Thirsty Blades E-Book

Otis Adelbert Kline

• Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 57

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

In the enchanting city of Tekrit, an ancient prophecy foretells a battle that will decide the fate of a beautiful maiden. Rankin, a skilled swordsman, embarks on a perilous quest to free Azizah from a sinister curse. Guided by cryptic visions and an unlikely ally, Rankin must confront dark forces and unravel the mysteries of a forgotten past. As the fateful night approaches, only Rankin's blade stands between Azizah and a doom that has awaited them both through the ages.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION, by Karl Wurf

THIRSTY BLADES, by Otis Adelbert Kline and E. Hoffmann Price

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Originally published in Weird Tales, February 1930.

Published by Black Cat Weekly.

blackcatweekly.com

INTRODUCTION,by Karl Wurf

In the golden age of pulp fiction, few names garnered as much admiration as Otis Adelbert Kline (1891-1946) and E. Hoffmann Price (1898-1988). Both prolific authors contributed richly to the pages of Weird Tales, the legendary magazine that defined an era of speculative fiction. Their 1930 collaboration, “Thirsty Blades,” epitomizes the thrilling and imaginative spirit that made pulp fiction a beloved genre.

Otis Adelbert Kline, a master of interplanetary adventure, captivated readers with his vivid storytelling and unforgettable characters. Best known for his novels such as The Planet of Peril and The Swordsman of Mars, Kline’s works were characterized by their daring heroes and exotic locales. His rivalry with Edgar Rice Burroughs was well-publicized, but Kline carved his own path with a unique blend of swashbuckling action and otherworldly settings.

E. Hoffmann Price, a writer of remarkable versatility and depth, brought his extensive experiences and travels into his stories. A former soldier with a deep appreciation for Eastern cultures, Price infused his tales with a sense of authenticity and mysticism. His notable works, including The Devil Wives of Li Fong and The Jade Enchantress, demonstrate his ability to weave intricate plots with rich, atmospheric details.

In “Thirsty Blades,” Kline and Price combine their formidable talents to create a story that is both gripping and evocative. Set in a world where danger lurks around every corner and honor is measured by the sharpness of one’s blade, the narrative follows a skilled swordsman on a quest for vengeance and redemption. As he navigates treacherous landscapes and encounters formidable foes, readers are drawn into a tale of relentless action and high stakes.

The synergy between Kline’s flair for dynamic adventure and Price’s knack for atmospheric storytelling makes “Thirsty Blades” a standout piece in the annals of pulp fiction. Their collaboration highlights the strengths of each writer, blending Kline’s imaginative world-building with Price’s rich character development.

For fans of classic pulp fiction, “Thirsty Blades” offers a thrilling journey into a bygone era where heroes were larger than life, and every turn of the page promised new excitement. Dive into this captivating tale and experience the magic that Kline and Price brought to the storied pages of Weird Tales.

THIRSTY BLADES,by Otis Adelbert Klineand E. Hoffmann Price

The side entrance to the caravanserai was closed. Well then, back down the alley, and around the corner to the main gate. But when Rankin turned to retrace his steps, he saw that it might be a long way from there to any other place. For to his right and left were blank walls; at his back, a closed gate; and in front, a crescent of drawn blades was closing in on him.

Behind the six advancing swordsmen rode their commander. He reined in his Barbary stallion, stroked his beard—henna red, as Rankin could see plainly in the white moonlight—and settled back to enjoy the spectacle.

“Click-click-click!” mocked the hammer of Rankin’s .45 as it fell on a succession of empty chambers.

The red-bearded chief smiled. And Rankin knew that more than his own carelessness was responsible for the unloading of that revolver. Someone had worked fast and skilfully as Rankin reclined in the souk that afternoon, smoking a narghileh, sipping bitter Abyssinian coffee, and pondering on how to extricate the lady Azizah from the peril that was descending from the mountains of Kurdistan.

Shoulder to shoulder the assailants advanced. Their steps were deliberate, now that they were certain rather than hopeful that the .45 had not been reloaded. Six lean swordsmen from the desert, grim phantoms whose curved blades gleamed frostily in the moonlight; curved scimitars whose drawing cut shears from shoulder to hip with one swift stroke.

Rankin drew his scimitar, cursed the disguise that had forbidden his favorite saber, and came on guard. The six paused a moment in their advance. One of them, they knew, must close with their prey, while the other five hacked him to pieces. And the sentence of that one was written; for their victim’s frenzy would not be tempered with any hope of escape. One of them was even now a dead man….

One…two…three paces….

Rankin dropped his point and laughed.

The line wavered. It takes courage to assault a madman.

A long, fierce lunge, and a deadly swift flicker of steel; and Rankin withdrew from the mêlée, on guard again. That sudden assault from beyond probable striking-distance had caught them off balance; one of them was even now a dead man, shorn half asunder.

Then they closed in. Rankin’s footwork saved him, and during that instant of grace, his blade again hit deep as he evaded the charge.

“Mashallah!” gasped the red-bearded chief as he spurred his horse a pace forward.

There were only four to continue the attack, but their assault would be a reckless whirlwind of steel. No more sidestepping or retreating for Rankin.

“—hacked to pieces in some side street of Tekrit—” flashed through his mind. Ismeddin the Darvish was right.

And then he saw the chief draw his blade.

“Horse and foot! Christ, if I could only get him!” prayed Rankin.

Time had ceased. He remembered how very slowly a swift blade approaches when one is in the last extremity. He could parry, cut, retreat, parry again, cut—and then the chief on horse would cut him down. But there was plenty of time….

Then something on the wall behind Rankin cast its shadow over him: attack from the rear.

“They are thorough in Tekrit!” flashed through his mind as the very end of that interminable instant came in an irresistibly flailing mill of blades.

Clack-clack-click! And a silent stroke that bit flesh. Clack-clack—

“Halt!” roared the chief from his Barbary horse.

His upraised blade swept down. In response to his signal, something soft and clinging dropped from the wall and enveloped Rankin. Snared in a net!

The three surviving footmen sheathed their blades, seized Rankin, now firmly enmeshed in the silken net, shouldered him, and followed their chief.

“Well,” reflected Rankin, as he resigned himself to captivity, “if I’m hacked to pieces at all, it probably won’t be in a side street…. I wonder if Ismeddin foresaw this?

“And this only the 11th of Nisan…two more like this, and I’ll be in good training for that black swordsman in the vault….

“They expected me—just staring at that girl had nothing to do with it,” Rankin assured himself by way of minimizing the folly of having stared too intently into the eyes of the veiled woman who had that afternoon appraised him from the height of her glittering litter.