Master Of The Hashomi

Chapter 4

Blade's charge down the slope in the face of twenty-to-one odds wasn't quite as suicidal as it seemed.

To turn and flee would bring all the men after him, hunting him like a wild animal through the darkness and over ground they would certainly know better than he did. To stay where he was would invite them to climb up and come at him from all sides. To reach the bridge before they did gave him a chance to hold it against them. They would have to come at him no more than two at a time, since the bridge was narrow and there was no other crossing point on the stream. He would have a chance to hold them off long enough to discourage them. Then he could try a peaceful approach, and if that failed, he would still be holding the bridge. It looked light and rather poorly anchored at either end. A good heave and it would be in the stream, rushing toward the cliff and a plunge into the valley. That would keep the survivors on the other side long enough to give him a good head start on his retreat.

The only danger was archery, which could pick him off from a distance. Blade hadn't seen any bows among the men, and in the darkness he'd be a poor archery target anyway, particularly after the fight came to close quarters.

All these thoughts tumbled furiously through Blade's mind as his legs drove him toward the bridge. His speed, his size, his weird clothing, and his terrible war cry all combined to bring the enemy to a stop for a moment. Blade reached his end of the bridge a moment before the first of the enemy reached his.

It took the enemy another moment to sort themselves out, with a great deal of angry shouting. Blade could make out no recognizable words in that shouting, so presumably there were none. As he had passed into Dimension X, the computer somehow twisted his brain so that he understood the local language as plain English and his own speech came out in the local language. It was a process no one fully understood, but it was a vast help in the exploration of Dimension X. No one, least of all Blade, was inclined to look such a gift horse in the mouth.

Two men stepped onto the bridge, their swords raised in front of them, coming at Blade with the lithe grace of stalking cats. Blade considered for a moment lifting the bridge and dumping them into the stream, then decided against it. The others might regard it as treachery or brute strength, not skill and courage in a fair fight. Showing that skill and courage was his best chance of making peace with these warriors was therefore worth the risk.

Those risks would not be small. Blade had only his knife, and the swords his opponents held were a foot and a half longer, curved like scimitars, and clearly heavy enough to chop a man in half. A gilded band ran along the back of each sword, so at least they weren't doubled-edged.

Blade stepped forward to force the two men to deliver their attack while they were still on the bridge. That way they would have to come straight at him, and they would have only the light planks rather than the solid ground under their feet.

The two swordsmen stayed level with each other, their steps were measured and precise, and the gleaming swords they held in front of them never wavered. As the men closed, Blade saw that each man carried a knife like his in a heavily patterned leather sheath hanging from a sash at the waist. Otherwise they were dressed identically-soft boots, baggy trousers with a faint sheen to them, soft leather vests that left their arms and necks bare. They wore no armor that Blade could see, and every bit of hair except their eyebrows had been shaved off. Their heads were wrapped tightly in bands of leather, like an Indian's turban but much more tightly fitting.

Their clothing might be almost comic, but the steel they carried and the way they moved were not. They were clearly trained fighting men, sure and quick in their movements. Blade knew he could not safely take any chances against them-at least not until he had a sword to match theirs.

The two swords rose higher still, ready to slash down at Blade's head. He balanced himself on the balls of his feet, both hands out of sight behind his back. Then the swords came down, the one on Blade's left a second ahead of the other. The steel muscles in Blade's legs uncoiled, hurling him high and to one side. As he leaped, he shifted his knife from his right hand to his left.

As Blade had expected, a full overhand slash with such a heavy sword drew both men forward, momentarily off balance. Blade closed with the man to his left before the other could raise his sword again. The knife flashed in a precise arc, slitting the flesh of the man's neck and the windpipe under it. Blood sprayed, the man's breathing became a horrible choking, and his hands quivered on the hilt of his sword. Yet he did not cry out, his eyes did not flicker, his face might have been a stone mask, and his arm muscles were actually twisting and jerking, trying to raise his sword back into striking position. He was dying on his feet, yet his mind was still on the fight rather than on the death that was only seconds away.

