by Джеффри Лорд
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 bon
e, 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.
Chapter 5
Blade was pleasantly surprised to wake up at all. He knew that people could die from losing the amount of blood he’d lost, even with Home Dimension’s medical science to help them. Under the more primitive conditions of Dimension X, it would not have been at all difficult for him to slip away in spite of the best efforts of the men tending him.
He was still more pleasantly surprised to wake up in a bed, with the smell of clean linen and flowers around him, and in the background the crackling of a fire and the splash of flowing water. Mere comfort could not pull him through, if the doctors of the poppyflower warriors didn’t know their business. It would help him regain his strength more quickly once he was out of danger. That was all to the good. Being weak and helpless was never safe in Dimension X. It was even less safe when you were in the hands of people whose intentions toward you had once been murderous; and might easily become so again.
Blade shifted position slightly, to uncramp his legs. He felt pain stabbing him in a dozen places, and the constriction of bandages. He knew he must look as though he’d been run through a mowing machine. It was a miracle that none of those heavy, hard-swung swords had sunk through flesh into bone or vital organs. As it was, he would have a whole new crop of spectacular scars to add to the many he already bore in various places. Plastic surgery had kept his face in good repair, but the appearance of his body had caused at least one woman to ask if he made his living wrestling tigers and bears.
Someone in the room must have been watching for Blade to show signs of life. Suddenly there were two figures in white robes standing by the bed. The robes were so loose and flowing that it was impossible to tell whether the figures were men or women. One held a steaming bowl and a sponge, the other a large jar of glazed pottery and a bronze cup.
The first attendant pulled the light linen covering away from Blade and began sponging all the exposed areas of his skin. Then the second attendant poured something from the jar into the cup and held the cup to Blade’s lips. That was a good sign. It suggested he had no internal injuries worth bothering about.
The cup held cool water, slightly sweetened with honey and holding a faint hint of some unknown drug. In spite of this it was the most delicious drink Blade could ever remember having. His throat seemed to be packed solid with dust and phlegm, and the sweet water washed it all away like the flood from a broken dam. Blade emptied the cup twice, and found he could move tongue and lips enough to say, «Thank you.»
He thought he saw the two attendants smile, but couldn’t be sure. Sleep was taking him away again, and he didn’t resist.
Gradually Blade spent more time awake and less time sleeping. Even more gradually the pain of his wounds faded, and inch by inch the areas covered by the bandages shrank. There was no sign of infection in any of the wounds, another pleasant surprise for Blade. These people seemed to have at least a practical understanding of infections and how to prevent them.
Without infection, none of Blade’s flesh wounds were serious enough to be dangerous to someone in his superb physical condition and with his healing powers. He did not know exactly how long it was before he was able to get out of bed and take a few steps. It was certainly soon enough to surprise his attendants. They insisted that he get back into bed and stay there. He insisted just as vigorously that he should be allowed to move around.
Blade had never been a very good patient. He disliked the sensation of being helpless and bedridden even when he was safe in Home Dimension. Here he disliked it even more. He could not regain his strength lying in bed. Nor could he learn most of what he would need to know about these people who were holding him-as guest, or prisoner?
Probably prisoner, but certainly a valuable, even honored one. The attendants seemed genuinely concerned about his health as they urged him to return to bed. The room itself was plainly furnished-only a bed, a low table, and some cushions and mats on the floor-but it was spotlessly clean. The food they began to serve him was plain-more of the honeyed water, bread, cheese, fruits and vegetables, clear soups-but excellent. No damp cells, no moldy straw, no scampering rats, sour porridge, or prison fevers to worry about. He could survive this sort of captivity as long as he might need to.
He no longer needed to sleep more than his normal five hours a night, but found it useful to pretend that he needed more. When they thought he was asleep, the attendants would talk freely in his hearing, as they sponged him down, changed his bandages, and swept the room. They were all women or old men; not deep into the secrets of the poppyflower warriors, but what they said told Blade a good deal of what he needed to know.
He was among the Hashomi. The Hashomi were a band of warrior adepts, like the ninjas of medieval Japan or the hashshashin of the medieval Arab world. There were several thousand of the sworn, trained adepts. Most had been born among the Hashomi and brought up from infancy in their way of life, a way of life that depended heavily on various drugs.
&nbs
p; In addition to the sworn fighters, there were men and women to tend the crops, heal the sick and wounded; repair the houses, bear and raise the children who would become Hashomi, and do everything else needed to maintain a civilized society. All of them lived within the great valley that stretched east and west from the great mountain with its plume of snow. Few outsiders had ever sought to penetrate the mountains that stood between the valley and the desert. Fewer still had succeeded, and none had ever returned alive to outside world.
The Hashomi did not remain entirely hidden within their home valley. Far across the desert lay a great city called Dahaura, apparently the center of an empire that spread across most of the Dimension. There was envy and hatred on people’s faces and in their voices when they spoke of Dahaura. They also spoke of Hashomi going forth from the valley and entering Dahaura. What the Hashomi did in the city was never stated, but Blade suspected it was nothing approved of by the rulers of Dahaura.
All of the Hashomi, warriors and workers alike, were ruled by the Master. The man appeared to have no other name. At least Blade never heard him referred to as anything but «The Master.» Nor did Blade ever hear «The Master» spoken of except with genuine awe and reverence. Clearly the man had gifts or at least a strength of personality that made him someone to be followed-and someone for Blade to deal with very carefully.
Blade was glad he had all this firmly in mind before the day came for him to meet the Master of the Hashomi.
It was just before sunset, and Blade was sitting on a cushion on the terrace of one of the buildings that served as a hospital. On the valley floor far below the terrace, the fields of wheat and flax were already disappearing behind a rising veil of mist.
A wooden railing ran along the edge of the terrace. It was only waist-high and painted white for visibility in the darkness. Beyond the railing, the valley wall plunged away, four hundred vertical feet to the fields below. The rock of the cliff was as free of handholds as a billiard ball. Anyone going over the railing to escape would not get far.
