by Harold Lamb
Whereupon the sheik drew his own scimitar and held out its hilt.
Michael Bearn would have taken it, but the wily Moslem shook his head.
"Not you," he explained in Arabic. "The Most Wise will presently make a test of your strength. Now he tries out the Christian hearts of your comrades."
As none of the others volunteered for the duel, the sultan made a further concession. The man who offered to fight would be set free-if he lived-with Bearn.
But the five men would not hazard their lives on a chance of liberty. They cast sidelong glances at the glittering scimitar and at a stalwart warrior who stood forth from the guards, his shield dressed ready for the conflict.
It gave keen pleasure to Bayezid to see these men refuse the issue. He smiled to think that they clung to the ignoble life of slavery. His own men were trained to value their lives lightly in battle and to die for their faith.
It pleased Bayezid, also, to deny Bearn the chance of the fight, for he knew that the young seaman would have welcomed it.
"So be it," he nodded. "The torture."
The expectant master of the slaves summoned the waiting warrior and set the table before Michael Bearn.
"Hold forth your arm," he commanded.
Michael paled and set his lips as he extended his left hand.
"The right one," objected Bayezid, following all that passed with the eye of a connoisseur.
A moment later Michael's right arm had been thrust up to the elbow into the iron gullet of the lion and strapped into place.
The Breton stiffened as he felt the cold touch of the vise, concealed within the form of the lion, grip his bare forearm. Bayezid nodded, leaning back on his pillows, under the sweep of a peacock fan in the hands of a slave.
The two janissaries threw their weight on the projecting levers and there came to the ears of the spectators a dull crack as if an arrow had been snapped in half.
But Michael did not cry out. Sweat started on his face and blood dripped from his lip where his teeth had set upon it. This did not suit Bayezid, who had expected screams and a prayer for mercy.
"Again," he snarled.
The two torturers altered the position of Michael's broken arm slightly and clamped the levers into place a second time.
This time Michael groaned softly and swayed on his feet, sinking to his knees.
"Now the caphar's pride is broken because his strength has passed from him," thought Bayezid, watching keenly. To the attentive sheik he whispered:
"The broken ends of the bone of the arm have been ground together and he will whine for mercy-like the other dogs who have no stomach for pain."
The janissaries released Michael's arm from the instrument of torture at a glance, from the sultan. On the back of the forearm the skin had been broken by a bloodied fragment of bone.
Supporting himself by his left hand on the table, Michael rose slowly to his feet, wincing and setting his lips as he did so.
His eyes were dark with agony as they sought Bayezid's face.
The youthful pride and humor had vanished from Michael's countenance, leaving a grim mask of purpose. The abundant vitality of his powerful body had been sapped by the ordeal. But there was a new vigor in his poise, the strength of an unalterable determination.
So the captive faced his tormentor.
"I shall not forget this, my lord sultan." He indicated his maimed limb. "I shall be avenged-" His voice choked.
The Sheik of Rum, who had been studying the eyes of the injured man, now drew his weapon again and salaamed before Bayezid.
"0 Most Wise, it would be best to slay this one. An injured snake is quick to strike."
The Thunderbolt shook his head coldly. He had not yet tasted the delight of the torture to the fullest.
"Nay. I would watch the caphar run beside my litter on the morrow, and see how he bears his pain."
The Sheik of Rum was very wise.
It was a week later that the six captives made their attempt to escape from the caravan of the Osmanli. During the week they had been ascending to the cooler plateau of Lake Van, where the summits of the Caucasus were visible far to the north.
Yet it was to the east that the six had decided to flee. They had seen that the outriders of the Turks who pillaged supplies in the villages of lesser Armenia had kept a vigilant outlook in that direction.
To the east lay a pass called the Gate of Shadows, leading into the lands of Tatary. Michael and his mates did not then know why the Turks shunned this pass. But they believed that once in the Gate of Shadows they would be safe from pursuit owing to this superstition of the Turks.