Blade had no time to spend wondering what this might mean. As the man's grip on his sword weakened, Blade lunged for it with his free right hand. Blade's other opponent slashed sideways at him, bringing his sword around in a hissing arc with no thought for his dying comrade. The sharp edge whispered over Blade's head as he ducked, then bit into the chest of the dying man. Flesh, ribs, the heart itself parted under the blow. It went in so deep that for a moment the dead man's still-erect body held the sword of his living comrade. Then the second man joined the first in death, as Blade drove his knife up between the ribs, straight to the heart. He died as silently as the first, without a word, a cry, or even a change of expression.

The swift death of the first two men made the next two hesitate briefly. Their eyes met Blade's, though; and their faces were blank. Their hesitation did not come from fear, but from the desire of good fighting men to assess their opponent and the situation they faced. When they came, it was even faster than the first two. One sword was held high, the other wide to one side ready to slash in an arc.

Blade suspected they might be trying to drive him away from the end of the bridge and open a passage for their comrades. He also suspected they would be quite willing to die in the process. He didn't like the way the first two men had died, as silently as robots or zombies who couldn't feel pain.

The man with his sword held high was on the right, the one with the sword held wide on the left. Blade saw that the second man was moving out ahead of the other. He would be within striking range a few vital seconds before the other.

Once more Blade's legs hurled him to the left. This time he jumped wider. The sword was a blur as it slashed at him, the steel missing by inches from Blade's skin. The man pulled the sword to a stop before it struck his partner but not before the other had to stop, well out of range of Blade.

The sword was single-edged, so the man could not take out Blade on the backswing. He had to turn the sword before he could strike again. He did it so quickly that no one slower than Blade could have taken advantage of the delay.

Blade closed, feinting with the knife in his left hand, driving the man sideways to meet Blade's right. The edge of Blade's right hand caught the man across the throat. Blade felt the windpipe shatter, heard the man start choking, but saw no expression on his face. Blade dropped his knife, seized the dying man with both hands, and swung him around. The other man's sword came down. Blade ducked, and it sank deep into the skull of the man held in front of Blade. Blood and brains sprayed and the man's hands opened limply, letting his sword fall. Blade threw the corpse at the other swordsman hard enough to knock him off the bridge. Living and dead together plunged into the stream and were swept away toward the cliff. Blade stooped, gripped the fallen sword, and had it raised before the next two attackers started across the bridge. Now he had striking range equal to his opponents, not greater. Blade was six-foot-one and weighed more than two hundred pounds, all of it muscle and bone. His opponents all looked shorter and lighter. That gave Blade a longer reach and more striking power. It also meant that if necessary he could swing the heavy curved sword with one hand.

The next two attackers charged across the bridge, and he decided it was necessary. Instead of rising to his feet, Blade waited for the enemy in a crouch. Then his sword slashed, ripping one man in the thigh and leaping up to take the other in the groin. The man with the wounded thigh staggered. His leg would no longer support his full weight, but he kept on coming. The man struck in the groin reeled backward from the sheer force of the blow, but did not fall. Neither man cried out.

Blade found the silence in which his opponents took their punishment thoroughly unnatural and slightly unnverving. The man he'd struck in the groin must be in ghastly agony, his genitals mangled beyond healing. Yet he was not even moaning faintly. In fact, he was coming at Blade again, swinging his sword wildly but energetically.

Blade took a two-handed grip on his sword and without rising from his crouch swung at the man's leg. He sheared completely through it about six inches below the knee. The man toppled forward, sword lashing out at Blade and nearly laying open his cheek. Incredibly, the man balanced himself for a moment on his good leg and the blood-gushing stump of the other. Then his efforts to swing his sword again overbalanced him. He went off the bridge and splashed into the stream below.

Now Blade had to leap back to avoid a wild slash from the man he'd wounded in the thigh. The man took two lurching steps forward and swung again. His sword met Blade's with a clang and a shower of sparks. Blade's strength broke the man's grip on his sword and it flew clear across the stream to land among the men waiting on the other side.

Instead of retreating, the man drew his knife and came at Blade. His only chance now was great speed, and his wounded leg ruled that out. Blade had plenty of time to aim and deliver a swift, powerful slash that took the man's head clear off its shoulders. The head dropped into the stream while the body sprawled almost at Blade's feet.

