Adventure Magazine Cover — page 117: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

116 although their ankles were secured at night by heavy leather thongs that would not yield to their fingers. Naturally none of them had a weapon of any kind. The sentries had no reason to expect an attempt to escape. Even if the two Janis- series could be disposed of, the captives would have to pass through the camp and pierce the cordon of riders in the outer darkness in order to gain the plain. Even clear of the camp they would be pursued by well-mounted warriors and the odds against them in a hostile country were very great. — The first sentry was staring mockingly at the Portuguese who cringed beside him, gesturing futilely. And then the. Italian cast his heavy stone with both arms. It struck the Janissery at the base of the skull and pitched him forward a dozen feet. He fell, stunned, with his face within the _edge of the fire. The second warrior started out of his _ doze and his lips parted for a cry. But the Portuguese, frenzied by peril and hope of escape, clutched his throat. The Italian had leaped after the stone and caught up the spear of the man he had slain. This spear he thrust into the clothing over the stomach of the choking sentry. “Harken.” Michael had run to them and addressed the struggling Moslem. “Be silent and do as I bid ye or your body will lie in the fire.”’ A stringent odor of burning flesh and cloth came to the nostrils of the sentry and he ceased struggling, waiting for the blow that would slay him. But: Michael with his left arm dragged the smoking corpse from the flames and swiftly directed two of his men to conceal it under some of their robes in a corner. Before doing so, he saw that they took a dagger and simitar from the dead Janissery and stowed the weapons under their own clothing. “Now,” Michael commanded the watch- ing sentry, “your life will be spared if you do this; call twice for El-Arjuk, master of the slaves who is in command of the aul this night. He gorges himself at a near-by fire. Do not cry for aid, but call his name.”’ The man winced as the spear in the hands of the Italian pricked his belly. He did not believe that he would be permitted to live, yet he had smelled the burning flesh of his comrade. _ “El-Arjuk!” He lifted a long, wailing cry Adventure while Michael listened closely. “Ohai— El-Arjuk!”’ “Again,” whispered the Breton and the call for the master of the slaves was re- peated. This time a harsh voice made answer. Michael’s eyes narrowed and he ordered the fidgeting captives back to their sleeping- robes with the exception of one man who stood against the wall, drawing the sentry back with him and pressing a dagger’s point from behind into his flesh. Michael caught up the long battle-ax that had supported the Janissery in his ill- timed doze. He hefted it in his left hand, found its length unwieldy, and broke the wooden shaft in two under his foot. Taking up the shortened weapon, he held it close to his side, away from the fire. “Keep back,” he hissed: at the others, “for this is my fight.” They mumbled and straightway fell to staring in fear as a burly form strode ‘through the entrance of the aul and came around the diminishing blaze of the fire. “Who called?” growled El-Arjuk, glanc- ing at Michael and the one sentry swiftly. He was flushed from drinking, although his step was steady. In feasting he had laid aside his armor, but held a small target of bull’s hide and a simitar. Noticing the absence of the other Janissery and the strange quietude of the one sentry, he started. “Blood of Sheitan “T summoned you,” said Michael grimly. “To your reckoning. Guard yourself!” With that he leaped, swinging his haft of the battle-ax. With one motion El-Arjuk flung up his shield and slashed forward un- der it with his sword. The blade met nothing but air. Michael’s jump had carried him over the low sweep of the Turk’s simitar, while the hastily raised target momentarily obstructed the vision of his adversary. | The Breton’s broad chest struck the shield, bearing it down, and his shortened ax fell once, the full weight of his powerful body behind it. El-Arjuk had started to cry for aid when the blade of the ax crashed into his forehead and the cry ended in a quavering groan. Michael fell to the sand with his enemy, but he rose alone, listening intently. From somewhere etide the aul a ques- tion was shouted idly, for the thud of the Gomilesooks. co