«Did they come against you on foot or on horseback?» asked the son.

Blade shrugged. «Some were on foot, some were on horseback. I do not know whether those who came on foot came that way on purpose or because they fell off their horses in the darkness and the trees. We were not far inside the forests, so it was not hard for the Steppemen on their small horses to come at us.» The size of the horses was an educated guess. In Home Dimension people who lived on open plains usually rode tough, surefooted little horses or ponies.

«This is true. The Steppe horses are sure-footed enough so that in the past they have come as much as half a day's march into the forest. What happened to you and the other man who survived?»

«I do not know where he is, or whether he still lives. I do know that I sprang from my bed, naked as I was, and slew four of the Steppemen. My sword stuck between the ribs of one and he galloped away with it, dying in the saddle as he rode. I had no more weapons but the knife I wear now, and the five who died were already beyond my help. I could see no course that was not shameful-stay and die at once or flee and live to take a better vengeance later. I chose to come away. Perhaps I can ask your help in taking the lives of a good number of Steppemen and so taking away my shame?»

The son's face remained frozen, but the father nodded. «Perhaps. But it must be seen whether you are truly a warrior, or one who has been justly shamed and punished. Those who have brought ill fortune on themselves are often so accursed that they bring it upon others as well.»

Blade was tempted to ask the man if warriors of Saram were so afraid of ill fortune that they refused hospitality to honest travelers. He decided not to. «It shall be as you wish,» he replied calmly. «A warrior who is a prince of England will shrink from no test. Nor did I come all this way to fail in any such test.» He brought the knife around on his belt until it rode clearly visible on his thigh. Then he crossed his arms on his chest again and stood quietly, waiting for the men facing him to make the next move.

The father clapped his hands three times. The girl who'd been dancing sprang up from the ground and vanished into one of the tents. The guards and servants shifted position, spreading out until they formed a complete circle around Blade and the fire. The two leaders stepped back until they were outside the circle. Then the father turned toward the two men mounting guard on top of the piled logs.

«Ho, Tzimon, Dzhai!» he shouted.

«We come, lord,» they shouted back. Both men scrambled down the logs and ran across the clearing toward the circle. They stopped in front of the father, bowed so deeply they almost fell on their noses, and then stood up. In the firelight Blade could see that both men were as broad as he was and nearly as tall. One now carried an axe, the other a mace. Both moved like tough, experienced fighting men.

The father turned and pointed at Blade.

«You see this man?»

«We see him, lord.»

«He says he is a prince from England, a land far to the south- of the Steppes. He has come north to greet our Emperor, of whose strength and wisdom he has heard much.»

The two men looked at Blade, then looked at each other, then wrinkled their broad noses as if they smelled some particularly foul odor. The one on the right spat into the fire. Obviously they would have liked to say something but didn't dare without their master's permission.

«He was surprised by the Steppemen in the forest, he says, and the men with him slain or driven off after a hard fight.» More sour looks from the two men. «I do not know if he lies or not. In any case, he is a stranger come to Saram from the direction of the Steppes.»

The father suddenly drew his sword with a rasp of steel and flourished it toward Blade. The fire sent shimmers of light up and down it.

«Tzimon, Dzhai-kill him.»

Blade shot a quick look at the father, trying to guess what was on the man's mind while concealing his own surprise. The other's face was as blank as Blade's own. He might have been ordering a meal in a fine restaurant instead of calling for cold-blooded murder in a dark and windy wilderness.

Then Tzimon and Dzhai began to move forward and Blade turned his attention to them. Both men held on to their weapons as they advanced but did not raise them. Blade dropped into unarmed-combat stance. He did not draw his knife. If it came to killing, he could kill with his bare hands well enough. If his best course was to disable without killing, as he suspected it might be, his bare hands were better than the knife.

Tzimon and Dzhai walked toward Blade side by side until they reached the fire. Then they separated, one moving around each side of the fire. They moved slowly, a step at a time, matching each other's movements step for step.

Blade gave ground slowly, letting his opponents gradually close the distance. He would have liked to be able to retreat until he was half-concealed in the shadows of the trees and Tzimon and Dzhai were silhouetted against the fire. That would give him a useful edge. It might also leave a bad impression on the two noblemen. Blade suspected this was one of those fights where how he won mattered as much as whether he won.

In any case, he probably didn't need the advantage. Tzimon and Dzhai were moving in on him like men who had fought side by side before, but they did not move like a team who'd trained together for years to fight as a single mind with two bodies. Against a pair like this, a single man always has the advantage.

Blade was only three steps from the shadows when his opponents suddenly charged. They came at him with Tzimon slightly in the lead, axe raised, while Dzhai whirled the mace in a great circle around his head. Anything that got inside that circle was going to get smashed, whether it belonged to friend or foe. Blade noticed that, and noticed that Tzimon was keeping well clear of his comrade as they advanced. This left a gap between the two men so wide that they could not hope to support each other against a fast-moving opponent.

Blade was going to be that fast-moving opponent.

He seemed to explode forward into the gap between his opponents. Dzhai sprang to one side, taking himself completely out of combat position. Tzimon stopped in midstride, whirled with frightening speed, and started to bring the axe down where he expected Blade's head to be.

Blade's head stayed in one piece only because he ducked just as the axe whistled down. He knew in that moment that Tzimon was his major opponent here, far more dangerous than Dzhai, as dangerous as any man he'd ever fought. It would be suicide to turn his back on Tzimon without doing him some damage first. Blade shifted his attack and put even more speed and power into it.

One arm shot upward in an eye-blurring stroke. The edge of Blade's left hand slashed across Tzimon's right wrist. The impact jarred Blade from shoulder to waist. It was like trying to chop through a log. The axe wavered in midair above Blade instead of swinging down to split him from shoulder to crotch. Blade threw his clenched right fist into Tzimon's stomach, putting all his weight and strength behind it. It felt like punching a bag of cement, but the wind went out of Tzimon with a tremendous whuffff.

Blade let the movement of the punch pivot him around in a complete circle. He let go with a back kick as he swung. He aimed for Tzimon's jaw, but the man stepped back far enough so that Blade's foot slammed across his chest in a glancing blow. Blade heard something crack, but he wasn't sure if it was Tzimon's ribs or his own foot!

Blade came down out of the circle to see Tzimon standing with his feet wide apart and his axe raised, his eyes still focused on Blade but his chest heaving as he fought for breath. Three solid strikes from Blade were enough to slow anyone down, even a fast-moving mass of bone and muscle like Tzimon. For a moment Blade had one flank clear. He badly needed that moment, for Dzhai was now moving back to the attack, the mace whirling in circles over and around him.