By now Blade could feel the ground around the end of the bridge growing muddy with blood. The more he contemplated the prospect of continuing this fight the way he'd begun it, the less he liked it. Blade never minded fighting when there seemed to be some point in it. He couldn't help wondering what point there was in continuing this battle.

He didn't seem to be making any impression on his opponents by his fighting ability. Each pair came at him as furiously as the pair before them, fought as desperately, and died as silently. He'd hoped his first victories would win him a chance to negotiate. They'd done nothing of the kind. Blade wondered if these people had such concepts as «negotiation» or even «peace.»

Besides, the eerie and unnatural silence of the men as they fought, bled, and died was strengthening doubts in Blade's mind. Were these warriors drugged beyond the ability to do anything but fight, or were they possibly not quite sane?

No, this was a fight not worth continuing. He'd do well to seek his meeting with the people of this Dimension somewhere else. Here the time and the place and the people were all wrong. He would drop the bridge into the stream and retreat under cover of darkness.

By now three pairs of swordsmen were standing on the bridge, filling it halfway to Blade's side. Blade frowned. They would weigh the bridge down until it would be hard to lift, even for him. The lead pair could easily be on him before he'd done the job, and have him at too much of a disadvantage. He'd have to clear all six off the bridge, then run back to his own side and heave it into the stream. Risky, but less so than trying to retreat with these people free to cross the bridge and track him through the darkness.

Blade picked up a second sword and swung both of them over his head until the air hissed and hummed. These people might not have all the technique needed to face two of their own swords in the hands of a man like Blade. That could make it a shod fight, which was just as well. Even Blade's great strength could not keep two of these heavy weapons in action for long.

Blade stopped swinging the swords, dropped into a crouch, and took two steps forward. As his foot came down on the planks of the bridge, a sharp cry sounded from behind the men on the other side. The six men on the bridge all took a step forward, until the swords of the lead pair could almost reach the tips of Blade's weapons. The rest of their comrades separated, to let a slim figure pass through.

This man was shorter and smaller than many of the others, but he was obviously in command. He was dressed the same as the others, except that instead of a sleeveless vest he wore a dark tunic with baggy sleeves and a white glove on his left hand. His sword was slung across his back, and in his gloved hand he held a slim, eight-foot wooden staff. One end was gilded and sharp, the other ended in a silver poppy flower. The wood was lacquered black and polished until reflected firelight seemed to flow up and down it.

Something-or someone-new had been added. This man might listen to reason, at least briefly-or he might coordinate the attacks of his men and sweep Blade away like a chip of wood dropped into the stream. Blade made a calm mental note that perhaps he'd left his retreat until just a trifle too late.

Then there was no time for thought. All six men on the bridge were coming at him like a single projectile fired from a gun. All of them were screaming wildly. The two in the lead were swinging their swords back and forth in wide arcs that covered the whole bridge.

Blade still stood his ground, because the situation was now clearly kill or be killed. Against these odds, he'd probably be killed, but any chance he had depended on holding his end of the bridge. With his two swords and longer reach, the fight wasn't over yet.

Blade waited as the first two men closed. Then he lunged with his right, while his left whirled the sword over and down. The curved swords were not intended for thrusting, but they had sharp points and Blade's lunge had all the weight of the sword and his own strength behind it. He aimed at the throat of the man on the right, missed, gashed his shoulder, and forced the man to stop his own swing.

Blade's other sword flashed down in its precisely calculated arc and crashed into his other opponent's weapon. Sparks rained down and the weapon froze in midair. Blade raised both his swords and swung again, using all his strength. Against these people, delaying tactics and wounds weren't much good. Sooner rather than later he had to go for the kill.

Steel bit deeply into the hip of the man to Blade's right, cutting nearly through to the groin. The man on the left came on too fast, ducking as he came. Blade's slash took him alongside the head, cutting off an ear, biting through the leather bindings to lay open the scalp, but not killing or even crippling. The man's sword took a chunk of flesh out of Blade's side and left a long gouge across his ribs. Then the man folded forward as Blade slashed at him again, cutting off his right arm. He stayed on his feet as he folded, and drove his head forward into Blade's stomach.