The night on which they made their venture was clear. The stars shone brilliantly through the colder air of the height by the lake. Men and beasts of the caravan were weary after a long march. Bayezid was never sparing of his followers.
Two things had decided the Christians upon this night. They were at the point of the march from Constantinople to Aleppo which was nearest the Gate of Shadows. And the Moslems had fasted for three days. That night was the feast of Miriam, when the long fast was broken and warriors and courtiers alike satiated themselves with meat and wine.
Bayezid, although calling himself head of the faith, always allowed his men their fill of debauchery, knowing that it drew soldiers to his ranks.
Consequently the janissaries who watched the aul where the Christian captives were kept apart from the slaves of other races were a little drunk and more than a little sleepy.
Michael, by tacit consent, had been chosen the leader of the six. Memory of the torture to which he had been subjected had made the Portuguese and Italians eager to flee. Cowards at heart, the nearer peril of the "iron sleeve" made them willing to risk the death that was penalty for an attempt to flee their bondage.
And Michael, who yearned for the freedom that would afford him a chance to strike back at Bayezid, had formed a plan readily.
The aul was a rough square shelter of rocks resembling very much a large hut without a roof. The stone walls were as high as a man. The two yawning spearmen who acted as guards had built a fire just within the entrance.
As usual the prisoners gobbled down the evil-tasting pilau-broth of rotting sheep's flesh-that was set before them in a kettle. The evening prayers of the Moslems had been completed long since and soft radiance coming from the silk pavilions of the nobles indicated that the feast was well along.
A heavy guard of wakeful mamelukes stood about the enclosure where Bayezid was quartered, and other mounted sentries paced about the circuit of the fires around which warriors and slaves alike drank, sang, and slept.
It was the first watch of the night when one of the Portuguese rose and tossed a double armful of dried tamarisk branches on the fire that had sunk to embers. A crackling blaze climbed skyward barely three paces inside the aul entrance.
For a moment the interior of the walled space would be concealed from the glance of passersby. One of the janissaries growled and spat, motioning the Portuguese back to his place. The other sentry leaned on his battle-ax half-asleep.
Making signs that he wished to communicate something, the captive moved nearer the first sentry, while one of the Italians arose stealthily and, keeping within the large shadow cast by the three men near the fire, slipped to the rear of the janissary.
Michael appeared to be asleep. In spite of his crippled arm-the bones had been rudely set by a hakim of the sheik who, in obedience to the pleasure of his master, intended Michael to live-in spite of his weakness and the fever that had set upon him for several days, the guards always kept vigilant watch upon him, knowing that the Breton was more dangerous than his mates.
Through his half-closed eyes Michael could see the Italian detach a stone from the top of the wall behind the three men silently. The arms of the captives had been left free although their ankles were secured at night by heavy leather thongs that would not yield to their fingers. Naturally none of them had a weapon of any kind.
The sent
ries had no reason to expect an attempt to escape. Even if the two janissaries could be disposed of, the captives would have to pass through the camp and pierce the cordon of riders in the outer darkness in order to gain the plain.
Even clear of the camp they would be pursued by well-mounted warriors and the odds against them in a hostile country were very great.
The first sentry was staring mockingly at the Portuguese who cringed beside him, gesturing futilely. And then the Italian cast his heavy stone with both arms.
It struck the janissary at the base of the skull and pitched him forward a dozen feet. He fell, stunned, with his face within the edge of the fire.
The second warrior started out of his doze and his lips parted for a cry. But the Portuguese, frenzied by peril and hope of escape, clutched his throat. The Italian had leaped after the stone and caught up the spear of the man he had slain.
This spear he thrust into the clothing over the stomach of the choking sentry.
"Hearken." Michael had run to them and addressed the struggling Moslem. "Be silent and do as I bid ye or your body will lie in the fire."
