Wizard Of Rentoro Part 1

Wizard of Rentoro.

by Jeffrey Lord.

Chapter 1.

Dawn broke over London as Richard Blade's train pulled into the station. It was a dawn that promised a clear, sunny day, rare for London at this time of the year. It was a pity, thought Blade, that he'd been spending the morning sleeping and the afternoon far below the Tower of London. By the time sunset flamed over London, he would be far away from the city, from Britain, from the whole world.

He would be somewhere in Dimension X, the infinite unknown on the other side of a barrier made by his own brain and his own senses. When that brain was linked to Lord Leighton's computer, when those senses were twisted out of their normal shape, the barrier vanished.

He'd crossed into Dimension X twenty-seven times since the day Lord Leighton first linked his brain to a computer and opened the door to Dimension X. Each journey brought new dangers to test Blade's skill and strength to the limit. He'd escaped from some of those dangers by the narrowest of margins. Sooner or later, he would not escape at all, unless someone else could be found-someone able to travel into Dimension X and return to Britain alive and sane. For the time being, that someone did not exist. Richard Blade was the only living human being who could cross from Home Dimension into Dimension X and return without destroying his mind or his body.

Yet whatever the danger to him, he could not end his travels into Dimension X. Out there lay resources and knowledge beyond price. The exploration of Dimension X had to continue, whatever the risk to Blade, whatever the frustrations when a possible discovery turned out to be nothing, whatever their ignorance of the dangers. It had to continue, in the hope that Project Dimension X would someday justify all the blood, sweat, knowledge, and money that had been poured into it since it began. The stakes were too great.

Blade no longer expected that happy day to come soon. At times he wondered if he'd live to see it. Blade didn't let himself dwell on that much. He had too much self-control to worry about things that couldn't be helped. He also had too strong a sense of duty. Britain could not do without his services-therefore he would go on serving. This sense of duty had taken him to every corner of the world as the top field agent for the secret intelligence agency MI6. Now it was taking him to even stranger places.

In any case, if Blade was frustrated, what about J and Lord Leighton? J had been Blade's chief in MI6 and now worked for the security of Project Dimension X. He loved Blade as a son, yet accepted seeing Blade hurled off into the unknown time after time. He was also clearly seventy. He might not live to see the Project bear fruit, even if he never took any trip more dangerous than a taxi ride through the streets of London!

And Lord Leighton? The computer that opened the door to Dimension X was his creation. Project Dimension X was his brainchild, absorbing the last years of his life and career. Leighton was ten years older than J, his spine twisted into a hunchback, his legs twisted by polio, what little hair he had left snow-white. His scientific career had earned him several fortunes and the right to a peaceful retirement. Yet here he was, brilliant mind and twisted body both hard at work, with little to show for it so far.

Blade at least could forget the frustrations and failures of the Project in the grimly simple business of trying to stay alive in Dimension X. Lord Leighton and J weren't so fortunate. They had the Project staring them in the face every waking minute, with nothing to distract them. Perhaps, thought Blade, he was the lucky man after all.

Blade took a taxi from the station to his flat, undressed, ate breakfast in his dressing gown, and slept until noon. Then he took a shower, shaved, and pulled on the first clothes that came to hand.

There was no point in dressing up for a trip to Dimension X. He always began the trips wearing nothing but a coat of foul-smelling black grease and a loincloth, and ended them wearing nothing at all. All the clothes he was pulling on now had to do was keep him from getting wet, cold, or arrested for indecent exposure until he got to the Tower.

The taxi crept through London's traffic and deposited Blade at the Tower. The grim-faced Special Branch men who guarded the entrance to the underground complex checked Blade's identification and pa.s.sed him through. The elevator plunged two hundred feet down in a few seconds, and the long echoing corridor led him to the computer section.

J met him at the far end of the corridor. When they were at the door leading to the main computer, out of earshot of the technicians and programmers, the older man turned to Blade. "The Prime Minister wasn't very happy about your report on the American trip," he said.

"I didn't write it to make the old-the man happy," said Blade shortly. Actually, there was no point in being harsh. The Prime Minister was another man doing his best and enduring a great deal of trouble. Without his efforts in providing money and discouraging inquisitive members of Parliament, Project Dimension X would long since have fallen apart.

