Master Of The Hashomi rb-27

by Джеффри Лорд

  At last Blade could no longer doubt it. The Master was beginning to slow down. Blade also slowed down, matching his speed to the Master’s. He wanted to save his own strength, and he also didn’t want to warn the Master. If the man saw Blade defending himself with almost contemptuous ease and realized what this meant, he might become desperate. This duel could still be lost or at least end fatally for both men.

  At last the Master stopped his attacks and drew back. He was breathing heavily, his beard and hair were dark and matted with sweat, and he seemed to be forcing himself to hold up the staff. He probably was. The Master’s staff must weigh at least half again as much as a standard quarterstaff. Blade was also breathing heavily and his arms and hands showed more bruises and a few minor cuts. In spite of that he didn’t take the brief rest the Master was offering him, but went straight over to the attack.

  Suddenly the Master found Blade’s foot coming out of nowhere, smashing into the staff just below where his right hand gripped it. The staff slammed back against his chest so hard that the breath went out of him in a whufff. If Blade’s foot had landed squarely on the Master’s hand, it would have smashed four fingers.

  The Master seemed to be aware of this. He started backing away, to make sure Blade wouldn’t be able to deliver another kick like that at a standing target within easy range. So Blade wheeled on one foot and kicked out with the other, aiming low. The Master twisted so that the kick struck his outer thigh instead of his kneecap, but it still jarred him from head to foot.

  Now the continuous deadly swirling exchange of attack and counterattack began again. This time it was Blade who was the aggressor, and the Master who had to follow at the pace he set. Four more times Blade drove his feet in, four times the kicks just failed to be lethal or crippling, and all four times the Master was badly jolted. He stayed on his feet and kept those feet moving, he struck back and sometimes forced Blade to give ground-but he was definitely no longer what he’d been at the beginning of the fight. He was no longer a match for Blade, and Blade could read knowledge of this in the Master’s eyes and also in those of the watching Hashomi.

  Blade realized that he now had to push the fight to a swift conclusion if he wanted to come out of it alive. The Master was doomed. He could no longer win-but his desperation, or the treachery of his followers, might still mean Blade’s death as well. Certainly they could mean Mirna’s death, and Blade was beginning to think of doing more in this fight than just killing the Master and coming out on his own feet.

  Blade got in one more blow, carefully aimed at the Master’s shoulder. He saw the Master wince as the blow went home, and knew that the man would be even slower than before with the staff, at least for a minute or two. Blade dropped into a crouch and came in again. This time he faced the Master squarely, exposing his whole chest and belly as a target.

  The Master couldn’t resist the temptation. The staff darted at Blade. Blade threw himself on his back, kicking out with both legs and shooting up both arms. The staff sailed over his head and his fingers clamped down on it. At the same moment his feet smashed into the Master’s groin.

  Blade felt as if he’d broken all the toes on both feet. The Master was wearing some sort of armored groin protector. That didn’t save his balance, though, as Blade jerked on the staff. The Master flew forward, to meet another kick from Blade smashing up into his belly. He doubled up, mouth open and gasping for air, while one hand darted inside his trousers. A knife flashed out, but before it could strike, Blade was on his feet, the staff in his hands. Before the Master could react to this sudden turnabout, Blade reversed the staff and drove the wooden end straight into the Master’s chest. He put all his strength and weight behind the thrust, and the wood drove through skin and muscle and ribs to stop the Master’s heart.

  Blade gripped the Master by one arm as he tottered, the life going out of his eyes while he was still on his feet. He gripped the staff with the other hand. Then he whirled around, and with every muscle in his body strained to the limit threw both the Master and the staff toward the tunnel end of the bridge. Giraz jumped as the staff and the Master’s body landed almost at his feet. Then he started shouting orders to the men around him.

  Before any of them could obey, Blade was on the move again. He covered the ten feet of the bridge to the Hashomi side in three long strides. The Hashomi stared at him approaching, then stepped aside. Their eyes were wide and fixed, their mouths working uncontrollably. For the moment they were no more than animal, incapable of rational thought or action.

  In that moment Blade took three more steps, snatched up Mirna, and turned back to the bridge. A Hashom made the mistake of putting one hand to the hilt of his knife. Blade shifted Mirna to one arm and with the other drove a fist straight into the Hashom’s jaw. The man went over backward and did not get up. Blade dashed back onto the bridge, and by the time any of the Hashomi raised a weapon, he was back safely on his own side.

  Six of Blade’s men were already well into the tunnel, carrying the Master’s staff and the body of its late owner. The archers all had arrows nocked to their bows, and Giraz had his sword drawn, ready to give them the signal to shoot. His eyes swept across the Hashomi on the far side of the bridge, and his voice was fiat and chill.

  «Some of you will join your Master if one of you so much as blinks an eye.»

  Apparently none of the Hashomi were eager to join their Master. They stood in numb silence until Blade and Giraz were almost up to the barricade. Then arrows came whistling into the tunnel. One archer fell. His comrades dropped to one knee and shot. The arrows drew screams from the bridge, and before the Hashomi could shoot again everyone was safe behind the barricade.

