"Leg-biter!", greybeard exclaimed," Leg-Biter? Sooooo, the schoolboy has finally given a name to his sword! And what a name, precisely the sort of name you'd expect a boy to come up with. Why not call that baby's rattle 'Pant-pisser' or 'Bed-Wetter' and have done with it".

Greybeard began to chortle at his own wit, and this time it was the turn of the youngster to become enraged. He charged at greybeard and with a deafening clang and a shower of sparks their swords met high above their heads. The hilltop echoed to the sounds of sword on sword, and sword on shield.

Again, they stood facing each other, catching their breath, weighing each other up, their swords touching, tip on tip. The rain began to fall, driven almost sideways across the hilltop by the wind. Freezing water began to run off their helmets, weapons and cloaks in chilly rivulets.

From the left breast pocket of the youngster there suddenly came a high pitched trilling from his communicator. Forgetting where he was for a vital instant, he moved to answer the call, and that was all the opening the older man needed. Dropping onto his left arm, he swung with his right leg and kicked the young man's left leg from underneath him. As the youngster pitched forward, his chin end on it's way down met greybeard's right elbow on it way up. Greybeard completed his combination with a right uppercut that caught the young man squarely on the side of his head between the jaw and ear. As he rolled around on the floor greybeard quickly jumped to his feet, and soon stood over the youngster, sword at his throat. The young man's communicator still squealed for his attention.

"I think you'd better answer that, lad", said greybeard, smiling, "maybe it's your ladyfriend wondering where you are!"

The young man fumbled under his cloak, and eventually pulled out the palm-sized communicator. Trying to compose himself as best he could with a mouth full of blood, a whirling head and a sword at his throat, he flicked out the microphone.

"Haraldsson" he answered. He moaned out loud as greybeard's voice replied, echoing from the communicator's loudspeaker. He then saw greybeard's own communicator, tucked cleverly into his sword hand.

"Rule one in a duel", said greybeard to his prone adversary, "never take a communicator onto the field, unless of course, you have the required cunning to switch it off first!"

Greybeard chuckled to himself, and issued a spoken command to the unit strapped to his left wrist. His shield began to fold in on itself, cleaning and oiling itself as it did so.