"No, but he did have hopes that the Americans might be able to contribute more. I'm afraid he has the usual notion that in the American intelligence services money grows on trees and they can give it away by the barrel to any likely project."

Blade laughed and shook his head. He'd gone off to the United States with some of those same notions himself. He'd spent a working vacation, taking desert-survival and underwater-demolitions refresher training, looking over a few possible candidates for Project Dimension X, and generally keeping up his contacts in the American intelligence services. Parts of the month had been pleasant enough, but in the end he'd been disappointed.

"The CIA's too busy putting its own house in order to be very receptive to new and expensive projects," he said. "The money's there; but it would be like pulling teeth to get them to spend it on a British request.

"Even if they were willing to spend it, their internal security's below standard these days. By the time they'd come through with the money, somebody would have leaked everything to the press. Then Project Dimension X would be on national television, the front page of the Was.h.i.+ngton Past, and G.o.d knows where else."

J winced at the idea. After a moment he asked, "What about approaches to some of the other American agencies the military ones, for example? They aren't under such close examination by the press."

Blade recognized J's tone. The older man was not seeking information on a matter of which he was ignorant. What he wanted was Blade's point of view, on a matter where the facts were already known. J had been in intelligence work for the better part of half a century, and knew as well as any man alive how much more there was to it than simple facts. A great many of J's friends and allies were alive because he'd gone beyond the facts. Almost as many enemies were dead.

"No, they aren't," said Blade. "But that won't help us. The CIA is just as jealous of its status as ever, in spite of all its troubles. If we approached-oh, the Defense Intelligence Agency, for example-without giving the CIA at least the chance to turn us down, there'd be the devil to pay! We could kiss good-bye any hope of American cooperation for about the next five years. We don't want to have to wait that long, I think."

"No," said J. "We don't. But we are going to have to give the Americans a miss for a while. That puts us back to square one as far as finding new people are concerned. Our own agencies and services have already been gone over with a fine-toothed comb. I'm d.a.m.ned if I can see any point in trying them again, and I can't see the Prime Minister supporting it, either." He sighed, and for a brief moment he looked more than his age.

Blade stood in silent sympathy. Once again he couldn't help feeling that perhaps he was the lucky man in the Project. In another hour he would be striking out across some unknown land far off in Dimension X. J would still be here in Britain, sweating over irritated Prime Ministers, the internal politics of American intelligence agencies, and a dozen other administrative problems.

Any of them would have quickly driven Blade mad. He was not an administrator. A desk could never be his home. He was a natural adventurer, born into the wrong century. Yet somehow he'd found the one job which he could do better than any other human being. That was better luck than Blade would have believed any man could enjoy-certainly better luck than J's or Lord Leighton's.

The door in front of the two men hissed open, and Lord Leighton's gnome-like face peered out at them. His gla.s.ses were shoved up on his wrinkled forehead, and for a moment he didn't seem to recognize them. Then he pulled his gla.s.ses down into position and gave his usual brief smile of welcome.

In silence J and Blade followed the scientist into the room that was Leighton's private preserve. All around them the gray crackle-finished consoles of the master computer towered toward the bare rock of the ceiling. In the exact center of the room a grimly functional metal chair squatted inside a transparent gla.s.s booth. That chair was the beginning and the end for Blade's trips into Dimension X.

Blade left the other two men. J sat down on the folding spectator seat, while Leighton took his position by the main control panel. Blade went to the changing room carved into the rock wall, pulled the door shut behind him, and began stripping of his clothes.

When he was naked, he picked up the pot of dark grease from one corner and began smearing it over every square inch of his skin. It had the consistency of suet pudding mixed with well-rotted rabbit droppings, and smelled nearly as unpleasant. Blade would have been more than willing to leave it off, if it hadn't been for the danger of electrical burns. A frightening amount of current pa.s.sed through his body as he was hurled into Dimension X. He would riot run even the slightest risk of winding up fried like a chicken.

Blade finished smearing himself, knotted a loincloth about his waist, and stepped out of the changing room. Leighton was standing by the chair now, a bundle of wires and electrodes gripped in one surprisingly large and strong hand. The scientist must be more eager than usual to see me off, thought Blade. Well, he can hardly be more eager than I am. At this point the last of Blade's tension always faded away, leaving behind only a great impatience to be off on his next adventure.