A stringent odor of burning flesh and cloth came to the nostrils of the sentry and he ceased struggling, waiting for the blow that would slay him. But Michael with his left arm dragged the smoking corpse from the flames and swiftly directed two of his men to conceal it under some of their robes in a corner. Before doing so, he saw that they took a dagger and scimitar from the dead janissary and stowed the weapons under their own clothing.
"Now," Michael commanded the watching sentry, "your life will be spared if you do this; call twice for El-Arjuk, master of the slaves who is in command of the aul this night. He gorges himself at a nearby fire. Do not cry for aid, but call his name."
The man winced as the spear in the hands of the Italian pricked his belly. He did not believe that he would be permitted to live, yet he had smelled the burning flesh of his comrade.
"El-Arjuk!" He lifted a long, wailing cry while Michael listened closely. "Ohai-El-Arjuk!"
"Again," whispered the Breton and the call for the master of the slaves was repeated.
This time a harsh voice made answer. Michael's eyes narrowed and he ordered the fidgeting captives back to their sleeping robes with the exception of one man who stood against the wall, drawing the sentry back with him and pressing a dagger's point from behind into his flesh.
Michael caught up the long battle-ax that had supported the janissary in his ill-timed doze. He hefted it in his left hand, found its length unwieldy, and broke the wooden shaft in two under his foot.
Taking up the shortened weapon, he held it close to his side, away from the fire.
"Keep back," he hissed at the others, "for this is my fight."
They mumbled and straightaway fell to staring in fear as a burly form strode through the entrance of the aul and came around the diminishing blaze of the fire.
"Who called?" growled El-Arjuk, glancing at Michael and the one sentry swiftly.
He was flushed from drinking, although his step was steady. In feasting he had laid aside his armor, but held a small target of bull's hide and a scimitar. Noticing the absence of the other janissary and the strange quietude of the one sentry, he started.
"Blood of Shaitan-"
"I summoned you," said Michael grimly. "To your reckoning. Guard yourself! "
With that he leaped, swinging his haft of the battle-ax. With one motion El-Arjuk flung up his shield and slashed forward under it with his sword.
The blade met nothing but air. Michael's jump had carried him over the low sweep of the Turk's scimitar, while the hastily raised target momentarily obstructed the vision of his adversary.
The Breton's broad chest struck the shield, bearing it down, and his shortened ax fell once, the full weight of his powerful body behind it. ElArjuk had started to cry for aid when the blade of the ax crashed into his forehead and the cry ended in a quavering groan. Michael fell to the sand with his enemy, but he rose alone, listening intently.
From somewhere outside the aul a question was shouted idly, for the thud of the two bodies and the moan of the master of the slaves had been heard.
"Reply," snarled Michael at the staring janissary who was going through the motions of ablution, kneeling in the sand. The Moslem wished to die with this rite performed. "Reply with the words I put into your mouth or we will fill your throat with the unclean flesh of the dead."
The warrior hesitated, then bowed his head.
"It is naught," he called back over the stone wall as Michael prompted him, "but the death of a dog, upon whom be the curse of Allah for his sins."
A satisfied laugh from the listeners without, who believed that a Christian slave had been killed, came to the ears of the captives. Wasting no time, Michael had green tamarisk branches cast on the fire causing smoke to fill the aul entrance.
Behind this makeshift curtain he ordered El-Arjuk stripped of his brilliant yellow coat and insignia and instructed the nervous captives how to rewind the white turban so as to conceal the blotches of blood.
This done, the Portuguese who was like the master of the slaves in build was clad in the garments and given the shield and scimitar. Meanwhile the excited men would have slain the stolid sentry had not Michael intervened.
"I made a pledge," he said coldly. "You want blood, methinks, and you will find plenty before long."
So the surprised sentry was bound and wrapped around with the clothing of the Portuguese until he was helpless either to move or cry out. Then, with the two bodies, he was laid in a corner of the enclosure and covered with sheepskin robes.
"Say to Bayezid," smiled Michael, "that I bid him not farewell-for I shall seek him again."
