Something seemed a little strange as they approached closer. I guessed they still could not see me-one solitary figure-but I could see them.
The scale was wrong. That was it.
Judging the average height of man and mount against the average height of trees and shrubs, I knew that these riders and their steeds were gigantic! Not one of their daharas was less than twice the height of mine; not one rider was under eight feet tall.
My memory worked swiftly and came up with only one answer.
These were invaders!
More-I thought I knew them.
They could only be those fierce, northern raiders Shizala had mentioned. The Blue Giants-the Argzoon!
Why had the city had no warning of the horde's approach?
How had they managed to come this far undetected?
These questions rose in my mind as I watched, but I dismissed them as useless. The fact was that a mounted force of warriors-thousands of them it seemed-were riding towards Varnal!
Quickly, I turned my beast, all thoughts of my grief now forgotten. I was obsessed by the emergency. I must warn the city. At least they would have a little time!
I checked my position from the sun and guided the swiftly-moving dahara back the way I had come.
But I had not reckoned with the Argzoon outriders. Though I had observed the main horde, the scouts sent ahead had evidently observed me!
As I ducked low to avoid the low branches of the slim trees and emerged into a wide glade, I heard a huge snort and a strange, wild, gusty laugh.
Then I was staring at a mounted giant towering above me on his great beast. In one hand he held an enormous sword and in the other an ovalheaded mace of some land.
I was unarmed-save for the slender lances that still reposed in the holster at my side.
Chapter Four
THE ATTACK
MY MIND raced. For a moment I felt completely overwhelmed, staring up into the face of a being that was to me as impossible as the unicorn or the hippogriff.
His skin was a dark, mottled blue. Like the folk of Varnal, he did not wear what we should think of as clothing. His body was a mass of padded leather armor and on his seemingly hairless head was a tough cap, also of padded leather, but reinforced with metal.
His face was broad yet tapering, with slitted eyes and a great gash of a mouth that was open now in laughing anticipation of my rapid demise.
A mouth full of black teeth, uneven and jagged.
The ears were pointed and large, sweeping back from the skull. The arms were bare, save for wristguards, and strongly muscled on a fantastic scale.
The fingers were covered-encrusted would be a better description-with crudely-cut precious stones.
His dahara was not the quiet beast that I rode.
It seemed as fierce as its rider, pawing at the delicate green moss of the glade, its head sporting a metal spike and its body partially protected by the same dark brown, padded leather armor.
The Argzoon warrior uttered a few guttural words which I could not understand, though they were clearly in the same language that I now spoke so fluently.
Fatalistically feeling that if I must die I would die fighting, I reached for one of the lances in the holster.
The warrior laughed again jeeringly and waved his sword, clapping his massive legs to his mount's side and goading it forward.
Now my reactions came to my rescue.
Swiftly, I plucked one of the lances from tie holster and almost in the same motion got its balance, then flung it at the giant's face.
He roared as it hurtled towards him but with incredible speed for one so huge he struck it aside with his sword.
But by that time I had another lance in my hand and turned my jittery mount away as the warrior advanced, his sword swooping down towards me.
I ducked and felt it pass within an inch of my scalp.
Then he had thundered past, carried on by the weight of his own momentum. I wheeled my beast and flung another lance at him as he tried to turn his mount, which was evidently less well trained than mine.
The lance caught him in the arm.
He yelled in pain and rage and this time his speed was even faster as he bore down on me again.
I had only two lances left.
I flung the third as he came in with his sword held out in front of him, like a cavalryman on Earth might once have held his sword in a charge.
The third lance missed. But at least my second had wounded his mace-arm and I only had the sword to contend with; I could not duck this one.
But what could I do? There were split seconds in which to decide!
Grabbing the remaining lance, I flung myself off the beast and fell to the ground just as the sword met air where I would have been.
Bruised, I picked myself up. I still gripped the last lance.
I would have to use it with certainty if I were to win this duel.
I crouched, waiting as he turned, poised on the balls of my feet, watching the gigantic, snorting brute as he fought his dahara, turning it round again.
Then he paused, laughing that gusty, animal laughter, his blue head flung back and his vast chest heaving beneath its armor.
It was his mistake.
Thanking providence for this opportunity, I hurled the lance with all my force and skillstraight at the momentarily exposed neck.
It went in some inches and for a brief instant the laughter still came from his mortally wounded throat. The noise changed to a shocked gurgle, a high sigh, and then my opponent pitched backward off his dahara and lay dead on the ground.
As soon as it was relieved of its ride, the dahara galloped away into the forest.
I was left, panting and dazed but grateful for the fortuitous opportunity I had been given. I should have been dead. Instead, I was alive-and still whole.
I had expected to die. I had not counted on the incredible stupidity of an adversary who had been so sure of victory he had exposed a vital spot which could only have been reached by the very weapon I happened to possess.
I stood over the great hulk. It lay spread out on the moss, the sword and mace still attached by wrist-thongs to its arms. There was a stink about it not of death but of general uncleanliness. The slitted eyes stared, the mouth still a grinning gash, though now it grinned in death.
I looked at his sword.
It was, of course, a great weapon, such as only a nine-foot giant would use. Yet, proportionately, it was almost a short sword-just over five feet long.
Fastidiously I bent down and unhooked the thong from the creature's wrist. I picked the sword up. It was very heavy, but finely balanced. I could not use it in one hand as the Argzoon scout had done, but I could use it as a broadsword in two hands.
The grips were just right. I hefted it, feeling better, thanking heaven for M. Clarchet, my old fencing master, who had taught me how to get the most out of any blade, no matter how strange or crude it at first seemed.
Holding it by its thong, I remounted my beast and lay the sword across my legs as I rode in that still peculiar riding position back towards the city.
There was a long way to go and I had to hurry-even more so now-to warn the city of the imminent attack.
But as I rode up hill and down dale for what seemed hours, I was to be threatened once again by an Argzoon giant who came riding at me from my right flank as I rode down one of the last hillsides before Varnal.
He did not laugh. Indeed, he uttered no sound at all as he came at me. Evidently so near the city he did not wish to alert anyone who might be close by.
He had no mace-just a sword.
I met his first swing with my own recently acquired weapon. He looked at it in surprise, clearly recognizing it as one forged by his own folk.
His surprise served me well. These Argzoon were swift movers for their size, but poor thinkers-that had already been made quite plain.