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loose, and kill a few of these barbarians to avenge her, and then he would go into
that darkness to join her, and Dallith. ...
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Dane blinked fiercely, the vision of Rianna's cool green eyes fading back into the
darkness with his flickering sight. Come on, Marsh, think! Use your brain, not your
muscles! Your muscles aren't in such good shape right now! A little, complaining
voice inside his head said, Neither is your brain. But he ignored that.
He forced his arms to relax, and wriggled his elbows down the side of his body, to
wedge them firmly against his rib cage. Leverage, that was the trick! His fists
clenched again, and he twisted his arms outward, the ropes tearing into the rigid,
straining muscles, ignoring the pounding hell in his head and the way the firelight
made his vision blur and flicker, going in and out of focus with the blink of the fire
and the pounding of the blood in his temples.
Then he felt a single strand break and pop. Another. He stared at the rope between
his fists, watching it stretch and thin out, watching strands break and unravel. His
head pounded until he felt the blood must break out and splatter the campfire, put
out its flickering light.. ..
There was a loud crack and his hands flew apart. The ropes around his chest came
loose with a rush. The sentry, leaning on his spear, snapped his head up, rushing at
Dane with lifted spear; but he had to turn aside in his rush to avoid stepping on the
sleeping bodies of the other men, and that gave Dane a moment to roll away from
the poised spear.
Then the sentry was looming over him in the flickering light, spear drawn back to
stab.
Still fumbling with the rope, he rolled his hips, his right foot sweeping out to knock
the spear aside. Gravel dug into his right shoulder as he curled on his side, body and
arms tensing like a tightened spring. Then, uncoiling, his elbow digging into the
ground, hurling his hips upward, he felt the jolt of impact all the way down his
suddenly straightened left leg, all the way into his head. With a new jolt of pain, he
saw the guard hanging doubled and gasping over his foot.
Rianna! One for you!
He kicked the man's feet out from under him, hurling him to the ground, realizing
that it was probably wasted motion. He pulled himself free from the loops of rope
and rolled to his feet. The sleepers were stirring, blinking in the wavering light,
falling over one another as they fumbled for weapons.
The two nearest leveled their spears at Dane, but he pivoted and swayed to the right,
slapping the nearest spear aside. His sword! Where was his sword? The spearman
was between Dane and the other, and over his shoulder Dane saw the other man's
face, winking in and out of focus as the swaying darkness shook firelight around
him or was it his own eyes? Dane's arm shot over the nearer man's shoulder like a
striking cobra, toward the man's eyes. His fingers sank into wetness, and he heard
the man scream, saw him lurch away somewhere into the darkness, hands to his
eyes.
Dane whirled, throwing another naked man he never saw clearly, into the fire, with
an extra, bone-breaking twist; there was a howl of pain, and the firelight blacked
out, darkness came up and bounced. Another one he could forget about. He grabbed
a loose spear and broke it across somebody's --face. He threw away the pieces and
stepped across the body, toward the others that were watching them, faces in the
shadows of the cliff behind, ghost-faces, Cliff-Climber, Dallith, Raima's clear green
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eyes somewhere, watching him. The men were spreading out, trying to surround
him, but somewhere outside that circle was Rianna, and she was dead, dead and
waiting for him in that darkness ... his fists were hammers and his legs battering
rams, and the men coming at him were naked, weapons snatched up awkwardly.
They were easy to disarm, to fling aside, helpless. He never knew how many of them
he killed, how many lay moaning, unable to rise. A spear thrust at him, a machete
hissed toward his head. He caught the hand with the machete, hurled the
swordsman
across the spearshaft. He punched, with a practiced snap of his shoulders, a savage
twisting punch across the heart. He heard bones crack. . . . The spear-butt
hammered Dane's ribs. Bone bruised on tough wood as his arm blocked another
spear, thrust it aside. He jumped over the body to face the men who had killed
Rianna, to crush them and shatter them and leave them for the scavengers of the
night as they had left her. ... In the flare of the firelight he saw their heads swivel,
focus on something behind and to the left of them.
"The She-Demon," someone yelled, and then they were all $one, running in panic,
stampeding. He gaped after them, turned to look. Rianna's ghost stood there, a
flickering wraith fading in and out of sight with the flicker of the fire. She had come
for him. No wonder they had run away. No doubt at any moment, Dallith would
appear beside her, and Cliff-Climber ... he waited for them to appear, but there was
only the blade of her knife, flickering in the firelight. She was cutting Joda loose.
"Don't bother," Dane heard himself say stupidly, "He's still alive, he can't come
with us ... where is Dallith?" Rianna seemed not to hear. Of course she couldn't
hear, she wasn't there. Or was it because he hadn't spoken out loud at all? "Dane,
get your sword! Hurry! They'll be back soon!" That made sense. The sword of the
Samurai is the soul of the Samurai . . . life or death, it went where he did . . . where
was Dallith? His head hurt, and something seemed to have gotten into his eyes.
"Your sword," she said urgently, and pointed. "Over there, by the fire!"
Dane saw the sheathed blade, lying where Master Rhomda had placed it. He
staggered toward it; stumbled; went down. "Dane, what's the matter with you?
Hurry I" Joda's bonds fell away, and he sat up, hugging Rianna close.
Why did she run to Joda instead of me? Dane hauled himself up to his knees,
groggily, beside the sword. There was blood on his fingers. He dropped his forehead
to the ground in the full ceremonial bow to the sword and then lifted it and tucked
the scabbard through his sash. The touch, the ritual, steadied him.
The sword of the Samurai is the soul of the Samurai, even in death . . . snap out of it,
Marsh, this is no time to go nuts!
"Dane!" He felt her hand on his arm. Warm, living flesh! Alive, not a ghost! "Are
you all right?"
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