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Authors: Robert E. Howard
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lightning. Yard-long Khyber knives clanged and ground against the curved swords of the Attalans. The rending of flesh and bone beneath the chopping blades was like the sound of butchers’ cleavers. The dying dragged down the living and the warriors stumbled among the mangled corpses. It was a shambles where no quarter was asked and none given, and the feuds and hates of a thousand years glutted in slaughter.
No shots were fired in that deadly crush, but about the edges of the battle circled Hunyadi and the Turks, shooting with deadly accuracy. Man to man, the stalwart Attalans were a match for the hairy hillmen, and they slightly outnumbered the invaders. But they had thrown away the advantage of their position, and the rifles of the Hungarian’s party were dealing havoc in their disordered ranks, though two of the Ottomans were down, one hit by a matchlock ball in that first and only volley, and another disembowelled by a dying Attalan.
As Gordon hewed his way through the straining knots and flailing blades, he met one of the remaining Turks face to face. The man thrust a rifle muzzlein his face, but the hammer fell with a click on an empty shell, and the next instant Gordon’s scimitar ripped through his belly and stood out a foot behind his back. As the American twisted his blade free, the other Ottoman fired a pistol, missed, and hurled the empty weapon fruitlessly, and rushed in slashing with a saber at Gordon’s head. El Borak parried the singing blade, and his scimitar cut the air like a blue beam, splitting the Turk’s skull to the chin.
Then he saw Hunyadi. The Hungarian was groping in his belt, and Gordon knew he was out of ammunition.
“We’ve tried hot lead, Gustav,” challenged Gordon, “and we both still live. Come and try cold steel!”
With a wild laugh the Hungarian ripped out his blade in a bright shimmer of steel that caught the morning sun. He was a tall man, Gustav Hunyadi, black sheep son of a noble Magyar house, supple and lithe as a catamount, with dancing, reckless eyes and lips that curved in a smile as cruel as a striking sword.
“I match my life against a little package of papers, El Borak!” the Hungarian laughed as the blades met.
On each side the fighting lulled and ceased, as the warriors drew back with heaving chests and dripping swords, to watch their leaders settle the score.
The curved blades sparkled in the sunlight, ground together, leaped apart, licked in and out like living things.
Well for El Borak then that his wrist was a solid mass of steel cords, that his eye was quicker and surer than a falcon’s, and his brain and thews bound together with a coordination keen as razor-edged steel. For into his play Hunyadi brought all the skill of a race of swordsmen, all the craft taught by masters of the blade of Europe and of Asia, and all the savage cunning he had learned in wild battles on the edges of the world.
He was taller, had the longer reach. Again and again his blade whispered at Gordon’s throat. Once it touched his arm, and a trickle of crimson began. There was no sound except the rasp of feet on the sward, the rapid whisper of the blades, the deep panting of the men. Gordon was the harder pressed. That terrible fight with Ptolemy was taking its toll. His legs trembled, his sight kept blurring. As if through a mist he saw the triumphant smile growing on the thin lips of the Magyar.
And a wild surge of desperation rose in Gordon’s soul, nerving him for a last rush. It came with the unexpected fury of a dying wolf, with a flaming fan of steel, a whirlwind of blades — and then Hunyadi was down, clutching at the earth with twitching hands, Gordon’s narrow curved blade through him.
The Hungarian rolled his glazing eyes up at his conqueror, and his lips distorted in a ghastly smile. “To the mistress of all true adventurers!” he whispered, choking on his own blood. “To Lady Death!”
He sank back and lay still, his pallid face turned to the sky, blood
No shots were fired in that deadly crush, but about the edges of the battle circled Hunyadi and the Turks, shooting with deadly accuracy. Man to man, the stalwart Attalans were a match for the hairy hillmen, and they slightly outnumbered the invaders. But they had thrown away the advantage of their position, and the rifles of the Hungarian’s party were dealing havoc in their disordered ranks, though two of the Ottomans were down, one hit by a matchlock ball in that first and only volley, and another disembowelled by a dying Attalan.
As Gordon hewed his way through the straining knots and flailing blades, he met one of the remaining Turks face to face. The man thrust a rifle muzzlein his face, but the hammer fell with a click on an empty shell, and the next instant Gordon’s scimitar ripped through his belly and stood out a foot behind his back. As the American twisted his blade free, the other Ottoman fired a pistol, missed, and hurled the empty weapon fruitlessly, and rushed in slashing with a saber at Gordon’s head. El Borak parried the singing blade, and his scimitar cut the air like a blue beam, splitting the Turk’s skull to the chin.
Then he saw Hunyadi. The Hungarian was groping in his belt, and Gordon knew he was out of ammunition.
“We’ve tried hot lead, Gustav,” challenged Gordon, “and we both still live. Come and try cold steel!”
With a wild laugh the Hungarian ripped out his blade in a bright shimmer of steel that caught the morning sun. He was a tall man, Gustav Hunyadi, black sheep son of a noble Magyar house, supple and lithe as a catamount, with dancing, reckless eyes and lips that curved in a smile as cruel as a striking sword.
“I match my life against a little package of papers, El Borak!” the Hungarian laughed as the blades met.
On each side the fighting lulled and ceased, as the warriors drew back with heaving chests and dripping swords, to watch their leaders settle the score.
The curved blades sparkled in the sunlight, ground together, leaped apart, licked in and out like living things.
Well for El Borak then that his wrist was a solid mass of steel cords, that his eye was quicker and surer than a falcon’s, and his brain and thews bound together with a coordination keen as razor-edged steel. For into his play Hunyadi brought all the skill of a race of swordsmen, all the craft taught by masters of the blade of Europe and of Asia, and all the savage cunning he had learned in wild battles on the edges of the world.
He was taller, had the longer reach. Again and again his blade whispered at Gordon’s throat. Once it touched his arm, and a trickle of crimson began. There was no sound except the rasp of feet on the sward, the rapid whisper of the blades, the deep panting of the men. Gordon was the harder pressed. That terrible fight with Ptolemy was taking its toll. His legs trembled, his sight kept blurring. As if through a mist he saw the triumphant smile growing on the thin lips of the Magyar.
And a wild surge of desperation rose in Gordon’s soul, nerving him for a last rush. It came with the unexpected fury of a dying wolf, with a flaming fan of steel, a whirlwind of blades — and then Hunyadi was down, clutching at the earth with twitching hands, Gordon’s narrow curved blade through him.
The Hungarian rolled his glazing eyes up at his conqueror, and his lips distorted in a ghastly smile. “To the mistress of all true adventurers!” he whispered, choking on his own blood. “To Lady Death!”
He sank back and lay still, his pallid face turned to the sky, blood
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