Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures

fell, his brains oozing from a hole in his skull. Instantly, as if the shot were a signal, there crashed a volley from the bushes. The foremost corsairs went down like ripe corn, and the rest gave back, shouting in rage and terror. They could see no sign of their attackers, save the smoke billowing across the stream, and the dead men at their feet.

“Dog!” roared Osman Pasha, ripping out his scimitar and turning on Arap Ali. “This is your work!”

“Have I matchlocks?” squalled the Turkoman, his dark face ashen. “Ya Ali, alahu! It is the work of devils – ”

Osman ran down the gorge toward his demoralized men, cursing madly. He knew that the Kurds would rig up some sort of a bridge across the chasm and pursue him, when he would be caught between two fires. Who his assailants were he had no idea. Up the gorge toward the castle he still heard the cracking of matchlocks, and suddenly a great burst of firing seemed to come from the outer valley, but pent in that narrow gorge which muffled and distorted all sounds, he could not be sure.

The smoke had cleared away from the stream, but the Moslems could see nothing except a sinister stirring of the bushes on the opposite bank. They fell back, looking for shelter; there was none, except back up the gorge, into the fangs of the maddened Kurds. They were trapped. They began to loose their matchlocks blindly into the bushes, evoking only mocking laughter from the hidden assailants. Osman started violently as he heard that laughter, and beat down the muzzles of the firelocks.

“Fools! Will you waste powder firing at shadows? Draw your steel and follow me!”

And with the fury of desperation, the Algerians charged headlong at the ambush, their cloaks streaming, their eyes blazing, naked steel glittering in their hands. A raking volley thinned their ranks, but they plunged on, leaped recklessly into the water and began to wade across. And now from among the thick bushes on the further bank rose wild figures, mail-clad or half-naked, curved swords in their hands. “Up and at ’em, sir brothers!” bellowed a great voice. “Cut, slash, ho – Cossacks fight!”

A yell of incredulous amazement rose from the Moslems at the sight of the lean eager figures, from whose head-pieces and sabers the sun struck fire. Then with a deep-throated thunderous roar of savagery they closed, and the rasp and clangor of steel rose and re-echoed from the cliffs. The first Algerians to spring up the higher bank fell back into the stream, their heads split, and then the Cossacks, mad with fighting fury, leaped down the bank and met their foes hand-to-hand, thigh-deep in water that swiftly swirled crimson. There was no quarter asked or given; Cossack and Algerian, they slashed and slew in blind frenzy, froth whitening their moustaches, sweat running into their eyes.

Arap Ali ran into the thick of the melee, mad with fear and rage, his eyes glaring like a rabid dog’s. His curved blade split a Cossack’s shaven head to the teeth; then Kral faced him, bare-handed and screaming.

The Turkoman halted an instant, daunted by the wild beast ferocity in the Armenian’s writhing features; then with an awful cry Kral sprang and his fingers locked like steel in the chief’s throat. Heedless of the dagger Arap drove again and again into his side, Kral hung on, blood starting from under his finger-nails to mingle with the crimson that gushed from the Turkoman’s torn throat, until, losing their footing, both pitched into the stream. Still tearing and rending they were washed down the current; now one snarling face showed above the crimsoned surface, now another, until at last both vanished forever.

The Algerians were driven back up the left bank where they made a brief, bloody stand; then they fell back, dazed and ferocious, toward where Prince Orkhan stared like one dazed, in the shadow of the cliff, with the small knot of warriors Osman had detailed to guard him. Ayesha knelt, gripping his knees. The prince’s eyes were stunned; thrice he moved as though to seize a sword and cast himself into the fray, but Ayesha’s arms were like slender steel bands about his knees. Osman Pasha, breaking away from the battle, hastened to him. The corsair’s scimitar was red to the hilt, his mail hacked, blood dripping from beneath his helmet. All about raged and eddied single combats and struggling groups, as the fighting scattered out over the gorge. The gorge was become a blood-splashed shambles. Not many were left on either side to fight, but there were more Cossacks on their feet than Muhammadans.

Through the wash of the melee Ivan Sablianka strode, brandishing his great sword in his sledge-like fist. Such as opposed him were beaten down with strokes that shattered leather-covered bucklers, caved in steel caps and clove alike through chain-mail, flesh and bone.

