Adventure Magazine Cover — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

64 HAROLD LAMB knoll. But Kirdy, who had caught sight of Nada, rode on at a free gallop, his sword arm swinging at his knee. The girl still wore her Cossack dress and hat—for despite Otrépiev’s authority—no woman of such beauty would have been safe in that camp. She was in the saddle of the bay stallion, without her yataghan, and the stallion’s rein was held by two men, also mounted—companions of Otrépiev. One let fall the rein and rode at Kirdy. He was a young warrior, with thin, cold fea- tures, and his apparel was that of a Polish noble, a black velvet kontash thrown over silvered breastplate, a gilded eagle on his light shield. His horse was a splendid gray mare. Kirdy tightened his rein and swerved to bring the Pole to his right side; but the other —a skilled horseman—darted in and slashed at his head. The sabers clashed and parted, and before the young noble could turn his mare the Cossack had whirled his black kabarda and crashed into him. The Pole kept his seat in the saddle by a miracle, but his sword wrist was gripped by steel fingers. “Yield!” Kirdy demanded. At the same instant both heard the flurry of hoofs behind them. The man who had remained at Nada’s side was a Circassian, a follower of Otrépiev, and not inclined to let slip an opportunity to use his weapon. Swinging his yataghan over his head, he darted at the Cossack’s back. “Guard yourself—White Falcon!” Nada shouted, her clear voice cutting through the uproar as a bell pierces the mutter of a throng. Kirdy had no time to do that. He caught a glimpse of the lean Moslem, and the gleam of steel—and he swung himself out of the saddle. “Hail’’ The Circassian shouted once in triumph and again in anger, because his sweeping slash had met only air. The im- petus of his rush carried him past and be- fore he could wheel Kirdy, who had kept his left foot in the stirrup, had thrust the Pole away and was in the saddle again. ' But—though his grip had numbed the young noble’s right wrist—the Pole had plucked a dagger from his belt with his free hand, and the short blade slashed the Cos- sack’s ribs. F eeling the bite of the steel, Kirdy smashed the hilt of his saber into the Pole’s face. Both men reeled, but it was the Pole who fell, the Cossack who tightened his knees and groped for his rein with a numbed arm. And upon him all the fury of the Cir-. cassian descended. The Moslem came on warily this time, and once his twisted blade cut Kirdy’s fore- arm. Squatting in short stirrups, his long teeth bared, his dark eyes gleaming, he edged his horse closer, seeking to thrust un- der his foeman’s guard with the shorter weapon. And now Kirdy swayed in the saddle, his saber sliding off the yataghan. “Hail” cried the Circassian, and thrust. But the Cossack, who had been watching for this, was not as weak as he seemed. The curved saber slashed down, and before the Moslem could recover, Kirdy had cut him through the temple so that the steel grated on bone and he had to strain to draw it free. So convulsively had the man gripped with rein and knees when he was struck, he re- mained for a moment crouching in the saddle —until his frantic horse, rearing, flung him to earth, a lifeless body. Then Kirdy turned to look for the other. Instead, he saw Arslan climbing into the saddle of the mare, and a glance at the splen- did figure in breastplate and kontash showed him that Arslan had slain the owner before catching the horse. “Dismount!” he heard Nada’s voice. ‘‘Let me see your hurt.” Kirdy shook his head. “It was a trick. I can ride.” The girl, in her dark svitka and hat, looked slender and pale as if she had been wasted by sickness, and in the glare of the flames Kirdy wondered if this were indeed the Nada he had left at the Wolf’s Throat, or some apparition that had taken form out of the steppe. He leaned forward to peer into her eyes, and the sight of her beauty warmed his blood like the rarest of wines. “My yataghcn,”’ she begged at once. “The dog of a Circassian took it.” Kirdy bade Arslan retrieve the weapon and its sheath, but when Nada took it in her hand, she shivered. “There is blood—your blood upon it.” “Wipe the blade,” Kirdy ordered the Ta- tar harshly, and Arslan did so, on the end of the slain Moslem’s turban. “Nay,” cried the girl. “It is an omen of death.” And she looked at the young warrior steadfastly, as if she feared some power COmiclboooks.cO© 5}