Master Of The Hashomi

Blade was at his end of the bridge before the Master arrived. With Blade were Giraz and a guard of archers and swordsmen. He'd also strengthened the guards at the barricade in the tu

When the Master appeared, he was carrying his great staff, with the silver ball that contained the various drug-laden needles. He wore only trousers and sandals. The hair on his chest was as gray as the hair of his beard, but nothing else about him showed his age. He was all whipcord muscle, sinew, and bone. It would be possible for Blade to pull the Master limb from limb if he got a good hold on the man, but it wouldn't be easy for him to get that hold in the first place.

With the Master were three Treases and twelve regular Hashomi. He'd also brought Mirna with him, naked, chained, and showing fresh bruises and welts. Blade was glad to see her, and whispered to Giraz, «If I go down alone with the Master, see that one of our archers puts an arrow into her. She deserves a clean death.»

«And if you do not go down, Blade?»

«Then Mirna may outlive us all.» Their eyes met in clear understanding of Blade's meaning.

Now Blade stepped forward, arms crossed on his bare chest, eyes fixed on the Master. The Master raised his staff and held it crossways, looking back at Blade. The escorts of each duelist moved forward to close off the ends of the bridge.

«Ha, Blade!» cried the Master. His hands moved along his staff. A green needle slid out of the silver ball. «Blade, look upon your death. The Ephraimini have made this so that your death will be worse than that of any man before. You will be screaming for death three days before it will come, and you will not even have the strength to kill yourself.»

Blade turned slightly, and again his eyes met Girazs in mutual understanding. The Master's desire for an elaborate vengeance on Blade had led him into a mistake. He'd now given Blade a possible reason to be careless of his own life, if he could be sure the Master died with him. The moment he was scratched by the needle, Blade would become ten times as dangerous as before. Did the Master realize this?

Blade turned back to the Master, dropped into fighting stance, and stepped forward onto the bridge.

The bridge was only five feet wide, so there was no room for circling or complicated footwork. The two men advanced straight toward each other. As the Master came within striking range, his staff darted out, the green needle aimed at Blade's chest.

Blade twisted sharply aside and his arms swung down in a savage one-two sequence of karate blows. The staff was beaten down so hard that the silver ball struck the planking of the bridge with a bell-like chi

Three more times in rapid succession, the Master thrust at Blade. Each time Blade's hands or feet smashed it down or aside before the needle came dangerously close. Each time the Master snatched the staff out of Blade's reach before the Englishman could do anything more.

A brief pause, then another flurry of thrusts, coming in so fast and from so many different directions that Blade no longer tried to count or keep track of them. The staff was a dancing blur, moving almost faster than his eyes could follow it, and his own arms and legs darted at the same furious pace to meet it. He always succeeded in blocking the staff, although he picked up a new bruise almost every time. He never succeeded in getting a grip on it, and after a while he gave up trying. He'd expected this to be a long fight, so this did not worry him or even particularly surprise him. The Master's speed alone would make him a difficult opponent.

Eventually the Master gave up trying to drive the needle past Blade's guard and drew back. The two men stood facing each other. Blade's breath was coming a trifle quicker than usual and a fine film of sweat covered his ta

The Master had taken no punishment at all, but his narrow chest was heaving. The years had not taken away his speed, but they had inevitably taken away some of his endurance. He could not fight this way indefinitely. The moment he started losing speed, Blade would have a chance to immobilize, break, or even take away the staff. He would have to shift his tactics to something slower, steadier, and with a more solid grip on the staff. Otherwise he might be the one to spend three days screaming for the mercy of death.

The Master was no longer able to keep his face expressionless. Too much was at stake. Blade was able to guess at the Master's plans and decisions from the play of emotions on the thin features, and with an effort kept from smiling. He'd won his first victory. If the Master wound up shortening his thrusts, Blade would be in less danger from the needle. That meant he could take a few more chances to get in close and dish out a little punishment. A dozen good blows would do much to slow down the Master and prepare him for the final stroke.

The two men approached each other again. The Master once more held the staff crossways, and now he struck out with either end. His hands shifted up and down the staff so quickly that Blade had no time to take advantage of the shifts to close in. Nor could Blade predict which end of the staff would come at him, the wooden upper end or the deadly needle. He had to avoid both, and it took all his speed and attention to do so. Again the Master's staff became a blur, and again Blade found himself avoiding it more by instinct and reflex than by plan.

The Master of the Hashomi had certainly learned his quarterstaff well, and was using everything he'd learned. Blade realized that as long as the Master's speed held, he was going to have to keep his distance. One split second error in timing, one missed step, and he'd be purchasing his victory over the Master at the price of his own life.

The duel went on. Gradually Blade stopped taking punishment. Now he could avoid the Master by pure footwork, without having to use his hands and arms to block the staff. Perhaps he was begi

At last Blade could no longer doubt it. The Master was begi

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.