Their clothing might be almost comic, but the steel they carried and the way they moved were not. They were clearly trained fighting men, sure and quick in their movements. Blade knew he could not safely take any chances against them-at least not until he had a sword to match theirs.

The two swords rose higher still, ready to slash down at Blade's head. He balanced himself on the balls of his feet, both hands out of sight behind his back. Then the swords came down, the one on Blade's left a second ahead of the other. The steel muscles in Blade's legs uncoiled, hurling him high and to one side. As he leaped, he shifted his knife from his right hand to his left.

As Blade had expected, a full overhand slash with such a heavy sword drew both men forward, momentarily off balance. Blade closed with the man to his left before the other could raise his sword again. The knife flashed in a precise arc, slitting the flesh of the man's neck and the windpipe under it. Blood sprayed, the man's breathing became a horrible choking, and his hands quivered on the hilt of his sword. Yet he did not cry out, his eyes did not flicker, his face might have been a stone mask, and his arm muscles were actually twisting and jerking, trying to raise his sword back into striking position. He was dying on his feet, yet his mind was still on the fight rather than on the death that was only seconds away.

Blade had no time to spend wondering what this might mean. As the man's grip on his sword weakened, Blade lunged for it with his free right hand. Blade's other opponent slashed sideways at him, bringing his sword around in a hissing arc with no thought for his dying comrade. The sharp edge whispered over Blade's head as he ducked, then bit into the chest of the dying man. Flesh, ribs, the heart itself parted under the blow. It went in so deep that for a moment the dead man's still-erect body held the sword of his living comrade. Then the second man joined the first in death, as Blade drove his knife up between the ribs, straight to the heart. He died as silently as the first, without a word, a cry, or even a change of expression.

The swift death of the first two men made the next two hesitate briefly. Their eyes met Blade's, though; and their faces were blank. Their hesitation did not come from fear, but from the desire of good fighting men to assess their opponent and the situation they faced. When they came, it was even faster than the first two. One sword was held high, the other wide to one side ready to slash in an arc.

Blade suspected they might be trying to drive him away from the end of the bridge and open a passage for their comrades. He also suspected they would be quite willing to die in the process. He didn't like the way the first two men had died, as silently as robots or zombies who couldn't feel pain.

The man with his sword held high was on the right, the one with the sword held wide on the left. Blade saw that the second man was moving out ahead of the other. He would be within striking range a few vital seconds before the other.

Once more Blade's legs hurled him to the left. This time he jumped wider. The sword was a blur as it slashed at him, the steel missing by inches from Blade's skin. The man pulled the sword to a stop before it struck his partner but not before the other had to stop, well out of range of Blade.

The sword was single-edged, so the man could not take out Blade on the backswing. He had to turn the sword before he could strike again. He did it so quickly that no one slower than Blade could have taken advantage of the delay.

Blade closed, feinting with the knife in his left hand, driving the man sideways to meet Blade's right. The edge of Blade's right hand caught the man across the throat. Blade felt the windpipe shatter, heard the man start choking, but saw no expression on his face. Blade dropped his knife, seized the dying man with both hands, and swung him around. The other man's sword came down. Blade ducked, and it sank deep into the skull of the man held in front of Blade. Blood and brains sprayed and the man's hands opened limply, letting his sword fall. Blade threw the corpse at the other swordsman hard enough to knock him off the bridge. Living and dead together plunged into the stream and were swept away toward the cliff. Blade stooped, gripped the fallen sword, and had it raised before the next two attackers started across the bridge. Now he had striking range equal to his opponents, not greater. Blade was six-foot-one and weighed more than two hundred pounds, all of it muscle and bone. His opponents all looked shorter and lighter. That gave Blade a longer reach and more striking power. It also meant that if necessary he could swing the heavy curved sword with one hand.

The next two attackers charged across the bridge, and he decided it was necessary. Instead of rising to his feet, Blade waited for the enemy in a crouch. Then his sword slashed, ripping one man in the thigh and leaping up to take the other in the groin. The man with the wounded thigh staggered. His leg would no longer support his full weight, but he kept on coming. The man struck in the groin reeled backward from the sheer force of the blow, but did not fall. Neither man cried out.

Blade found the silence in which his opponents took their punishment thoroughly unnatural and slightly unnverving. The man he'd struck in the groin must be in ghastly agony, his genitals mangled beyond healing. Yet he was not even moaning faintly. In fact, he was coming at Blade again, swinging his sword wildly but energetically.

Blade took a two-handed grip on his sword and without rising from his crouch swung at the man's leg. He sheared completely through it about six inches below the knee. The man toppled forward, sword lashing out at Blade and nearly laying open his cheek. Incredibly, the man balanced himself for a moment on his good leg and the blood-gushing stump of the other. Then his efforts to swing his sword again overbalanced him. He went off the bridge and splashed into the stream below.

Now Blade had to leap back to avoid a wild slash from the man he'd wounded in the thigh. The man took two lurching steps forward and swung again. His sword met Blade's with a clang and a shower of sparks. Blade's strength broke the man's grip on his sword and it flew clear across the stream to land among the men waiting on the other side.

Instead of retreating, the man drew his knife and came at Blade. His only chance now was great speed, and his wounded leg ruled that out. Blade had plenty of time to aim and deliver a swift, powerful slash that took the man's head clear off its shoulders. The head dropped into the stream while the body sprawled almost at Blade's feet.

By now Blade could feel the ground around the end of the bridge growing muddy with blood. The more he contemplated the prospect of continuing this fight the way he'd begun it, the less he liked it. Blade never minded fighting when there seemed to be some point in it. He couldn't help wondering what point there was in continuing this battle.

He didn't seem to be making any impression on his opponents by his fighting ability. Each pair came at him as furiously as the pair before them, fought as desperately, and died as silently. He'd hoped his first victories would win him a chance to negotiate. They'd done nothing of the kind. Blade wondered if these people had such concepts as «negotiation» or even «peace.»

Besides, the eerie and unnatural silence of the men as they fought, bled, and died was strengthening doubts in Blade's mind. Were these warriors drugged beyond the ability to do anything but fight, or were they possibly not quite sane?

No, this was a fight not worth continuing. He'd do well to seek his meeting with the people of this Dimension somewhere else. Here the time and the place and the people were all wrong. He would drop the bridge into the stream and retreat under cover of darkness.