Blade sat down in the chair, feeling the chill rubber of the back and seat against his bare skin. He leaned back and started breathing quickly and deeply, filling his whole system with oxygen. The doctors of the Project had the notion that if he hyperventilated before the computer gripped him, it might help prevent the splitting headache he usually felt after arriving in Dimension X. The headache always went away within a few minutes, but during those few minutes it was often so painful that Blade could hardly move. It would be an advantage to be ready for action the moment he awoke in Dimension X. Only a small advantage, to be sure-but Blade's training and experience had taught him how much even small advantages could mean to survival.

Lord Leighton practically ran in circles around Blade, attaching the cobra-headed metal electrodes to every part of Blade's body. From each electrode a colored wire led off into the bowels of the computer. By the time Leighton finished, Blade sprouted wires from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. He looked like the victim of a mad scientist in a low-grade horror film.

Well, Lord Leighton certainly looked enough like a mad scientist to be cast for the part. There were probably some people who thought he actually was mad. Certainly he could be eccentric, stubborn, outrageous, and totally impossible to get along with. Blade wondered how many of the white hairs on J's head had been added by having to deal with the scientist. Probably quite a few. But it was worth it. Lord Leighton might hold a large part of the future of the human race in his mind and hand.

Blade saw the room around him appearing with unnatural clarity and felt his head beginning to swim. He knew that he'd done enough deep breathing, stopped, and let himself relax. As he did, Leighton stepped to the main control panel and pulled the red master switch down to the bottom of its slot.

A buzzing started in Blade's head, then swelled to a screaming roar. It sounded like a jet plane winding up for takeoff, and Blade half expected the room to start vibrating savagely. It seemed unnatural that there should be so much noise with no movement.

In the next moment the room tilted up on end, as if a giant hand were gripping it and heaving. Blade saw Leighton and J standing frozen as the floor tilted, until they were standing at such an angle that Blade expected them to fall down out of sight. The floor tilted still more and the whole room turned upside down-Lord Leighton, J, the control panel, the computer consoles, Blade in his chair, everything. Now Lord Leighton and J seemed to be hanging head downward, like bats from the ceiling of a cave. The roaring swelled until Blade wanted to scream at the tearing agony in his eardrums.

Suddenly the noise died, and in the same moment the chair detached itself from the inverted floor and plunged downward, carrying Blade with it. He plunged into a vast windy darkness that suddenly spread beneath him. The darkness swallowed him, the wind howled about him, and a numbing chill began to gnaw at his fingers and toes.

The fall through the darkness went on and on, and the cold began to work through Blade's skin into his internal organs. Then there was no longer darkness below, A vast plain spread out in all directions, a plain made of s.h.i.+mmering green light. In a hundred places vast mouths gaped open, mouths with lips of dancing golden fire and blazing silver teeth. Now they seemed to be aware of Blade and they began opening and shutting furiously.

Blade tried to twist in midair, to divert his fall and plunge into the green light instead of into one of the mouths. He failed. A mouth yawned wide directly below him, silver teeth flashed past him, he felt a moment of searing heat as deadly as the cold before-then he no longer felt anything at all.

Chapter 2.

The first thing Blade felt was rain on his bare skin and wet gra.s.s under him. He opened his eyes, then realized with delight that his head was not throbbing with pain. There was a faint ache, rather like a mild hangover, but nothing that would slow him down even slightly. The deep breathing-or something-had worked.

That was pure good news, like anything else learned about Dimension X or ways of reaching it in one piece. Exploring Dimension X often seemed like trying to a.s.semble a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. Now he'd just found one more piece.

Blade rose, stretched his arms and legs, and did a quick series of limbering-up exercises. When he'd finished, he felt ready to look around him and see where he'd landed.

Overhead was a sky of featureless gray clouds, trailing cotton-wool tufts of mist all the way to the ground. A fine rain was still falling.

Blade was standing in ankle-deep gra.s.s by the edge of a shallow drainage ditch now filled to the brim with muddy water. On either side of him rose thick tangles of vines. The leaves were long and thin with a white stripe down the middle. The fruit was the size and shape of grapes, but bright blue.

The vines rose ten feet high on either side of Blade and stretched away in both directions. In front of him they seemed to go on forever, until they vanished in the rain and the mist. He turned, and saw the vines ending fifty feet away at a waist-high wall of roughly dressed stone. He started walking toward it.

