Chapter 9

At the crossing, her rider tugged her to the left, on to an unfrequented road, little more than a lane, with Voldi in pursuit at full gallop. Both horses were experienced racers. More than half a mile had been covered before Darik was abreast of Saidi. The country road had narrowed now, with dense thickets on either side. As Darik drew into the lead by a neck, the horses so close together that their shoulders grazed, Voldi, turning about, saw the Idumean leaning far forward with an upraised dagger poised for a stab in his back. He met the threat by striking the burly fellow full in the face with his riding-whip.

Urging his horse, he shouldered Saidi into the briars where—after a brief struggle to free herself—she stopped and stood quivering. The Idumean made no effort to go further. He dismounted now, as did Voldi. It was plain that he would be a very unsportsman-like antagonist, as he had already proved.

They threw off their coats, drew their daggers, and faced each other only a little way apart. The Idumean gingerly fingered the red welt on his cheek—and grinned.

‘I am glad you followed, youngster,’ he snarled. ‘This is a safer place for what I intend to do to you.’ Crouching, like an angry bull, he began advancing, weaving slowly to and fro, slipping his ragged sandals forward with short, calculated steps. Voldi remained standing erect, making no effort to assume a defensive posture.

The stocky Idumean straightened and folded his arms, with an expression of bewilderment.

‘Are you going to stand there—and let me kill you—without raising a finger? I thought you Arabians were fighters!’

Voldi seemed not to hear the taunt. He was staring, wide-eyed, down the road, past the Idumean’s shoulder.

‘Look!’ he shouted in amazement.

His swarthy foe instantly jerked his head about to see what might be coming down on him from behind, and Voldi leaped on him, firmly clutching the wrist of his dagger-hand. The Idumean drew back his free arm and struck hard, sinking his big fist into the needlesharp point of the Arabian’s dagger.

Now he had twisted his right hand loose, and raising his weapon, drove it toward Voldi’s heart, but the dexterous Arabian dagger parried the thrust with a blade that opened a long, deep gash in the Idumean’s forearm. The blood was dripping from the fingers of both his hands. Again he struck, desperately, but his arm was too badly injured to deliver an effective blow. Voldi caught at the bleeding wrist and twisted the dagger out of his hand. Then he clutched the weary Idumean’s beard, jerked his head back, and pressed the flat of his blade against the bared throat.

‘Where did you get that filly?’ shouted Voldi. ‘Answer me quickly—or I’ll kill you!’

The Idumean gritted his teeth and tried to tug loose, smearing his beard with his dripping hands. The Arabian’s dagger-point moved slightly, pricking the dirty neck.