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him, deftly inserting something into the toe of each sandal. Foot-knives, Conan realized, too late to do anything about it. There would be no choice but to fight on the enemy’s terms.
    Conan had heard of these weapons, flat-handled blades inserted between the ball of the foot and the sole of the sandal, with narrow necks to be gripped by the first and second toes. Their use was a deadly art of the southern lands. Those glinting from his opponent’s feet were of bronze, leaf-bladed and deeply grooved. Conan did not doubt that they were poisoned.
    The watchers formed a tight circle in anticipation of the duel, some murmuring together in groups and presumably laying bets. Conan noticed that Juma and Babrak took up protective stances on either side of Sariya, slapping their hilts menacingly at any who edged too near her. Vowing silent thanks to them, he turned to meet the red strangler’s rush.
    The jungle trooper had unsheathed a second curved dagger from behind his back, providing him a steel fang on each limb. Bending suddenly like a bow, he launched himself at Conan in a gleaming pinwheel of death. He kicked out first one foot, then the other, then spun forward, his daggers slashing high and low simultaneously. While fighting he ceased his taunts, intent on the intricate motions, his brown-knotted throat issuing only sharp gasps and grunts of exertion.
    The Cimmerian, with points flying at him from a dozen angles in blinding succession, gave way generously before his foe. In the human dust-devil’s whirling, slicing course it was virtually impossible to see the next deadly stroke coming. Swiftly he fell back and aside, letting his foe measure the ground with acrobatic leaps and prancings. The moves were flamboyant, more likely perfected in taverns and alleys than in any jungle fight.
    Conan thought of letting his attacker tire himself out—but an oddly narcotic gleam in the man’s eye warned that his wiry vitality might endure, even increase over the course of the fight, depending on his drug of preference. So he set out to balk the man’s attacks in small ways, shifting sidewise at intervals and striking gingerly at the metal-scything limbs as they flashed by. Each rush brought them closer to the chanting, jeering line of watchers.
    A change in the jungle-fighter’s rhythm caught Conan off-balance; desperately he dropped to all fours as a midair leap sent his attacker scything straight over him, daggers and toe-knives whizzing past his ears and kidneys. This raised lusty shouts from the spectators; yet the blood they bayed for did not spurt or trickle. The only wound, made earlier to Conan’s hand, had ceased flowing, clenched inside his massive, dusty fist.
    But as the lithe assassin instantly renewed his attack, that same gory fist flew open to dash blinding, red-spattered dust into his face. A simultaneous kick of Conan’s sandal struck the back of the Red Garrote’s hurtling thigh, amplifying his spin and sending him careening into the shouting onlookers.
    As he disentangled himself roughly from two victims, one cursing, the other yelping with wounds, Conan saluted the crowd with a raised dagger, winning a lusty cheer from Juma—and from the others, feverish murmurs of bets being revised.
    The two fighters squared off again, both panting this time, with no inessential flourishes or feints. Their grim intensity hinted that the match might be settled in one more swift, deadly pass. In the blinding noon sun their shadows made two hovering knots on the earth, each extending a curved talon toward the other. These dark blots gave the only real contrast to the sunwashed scene, blacker than the weathered hues of either man’s harness, deeper than the tan of dusty, sun-browned limbs.
    In a pulse the black shadows rushed together, tangling indistinguishably, the red strangler’s kicking assault blocked by Conan’s forward lunge. Blades scraped harshly and bodies met crosswise, tight inside the vicious orbit of hand-