Adventure Magazine Cover — page 23: what you’re looking at

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

‘ Prisoners ‘ were a tree-trunk, slicing the skin at his waist—then the same blow back again, back-handed, quicker than a snake’s strike, and Tros had to jump clear. The Northman rushed him, crouched a hittle, with his knees bent, thrusting up- ward at the sword-blade, so that Tros’ lunge only skinned his crown, beginning at the forehead; but that brought blood down into the Northman’s eyes, half-blinding him, and he missed his next swing wildly. He tried to shake the blood off, spared his left hand for a second, but that cost him a thrust through the arm and Conops yelled retorts in Greek to the women who screamed encouragement in Norse. Tros had his man now, knew it, carried the fight to him, side-stepping the prodi- gious Swings and thrusting, forever thrust- ing with short jabs at the Northman’s right arm, circling cautiously around him with his knees bent and his legs spread well apart. The air screamed with the ax-blows. Twice the Northman knocked the sword- blade upward, rushed in under it and tried to brain Tros with the. up-thrust, using the ax-end like a club; and Tros had never fought an ax-man; he. caught the first of those blows underneath his arm-pit and for a moment it deadened his whole left side. But every time the Northman pressed a savage charge home it cost him blood from some part of his body. Ten times Tros could have killed him and refrained. He kept.on thrusting at the right arm until the blood streamed down and the ax-hilt slipped in the Northman’s fingers. Then for two or three titanic minutes Sigurdsen swung with his left alone, using his right to try to grab Tros’ sword-blade; but Tros opened the cut in his forehead again and the Northman jumped back to the poop-rail, trying to shake blood out of his eyes. “Now kill him, master!’ Conops shouted. “Up under the chin and finish him!’ But Tros stood back, breathing heavily, point forward and his sword-hand high. “Now yield!” he said to Sigurdsen, ignor- ing the yells of the Northmen in the boat, that might have put him on his guard if he had paid attention to them. He spared one swift glance for the Britons over-river; they were coming at last, a hun- dred of them crowded on a crazy raft, with horses swimming loose on either side of it and two men clinging to each horse’s tail. of War But that one glance was nearly one t many. In the fraction of a second th he spared for it the Northman stiffene whirled his ax and hurled it with both hand straight at Tros’ head. It cut his right cheek as he side-stepped to avoid it, crashed, | against the citadel and stuck in the wood-% work, humming. | ‘And now, Olaf Sigurdsen, yield yourself; for you and your women and those other men are mine!”’ said Tros. Sigurdsen bowed his head and held up his right hand. Conops shouted at the top - of his lungs in Greek, and the wounded Britons cheered, raising themselves by the ~ bulwark to taunt the Northmen in the boat. Sigurdsen offered his throat for Tros’ sword, but Tros wiped his blade on Conops’ shirt and rammed it home into the sheath. ‘“‘And the longship, too, is mime!’ he said. Sigurdsen nodded. He and Tros could understand each other when the conversa- tion was of such essentials as ships. 3 Tros held out his right hand. “Can you see it, Sigurdsen?”’ he asked. The Northman shook the blood out of his eyes again, stared dumbly for a moment, came two or three steps forward as if doubt- ing what he saw and stood rigid, waiting. He was dazed. It seemed he still expected to be killed. Tros seized him in both arms, patting him ~ on the back, and Conops cried, being a Greek, who had few emotions of his own but huge capacity for feeling what he supposed Tros felt. The Northman sobbed as if his lungs would burst, but whether that was ~ grief or anger none might say; and there came a keening from the boat alongside, led by women’s voices. They had had to keep faith, whether or not they had intended it, because the raft was nearly in midstream and there was no longer the slightest hope of escape from the hurrying Britons. Tros kicked the arrow-basket and up- ended it, let Sigurdsen to sit there, and ordered Conops to bring water and cleanse his wounds. Then he pulled on his shirt and leaned overside to speak to the girl who had mocked him. She was silent, dry-eyed, standing in the boat—it was the other, older women and the men who wailed. Her eyes met Tros’ defiantly, bewildering blue eyes like flakes of northern sky under her flaxen hair, eyes that made Tros feel. unfamiliar emotions; they GComicbooks.com