Dave unleashed another left into Olaf’s eye, and another on the tip of his jaw, and another that caught him on the side of his face. He backed away as Olaf reached for him. Then he swung around and pushed his fist into Olaf’s mid-section. Olaf crumpled over, doubled in pain, as Dave brought another left from the floor.
The blow erupted on Olaf’s right cheek, and a thin line of red sprang out. Carefully, like the excellent boxer he was, Dave backed away and circled warily. His right hand hung limp at his side. He had to beat Olaf with his left, and he had to beat him his own way.
The crew fell silent now, watching the struggle with curious fascination.
Olaf circled around, his big hands weaving, searching for an opportunity to get Dave into his arms again.
Dave feinted at Olafs mid-section, and the burly Norseman dropped his hands to cover his stomach. The left drew back instantly, and then unloaded itself on Olaf’s right cheek again. The blood burst forth like a blossoming flower, staining Dave’s fist, trickling down the side of Olaf’s face.
Dave closed in now, his eyes slitted in hatred, his teeth clenched tightly. His left flicked out at Olafs eye, once, twice, again, again. Methodically, the fist moved to the cut on Olaf’s cheek, worrying it, pounding against it, slitting the cheek wide open. Olaf’s hands dropped to his side, and Dave came in for the kill.
His fist landed three times in succession on Olaf’s mouth. Olaf shook his head, and the blood spattered onto the shields of the Norsemen in the ring. Dave was beginning to enjoy the punishment he was inflicting.
The left hand moved with the swiftness of a snake now. Strike and back, strike again, strike, back. Olaf’s face was a crisscross of cuts. His left eye was swollen and puffed, and blood spilled from his mouth.
He staggered back, crashing against the wall of shields, knocking one to the floor as he lashed out blindly. He shook his head again, and bellowed.
Dave closed in, the left fist cocked, his eyes gleaming dully.
Olafs hand dropped to his belt, fumbled beneath the top of his tunic which was hanging at his waist.
Dave moved closer, his mouth open with each labored breath he took.
And suddenly, Olaf’s fist emerged from beneath the tunic, and the sun glanced brightly off a shining, metallic object.
The cry tore itself from Neil’s throat.
“Look out, Dave! He’s got a knife!”
Dave stopped at the sound of Neil’s voice. A faint look of surprise crossed his face as he saw the knife in Olafs right hand. It was thick-bladed, with a heavy handle that Olaf’s fingers clutched tightly.
Olaf stumbled forward now, spittle clinging to his lips. An ugly smile flashed across his twisted, bleeding mouth, evil and deadly on his red-stained teeth. He crouched over, the knife at the end of his dangling arm, the point raised. Slowly, he advanced.
Neil’s eyes shifted to Erik, who stood next to him in the circle. The big Norse captain stood impassive, his gaze on the figures in the center of the ring.
“Why don’t you do something?” Neil demanded. “He’s got a knife!”
Erik turned his head slightly and said, “Your friend showed Olaf your kind of fighting. It is only fair that Olaf show your friend ours.”
“Fair,” Neil protested, “fair?”
Without reasoning, he broke away from the circle and ran to where Dave stood waiting for the burly Norseman. He stood beside Dave, the shield out before them.
“Get back where you belong.” Dave muttered.
I’m just evening the odds a little,” Neil answered.
“I can handle him.”
“You handle him, and I’ll handle his knife,” Neil said. “That way, it’s even.”
But the Norsemen in the circle had other ideas. A low grumble rose from the group when Neil stepped into the ring.
Olaf stopped and reconsidered his advance. Then, throwing his head back, he bellowed to his comrades, “Now I fight two of them!” He waited for this to penetrate and then shouted, “Is there no strong arm to join me?”
A roar went up from the Norsemen, and they began to tighten the circle, methodically, slowly, shields advanced, axes and knives drawn.
“Now you’ve done it,” Dave scolded lightly. “Now we’re both in the soup.”
Olaf, visibly bolstered by the support of his friends, began stalking forward again, the knife gently nudging the air ahead of him. The circle tightened, and Neil saw gleaming, hateful eyes, shaggy beards, grinning mouths come closer, closer.
And then, from the prow of the ship where a lookout was posted, over the roar of the Norsemen’s blood cry, came another voice. It was an excited voice, high and clear, and it stabbed through the air like the slash of a pointed rapier.