out of the wound in his side. Shakatak's knife flicked forward again,

this time in his right hand, slashing open the skin on the other side

of Cadillac's ribs. They were the first two strokes in the ritual of

wounding and dismemberment in single-handed fights to the death.

Cadillac had seen the pattern on the bodies of his clan-brothers and

marauding Mutes. Next would come the cuts on the shoulders and upper

arms, weakening the opponent's knife thrusts. The deep jabs into the

thighs would be followed by the cheek slashes, then the forehead

stroke, causing blood to pour into the eyes, the second horizontal

slice, across the belly, the upwards rip through the groin and then if

you were lucky - the plunging thrust into and across the throat that

preceded the severing of the head.

Those that were unlucky suffered further mutilation before choking to

death on their severed genitals.

Cadillac's terrifying vision of what lay ahead lent wings to his feet

as he bobbed and weaved around Shakatak. He could not run, could not

abandon Clearwater, yet knew that if, by some miracle, he managed to

defeat Shakatak, his brother Lion-Hearts would take his place, either

singly or together. He was going to die! It was unthinkable that he

should but there was no way to escape. He leapt backwards as

Shakatak's blade scythed through the air less than an inch from his

navel.

Shakatak's knife thrusts were terrifyingly fast but because of his

heavier body, he was slower on his feet. After the two opening cuts on

his ribs, Cadillac's natural agility had kept him out of serious

trouble but this merely offered a temporary respite; it was no

solution. He could not dance beyond the range of Shakatak's blade for

ever. He had to find some way to get under his guard and inflict a

short, sharp disabling thrust. But how?

Cadillac sidestepped as Shakatak lunged forward and ran behind him to

the far side of the circle where he stooped down and scooped up a

handful of dirt and pebbles.

Shakatak turned, his face creased with a knowing smile. As Cadillac

advanced towards him warily, Shakatak flung out his arm towards the

three Mutes who held Clearwater, and snapped his fingers. Holding onto

the struggling Clearwater with one hand, Torpedo unfastened the stone

flail looped through his belt and lobbed it towards Shakatak's

outstretched hand. As his arm came up, Clearwater kicked at it

desperately, causing the flail to fall between Shakatak and Cadillac.

Shakatak stepped forward, switched his knife into his right hand, fixed

Cadillac with his glittering eyes and bent to pick up the flail.

Cadillac knew it was his one and only chance. Hurling the handful of

dirt at S hakatak's face, he threw himself sideways into the air above

Shakatak's knife hand with a tremendous yell and kicked out at

Shakatak's head with both feet. His heels connected with a force born

of desperation. The knife flew from Shakatak's hand as his neck

snapped sideways.

Cadillac felt a terrible jarring pain as his feet slammed into the

stone-covered helmet. There was a fleeting instant when time seemed to

suddenly stand still and he found himself praying he had not broken

his ankles - then Shakatak crashed to the ground with Cadillac

sprawling on top of him.

Cadillac kicked out wildly at Shakatak's face, knocking off his

helmet-mask at the same time as he stabbed viciously at the thick,

strongly-muscled legs that thrashed around his own head. Shakatak

roared with pain like a crippled bull-buffalo.

Twisting round, Cadillac scrambled to his knees, fumbling to change his

grip on the bloodstained knife so that he could plunge it deep into

Shakatak's throat, or between the stone and leather chest plates

protecting his heart.

Before he could strike, Shakatak rolled into him then jerked upright,

his left hand flashing out to grasp Cadillac's wrist, staying the

knife. Seemingly oblivious of any pain, or the blood pouring from the

deep slashes in his leg muscles, Shakatak smashed his right forearm,

with its leather and stone cuff against Cadillac's throat, knocking him

backwards onto the ground, haft-dazed and choking for breath.

Cadillac tried to roll aside. Too late. Shakatak still held his wrist

in a grip of iron. Kicking out with his right heel, he hit both of

Cad