The youth was running at him, his too-heavy sword upraised to strike. Declan stepped back quickly to avoid the wild, unbalanced swing while drawing the axe from its shoulder harness, and at the next swing he knocked the tip of the boy's sword to the ground. He used the flat of the axeblade so as not to nick the iron cutting edges because those he tried to keep as finely honed as a shaving knife.

"If you want to fight," he said in a tone that mixed exasperation and admiration at the other's bravery, "you should try to defend your…"

He had been about to say father or grandfather, but hesitated. At close quarters he could see that the old man's face was completely hairless and totally without expression. Not only was his skull as shining and featureless as an ocean-washed stone, there was not the slightest trace of hair around his mouth and chin or even where his lashes and eyebrows should have been. This, Declan thought, was a person who had suffered some strange malady or, perhaps, he had travelled from a far country where everyone looked like that. When compared with the thick, black hair and delicate and animated features of the boy, it was obvious that there was no family relationship.

"… your master," he corrected himself, and went on, "Stand before him, guard him from attack and don't try to swing that pig-sticker around your head or try to slash with it. It's blunt, too heavy for you and it would swing you off balance and leave you open to a counterattack. The only advantage it has is its length. You are young and fast on your feet, so duck under your enemy's slash then step forward and stab with it, straight-armed…"

"Like this?" said the boy, jabbing the point of the blade viciously at his chest. Surprised at the other's strength, Declan danced backward out of range.

"Behave yourself, boy!" he said angrily. "Do you want me to take the flat of my hand to your skinny rump? 1 am not your enemy."