Saracen blades held no fear for Godwin; but
now he faced Mufaddal's sorcery with the fate of
the beautiful Ramizail—and England—resting upon
The Enchanted Crusade
By Geoff St. Reynard
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
April 1953
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Just as daybreak burst over the rim of the desert, the dying man heardthe crunch of horses' hooves on sand. He lifted his head and croaked asloudly as collapsing lungs would let him, saying thrice over, "In thename of God, help!" Then he pitched on his nose again and lay still,unable to move so much as an eyelash.
There was the grit of sand under the light tread of men, and a voicesaid, "Name of all camels! What a collection of vulture-victuals thisone is!"
"I doubt it was he cried out," said another voice. "He must havebeen dead for a decade." This voice then rendered a belch of classicproportions. "Damn those figs," it said.
"If you will eat three pounds at a breakfast, Godwin love," said athroaty feminine voice, all full of honey and laughter, "you mustexpect some few repercussions."
The dying man collected his will and the scraps of strength that wereleft in his tortured body, and shoving at the sand with one arm managedto roll over on his back. The horizon-cleared sun lanced sickeninglyacross his eyeballs, adding one more pain to the thousand which besethim. Three vague dark shapes bent above him.
"By the very God, he lives! Give him a drink."
Water, cool and terrible and yet incredibly wondrous to lips andblackened gums that had tasted nothing save blood for what must surelybe centuries, dribbled down across his cheeks, ran into his mouth,reached through his rasped throat for his belly. He gurgled and thoughthe was drowning, and it seemed a splendid death.
But he had something to say, something of such importance that ithad dragged him across this endless waste of hellish sand long aftera missionless man would have given up and died. He recollected themessage and blinked his nearly sightless eyes once or twice, and madefutile little motions toward a sitting position. A brawny arm at hisback tilted him upright. "Easy, man. You're all but dead. Don't striveso. Die easily."
"Godwin, you're a born diplomat," said the woman's voice. "Why don'tyou come right out and tell him he looks like two coppers' worth ofdogmeat?"
"Well, he does," Godwin said grimly. "No sense in lying to a chap who'sabout to give up the spirit, Ramizail. No real man wants that."
"Listen," croaked the dying one. "Who are you?"
"Three adventurers," said the voice that had sworn by the very God.It was an elderly voice but full of vigor. "Three homeless travelerspledged to right wrongs and defeat hell's minions wherever they may befound."
"Thanks to the Holy Sepulcher," groaned the dying one. "Perhaps all maybe well."
The man holding him up jerked with surprise. "Here," he said, with akind of tender roughness, "are you a Crusader, man? Are you a Frank?"
"English," said he. "Sir Malcolm du Findley." He made a hideousrattling noise but from somewhere deep in his soul the power came tomake him go on. "El Iskandariya. Big ship. Full of rats."
"What's he burbling about?" asked the deep voice of Godwin. "Poordevil's clean out of his head. Rats? Did rats do this to him?"
"Rats are full of plague," said Sir Malcolm faintly.
"