«Ha, ha,» said Nera. «Let him loose and I will be making him into pieces of fringe for your robe.»
Somebody released Shea and he stretched his arms and flexed his muscles to restore circulation. He was pushed rather roughly toward the door, where the Tuatha De Danaanwere forming a ring, and a sword was thrust into his hand. It was one of the usual Irish blades, almost pointless and suitable mainly for cutting.
«Hey!» he said. «I want my own sword, the one I had with me.»
Briun stared at him a moment out of pale, suspicious eyes. «Bring the sword,» he said, and then called: «Miach!»
The broadsword that Shea had ground down to as fine a point as possible was produced. A tall old man with white hair and beard that made himlook like a nineteenth-century poet stepped forward.
«You are to be telling me if there is a geas on this blade,» said the King.
The druid took the blade and, holding it flat on both palms, ran his nose along it, sniffing. He looked up. «I do not find any smell of geas or magic about it,» he said, then lifted his nose like a hound toward Shea. «But about this one there is certainly something that touches my profession.»
«It will not save him,» said Nera. «Come and be killed, Gael.» He swung up his sword.
Shea just barely parried the downstroke. The man was strong as a horse, and had a good deal of skill in the use of his clumsy weapon. For several panting minutes the weapons clanged; Shea had to step back, and back again, and there were appreciative murmurs from the audience.
Finally, Nera, showing a certain shortness of breath and visibly growing restive, shouted, «You juggling Greek!» took a step backward and wound up for a two-handed overhead cut, intended to beat down his opponent’s blade by sheer power. Instantly Shea executed the maneuver known as an advance-thrust — dangerous against a fencer, but hardly a barbarian like this. He hopped forward, right foot first, and shot his arm out straight. The point went right into Nera’s chest.