I stood over the great hulk. It lay spread out on the moss, the sword and mace still attached by wrist-thongs to its arms. There was a stink about it not of death but of general uncleanliness. The slitted eyes stared, the mouth still a grinning gash, though now it grinned in death.

I looked at his sword.

It was, of course, a great weapon, such as only a nine-foot giant would use. Yet, proportionately, it was almost a short sword—just over five feet long. Fastidiously I bent down and unhooked the thong from the creature's wrist. I picked the sword up. It was very heavy, but finely balanced. I could not use it in one hand as the Argzoon scout had done, but I could use it as a broadsword in two hands. The grips were just right. I hefted it, feeling better, thanking heaven for M. Clarchet, my old fencing master, who had taught me how to get the most out of any blade, no matter how strange or crude it at first seemed.

Holding it by its thong, I remounted my beast and lay the sword across my legs as I rode in that still peculiar riding position back towards the city.

There was a long way to go and I had to hurry—even more so now—to warn the city of the imminent attack.

But as I rode up hill and down dale for what seemed hours, I was to be threatened once again by an Argzoon giant who came riding at me from my right flank as I rode down one of the last hillsides before Varnal.

He did not laugh. Indeed, he uttered no sound at all as he came at me. Evidently so near the city he did not wish to alert anyone who might be close by. He had no mace—just a sword. I met his first swing with my own recently acquired weapon. He looked at it in surprise, clearly recognizing it as one forged by his own folk.

His surprise served me well. These Argzoon were swift movers for their size, but poor thinkers—that had already been made quite plain.

While he was staring at my sword and at the same time bringing his own round for another blow, I did not swing up to protect myself but drove the sword towards where I hoped his heart would be. I also prayed it would pierce the armor.

It did, though not as swiftly as I had hoped and, as the blade struck through leather and then flesh, bone and sinew, his sword came down in a convulsive movement and grazed my right arm. It was not a bad wound but, within a moment, it was painful.

His sword dropped from inert fingers, dangling by its thong as he sat in his saddle, rocking dazedly and looking at me groggily.

I could see that he was badly wounded, though not mortally, I guessed.