«I have food and water and clothing enough,» said Blade. «When I have killed you all, I will have even more, and I can walk to wherever I want to go. I am not like you people, so short-legged and hunchbacked that I can go nowhere without a horse under me.» Half a dozen swords flew up at that taunt. The leader barked an order, but there was a tense moment before his men obeyed and the swords came down.

For a moment, Blade wondered if he was throwing away a chance for life. But he doubted it, doubted it very much. There was no good reason for these people to let him live after he had given them what they wanted-the Golden Steed. And once he dismounted, they could kill him easily, with no risk to themselves. More important, with no risk to the golden horse. He and the Golden Steed would go together, or not at all.

The leader's face was grim as he looked at Blade, and his hand was tight on his sword. Blade's own face was just as hard. He looked back, not only at the leader, but at the circle of horsemen around him. He was looking for a weak spot or a gap in that line. If he could charge them and break through… But the golden horse had no strength left for another run. His best bet was to to stay here and let them come at him. As long as they didn't dare injure the Golden Steed, he had an advantage.

The leader looked to the right and the left and saw the others in the circle meet his eyes. Eleven swords rose, while eleven mouths opened to shout war cries.

Then Blade heard the thunder of hooves in the distance, and a harsh, brazen horn call. A moment later he heard something else-the swelling whistle and whine of a flight of arrows. And then the arrows arrived.

Two took the leader in the chest, hitting him so hard that he sailed backward off his horse. He seemed to hang suspended in the air for a moment, the mouth that had been open to shout a war cry still open in a shout of surprise and pain. Then he crashed to the ground, kicked twice, and lay still.

Two of his men went down in the same flight of arrows, and a horse jumped and screamed. The circle around Blade held for only one more moment as though the surviving horsemen were too paralyzed to move. In that moment Blade urged the Golden Steed forward. He was heading toward the side of the circle away from the arrows. The oncoming men might be friendly, but that didn't mean he wanted to ride straight into their arms.

The weary golden horse didn't have time or space to build up much speed. It was barely moving at a walk when it reached the circle. For a moment Blade had a sick fear that he was going to be a sitting target.

But then fear hit the enemy horsemen, and they dug in their spurs and bolted. Blade's sword flashed right, then left, and two horsemen sagged out of their saddles. Blinded with fear, they never saw or knew what hit them. Another looked back at Blade and the archers, just in time to get an arrow from the second flight in his throat. He gurgled and clawed at the arrow for a moment, then his horse dashed headlong under a tree. A low-hanging branch swept him out of his saddle and spilled him to the ground. He lay there writhing and choking, until another arrow put an end to his struggles.

A moment later the approaching hoofbeats swelled to a thunder, and a dozen horsemen came pouring past Blade. He had a brief glimpse of small lean men on similarly small and lean horses. Each had a strung bow in his hands, and was controlling his horse even at a full gallop with his knees. They swept past in a cloud of dust. As they did so, Blade saw the bows bend and then snap straight a third time, and another flight of arrows winged off, black against the sunlit sky. Distant screams of men and horses told of more arrows finding their targets.

The horse archers did not slow or slacken their pace until they were almost out of sight. As they pounded away into the distance, Blade saw some of them sling their bows on their backs and break out lances. Each time they passed the body of an enemy lying on the ground, two or three would stop and jab the lances into him several times. Finally they all stopped, then turned and rode back toward Blade.

Blade had dismounted by this time. There was no point to imposing his two hundred pounds of muscle and bone on the exhausted horse any longer. If the horse archers proved hostile, he would have no more chance of escaping on horseback than on foot. Not with his mount exhausted. Not with the new enemies armed with bows that could pick him off like a duck on the wing fifty yards away. And they might not be hostile. «The enemy of my enemy is my friend» wasn't always something one could rely on. But it was at least a reasonable starting point.

The horsemen rode toward him in a wide half-circle. Their lances were still in their hands, but the points were aimed up at the sky. They slowed from a canter to a trot, from a trot to a walk, then stopped altogether about ten yards from Blade. They were all staring at him and at the Golden Steed with a look in their eyes Blade couldn't quite analyze or explain. It was not hostility, but it certainly wasn't friendliness either. Blade swallowed. Were they waiting for him to make the first move? He spread his hands, palms outwards in the universal peace sign.

As if that had been a signal, all fourteen men sprang down from their horses. Then as one man, they fell face down on the ground, hands strewn out toward Blade. A low murmuring rose into the air, a pair of chanted phrases.

«The Pendarnoth has come. The Golden Steed has come. The Pendarnoth has come. The Golden Steed has come. The Pendarnoth has come… «

CHAPTER FOUR

It took Blade a little while to realize that these men were worshiping him as a god or holy man. During that time he stood motionless, hands still outspread in the peace gesture. He suspected there must be an idiotic gape of astonishment on his face. However, his mental reflexes were nearly as fast as his physical ones. If it had been otherwise, Blade would long since have been dead many times over. So he was a god, was he? He had played the role before, in more than one Dimension. It had much to recommend it: good working conditions, set your own hours, all sorts of fringe benefits-he quickly shut off the whimsical line of thinking.

He let the chanting go on for a little while longer, then lowered his hands and opened his mouth. «Warriors! Rise and speak! The Golden Steed is indeed come, and the Pendarnoth with it. But you shall honor them on your feet, not on your bellies.» He hadn't the remotest notion of who or what he was supposed to be, but these few sentences had the right ring to them. Rule One for being a god: If you can't say the right thing, say everything you do say as impressively as possible-then people won't notice any mistakes you might make.

The tone and the words broke through the men's awe. One by one they rose to their knees. Most of them were still staring at Blade. Finally, one man rose to his feet and came forward, both hands held together in front of him as if in prayer. But his head was not bowed, and the black eyes in the lean face were surveying Blade without fear.

«Were there any more of the Rojags besides those we slew here, Pendarnoth?»

The Rojags, Blade gathered, were the horsemen who had been pursuing him. «There were some who may be alive back that way.» He pointed.

«How far?»

«I do not know exactly.» Was that the wrong answer? Was the Pendarnoth supposed to be omniscient? «About ten minutes back that way-«he pointed,»-at a gallop. I was in a great hurry.»

For the first time the man smiled. «That I can well believe.» He turned to his men. «Up, up on your feet, all of you. The Pendarnoth himself has said it-honor him on your feet like warriors, not on your bellies like snakes or bugs. The Pendarnoth said he left some of the Rojags perhaps not dead back about four o f in to the west. Six of you go back, find them, and kill them. None among the Rojags must know that the Pendarnoth has come, that the Golden Steed has come.»