The earth underfoot was rich, black, and clinging. Judging from the smell that reached Blade's nostrils, it had been recently manured. Along the edge of the drainage ditch the earth was turning to mud, and several times Blade sank up to his ankles. The gra.s.s between the vines had been weeded recently and in places showed signs of careful cutting. Blade saw nothing he could hope to use as a weapon.

He was halfway to the wall when he heard a loud metallic honk from somewhere out of sight. The damp air distorted the sound so that it was hard to be sure where it came from.

Several more honks sounded in a ragged chorus, followed by unmistakable human voices shouting in wordless anger and the soft squis.h.i.+ng of hooves in mud. The sounds were coming closer. Blade went down on his belly and crawled the rest of the distance to the wall on his hands and knees. From the cover of the wall and the vines, Blade watched the travelers ride past him.

There were seven of them, all mounted on animals that looked like thick-legged antelopes covered with long white hair. The heads were broad and slab-sided, with large eyes set well to either side. From in front of each hairless pink ear a two-foot horn jutted forward. The points were sharp as needles, and the horns of the lead rider's mount were gilded.

The leader himself was dressed in armor that might have come straight out of some museum's medieval or Renaissance collection. It was mostly plate, with a sort of skirt of chain mail and more mail in the armpits to let the wearer move his arms freely. The helmet was a ma.s.sive affair, almost completely round, with a hinged visor of close-set metal bars. The visor was raised, and the face it revealed was olive-hued and heavily mustached.

The man was carrying a lance in his right hand and controlling his mount with the left. From his belt hung a sword in an elaborately decorated scabbard of leather and metal. On his saddle was slung a triangular s.h.i.+eld about three feet long and two feet wide. It was covered with red leather, and on the leather was painted an elaborate heraldic device in green, white, and gold. Before Blade could make out any details of the device, the leader was pa.s.sing out of sight.

The six riders who followed the leader were less heavily equipped. They wore open-faced helmets, back and breast plates, mail skirts, and leather leggings tucked into high boots. Each one had a crossbow slung on his back and a sword or a mace at his belt. Three of them rode with falcon-like birds perched on gauntleted hands. The birds were white with golden-brown wings, their heads concealed in blue leather hoods.

On each breastplate was a smaller version of the device on the leader's s.h.i.+eld. Blade was able to make it out as a wolf's head-mouth open, teeth bared, and red tongue licking out like a flame. Then the seven riders were past and out of Blade's sight.

Blade waited until the splas.h.i.+ng and squelching of the animals' hooves faded almost into silence. Then he slipped over the wall and crouched beside the road. It hardly deserved the name-a yard-wide stretch of bare earth with a ditch on the far side. In spite of the ditch, the road was inches deep in water in many places.

Still, the road would be quicker than cutting through the vineyards and across fields, climbing over walls and risking encounters with farmers. Blade didn't expect he would have far to go. The men hadn't been on the road for long; otherwise their mounts would have been plastered with mud. Nor did they seem to be planning on any sort of long trip. They had no saddlebags on their mounts and no pack animals with them-nothing but their armor and weapons.

Somewhere not far away was a human settlement, possibly a castle matching the weapons and armor of these men. Blade would follow the riders to their destination and look the place over. If the people there looked reasonably friendly, he could introduce himself, dry off, and get food and clothing.

He hoped the people would be friendly. A night or two spent out in the rain wouldn't hurt him, not unless it grew much colder. But it would be a miserable experience, to be avoided if possible. Blade rose to his feet and started off after the riders.

The road wound back and forth between the stone wall on one side and the ditch on the other. Beyond the ditch was another wall, and beyond it a checkerboard of freshly plowed fields. They rose up a hillside until the mist and the clouds swallowed them.

Blade moved steadily along the road, as fast as he could without making too much noise or tiring himself. The mud splashed up with every step. He would have been coated up to his waist if the rain hadn't started coming down heavily enough to wash him clean.

He couldn't help thinking he must be a bizarre sight, striding along this sodden road in such weather, as naked as the day he was born. He'd gotten used to looking strange after arriving in Dimension X, though, and anyone who replaced him in the Project would have to do the same.

