BAR

Chapter Seven

Bar rose to his feet. Sonja stepped out of his way and walked over to a clear patch of ground, where she assumed a fighting stance.

"Wait," Bar told her.

From the foot of the tree where Malik's lifeless body still hung, Bar produced a waterskin. He unstoppered it, took a long draught, then poured more water over his head. He shook himself like a dog. Then he replaced the bung, and tossed the skin to Sonja, who caught it casually.

"Half-full," she observed, drily.

"A fair fight, remember. Drink, and lets have done."

Sonja drained the skin, spitting the last mouthful into her cupped hands and washing the sweat from her face and neck. Then she hefted her sword again. "It's still not too late," she said.

"For one of us it is."

Swords clashed again and the sound of steel echoed through the woods.

They were still evenly matched; though this time they were more wary of each other. There was much circling and feinting as each tried to draw a mistake from the other.

Sonja wondered when she'd last fought an opponent who'd given her so much trouble. There had been some who had given her pause, to be sure. There had been fights where she'd lost flagons of blood, and from which she'd crawled away more dead than alive. But Bar was somehow different.

A thought began to form in her mind. She pushed it away, but it was persistent. Perhaps – she dropped to one knee as she parried a blow; then rolled away, coming up on her feet in time to swat away Bar's next thrust. Perhaps her Goddess was guiding her. Perhaps she had been brought to this desolate spot.

Which meant that Bar…. no, surely not. The Goddess couldn't have had anyone particular in mind. If she had, why wait so long before introducing him? Aha – a slow parry by Bar; a quick circle with the point then thrust, and first blood! At last – no! He twisted away at the very last. His reactions were fast for a man his size, but she'd have him yet.

Unless… Suppose she slipped or missed her footing. No, she couldn't. Ah; but suppose…

A back-hand swipe from Bar. She spun round, light on her feet; but there was his blade, steadfast in defence. There was a look in his eyes. He was tiring. Yes, but so was she. Soon; one way or the other.

No, she didn't pray to the Goddess. Was that the reason she had never reappeared? Because Sonja did not honour her with prayer; did not thank her for every day of her solitary existence? Because Sonja did not serve her? But why serve the Gods anyway? They despise mortals. Lunge, recover, circle to the left. One thing was certain - the Goddess hadn't made her immortal. Was she was destined to wander the earth until her crimson tresses faded to white? Unthinkable. So defeat was waiting for her, and she would meet it one day. And what then? Would her body lie in a mean and unmarked grave? Or a man's bed? Which fate was worse?

Parry. Give ground two paces to absorb the force of the blow; disengage and swing; low this time – aim for the knees.

Knees. That tableau – consider how it might have been reversed; she disarmed and on her knees, he standing over her, bathed in the warm glow of victory. What then?

"The day is mine, Red Sonja!"

Sonja heard Bar's scream of triumph before she realised the cause. One of Bar's blows had knocked the sword clean out of her hand. She turned her head a fraction and saw it, turning end over end with treacly slowness as it flew through the air; glinting as it caught the late afternoon sun. Impossibly far it seemed to fly, before coming down point first in the mud of the river where it stuck fast, as upright as a grave marker.

Sonja cursed herself. Stupid, stupid. Too many thoughts, not enough attention to more important matters. Her hand flew to her thigh. There was no dagger there – Bar had not returned it.

So this was the end. She drew herself up to her full height, chin held proud, arms folded across her chest; and waited.

Bar lowered his sword. Neither spoke for long moments. Their eyes met, fiercely. Sonja couldn't quite read Bar's expression. She'd expected him to gloat, but he seemed almost - cunning. Sonja was puzzled. What need had he of cunning now?

"So," he said at last, "I win."

"You have the advantage, certainly."

"Do you yield?"

"No." Sonja's voice was level and calm.

"No? What do you mean?"

"I mean no."

"Gods' teeth!" Bar raged. "Can't you accept that you've finally met your match?"

"It seems that I can't."

"I could slice you in two this second."

"Then do so."

"I can't. Curse you, but you know I can't"

"Do I?"

"Thunder and brimstone!" Bar's voice rose to a scream of frustration. "What manner of woman are you?"

"I am Red Sonja."

"To the seven hells with you, then." Bar raised his sword high. Sonja didn't even bother to look at it. Bar lowered it again.

"It seems that there's only one choice left," he said, finally.

"And what is that?"

"You must fetch your sword."

"Is this mercy?"

"No; it is a debt repaid."

Sonja gave a thin smile at the irony.

"Very well. But this is the last; from now on you and I shall be in deadly earnest. No quarter. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Good. Then I shall fetch my sword."

With these words, Sonja turned and stepped onto the sticky surface of Nyla's river.