Adventure Magazine Cover — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

Prisoners of War Iceni. Helma to wife and a holding in Britain, what more do you want?” ‘Freedom! A ship and the sea!” Tros answered. ‘‘Nay, no bondage to the dirt! Will you give me the Northmen?”’ “They are yours,” Caswallon answered. “But you are more mad than a hare in the furrows in spring!”’ Nevertheless, he nodded at Orwic as if Tros’ bargain suited him, and Orwic smiled behind a hand that stroked his long mus- tache. CHAPTER X WISE? DESPERATE? OR ALL THREE? HERE was a deal of talk still, inter- rupted by men who came in to ask about the night’s procession, and by the servants who set up the long table in the hall, putting benches in place and silver plates for folk of high degree, wooden ones for ordinary mortals. Britains never moved, whether for war or peace, until they had gorged enormously. “A poor enough wedding feast!” Cas- wallon said. “I would rather you waited, Tros, until Tros interrupted him with one of his deep-sea laughs that rose from somewhere near his middle where the sword hung: “Until Glendwyr runs me through, and you give Helma to a man who loves horses and pigs? Nay, Caswallon, you shall marry me this day! Then if I die, Helma will be dowered with money and ship, so she may choose, and not be chosen!” He swaggered with his deep-sea captain’s gait toward the long room at the rear where all his Northmen lay glooming, their eyes on Cesar’s woman, who sat between Si- gurdsen’s wife and the widow. Sigurdsen rose to his feet as Tros entered; he looked as if recovering from too much mead; his eyes were red; his knees shook; a northern gloom possessed him such as grays a winter’s sea; but he met Tros’ eyes as faith to faith, without emotion. He would have spoken, but Tros checked him with one of those gestures of confidence that convey more than a hundred words. Sigurdsen sat down again among his men, his back toward a leather-curtained wall. Tros smiled at Czsar’s woman. She smiled back; remaining seated. She did not glance at Helma, who had followed Tros into the room, but she let Tros see that she RASH? ‘understood Helma had told of the palm- — reading and the trance. Her liquid eyes were more intelligent than lovely—too alert, too knowing. Tros out-acted her. Over his bold face there swept such visible emotions as a man might feel who found himself mistaken, who — had doubted, to discover that his doubt was wrong, who envied brains more subtle than his own, who held the upper hand, yet felt a diffidence in using it, because he must seek favors of his victim. | There was vague regret depicted, and a little laughter at the ebb and flow of destiny; a gift of guile that. could admire guile, the expression of a clever gambler, losing, who will pay the bet. “If you stay, Fflur will tear you to pieces!” he said, grinning, stroking his chin, letting the black beard straggle through his fingers. “Tam your slave,”’ she answered. : She laid chin on hands, both elbows on her — knees, to watch his face, He nodded. “Careless kings are weak friends,” he said darkly. ‘‘Caswallon cares nothing about you. Fflur will not endure you. You may go. I will send you to Glendwyr’s place. Tell Glendwyr I would have come with you, but I attend my father’s obsequies. Say, if he takes Lunden before dawn, I will be- friend him with six-and-thirty Northmen.” “Noble Tros,’’ she answered, “T will tell Glendwyr how many men guard Lunden, if you inform me.” “None!” said Tros, almost whispering. She stared. He nodded, one arm across his chest, resting the other elbow on it, chin on hand. “Tell Glendwyr I arranged that. for service rendered, handsomely. derstand me?” ‘Noble Tros, Iam your slave! You shall be king of Britain and Cesar’s friend, if you will trust me!’ “T judge words by performances,” Tros answered. ‘“‘Come!” He led her to the stable-yard, where Orwic had a chariot for her yoked and waiting. ‘“‘How far to Glendwyr’s place?” he asked her, as if that were an afterthought. “Four or five hours,” she answered. “But Glendwyr waits only three hours’ ride away, © or it may be less. I know the place. His charioteer, who brought me, showed me where the road turns off by a stream in the forest.” I pay You un- €omicbooks.com —