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Blade 29: Treasure of the Stars

By Jeffrey Lord

Chapter 1
The big man on the branch watched the soldiers passing thirty feet below. He watched them as intently
as a hawk picking out its prey. None of the soldiers looked up or even seemed to realize there was such
a direction. They tramped through the ankle-high grass, crackling twigs underfoot and ploughing through
bushes. They made so much noise that the man in the tree could have followed their progress on a
pitch-black night. If it weren't for the ugly-looking rifles in their hands, the soldiers would have been
almost funny.

The man in the tree was armed only with a rough club and a rawhide sling. He wore only a barbaric
collection of animal skins. No one would have laughed at him, though.

He was an inch over six feet tall, and weighed more than two hundred pounds. His heavy-boned frame
was layered with superbly-conditioned muscles. His skin was darkened by wind, weather, sun, and dirt,
and seamed with scars in at least a dozen places.

The last of the soldiers was passing under the tree and heading off downhill. Their eyes were still fixed on
the ground or on the backs of their comrades. The man in the tree mentally noted other details about the
soldiers besides their clumsiness and carelessness. They wore round black helmets with narrow white
crests, dark green jackets and trousers that looked more elegant than comfortable, black leather boots
and belts, dark brown packs on polished metal pack frames. Two men carried fat snub-nosed weapons
that looked like giant shotguns-probably grenade launchers. The rest carried heavy rifles with big pan
shaped magazines, fixed bayonets, and elaborate sights. Each rifleman also had three or four egg-shaped
red grenades hooked to his belt. One man carried a shiny long barreled pistol.

The soldiers might be overdressed and clumsy, but they looked remarkably well-armed. If they could
use their weapons better than they marched, they would be formidable.

So the man waited until the soldiers were well out of sight before climbing down from the tree. He stood
for a moment at its base, listening carefully. The soldiers were still moving as noisily as ever. He could
follow them without any trouble. He swung the club in his right hand and set off on the trail of the soldiers.

He moved with grace and power, putting his feet down with great precision yet still covering ground
quickly. Every movement suggested the flawless coordination and reflexes of some powerful animal. Yet
the heavy-boned dark face was too alive and aware to be an animal's, and the dark eyes were searching,
restless, almost frighteningly intelligent. In this man, mind and body had joined to create a superb fighting
machine, one that didn't seem to belong in the same world with those clumsy soldiers in green.

In fact, the man wasn't from the same world as the soldiers he followed. His name Was Richard Blade,
this was Dimension X, and he'd come across infinity by what might be called science but still seemed
more like a miracle.

Richard Blade actually didn't belong in his own homeland, modern Britain, much more than in Dimension
X. He was a man whose mind and body were made for the lonely, dangerous, and frequently short life of
the professional adventurer. He would have been a tower of strength to Francis Drake raiding Spanish
galleons in the sixteenth century. In the safe, sanitary, ordered life of a modern industrial country, he was
a man out of place.