They showed no sign of moving. They stood with their legs wide apart, swords in their hands, eyes shifting from Blade to the leader and back again to Blade. Blade sensed that they now felt not only murderous hostility toward him, but defiance toward their leader. He wished he could get up and help the leader, but had no hope of doing so. He'd already lost too much blood, and if he tried to rise he'd lose more. Then he'd die, whatever happened between the leader and his two mutinuous warriors.
So Blade lay still, and he was lying still when the leader's staff flicked out. The sharp end seemed to leap across the space between the leader and one of the men. Blade half expected it to pierce the man like a spear, but the point only brushed across one arm. The other man stiffened and began to turn. Before he could complete the movement the staff flicked out a second time, the tip grazing the second man's cheek.
For a long moment no one moved. It was as if the two men had been paralyzed so completely they couldn't even fall over. Blade wondered how this had happened. They certainly hadn't been beaten into submission. The staff had struck no harder than a pinprick. Yet in a single moment all the defiance seemed to have gone out of them.
Then the leader pointed to the bridge, and the two men laid their weapons on the ground and walked slowly off to join their comrades at the bridge. A moment later the two men who'd run to the camp came running back across the bridge. They carried flasks and strips of white cloth in their hands, and they ran toward Blade.
Blade felt pain and tension and the anticipation of death flow out of him in a great wave. For some reason they were going to take him prisoner, instead of killing him, and even try to heal his wounds. They might even succeed. Then he would be alive, and that was a situation with many more possibilities than being dead.
Blade's eyes slid shut and his mind drifted off to somewhere far away. None of his senses registered the two men kneeling beside him, bathing and bandaging his wounds, or the leader standing over them, looking down at Blade with profound curiosity.
Chapter 5
Blade was pleasantly surprised to wake up at all. He knew that people could die from losing the amount of blood he'd lost, even with Home Dimension's medical science to help them. Under the more primitive conditions of Dimension X, it would not have been at all difficult for him to slip away in spite of the best efforts of the men tending him.
He was still more pleasantly surprised to wake up in a bed, with the smell of clean linen and flowers around him, and in the background the crackling of a fire and the splash of flowing water. Mere comfort could not pull him through, if the doctors of the poppy-flower warriors didn't know their business. It would help him regain his strength more quickly once he was out of danger. That was all to the good. Being weak and helpless was never safe in Dimension X. It was even less safe when you were in the hands of people whose intentions toward you had once been murderous; and might easily become so again.
Blade shifted position slightly, to uncramp his legs. He felt pain stabbing him in a dozen places, and the constriction of bandages. He knew he must look as though he'd been run through a mowing machine. It was a miracle that none of those heavy, hard-swung swords had sunk through flesh into bone or vital organs. As it was, he would have a whole new crop of spectacular scars to add to the many he already bore in various places. Plastic surgery had kept his face in good repair, but the appearance of his body had caused at least one woman to ask if he made his living wrestling tigers and bears.
Someone in the room must have been watching for Blade to show signs of life. Suddenly there were two figures in white robes standing by the bed. The robes were so loose and flowing that it was impossible to tell whether the figures were men or women. One held a steaming bowl and a sponge, the other a large jar of glazed pottery and a bronze cup.
The first attendant pulled the light linen covering away from Blade and began sponging all the exposed areas of his skin. Then the second attendant poured something from the jar into the cup and held the cup to Blade's lips. That was a good sign. It suggested he had no internal injuries worth bothering about.
The cup held cool water, slightly sweetened with honey and holding a faint hint of some unknown drug. In spite of this it was the most delicious drink Blade could ever remember having. His throat seemed to be packed solid with dust and phlegm, and the sweet water washed it all away like the flood from a broken dam. Blade emptied the cup twice, and found he could move tongue and lips enough to say, «Thank you.»
He thought he saw the two attendants smile, but couldn't be sure. Sleep was taking him away again, and he didn't resist.
Gradually Blade spent more time awake and less time sleeping. Even more gradually the pain of his wounds faded, and inch by inch the areas covered by the bandages shrank. There was no sign of infection in any of the wounds, another pleasant surprise for Blade. These people seemed to have at least a practical understanding of infections and how to prevent them.
Without infection, none of Blade's flesh wounds were serious enough to be dangerous to someone in his superb physical condition and with his healing powers. He did not know exactly how long it was before he was able to get out of bed and take a few steps. It was certainly soon enough to surprise his attendants. They insisted that he get back into bed and stay there. He insisted just as vigorously that he should be allowed to move around.
Blade had never been a very good patient. He disliked the sensation of being helpless and bedridden even when he was safe in Home Dimension. Here he disliked it even more. He could not regain his strength lying in bed. Nor could he learn most of what he would need to know about these people who were holding him-as guest, or prisoner?
Probably prisoner, but certainly a valuable, even honored one. The attendants seemed genuinely concerned about his health as they urged him to return to bed. The room itself was plainly furnished-only a bed, a low table, and some cushions and mats on the floor-but it was spotlessly clean. The food they began to serve him was plain-more of the honeyed water, bread, cheese, fruits and vegetables, clear soups-but excellent. No damp cells, no moldy straw, no scampering rats, sour porridge, or prison fevers to worry about. He could survive this sort of captivity as long as he might need to.
He no longer needed to sleep more than his normal five hours a night, but found it useful to pretend that he needed more. When they thought he was asleep, the attendants would talk freely in his hearing, as they sponged him down, changed his bandages, and swept the room. They were all women or old men; not deep into the secrets of the poppyflower warriors, but what they said told Blade a good deal of what he needed to know.
He was among the Hashomi. The Hashomi were a band of warrior adepts, like the ninjas of medieval Japan or the hashshashin of the medieval Arab world. There were several thousand of the sworn, trained adepts. Most had been born among the Hashomi and brought up from infancy in their way of life, a way of life that depended heavily on various drugs.
In addition to the sworn fighters, there were men and women to tend the crops, heal the sick and wounded; repair the houses, bear and raise the children who would become Hashomi, and do everything else needed to maintain a civilized society. All of them lived within the great valley that stretched east and west from the great mountain with its plume of snow. Few outsiders had ever sought to penetrate the mountains that stood between the valley and the desert. Fewer still had succeeded, and none had ever returned alive to outside world.