Rebels of Gor by John Norman Page A

tarn,” I said. “I suspect those killed sold their lives well. Too, it is my understanding that many escaped, and many returned to the wild.”
    “We have followed the carrion in your arms for days,” said the voice. “Now we have caught him.”
    “Step toward the fire,” I said.
    He was a large man, with a wide-brimmed, metal-winged helmet. He wore gloves and a heavy jacket.
    I thought the jacket might encumber his sport with the blade, but if he had ten men, or so, behind him, I supposed it would not make much difference. I had Tajima in my arms, who, as far as I knew, might have lapsed again into unconsciousness. The body was warm, however, and I could sense its breathing. Too, of course, my own blade, the gladius , was sheathed. The sheath was at my left hip, and the sheath strap ran across my body from my right shoulder to the left hip. That is common on tarnback, and when an engagement is not imminent.
    “How many men do you have?” I asked.
    “Twelve,” he said.
    “Then you have little to fear,” I said.
    “And you have much,” he said.
    I could not see any men behind him. Still, there was much darkness.
    “You are brave with twelve men behind you,” I said.
    “If there were none, I am brave,” he said, angrily.
    “Let us see,” I said. “Let me put my friend, who is ill and weak, and cannot stand, on the ground, and draw my sword. Then let us do contest here, in the falling snow. If I win, I and my friend are free to go. If I lose, you have our lives, and your honor, and have proved to your men your bravery. Do you accept my challenge?”
    “I am not a fool,” he said.
    “I lower my friend to the ground, gently,” I said.
    “He is dead,” said the man, warily.
    “I do not think so,” I said. “He may be unconscious.”
    I lowered the limp body of Tajima to the snow. I think he was conscious, but unable to move.
    “He is the last of the fugitives,” said the man. “His will be the last head we will gather. The others are all dead. It has taken time, but now we have the last of them.”
    “Do you accept my challenge?” I asked.
    “Do not unsheathe your sword,” he said, quickly.
    “Why not?” I asked.
    “You are a mercenary,” he said. “Things have become other than they were. Be wise. Change your banner.”
    My hand went to the hilt of my blade.
    “Think,” said the man. “Do not draw your sword! You can manage the winged monster! Lord Yamada can use men such as you. Gold, women, a command, will be yours!”
    “I have placed the challenge,” I said. “Is it accepted?”
    “Do not draw your sword!” he said.
    Slowly, very slowly, I drew the blade.
    “Is it accepted?” I asked.
    “I have twelve men behind me,” he said.
    “I see none,” I said.
    “You are clever,” he said. “You would have me turn my head, and then you would rush upon me with that little sword.”
    “It is a fast little thing,” I said, “rather like the companion sword.”
    “Kill him!” he cried, suddenly. “Kill him, now, now!”
    “I see no one behind you,” I said.
    “What are you waiting for?” he cried, hysterically, half turning his head. “Kill him! Kill him!”
    Then he spun about, cried out once, and then, in his heavy snow boots, plunged into the darkness, and, a moment later, I heard a cry, half of fear, half of misery, which was cut short.
    A moment later a short, squat figure emerged from the darkness.
    “Nodachi!” I said.
    “Master!” said Tajima.
    I turned about.
    Somehow Tajima had staggered to his feet, that he might meet his teacher while standing, his blade in his hand. He then wavered. I caught him, as he collapsed.
    “He is unconscious,” I said.
    “Build up the fire,” said Nodachi. “I have rice. We will boil it in a helmet. When Tajima, tarnsman, has revived, and fed, you must convey him to safety.”
    “It will be dangerous to build up the fire,” I said.
    “Not now,” said Nodachi, gathering sticks.
    “How did you find us?” I asked.
    “I