When the fire died down presently and passing soldiers glanced idly into the aul, a group of men issued forth without torches. At their head was the familiar uniform of the master of the slaves, and their feet were bound with leather thongs, permitting them to walk only slowly.
It was entirely natural that El-Arjuk should have work for the caphar slaves to do that night, so the revelers paid scant heed to the group. It was whispered, moreover, that one of the infidels had been slain, so it was entirely to be expected that the others would be used to dig a grave.
At the outskirts of the tents where darkness concealed them Michael called a halt. Passing near the fires, the garments of El-Arjuk had been their safeguard; in the dark they would be challenged at once by the mounted riders who patrolled the camp.
So Michael waited, kneeling on the ground in order to raise passing figures on the sky-line. He ordered his comrades to cut off with the weapons they had concealed under their clothes their bonds and to carry the cords until they could be concealed at a distance from the camp. Not until he was satisfied that a patrol of horsemen had passed the ridge in front of him did he give the word to advance.
An hour later they were beyond the outer guards and running due east, under the stars that guided them, toward the Gate of Shadows.
On the second night they took their ease. Michael had gone among the hill villages at twilight. He had worn the dress of El-Arjuk and when he returned to the men waiting in the thicket up the mountain-slope he said:
"The Darband-i-Ghil, the Spirit Gate, lies six hours' march above us. Come."
The six had run before now-too swiftly at first for long endurance-by the north shore of Van. Michael had steadied them to a slow trot and had taken pains to pass through such rocky ravines as offered, in order to wipe out traces of their passage. They had seen no pursuers, even after leaving the lake.
"Nay," growled a Genoese. "Par Dex, our bones ache and our feet bleed. We must sleep."
"Sleep!" cried Michael. "With mamelukes riding in our tracks who have orders not to return alive without us. I'm thinking that Bayezid made short work of the janissary guard whose life we spared. Will his horsemen yearn for a like fate?"
He himself was near the point of exhaustion, for his arm was scarcely knit and feve
r had weakened him. But the men would not move from the spot where they had been watching the lights of the Kurd village and talking among themselves.
Realizing that they must rest, Michael sat down against a tree for a brief sleep. The half-light of dawn was flooding the thicket and the sky over the black hills to the east was crimson when he woke at the sound of approaching footsteps.
It was his own band and they were coming up from the village. Some of them were reeling, though not from fatigue, and their breath was heavy with olives and wine. They looked back over their shoulders and grinned uneasily when they met his eye.
"We've taken the Moors' food," boasted one fellow. "It's their own law, methinks. An eye for an eye. They'll remember us."
Michael glared. These were common men, very different from the belted knights who had sometimes visited his mother's home in Brittany. She had hoped that he would be a knight. Instead, he had led a rough life and had toiled against hardships until-this.
11 what fools! That was a Kurdish village, and the men have good eyes and horseflesh. Well, I must bide with you, for you have named me leader. Come."
They ran sturdily through the dawn. Months of trotting beside the nobles of the Osmanli had schooled them to this. By midday they were above the fields in a place of gray rocks and red clay. In front of them a half-dozen bowshots away a great gully between mountain-shoulders showed the blue of the sky.
"The Gate of Shadows," they cried.
And with the words riders came out of the woods behind them.
Michael measured the distance to the gully, glanced back at the shouting mamelukes, and shook his head. He pointed to a mound of rocks nearby and led his five men there.
"'Tis the gate of heaven you will see," he grunted. "No other, and not that, if you cannot die like Christians."
And the five, to give them their due, fought desperately, using the few weapons they had carried from the Turkish camp, and eking these out with stones.
The mamelukes, reinforced by Kurds from the hill village, tried at first to make them yield themselves prisoners. But the captives knew what manner of death awaited them at Bayezid's tent and hurled their stones. The big Portuguese went down with an arrow in his throat. The Genoese leaped among the horses, knife in hand, and struggled weakly even when his skull was split with a mace.