Two fires were burning outside the town near to the Rider camps, tall piles of blazing wood which warmed the sharp autumn night. In a ring round them both, the Ironhope natives and the Riders gathered to watch. “What’s that stick, boy?”, Muttu said as he approached Klane but there was a wariness behind the amused contempt. He knew there was something here he didn’t quite understand. Yet the heavy axe he carried reassured him. This annoying blacksmith stealer had to die. The games were over and it was time to get serious. His tribe needed the skills the blacksmith could provide and he wasn’t going to settle for second best in the auction. Now Muttu was on his own ground and he didn’t doubt his ability to settle the matter. The two men circled warily round the open space between the fires whilst the crowd stepped anxiously out of the way whenever they came close. Klane said nothing and concentrated hard on everything he’d learnt in his training duels with Crinomu. He felt the subtle currents of power running through his ancient weapon and he attuned himself to its needs.