Blade drew his sword and leaped at the rope. The sword flashed up, came down, rebounded from tough fibers without cutting through. He raised the sword again. As he did so, a second loop arched out of the bushes and thudded into place around his own neck. And then the bushes did spew out armed men, dozens of them, the sunlight gleaming on their polished armor. Their shields bore red circles — the badge of Rulam.

In their haste to spring the trap, the Rulami forgot to jerk Blade's rope tight. Dropping sword and spear to leave both hands free, he clawed it from around his neck, then snatched up his weapons before the soldiers could reach him. Sunlight flashed off spearhead and sword blade as he flourished them overhead, roaring out, «Warriors! Remember your honor! Flee and fight again! I will delay those-!» He did not know if the Zungans heard him or not, but he knew that if they got a good headstart, they would be safe. No armored soldier in any army in any dimension could run down a Zungan warrior moving at full speed. Then he was suddenly too busy with his own fight to pay any more attention to his scattering followers.

As the Rulami formed a circle around him, Blade discarded his sword. Then he yelled, «Come on, you cowards. There's only one of me, there's forty of you. Or is one man of the English equal to forty of Rulam? I've heard a lot of bad things about your city, but nothing that bad. You wear iron on your heads to keep your brains from falling out. Do you wear it on your stomachs to keep your guts from falling out? Maybe you need some iron inside your guts, not outside? Well, I'll give it to you!» And without pausing for breath, he charged.

The two men in front of him jerked up their shields to meet a straight thrust. Blade's spear whirled up and over. The weighted butt crashed down on one polished helmet, then snapped sideways into an exposed cheek. The two men flew in opposite directions, but instantly the gap in the Rulami line was closed by two more.

These did not wait for Blade to come at them. He had to back away into the center of the circle as their swords flickered and jabbed at him, waiting for an opening. It came. His spearhead darted in under one shield, laying open a thigh. He heaved upward on the shaft, sending the man sprawling backward, then swung the spear sharply to the right. It rode up across the second man's shield, caught his helmet, flipped it high into the air. The spear whirled end for end in another lightning stroke, and this time the butt end came down on an unhelmeted head.

Blade did not wait for the man with the smashed skull to hit the ground. He shifted rapidly left, then right as two men charged him from opposite sides. The spear shot out level as he spun about. Like a runaway revolving door the shaft caught both men and knocked them sprawling. One's helmet came off as he fell. Blade stamped down on the exposed neck and felt bone give way. At the same moment he drove his spear down into the other man's face, smashing it between the teeth into the brain.

He realized a moment later that he should not have taken the time to do that. An entire section of the circle charged in against him at once, half a dozen men at least. He should not waste time killing men who were down. His reason told him that, but his blood fury told him something else. Now that he had these slavers within killing range, he wanted to kill as many of them as possible before they killed him.

He retreated hastily before the advancing section. As he did so, he realized that there were just enough of them to get in each other's way. Blade knew he was a master of exploiting the advantage one man always has over a group in such a situation.

They were trying to back him against another section of the circle. No chance, friends, he said to himself. He stepped forward, the spearhead went down into the ground, and like a pole vaulter he soared clear over the heads of the advancing soldiers. A sword flashed up, waving helplessly at him as he sailed past. Then he was behind the line, spinning around, spear up and thrusting.

He drove the spearhead into two men below the cuirasses before they could even begin to turn. He opened the side of a third man's face with the spear's edge. A quick sideways flick of his powerful wrists, and the heavy wood shaft caught a fourth man on the neck. The two survivors of the advancing section suddenly decided to stop advancing. That didn't save them. Blade feinted at one man's head, then jabbed the butt into his comrade's knee. As the second man reeled and opened the first one's flank, Blade moved in before he could get his shield around. The spear jabbed up into the man's armpit so hard it nearly jammed there.

But in the moment before he could get back into the open, three more men rushed at Blade. One of them stumbled over a fallen body and staggered forward. He cannoned into Blade, throwing him off balance. Fighting to keep his feet, Blade let go of the spear with one hand and rammed his fist into the side of the man's neck. The man jerked and started to slide to the ground. Before Blade could get both hands back on the spear, a second man chopped down wildly with his sword. The sword struck the head of Blade's spear with a tremendous clang, and the jar broke Blade's grip on the shaft. The spear slammed down hard on the ground. Blade lunged for it, and suddenly found two sword points waving within inches of his throat. He froze, looking up at the soldiers. Under the helmets, their eyes were wide and staring, and the knuckles of their sword hands stood out white. These men would kill him if he moved an inch.

Then behind the soldiers he saw another figure loom up. He could not see it clearly, but it seemed to be dressed in flowing silvery robes, with something off-white dangling on its chest. He could not make out the face. But the voice was that of a man in authority.

«Do not kill him,» said the voice.

Blade tensed. If these soldiers had to try to take him alive… He took a deep breath, ready to plunge forward the minute one of the swords shifted as much as an inch.

But the sound came from behind him, feet approaching at a run. The two swords held steady, keeping him facing rigidly forward. He froze as the footsteps came to a stop behind him. Then something heavy slammed down on top of his head, on the side, on the back. He hardly felt the third blow as he sagged forward, his face coming down on the hard ground by the foot of one of the soldiers. The last thing he saw was the figure in silver stepping between the two soldiers and stopping above him. The man's sandals shone with the unmistakable blood-hued glint of rubies. Then Blade stopped seeing or feeling anything.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When Blade drifted back to consciousness, there were aches and pains shooting through every part of his head. There was also the same silver-robed figure looming over him, looking down at him. Blade looked up at the man and met his gaze. The man was gray-bearded and fair-skinned, but except for that and his silver robes, he resembled the On'ror so much they might have been brothers or at least cousins. Both were broad and fleshy in face and figure, and both had the look of men long accustomed to power. Not only long accustomed to power, but totally lacking in scruples when it came to keeping it. Blade did not like thinking that his path and that of the Zungans ran through two such men.

The man crossed both arms in front of his chest and smiled down at Blade. It was the sort of gloating, triumphant smile Blade might have expected from such a man, and it didn't make him feel any better. But he was determined not to give the man any advantage, so he kept his mouth shut. The ache in his head made that fairly easy.

«Well, Richard Blade of the English,» said the man. Blade just managed to keep from stiffening in surprise at hearing his name. The man shot a hard look at Blade, searching for some signs of surprise, then smiled again, as unpleasantly as before.