The shock drove Blade backward several feet. The man lifted his severed stump so that the blood spraying from it struck Blade in the face, and clutched at Blade's left arm with his remaining hand. Blade had to give more ground to shake him loose. By the time the man finally collapsed at Blade's feet, the remaining four men on the bridge had crossed it and now held the end against Blade. Behind them the leader was beckoning the others forward.

Blade faced the fact that he was about to die, then put it out of his mind. In its place was a grim, chill intention to die as hard as possible, and leave as many more of these people lying dead around his corpse as he could. He particularly hoped to get a chance at the leader.

The leader waited until his eleven surviving men crossed the bridge. Then he raised his staff over his head with both hands and made quick, darting movements. Responding to his signals, the eleven men spread wide around Blade. Blade watched them calmly, his swords lowered until their tips rested on the ground. He wanted to save his strength. The wound was beginning to blaze with pain, but it was not bleeding heavily. Probably it felt worse than it was. He still wouldn't be an easy prey.

Then all eleven men were moving in on Blade. Half held their swords high, the other half came at Blade with their knives. Blade noted this with cool professional detachment. It was a good idea. The knifeman would be able to work at close quarters in a way he could not with the sword. Blade decided he would not let the fight get to close quarters.

He exploded into action, legs pumping and arms making his swords whistle and dance in the darkness. A circle of fast-moving steel whistled about Blade, then bit into the line of advancing men.

No human-senses could have picked out the details of that fight. There were too many men and weapons involved, moving much too fast. A watcher could have seen bodies merging and then drawing apart, the shadowy flickering of swords, and men reeling out of the fight to fall to the ground. He could have heard the hiss of steel cutting air and the meaty sounds of it biting into flesh and bone, the thud of feet and of falling limbs and heads, an occasional gasp for breath. He would have smelled the raw odors of fresh blood and of men soiling themselves in their final agony.

He would not have heard any cries of pain, either from Blade as he took six wounds or from his opponents as five of them died.

At last Blade lay on his back on the ground, looking up at the men standing around him. He could feel the ground under him damp with blood, some of it his from wounds that hadn't started to hurt yet. They probably wouldn't have time to start, either. He'd be dead first. The six remaining men all held their bloody weapons in their hands, and all of them had their eyes on him. He could sense murderous hostility in all of them, even though their faces were as blank as ever.

Then the leader was stepping forward, pushing the men away from Blade. Four of them went readily, two of them taking positions by the end of the bridge. The other two darted away across the bridge. Blade wondered vaguely where they were going in such a hurry, then the last two men drew his attention.

They showed no sign of moving. They stood with their legs wide apart, swords in their hands, eyes shifting from Blade to the leader and back again to Blade. Blade sensed that they now felt not only murderous hostility toward him, but defiance toward their leader. He wished he could get up and help the leader, but had no hope of doing so. He'd already lost too much blood, and if he tried to rise he'd lose more. Then he'd die, whatever happened between the leader and his two mutinuous warriors.

So Blade lay still, and he was lying still when the leader's staff flicked out. The sharp end seemed to leap across the space between the leader and one of the men. Blade half expected it to pierce the man like a spear, but the point only brushed across one arm. The other man stiffened and began to turn. Before he could complete the movement the staff flicked out a second time, the tip grazing the second man's cheek.

For a long moment no one moved. It was as if the two men had been paralyzed so completely they couldn't even fall over. Blade wondered how this had happened. They certainly hadn't been beaten into submission. The staff had struck no harder than a pinprick. Yet in a single moment all the defiance seemed to have gone out of them.

Then the leader pointed to the bridge, and the two men laid their weapons on the ground and walked slowly off to join their comrades at the bridge. A moment later the two men who'd run to the camp came running back across the bridge. They carried flasks and strips of white cloth in their hands, and they ran toward Blade.

Blade felt pain and tension and the anticipation of death flow out of him in a great wave. For some reason they were going to take him prisoner, instead of killing him, and even try to heal his wounds. They might even succeed. Then he would be alive, and that was a situation with many more possibilities than being dead.

Blade's eyes slid shut and his mind drifted off to somewhere far away. None of his senses registered the two men kneeling beside him, bathing and bandaging his wounds, or the leader standing over them, looking down at Blade with profound curiosity.