  Blade sat down and called for water. His throat seemed to be packed full of red-hot stones and his legs would barely support him. When he’d drunk, he staggered to his feet and turned to Giraz. The eunuch was smiling in grim triumph.

  «So much for the Master,» he said. «I wonder how long the Hashomi will survive him.»

  Chapter 26

  In spite of Blade’s victory, nobody in the hospital got much sleep that day or the following night. Nobody said it out loud, but the same question was in everybody’s mind. Were the Hashomi going to launch a last desperate attack to avenge their fallen Master?

  They didn’t. At dawn the next day the sentries called Blade to the railing to show him the spectacle of an empty valley. The Hashomi were gone, leaving behind nothing but piles of ash and charcoal where their campfires had been. Nothing moved on the valley floor, except the scavenger birds digging bits of flesh out of the bodies of the assarani.

  An hour later a messenger from the Baran scrambled down the cliff to the hospital ledge. The Baran’s army had reached the mouth of the Valley of the Hashomi and hammered its way in. Now it was advancing down the valley, and the Hashomi were gathering to meet it. The Baran was sending food and reinforcements to Blade in a flying column that should reach the hospital tonight. Until that time Blade and his people had nothing to do.

  Blade passed on the message, and when the cheering died down he ordered the last of the beer broken out to celebrate. By the time the flying column appeared, nearly everyone in the hospital was slightly drunk. The beer had worked rather powerfully on stomachs that were so nearly empty.

  The next morning Blade led his own people and the flying column down the path to the floor of the valley, to join in the last battle against the Hashomi. It was bloody as long as it lasted, but it did not last long and most of the blood shed was Hashomi. They’d had their chance at close-quarters fighting when the Baran’s army came into the valley. In that fighting they’d killed more than three thousand of the Baran’s men. He wasn’t about to give them a chance to do so a second time.

  So the Hashomi were beaten down with archery and hurled spears. They faced bristling walls of pikes. Where they took cover in buildings or forests they were smoked and burned out. Those Hashomi who did get to close quarters usually killed two or three enemies before goin
g down themselves, but not many got the chance. The Baran had promised that any commander who wasted men would be impaled on the walls of the palace in Dahaura, and the Baran was known to keep that sort of promise.

  In a single day the Hashomi were broken. Most died, some fled, a few tried to surrender and a very few were allowed to do so. It took another tedious and bloody week to rout the fugitives out of the caves and isolated huts where they’d hidden, but that was a minor affair.

  There were still a thousand or so fighting Hashomi unaccounted for. Most of them were probably in Dahaura’s cities, lying low.

  «They are no more dangerous than the branches of a tree when one has killed the roots,» said Blade. «Or at least they need not be. I suggest that you offer a pardon for all who surrender before a set date, then settle them someplace on the frontier where you need good fighters.»

  «Not among the Fighters of Junah, I hope,» said the Baran, with a laugh.

  «No. That would be sentencing the Hashomi to death, and I’m not sure they deserve it, not now. I have the feeling that many of the survivors wouldn’t mind settling down to a more normal life, with wives, children, and land. Give them that chance, and see what happens.»

  «I’ll do that,» said the Baran. «I take it that you don’t want any of them in the valley?»

  Blade shook his head. «I’ll have enough trouble getting things settled as it is. All I’ve got by way of people I can trust is the refugees and Mirna’s women.»

  «How is Mirna?»

  «A few bruises are still healing, but otherwise she’s doing well. She’s already asked for a horse so she can ride out and get her women properly organized.»

  «Maybe you ought to marry her, Blade, so that you’ll have some influence over those women of hers.»

  Blade considered the Baran’s suggestion. Under the laws of the Baranate, a man could have up to three legal wives and seven recognized concubines. Few men in their right minds would take on that many, of course, even if they could afford them. But he could marry Mirna, if he wanted to.

  «I don’t think so,» he said at last. «She doesn’t need any man’s protection, not with the Hashomi gone and her women behind her. She might not even be willing. Also, I don’t know what the rest of the valley people think of her. If I married her, I could find myself making all her enemies mine before I’d been ruling a week.»

  «As usual, you think ahead,» said the Baran.

  I wish I could think farther ahead than I can, thought Blade. I almost wish you hadn’t decided to make me your Hand for this valley. My time here must be nearly at an end. I’ll be on my way back to Home Dimension long before I can give these people what they need. Who will be my successor?

  Of course! I’ll recommend Giraz as my successor. He’s old enough so that he’ll be retiring from the Eyes before long. He’s a eunuch, so he won’t be producing a family to watch out for. And he’s completely trustworthy.

  Blade heaved a mental sigh of relief. That was the last loose end tied up.

  It was early morning, and the Baran was waiting on the terrace of the hospital as Blade came out. Behind the Baran stood a dozen picked soldiers and Giraz. Beside him stood two scribes, one holding a scroll and the other a long pole with a flag wrapped around one end.

  The sunlight flashed on the jewels and precious metals Blade wore. He was in the full court costume of a general of the Baran’s army, with tunic and trousers of silk, boots of white calfskin set with pearls, sword with a ruby-studded hilt, and gold helmet with a crest of emeralds. The costume weighed as much as a coat of mail, it was nearly as uncomfortable, and it was far less battle-worthy. Junah help any man who had to fight in this outfit!

