The two Hashomi chosen by the Master would be among the most formidable opponents Blade had ever faced. He would give them no unnecessary advantage.

Six Hashomi came to the hospital before dawn one morning to escort Blade down to the testing. They found him already out on the terrace, watching the sun turn the summit of the White Mountain to flame and start sucking up the mist in the valley, below. He wore sandals and a white hospital robe, but he planned to fight barefoot and naked, except for a loincloth and a sash. Clothes would be more likely to slow his movements than protect him from the razor-sharp knives and the drug-laden tips of the black staves.

The six formed a rough circle around Blade, and kept pace with him down the tunnel. Was it just his imagination, or did the rank smells and the cries from whatever lay beyond the side doors seem stronger today? Blade decided one thing. He'd force the Hashomi to kill him before he'd let himself be locked behind one of those doors. If the Hashomi were planning treachery, he could not stop them. But he could make them pay for it with the lives of as many men as he could reach before he went down-perhaps even the life of the Master himself.

They came out of the tunnel, crossed the bridge, and continued their descent of the path toward the valley floor. The path zigzagged back and forth down the steep slope, taking nearly half a mile to descend the last three hundred feet to level ground.

By that time the sun was fully up, and the mist was lifting from the valley. The ground rolled away toward the opposite side of the valley, a good ten miles away. Blade saw plowed fields, huts, little stands of wood, all connected by paths of hard-beaten earth and split up by small streams and fences of logs and piled stones. The soil on either side of the path was dark and moist, and the grass was green and lush. The Hashomi had certainly found themselves a good home in this valley, and done much work to make it even better. Blade could understand why they had little to do with the outside world, preferring that it remain ignorant of where they were. The Valley of the Hashomi was a rich prize. It might be rich enough to tempt someone who knew where it was into leading an army against it.

Blade and the six Hashomi walked for nearly two hours before they came to the testing place. By that time the sun was well up in the sky, and the day had turned pleasantly warm. At last the party came around the end of a low hill and faced a large square of beaten earth, at least two hundred feet on a side. On three sides of the square rose a low wall of stones and dressed logs, just high enough to keep out stray livestock. On the fourth side rose several pyramidal stone buildings. On the ground along this side were spread a number of mats and cushions, and a large tent had been erected in front of the buildings. Above the tent flew a long blue banner with a white poppy in the center.

Several Hashomi came out of the tent as Blade appeared. He went forward to meet them as his escorts dropped back and spread out along the edge of the square.

Blade counted eight Hashomi coming toward him. The Master was in the lead, followed by five fighters carrying swords and knives. Their lines and weather-beaten faces showed they were all middle-aged or older. Two younger men dressed like the leader at the bridge brought up the rear. They carried knives and staves. As the party drew closer, Blade saw that one of the younger men was actually the leader of the Hashomi at the bridge.

Blade stopped twenty feet from the Master, stretched out both arms, then raised both hands in greeting, fingers spread wide.

The Master nodded, his face expressionless. «Welcome to your testing, British agent Blade. Do you find yourself fit?»

«As fit as I can ever hope to be, worthy Master,» said Blade. This seemed to be a solemn, even sacred occasion for the Hashomi, and it would do him no harm to enter into the spirit of the affair.

«That is good.» The Master whistled sharply. Several unarmed men emerged from the tent. Blade recognized two doctors and one of the bearded, brown-robed men who were the Hashomi's equivalent of priests. The priest carried a small drum and a flute.

The Master stepped aside and let the doctors and the priest approach Blade. The doctors ran their hands over Blade's arms and legs, probed the scar tissue on his torso, tapped him on the knees, chest, and groin, looked in his ears, eyes, and mouth. Blade found it hard not to burst out laughing. These men were so much like Home Dimension doctors-not necessarily sure of what they were looking for, but determined to at least give the impression that they knew.

At last the doctors stepped back and turned to the Master. «The man is altogether fit.»

«Good.» Now the priest stepped forward. He walked three times counterclockwise around Blade, tapping steadily on the drum and making a humming sound like a distant hive of bees. Then he drew a small bag from a pouch on his belt, opened it, and shook yellow powder from it all over Blade. Finally he walked three more times around Blade, playing softly on the flute.

Blade could only guess what the priest was up to. Was he driving evil spirits out of Blade, or letting them in? The priest's work was obviously part of the ritual of the testing, so there was no point in raising any objections. Still, Blade was very careful not to swallow or inhale any of the yellow powder, or let it get in his eyes.

At last the priest joined the doctors. The three civilians and the five armed Hashomi arranged themselves on the mats and cushions around the door of the tent. Only the Master and Blade's two opponents remained standing facing him. The Master stepped to one side, raised his staff, then held it out until it formed a barrier between Blade and his two opponents. The two men backed off several yards, and Blade took this as a signal to do the same.

«All are fit,» intoned the Master. «All are blessed. All are ready.» The staff whipped up into the vertical position so fast that Blade's eyes could not follow it. By pure reflex he dropped into fighting stance. His opponents stiffened, and their knives rasped out of their sheathes. The Master's voice swelled and deepened, until it seemed like a lion's roar.

«Let the testing begin!»

Three sets of eyes met and locked. Blade's two opponents began a slow circling to the right, and he shifted just as slowly to the left. For the moment Blade was content to maneuver and draw his opponents into doing the same. The more he saw of the way they moved, the better. Of course, if he could find a good angle of attack right away, without giving them one, he'd take it. But he wasn't going to bet on that. They were two to one against him, the staves gave them a longer reach, and he had to assume they were just as fast and just as skilled as he was. The odds could very well be no more than even.

On the other hand, two men will always have problems coordinating their actions against a single opponent unless they've trained together as a team for months or years. The staves were long-in fact, too long to be easily wielded one-handed. Blade had plenty of room-he could go anywhere within the walled-off square. Doubtless he would make a better impression on the Master and the five judges if he stayed close, but he didn't have to. Finally, Blade knew he had the edge in weight and strength over either opponent. In a close grapple, he could probably break either one of them into little pieces.

Blade and his two opponents literally went around in circles for several minutes, each minute seeming like half an hour. The impassive faces of the two Hashomi leaders, were totally unreadable, and Blade hoped his own face was as good a mask. So far he hadn't learned a thing about the two, except that they were as easy and quick in their movements as he'd expected.