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Suddenly, before he had even touched the lashings at my ankles, he turned about, abruptly, in the saddle. A crossbow bolt flashed by, like a swift, hissing needle in the sky. In one moment, as I screamed, terrified, thrown rudely against my bonds, he had jerked his shield from the saddle straps and wheeled the tarn, with a cry of rage, a strange war cry, to face his foe. He was met with another war cry, and suddenly, only feet from us, another tarn streaked past, and I heard the forcible, tearing scrape of a broad, bronze spear blade, its blow turned, sliding across the metal-bound, layered, boskhide shield of my captor. The other tarn streaked away, and its rider, standing in his stirrups, braced in the saddle, held to it by the broad safety strap, was redrawing his crossbow, a quarrel held in his teeth. My captor attacked, giving him no instant in which to set again his bow. When only yards separated us, the other man flung away his bow and quarrel, seizing up his shield. - (Captive of Gor, Chapter )