  Then the Baran and the two scribes were stepping forward. One scribe was unrolling the scroll and reading from it in a high-pitched nasal voice. It was the Baran’s proclamation that henceforth Richard Blade was the Hand of the Baran in the Valley formerly of the Hashomi, and that he was in all matters supreme authority second only to the Baran.

  Then the other scribe came forward and handed Blade the furled banner. He undid the silk cords, shook the pole, and the banner lifted and streamed out on the morning breeze. It was green, and on it in white was a knife, slashing through a Hashomi sword and a Hashomi staff.

  «This is not only your banner as my Hand in this valley,» said the Baran. «This is the banner of your house, the House of Blade, as long as there are men of that name in Dahaura. May that be a long time!»

  The Baran motioned to one of the soldiers, and he stepped forward carrying what Blade recognized as the Master’s staff, wrapped in silk except for the silver ball at the end. «I thought of making this my own trophy, but by all that is just, it is really yours. Take good care of it, Blade. That was a victory you won for yourself, and let no one say otherwise.»

  «Lord Baran, I-«began Blade formally, then stopped. It was as if a white light had flared briefly behind his eyeballs, momentarily blotting out the world around him. «My lord-«he began again, and the light came again. This time there was also pain with it pain that stabbed at Blade’s eyes until he felt tears starting from them, pain that thundered in his head.

  Blade turned, dropping the banner and barely keeping his grip on the Master’s staff. He took two blind, staggering steps forward. He was vaguely aware of shouts and cries from the Baran, Giraz, and the soldiers. He was also aware that the railing was pressing against his stomach. If he stayed here he might go over the edge. The computer was reaching out to him, ready to snatch him back to Home Dimension, but it might not finish the job before he struck the ground four hundred feet below.

  The pain grew more savage. Blade bit back a groan and threw himself away from the railing and the cliff beyond it. His head struck the terrace, and the blow seemed to clear his vision. He saw the blue sky and the White Mountain rearing against it. The peak reared higher and higher, as though he were moving toward it, then higher still, until it seemed ready to topple over on him.

  Before it could do that, the pain swelled further and the White Mountain danced away into the sky. Blackness fell like rain, and as it fell the world around Blade faded out and did not return.

  Chapter 27

  The supersonic Concorde was leveling off at its cruising altitude of sixty thousand feet. Richard Blade loosened his seat belt, slid his chair back into a more comfortable position, and relaxed while waiting for the stewardess to take his drink order.

  Behind him lay Britain, a safe return from Dimension X, and all the debriefing and interrogation that always followed such a trip. Ahead lay a month’s working vacation in the United States-soaking up the sun and sea air in Florida, but also training in underwater sabotage work and looking over a few possible candidates for Project Dimension X.

  Blade had ceased to be optimistic about finding another person who could make the trip, but he hadn’t given up hope yet. He also hoped that the new man’s first trip would be as successful as the one he himself had just finished.

  He’d defeated a vicious, gifted madman and helped a good and wise ruler keep his throne and save the lives of his subjects. He’d killed a good many people, but all of them had been trying to kill him. The people he cared about-Esseta, Mirna, Kubin Ben Sarif, Giraz, the Baran himself-had all survived. He did not have the lives or sanity of a single one of them on his conscience. Blade’s conscience was a tough one-it had to be. But he was always happier when people who’d trusted him, who’d been his friends, who’d become involved in his adventures without wishing to, did not end up gruesomely dead.

  Finally, there was the grand joke that Dimension X itself had played on all of them. The Master’s staff had made the return trip with Blade, in fine condition-except for the vials of drugs in the silver bell.

  The drugs were gone-not physically removed, but chemically changed. Blade didn’t understand precisely what was involved, since the description for each drug involved several pages of totally incomprehensible chemical formulas. What he did understand was this: Som
ewhere, somehow, during the transition from Dimension X to Home Dimension, the drugs had ceased to be drugs. Not one of them now had, or ever could have, any effects whatever on the human system.

  Transmutation of the chemical elements? Lord Leighton was asking that question, and when Lord Leighton started asking a question like that, he would spend a lot of time looking for an answer. Certainly it added one more mystery to the long list of mysteries surrounding Dimension X.

  That was the bad side of what had happened to the drugs. There was also a good side, as far as Blade was concerned. The Master did not care about healing. His staff carried nothing but the killing or mind-warping drugs of the Hashomi. They had not been added to Home Dimension’s arsenal of lethal chemicals, and Blade was perfectly happy about that.

  Again, this wasn’t a tender conscience, it was practical common sense. The Hashomi drugs would be too dangerous in the wrong hands; and there would have been too great a chance of them getting into those wrong hands. As it was, the secret of the Hashomi’s drugs would die with the Hashomi, and not live on in Home Dimension.

  That was just as well. Home Dimension was even more vulnerable to terrorism than Dahaura-and few of its rulers enjoyed the Baran’s combination of good sense and absolute power.

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