Adventure Magazine Cover — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

Prisoners of War the men behind; and ina moment there was a milling mass of men and horses, those ahead pressing back into an impatient orderless squadron that came plunging into them. A mélée of ghosts in the mist! Somewhere away behind Tros stallions neighed again. Shouts, yells, imprecations, argument! And into that Tros loosed his Northmen’s arrow-fire! He could hear the clatter of bronze wheels and the thunder of hoofs be- hind him now. He knew he was between two forces, one careering from behind him to make junction with the other. He blew three bugle-blasts that split the night, and watched for Conops’ torches, heard an_an- swering bugle-blast, and saw them come pouring through Caswallon’s gate, a splurge of angry crimson, whirling and spreading in the mist. : “Shoot! Shoot! Shoot into the mass!” He seized a bow and arrows from a man who did not understand him and launched shaft after screaming shaft into the riot, where fallen horses kicked and men cursed, none sure yet whence the arrows came and each men yelling contrary advice, as some fell stricken, and some saw the torches com- ing downhill. Tros’ men were on their knees to take advantage of the shoulder of the rise; from in front they were hardly visible. But Sigurdsen saw the havoc they had ‘wrought already, heard the thunder of hoofs and wheels approaching from behind, sensed climax and rose to his full height, roaring. No more bow for him! He dropped the thing and stood in full view, whirling his ax, bull-bellowing his men to charge and die down there at handgrips with the Britons! The Northmen rallied to him in a cluster on the ridge. No more bows and arrows Hi they had to die; they drew swords and axes. Tros, since he had lost control of them, took stand by Sigurdsen and sent one final shaft death-whining into the mob before trying to face his party both ways. The chariots were almost on them from behind, din of hoofs and wheels, no shouting, din deadened ‘by the turf. Three-score men in the road had rallied somehow, saw Northmen’s heads against the skyline, spurred their panicky horses and wheeled to charge uphill. But even as they wheeled, a squadron of chariots hub-to-hub came thimdering through the 63 night on Tros’ right-hand and crashed into the riot in the read, a wave of horsemen fol- lowing, and then another. Before Sigurdsen could lead his men ax-swinging into that confusion, where they could never have dis- tinguished friend from foe, the half of Glendwyr’s men were in headlong flight, hard followed. It was over in sixty seconds. Tros beat his Northmen back with the flat of his swordblade, until Helma came breathless and, clinging to Sigurdsen, screamed at them all to let the Britons fight among themselves. But nobody quite understood what had happened until Cas- wallon loomed out of the mist, drawing rein, resting one foot on the wooden rim above the chariot*s wicker-work. “Brother Tros,” he said, “did you think I would leave you in the dark to guard my back? By Lud, no! Kinging it means trusting enemies to do their worst and watching friends lest they suffer by bemg friends! I told you this would be a little matter; but it was no small thing for you to prove you are my friend and n6t Czsar’s!” . “You came between block and knife!” said Tros, his foot on the hub of the wheel. “Not I! Didn’t you hear my stallions squeal before we silenced them? Have you seen Glendwyr?” ~4—.. THE chariot-horses reared and ¢ p py = ' shied, and Tros had to jump clear of the wheel before he could an- swer, for Conops came rushing up, rors in hand, and all the king’s horses or all the king’s men meant nothing to him until he knew Tros was safe. But when he had thrust the torch close to Tros’ face and made sure there were no wounds, he thought of loot and vanished in the direction where the loot might be. There was a glare of torchlight in the town gate, where his breathless veterans stood hesi- tating, doubtful, ready to welcome which- ever side was victor. Then a shout out of the darkness, Orwic’s voice— “We have the young Glendwyr!” Orwic’s chariot, crowded with five or six= men, drew up beside Caswallon’s. Three men were holding one. He struggled. But he ceased to struggle when they dragged him from the chariot and stood him close to Tros beside Caswallon’s wheel. In a minute the whole party was surrounded by dismounted horsemen, whose held horses Eomicboo <S:CO