After a while the rain began to slacken, and Blade thought he saw a hint of the mist lifting as well. The riders were long since out of earshot, but as far as he could tell they were still on the road. The rain hadn't completely washed out their hoofprints and there was no place they could have left the road to cut across country without leaving tracks.

Now the road curved sharply, vanis.h.i.+ng around the rocky flank of a steep wooded hill. As Blade followed the road around to the right, he came to a small wooden bridge leading across the ditch. Beyond the ditch a flock of sheep milled about aimlessly. In the middle of the flock the slight form of a shepherd boy was sprawled on the ground. He lay on his back, his dark hair spread out around his head and his cap fallen to one side. His crook lay in three pieces beside him.

Blade ran across the bridge, crouching low and scanning the landscape for signs of movement. He noticed as he ran that some planks of the bridge were scarred and gouged by iron-shod hooves and that the ground on the far side bore a tangle of hoofprints. Some of the riders had come across the bridge only a few minutes before. They'd killed the shepherd boy, then apparently ridden away without doing anything to his flock-which made no sense.

Blade pushed through the sheep, who scattered with plaintive bleats. He knelt beside the shepherd and with relief discovered the boy was not dead. He had a nasty lump on his head and blood was seeping from a cut under one eye, but his limbs were straight and his chest rose and fell steadily. Blade stood up and started looking for shelter. The boy would come to no further harm if he could be dried off and warmed up.

Then an explosion of new sounds cut through the dying rain. Men and women were crying out in fear, children were screaming wildly, sheep, goats, and cattle were all bleating or lowing frantically. Other men were shouting angrily, and the hooves of fast-ridden animals splashed and thudded.

Blade had caught up with the riders. Somewhere over on the other side of the wooded hill, they were going into action. Whatever they were doing involved many more people than a single shepherd boy.

Blade drew the boy's cap over his face, then ran back across the bridge and out into the road.

Chapter 3.

As Blade reached the road the uproar from beyond the hill seemed to double. There was a pitched battle, a wild panic, or both going on over there. Remembering the riders' crossbows, Blade changed his mind about following the road around the hill. Walking unarmed straight into whatever was going on would be a fine way of committing suicide and not much else.

Instead Blade ran on across the road, vaulted the wall, and started up the hill. The trees swallowed him before he'd gone a dozen paces but the cries and shouts still came loud and clear. He went up the hill with a rush, ignoring rocks that bruised his feet and thorn-laden branches that lashed across his skin, In places the slope was so steep he had to grip saplings or roots and haul himself upward. At last he reached the crest and ran to the nearest gap in the trees. He threw himself flat behind a spreading evergreen bush and peered down at the scene below.

Nestled in a hollow at the foot of the hill was a village-sixty or seventy houses, stables, barns, storehouses, a couple of inns, all arranged on either side of a single graveled street. The six men-at-arms were riding up and down that street at a canter, while their leader sat on his mount at one end of the street.

The leader's visor was still up and his face was turned toward the sky. He seemed totally deaf and blind to the uproar around him. He reminded Blade of nothing so much as a faithful dog sitting at his master's feet, waiting for a command. Where that command was going to come from, Blade couldn't imagine.

The men-at-arms, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what they were doing and were grimly at work. They still had their bows slung, but their swords and maces danced in their hands. Blade saw one of them ride down a boy who could not have been more than ten. The mace whistled down and Blade braced himself to see the child's head smashed to pulp. Then he saw the mace flash with frightening precision inches over the child's head, close enough to ruffle his dark hair. The boy missed a step and sprawled on the gravel, kicking and screaming hysterically, frightened into a fit but otherwise unhurt. The man-at-arms rode on without a backward glance at his victim.

Toward the other end of the village Blade saw a woman burst out of a doorway, trying to make a dash across the street. Two of the men-at-arms saw her and pulled their mounts around so violently Blade expected the animals to lose their footing on the wet gravel. If the men-at-arms went down, it would be easy for the villagers to surround them and take them prisoner or bash out their brains.

The white riding antelopes were too sure-footed. They reared, seemed to spin on their hind legs, then dashed toward the woman. One man rode between her and the houses on the far side of the street. The other swept in behind her, pulled his mount to a stop, and sprang down from the saddle. She whirled, mouth opening in a shrill scream. The man dropped his sword and punched the woman in the stomach hard enough to double her up. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders, threw her on her back on the gravel, pulled her skirts up to her waist, and went to work.

