Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures

lines in his keen face, not yet erased by sloth and dissipation, and under the rich robe his limbs were clean-cut and hard. His gaze rested on Ayesha, who tensely gripped the bars of a casement, peering eagerly out, but there was a faraway look in his eyes. He seemed not to be aware of the shots, yells and clamor that raged without. Absently he murmured the lines written by a more famous exile of his house:

“Jam-i-Jem nush eyle, ey Jem, bu Firankistan dir – ”

Ayesha moved restlessly, throwing him a quick glance over her slim shoulder. Somewhere in this daughter of Iran burned the blood of ancient Aryan conquerors who knew not Kismet. A thousand overlying generations of Oriental fatalism had not washed it out. Outwardly Ayesha was a devout Moslem. At heart she was an untamed pagan. She had fought like a tigress to keep Orkhan from falling into the gulf of degeneracy and resignation his captors had prepared for him. “Allah wills it” – the phrase embraces a whole Turanian philosophy, is at once excuse and consolation for failure. But hot in Ayesha’s veins ran the fierce blood of the yellow-haired kings who trod down Nineveh and Babylon in their road to empire, and recognized no power higher than their own desires. She was the scourge that kept Orkhan stung into life and ambition.

“It is time,” she breathed, turning from the casement. “The sun hangs at the zenith. The Turkomans ride up the slope, lashing their steeds and loosing their arrows in vain against the walls. The Kurds shoot down on them – hark to the roar of the firelocks! The bodies of the tribesmen strew the slopes and the survivors give back – now they come on again, like madmen. They are dying for thee, yah khawand! I must hasten – thou shalt yet sit on the throne on the Golden Horn, my lover!”

Casting her lithe form prostrate before him, she kissed his slippered feet in a very ecstasy of passion, then rising, hurried out of the chamber, through another where ten giant black mutes kept guard night and day, and traversing a corridor, found herself in the outer court that lay between the castle and the postern wall. No one had tried to halt her. She was free to come and go within the walls as much as she liked, though Orkhan was forever guarded by the mutes, and not allowed outside his chamber unless accompanied by Shirkuh himself. Few questions had been asked her when she returned to the castle, feigning great fear of the Turkomans. She had carefully hidden her infatuation for the prince from the eagle eyes of the Kurdish chief, who thought her no more than the tool of Safia.

She crossed the court and approached the door that let into the gorge. One warrior leaned there, disgruntled because he could not take part in the fighting that was going on. Shirkuh was a cautious man. The rear of his castle seemed invulnerable, but he never took unnecessary chances. It was not his fault that he was unaware of a traitress in his midst. Wiser men than El Afdal Shirkuh have been gulled and duped by women like Ayesha.

The man on guard was an Uzbek, one of those wandering turbulent warriors who served all the rulers of Asia as mercenaries. He was of broader build than the Kurds, his kinship to the Mongols evidenced by his broad face, slightly slanting eyes and darkly reddish hair. His small turban was knotted over his left ear, his wide girdle loaded with knives and pistols. He leaned on a matchlock, scowling, as Ayesha approached him, her dark eyes eloquent above the filmy veil.

He spat and glowered. “What do you here, woman?” She drew her light mantle closer about her slender shoulders, trembling.

“I am afraid. The cries and shots frighten me, bahadur. The prince is drugged with opium, and there is none to soothe my fears.”

She would have fired the frozen heart of a dead man as she stood there, in her attitude of trembling fear and supplication. The Uzbek plucked his beard.

“Fear not, little gazelle,” he said finally. “I’ll soothe thee, by Allah!” He laid a black-nailed hand on her shoulder and drew her close to him. “None shall lay a finger on a lock of thy hair,” he muttered, “neither Turkoman, Kurd nor – ahhh!”

Snuggling in his arms, she had slipped a dagger from her sash and thrust it through his bull-throat. His hand lurched from her shoulder to claw at the hilts in his girdle, while the other clutched at his beard, blood spurting between the fingers. He reeled and fell heavily. Ayesha snatched a bunch of keys from his girdle and without a second glance at her victim ran to the door. Her heart was in her mouth as she swung it open; then she gave a low cry of joy. On the opposite edge of the chasm stood Osman Pasha with his pirates.

