Blade faced the fact that he was about to die, then put it out of his mind. In its place was a grim, chill intention to die as hard as possible, and leave as many more of these people lying dead around his corpse as he could. He particularly hoped to get a chance at the leader.

The leader waited until his eleven surviving men crossed the bridge. Then he raised his staff over his head with both hands and made quick, darting movements. Responding to his signals, the eleven men spread wide around Blade. Blade watched them calmly, his swords lowered until their tips rested on the ground. He wanted to save his strength. The wound was beginning to blaze with pain, but it was not bleeding heavily. Probably it felt worse than it was. He still wouldn't be an easy prey.

Then all eleven men were moving in on Blade. Half held their swords high, the other half came at Blade with their knives. Blade noted this with cool professional detachment. It was a good idea. The knifeman would be able to work at close quarters in a way he could not with the sword. Blade decided he would not let the fight get to close quarters.

He exploded into action, legs pumping and arms making his swords whistle and dance in the darkness. A circle of fast-moving steel whistled about Blade, then bit into the line of advancing men.

No human-senses could have picked out the details of that fight. There were too many men and weapons involved, moving much too fast. A watcher could have seen bodies merging and then drawing apart, the shadowy flickering of swords, and men reeling out of the fight to fall to the ground. He could have heard the hiss of steel cutting air and the meaty sounds of it biting into flesh and bone, the thud of feet and of falling limbs and heads, an occasional gasp for breath. He would have smelled the raw odors of fresh blood and of men soiling themselves in their final agony.

He would not have heard any cries of pain, either from Blade as he took six wounds or from his opponents as five of them died.