"I would fain see the Frankish way of it." A man stepped out from the ring, a great square fellow shorter by a head than Aimery, and with a nose that showed there was Saracen blood in him.
He had a heavy German blade, better suited for fighting on horseback than on foot.

He had no buckler, and no armour save a headpiece, so the combatants were fairly matched.
It was a contest of speed and deftness against a giant's strength, for a blow from the great weapon would have cut deep into a man's vitals.
Aimery was weary and unpractised, but the clash of steel gave life to him.

He found that he had a formidable foe, but one who lacked the finer arts of the swordsman.

The Tartar wasted his strength in the air against the new French parries and guards, though he drew first blood and gashed his opponent's left arm.

Aimery's light blade dazzled his eyes, and presently when breath had grown short claimed its due.