A heavy plank, used for a bridge, lay inside the gate, but it was far too heavy for her to handle. Chance had enabled her to use it for her previous escape, when rare carelessness had left it in place across the chasm and unguarded for a few minutes. Osman tossed her the end of a rope, and this she made fast to the hinges of the door. The other end was gripped fast by half a dozen strong men, and three Algerians crossed the crevice, swinging hand over hand as agilely as apes. Then they lifted the plank and spanned the chasm for the rest to cross. There was no sight of a defender. The firing from the front of the castle continued without a break.

“Twenty men stay here and guard the bridge,” snapped Osman. “The rest follow me.”

Leaving their matchlocks, twenty desperate sea-wolves drew their steel and followed their chief. Osman grinned in pure joy as he led them swiftly after the light-footed girl. Such a desperate, touch-and-go venture, in the heart of the lion’s lair, stirred his wild blood like wine. As they entered the castle, a servitor sprang up and gaped at them, frozen. Before he could cry out Arap Ali’s razor-edged yataghan sliced through his throat, and the band rushed recklessly on, into the chamber where the ten mutes sprang up, gripping their scimitars. There was a flurry of fierce, silent battling, noiseless except for the hiss and rasp of steel and the croaking gasp of the wounded. Three Algerians died, and over the mangled bodies of the black defenders, Osman Pasha strode into the inner chamber.

Orkhan rose up and his quiet eyes gleamed with an old fire as Osman, with an instinct for dramatics, knelt before him and lifted the hilt of his blood-stained scimitar.

“These are the warriors who shall set you on your throne!” cried Ayesha, clenching her white hands in passionate joy. “Yah Allah! Oh, my lord, what an hour this is!”

“But let us go quickly, before these Kurdish dogs are aware of us,” said Osman, motioning the warriors to draw up about Orkhan in a solid clump of steel. Swiftly they traversed the chambers, crossed the court and approached the gate. But the clang of steel had been heard. Even as the raiders were crossing the bridge, a medley of savage yells rose behind them. Across the courtyard rushed a tall figure in silk and steel, followed by fifty helmeted swordsmen.

“Shirkuh!” screamed Ayesha, paling. “La Allah – ”

“Cast down the plank!” roared Osman, springing to the bridge-head.

On each side of the chasm matchlocks flashed and roared. Half a dozen Kurds crumpled, but the four Algerians who had stooped to lift the plank and thrust it off the precipice went down in a writhing heap before a raking volley, and across the bridge rushed Shirkuh, his hawk-face convulsed, his scimitar flashing about his steel-clad head. Osman Pasha met him breast to breast, and in a glittering whirl of steel, the corsair’s scimitar grated around Shirkuh’s blade, and the keen edge cut through the chain mail and the thick muscles at the base of the Kurd’s neck. Shirkuh staggered and with a wild cry pitched back and over, headlong down the chasm.

In an instant the Algerians had cast the bridge after him, and the Kurds halted, yelling with baffled fury, on the far side of the crevice. What had been their strength now became their weakness. They could not reach their foes. But sheltered by the wall they opened up a vengeful fire, and three more Algerians were struck before the band could get out of range around the angle of the cliff. Osman cursed. Ten men was more than he had expected to lose on that flying raid.

“All but six of you go forward and see that the way is clear,” he ordered. “I will follow more slowly with the prince. Mirza, I could not bring a horse up the defile, but I will have my dogs carry you in a litter of cloaks slung between spears – ”

“Allah forbid that I should ride on the shoulders of my deliverers!” cried the young Turk in a ringing voice. “I will not forget this day! Again I am a man! I am Orkhan, son of Selim! I will not forget that, either, Inshallah!”

“Mashallah – God be praised!” whispered the Persian girl. “Oh, my lord, I am blind and dizzy with joy to hear you speak thus! In good truth, you are a man again, and shall be Padishah of all the Osmanli!”

They were within sight of the waterfall. The first detachment had almost reached the stream, when suddenly and unexpectedly as the stroke of a hidden cobra, a pistol cracked in the bushes on the other side, and a warrior