The Golden Steed

It reared up with a scream of rage and pain, forepaws flailing the air. It was so strong that for a moment Blade thought it was going to pull itself free of the lance and turn on him. It twisted and jerked from side to side, until Blade began to wonder if the lance shaft were going to snap. Then it reared up one final time, gave a scream that ended in a gurgle, and collapsed on the ground.

Blade pulled the lance out and hastily stepped back, waiting for any more signs of life. The leopard lay motionless. Blade picked up a stone and threw it at the leopard's head. It still did not move. With a sigh of relief he turned to look for the horse. He did not expect to find it anywhere in sight. A horse like that could be a mile away in the time it had taken him to kill the leopard.

But surprisingly the golden horse was standing barely a hundred yards away, head up, staring back at Blade and the dead leopard. As Blade watched it, the horse neighed again and began trotting toward him, head still raised. Somehow the horse seemed to know that the leopard was dead and that this tall man standing over the leopard's body was a friend.

The horse came straight up to Blade and nuzzled at him, warm wet breath blowing in his face. Blade ran his fingers through the shimmering silver mane and down across the well-muscled arched neck.

«Think you need some company, don't you? Well, so do I.» He went on in this vein for some time, keeping his voice low and soothing and paying more attention to his tone than to his words. Gradually the trembling faded away, and the horse thrust its head at Blade until he could grasp the bridle. The horse tugged at the bridle for a moment, then let Blade lead it over to the bank and up to level ground.

The horse was carrying a quiver on the side that had been turned away from him. But there were no arrows left in it. However, Blade had the lance, and in the saddlebags there were flint and steel, a good stout hunting knife, two large skin bags of water, and several packets of hard bread and dried meat. His own survival kit might not have survived the trip into Dimension X, but luck seemed to have provided him with an almost equally good one, and a horse as well.

But there was that human scream he had heard. The horse's master might be-must be-back there in the trees. Blade knew he would have to look for the man and try to help him before he did anything else. He swung himself into the saddle, feeling the horse flinch at first but then become calm. Then he dug in his heels and urged it up to a walk. Even in the fast-fading light, the horse's hoofprints left a clear trail on the ground. Blade did not have to follow the trail very far. Less than a hundred yards back into the shadowy woods, he saw a dark object sprawled on the ground.

Blade dismounted, tethered the horse to a bush, and knelt to examine the body. The man was dead, his throat savaged by the leopard and his head twisted at an u

The man's clothes gave few clues as to his rank or profession, but suggested that he was from a people more accustomed to walking than riding. His trousers were tight and his boots obviously designed for rough country, with spiked soles and low heels. A broad leather belt with a silver buckle supported a heavy silk purse and a sword in a jeweled scabbard. Blade drew the sword and examined it. It was not a horseman's sword, not with that heavy straight blade. For a weaker man, it might even be a two-handed sword. The hilt ended in a gold eagle's head with jeweled eyes and an enameled crest. It was not a ceremonial sword, either. The nicks in the edge and the scars on the blade told of much use. The purse contained a handful of gold coins-and a small fortune in jewels, mostly sapphires.

There was a mystery piling up here. Blade didn't understand all of it, and those parts he understood he didn't particularly like. That the man had been knocked off his horse and killed by the leopard was obvious. But before that? Why should a man, apparently of high rank, be riding alone up this desolate valley, far from any signs of civilization? Why the empty quiver, and why the freshly battered sword? Those were the parts Blade particularly disliked. It suggested a recent fight, and then a flight from those the man had fought. The same people might still be around, possibly on the trail of the dead man. They might be many miles off, they might be only a few hundred yards away, invisible in the trees and the darkness.

Blade did not know which guess was correct, or even which one was likely. But he knew that he was not going to go blundering about in the darkness. There might not be much he could do to defend himself if the unknown enemies came upon him out of the darkness. But he could at least avoid wandering into any ambushes.

He quietly untied the horse and led it into a thicker patch of trees, then tethered it again to a low branch. Then he dragged the rider's body into the same patch, and stripped it of its cloak. He wrapped the cloak around himself and backed out of the grove, brushing away the tracks as best he could with a broken branch. He moved fifty yards up the valley before he found another small grove dense enough to hide him. Crawling under the bushes, belay down and wrapped himself up in the cloak.

He had done what he could. The horse was tethered where any enemies coming up the valley would have to pass it. If it scented them, he could rely on it to give the alarm. And then he could trust to his sword, the knife, and his own fighting skill to give him a chance.

As for the rest, he wished he had more water and something warmer than the dead man's cloak to keep out the increasing chill of the night. But he and the horse would just have to be sparing with water. And he had slept adequately, if not comfortably, in worse weather with less clothing than he had now. He would just have to manage, as was usual in Dimension X. With an odd feeling that he had come home to his proper place, Blade drifted off to sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

Blade awoke as the first pale light of dawn hit the hills and the valley. He was stiff with cold, cramped and aching from his curled position. There were bruises on his bruises where stones had dug into his already-battered skin, and every muscle and joint screamed in protest as he rose to his feet. But there had been no sign of any enemy during the night, and a thorough check of his surroundings showed no signs of any now. He had lasted through the night, and now that it was day he could mount and ride out of this desolate valley.

The horse was still tethered safely where he had left it. The body of its late master still lay at its feet. Rigor mortis had set in, and Blade had a struggle stripping trousers, boots, and belt from the rigid limbs and trunk.

When he had stripped the body of everything but the slashed and blood-caked tunic, he stopped to consider whether or not to bury it. Logic and training told him not to waste time. But they could not persuade him to simply leave the man lying stiff and naked to the sky and the carrion birds that he could see already hovering overhead. Finally he carried the body over to the edge of the riverbed, slid it down the slope, then piled rocks on top of it until it was well covered. Let the scavengers try prying the rocks off! He returned to the horse, swung himself up into the saddle, and urged it down the valley.

From the position of the sun, he knew the valley ran roughly east and west. He wanted to go east, toward the invisible but hopefully not-too-distant end of the valley. And then? The simplest solution would be to seek out the dead man's people, with the weapons and purse serving as his introduction.