet strode out to meet the seaman before Conan could speak, shortsword gripped in her two small hands. She fixed the man with a defiant glare. “Bayan, are you called?” she sneered. “From the look of you, it should be Baya, for you have about you a womanish air.”
Conan stood with his mouth still open, staring at her. Had the wench gone mad?
Bayan’s dark eyes seemed about to pop from his narrow head. “I will make you beg me to prove my manhood to you,” he snarled.
“Muktar!” Conan called. Yasbet looked at him, pleading in her eyes, and despite himself he changed what he had been about to say. “This is but a demonstration, Muktar. No more. Does he harm her, you’ll die a heartbeat after he does.”
The bearded man jerked his head in a reluctant nod. Leaning close to Bayan he began whispering with low urgency.
The wiry sailor refused to listen. Raising his curved blade on high, he leaped toward Yasbet, a snarling grimace on his face and a terrible ululating cry rising from his mouth.
Conan put a hand to his sword hilt.
Bayan landed before her without striking, though, and it was immediately obvious that he thought to frighten her into immediate surrender. His grimace became a gloating smile.
Yasbet’s face paled, but with a shout of her own she thrust the sword into the seaman’s midsection. The unsharpened blade could not penetrate far, but the point was enough to start a narrow stream of blood, and the force of the blow bulged Bayan’s eyes.
He gagged and staggered, but she did not rest. Clumsily, but swiftly, she brought the blunted blade down like a club on the shoulder of his sword arm. Bayan’s scream was not of his choosing, this time. His blade dropped from a hand suddenly useless. Before the tulwar struck the deck Yasbet caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head, splitting his scalp to the bone. With a groan Bayan sank to his knees.
Conan watched in amazement as the wiry sailor tried desperately to crawl away. Yasbet pursued him across the deck, beating at his shoulders and back with the edgeless steel. Yelping, Bayan found himself against the rail. At one and the same time he tried to curl himself into a ball and claw his way through the wood to safety.
“Surrender!” Yasbet demanded, standing above him like a fury. She stabbed at Bayan’s buttocks, drawing a howl and a stain of red on his dirty once-white trousers.
Hand on his dagger, Muktar started toward her, a growl rising in his throat. Suddenly Conan’s blade was a shining barrier before the captain’s eyes.
“She won, did she not?” the young Cimmerian asked softly. “And you owe me five gold pieces. Or shall I shave your beard at the shoulders?”