Four of the six men-at-arms raped the woman, and her screams floated up and down the village street. As the fourth man rose and began doing up his breeches, the remaining two rode out from behind a barn. One bad a nude teenage girl slung across his saddle, her hands and feet bound and tied to his stirrups. The other had his crossbow c.o.c.ked and aimed, and was herding ahead of him two husky young men, barefoot and stripped to the waist.

As the last two men-at-arms rode out into the street, a wild cry of rage exploded from one of the houses. A door flew open and a gray-haired man with a huge ax swinging in his hands burst into view. He took three steps, then the rider with the crossbow s.h.i.+fted his aim and fired. The bolt took the man in the leg and he went down with a howl of pain.

This seemed to snap the armored leader out of his trance. In a single fluid motion he lowered his lance and dug in his spurs. His mount leaped forward, spraying gravel. The lance dipped and plunged with terrible precision straight into the center of the man's chest. He rose clear of the ground, impaled on the lance as the leader swept on. Then the body slid free and thudded face down into the street. The leader pulled his mount around, wiped the blood from the lance point on the dead man's clothes, and rode back up the street. In a sharp voice he gave three orders the words of which Blade could not make out. Then his face turned up to the sky again and he fell back into his trance.

The man with the ax was the first and the last bit of resistance from the villagers. No one else did anything but scream or try to run a few steps as the men-at-arms swept back and forth through the village. Three more women writhed and cried out under the pounding bodies of the riders. A dozen more children were frightened into fits or fainting spells. Another young man was dragged out of a hut and bound with the first two. A second girl was stripped naked and thrown over a rider's saddle.

Then three of the men remounted and sat with crossbows at the ready. Of the other three, two began going into houses and barns and hauling out clothes, shoes, small articles of furniture, dishes, whatever seemed to come to hand. Some of it they smashed, some of it they trampled, some of it they just left lying on the ground where they threw it. The street began to look like a trash dump.

The third man-at-arms was the largest of all the riders, inches taller and broader than Blade himself. He wore a thick red beard and an ugly scar ran across his left cheek. He picked up the dead man's ax and strode up and down the street, taking swings at anything he felt like hitting. Porch beams split in two, doors fell off their hinges, fence rails were chopped into firewood.

At last the leader came out of his trance for a second time. He did not speak, but his quick gestures were so clear and precise that no words were needed. The three young men were each tied by the wrists to one of the stirrups. The dismounted men-at-arms scrambled into their saddles. The leader raised his lance high into the air and swung it in three slow circles. Then he spurred his mount forward and the men-at-arms did the same. All seven men rode out of the village at a brisk trot, the three young men trying desperately to keep their feet and the two unconscious women bouncing wildly. The red-bearded man brought up the rear. As he reached the end of the street he flung the ax down and spat on it. Then all seven riders were vanis.h.i.+ng into the grayness without a backward glance.

Blade wasted no time wondering what all this might mean. There were clothes, footgear, and perhaps weapons scattered all up and down the village street. He wanted to get down there and get himself clothed, shod, and armed before the villagers recovered and came out to gather up their possessions. The next village might be miles away and the daylight was beginning to fade.

Blade scrambled down the hill as fast as he dared go. He reached the end of the street before anyone came out of the houses. He darted from one heap of the villagers' possessions to another, scooping up whatever looked useful. He found baggy trousers, a woollen vest, a leather tunic, a belt, boots, three pairs of heavy stockings, a carving knife heavy enough to make a good weapon.

Now he came to a wicker basket and saw it full of loaves of hard gray bread. He scooped several into the vest and was just straightening up when a woman appeared in the doorway of a but across the street.

"Heeee-ya!" she shrieked, waving her arms furiously at Blade. Her cry brought heads popping out of doors and windows all along the street. One man stepped out of a barn, holding a pitchfork. Several children picked up stones and clods of mud.

Blade wasted no more time in gathering up more equipment. Tucking his heavy bundle under his left arm, he held his right hand out in front of him, fingers spread.

This peaceful gesture was ignored. "Snake!" the woman screamed. "Dung-eating swine!" shouted someone else. The man with the pitchfork started toward Blade. Several stones and clods flew at Blade. One hit him in the shoulder. More men were stepping out of doorways, holding sticks, chair legs, and lengths of firewood.