fingertips. A
tight-laced hood of mail left only his face bare, and his helmet with
its nasal bar covered part of his face.

In this kind of toe-to-toe fight the greater speed of a lightly armored
fighter was not much advantage. The weight of the mail might slow de
Gobignon down a bit, but fatigue would do the same for Daoud.

The scimitar de Gobignon wielded, that souvenir stolen from some Islamic
warrior, looked to be at least as good a blade as the one Daoud was
using.

The count sprang and slashed at Daoud's arm. Daoud stepped back easily
and parried the blow.

_He can cut my hand off and that would end the fight. And I might even
survive the loss of a hand to be taken prisoner into the bargain. I must
not let that happen._

With a shout Daoud drove the point of his saif straight at de Gobignon's
face. Christians used swords for chopping, not stabbing. With a
backhanded slash de Gobignon knocked the point aside. He punched with
his mailed free hand at Daoud's chest armor.

Daoud felt the force of the blow, but he saw de Gobignon wince. A mailed
fist could hurt flesh, but when it struck metal the fist would suffer.

Daoud slashed at de Gobignon's sword arm just above the elbow.

_Let us see if that mail can withstand my sword._

De Gobignon winced again, but the saif rebounded without cutting through
the chain links, and Daoud felt a jolt in his gauntleted hand.

_The sword is good, but so is the mail. I cannot cut it or stab through
it._

De Gobignon rushed him suddenly, swinging wildly, lips drawn back from
clenched teeth. Daoud danced away, a part of his mind pleased that he
could move so quickly when he had to, tired as he was. De Gobignon's
wild swings from side to side left his chest exposed. He was relying
entirely on his armor, Daoud saw, to protect him.

Daoud jabbed de Gobignon under the armpit, so hard that he felt the
flexible metal of his saif bend. Again the blade failed to penetrate the
tightly woven chain mail, but de Gobignon gave a gasp of pain and cut
his attack short. Daoud was gratified.

He glimpsed a familiar face in the circle of onlookers, a meaty,
weather-beaten face with a broken nose. Sordello. Had he been guarding
the Tartars on the field today?

De Gobignon attacked again, swinging his scimitar furiously at Daoud's
head. He ended the motion with his arm across his face. Daoud gripped
his own sword with both hands, and on de Gobignon's backswing raised it
over his head