Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 50 — page 74: what you’re looking at

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

HIDDEN TREASURE OF KALIN spat. “The tales mumbled by old women.” “Perhaps you could sell the treasure ?” suggested the man. “Tt should buy much food.” “Sell it where?” The war- rior shook his head. “Swords we can sell to the clans of the east, twangers too and stickers to go with them. A few spears and stone hammers to those of the south in return for the fish they catch. But where to sell Books? To the Hairies? To those unknown tribes of the north? No, and even if we could we would not. The King is firm in the . old beliefs. He will hear noth- ing against the treasure, and he is the King.” ‘Kings do not live forever,” said the man slyly, “and you are the son of the King.” Kalin grunted and nudged his horse to greater speed. The runner was a long- legged, stick-thin man, with- out weapons and wearing a simple tunic. He stood a little away from the main group, sniffing disdainfully at the stench from the captured 73 Hairies and eyeing the shambling, man-ape creatures with disgust. A few paces from him a few men had gathered around a moaning soldier, holding his hands from his ravaged face and giving rough but kindly advice. “Your face will heal, lad, and what’s a scar or two to a young warrior?” “My eyes! My eyes!” “Think not of it. The Reader may be able to mend them. If half the things they say are true the Books must hold that knowledge.” “My eyes !” Kalin rode up to them, ignoring the runner, and stared at the wounded man with quick appraisal. Slip- ping from his mount he knelt at the side of the stricken man. “Your eyes are ruined,” he said with cold abruptness. “You know that?” “T feared it.” “Tt is true.” The warior’s voice became gentle, the cold- ness giving place to a friendly comiclooks.corn