Джеффри Лорд: Master Of The Hashomi

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.