“Hey, you rascals!” he roared in his barbarous Turki. “I want your head, Osman, and the fellow beside you there – Urkhan. Don’t be afraid, prince – I won’t harm you. You’ll bring us Cossacks a pretty penny, may I eat pap if you won’t!”

Osman’s keen eyes flickered about, looking desperately for an avenue of escape. He saw the dim groove leading up the cliff, and his keen brain instantly divined its use.

“Chabuk, yah khawand! Quick, my lord!” he whispered. “Up the cliff! I’ll hold off this barbarian while you climb!”

“Aye!” Ayesha urged eagerly. “Oh, haste! I can climb like a cat! I will come behind you and aid you! It is desperate, but oh, my prince, it is a chance, and this is but to fall back into chains and captivity again!”

She was tense and quivering with eagerness to strive and fight like a wild thing for the man she loved. But the mask of fatalism had descended again on Prince Orkhan. He did not lack courage, even for such a climb. But the paralyzing philosophy of futility had him in its grip. He looked about where the victorious Cossacks were cutting down those who yet lived of his new-found allies. And he bowed his handsome head.

“Nay, this is Kismet. Allah does not will that I should press the throne of my fathers. Nay, what man can escape his fate?”

Ayesha blenched, her eyes flaring in a sort of horror, her hands catching at her locks. Osman, realizing the prince’s mood, whirled, sprang for the shaft himself and went up it as only a sailor could climb. With a roar Ivan charged after him, forgetting all about the prince. Cossacks were approaching, shaking red drops from their sabers. Orkhan spread his hands resignedly, and Ayesha watched him, her lips parted in dumb agony.

“Che arz kunam?” he said simply, facing his new captors. “Take me if you will; I am Orkhan.”

Ayesha swayed, her hands clasped over her closed eyes, as if about to faint. Then springing like a flash of light, she thrust her dagger straight through Prince Orkhan’s heart and he died on his feet, so quickly that he scarcely felt the sting of the stroke. And as he fell, she turned the point and drove it home in her own breast, and sank down beside her lover. Moaning softly, she cradled his princely head in her weakening arms, while the rough Cossacks stood about, awed and not understanding.

A sound up the gorge made them lift their heads and stare at each other. There was but a handful, weary and dazed with battle, their garments soaked with water and blood, their sabers clotted and nicked. Ivan was gone, and they were at a loss as to what to do.

“Get back into the tunnel, brothers,” grunted Togrukh. “I hear men coming down the gorge. Get back through the tunnel to the place where we left the horses. Saddle and make ready to ride. I’m going after Ivan.”

They obeyed and he started up the cliff, swearing at the shallow hand-holds. They had scarcely vanished behind the silvery sheet, and he had not reached the crest of the cliff, when a number of men came into sight, marching hurriedly. The gorge was thronged with warlike figures. Togrukh, looking down with the curiosity of the Cossack, saw the turbans and khalats of the Kurds of the castle, and with them the peaked white caps of Turkish janizaries. One wore half a dozen bird-of-paradise plumes in his cap, and Togrukh gaped to recognize the Agha of the janizaries, the third man of power in the Ottoman empire. He and his followers were dusty, as if from long hard riding. Glancing toward the valley, the lean Cossack saw the Agha’s standard of three white horse-tails flying from the castle gate, and along the river the sheepskin-clad Turkomans were riding like mad for the hills, pursued by horsemen in glittering mail – the Turkish spahis. Togrukh shook his head in wonder. What brought the Agha of the janizaries in such array to the lonely valley of Ekrem?

Down in the gorge rose a chorus of horrified voices, as the newcomers halted dumfounded among the corpses. The Agha knelt beside the dead man and the dying girl.

“Allah! It is Prince Orkhan!”

“He is beyond your power,” murmured Ayesha. “You can not hurt him any more. I would have made him king. But you had robbed him of his manhood – so I killed him – better an honorable death, than – ”

“But I bring him the crown of Turkey!” cried the Agha desperately. “Murad is dead, and the people have risen against Safia’s half-caste son – ”

“Too late!” whispered Ayesha. “Too – too – late!” Her dark head sank on her white round arm like a child when