tar around at Daoud's
chest. The blade struck Daoud's ribs on the left side. The cunningly
woven rings of Damascene steel under Daoud's tunic stopped the edge of
the blade, but the blow sent a shock of pain through his body.

Daoud struck downward again with his saif and chopped a deep gash in the
Tartar's shield. The force of the blow hurt Daoud's arm. His tall
Yemenite and the Tartar's piebald pony pranced in a cloud of dust as
their riders slashed at each other. The Tartar's brown tunic hung in
ribbons.

Daoud saw a spot of sunlight reflected from his silver locket flash in
the Tartar's eyes. The Tartar glanced at Daoud's chest, his eyes caught
by the light. In that instant Daoud thrust straight at his enemy's
throat.

He thought he had no chance of hitting the right spot, but the point of
his saif went in just below the Tartar's chin and above his high leather
collar. Blood poured after the sword's point as Daoud jerked it out.

_Praise God!_ Daoud thought with delight as he saw that he had won. And
he thought with thankfulness of Blossoming Reed, for her gift of the
locket.

For the first time, an instant away from death, an expression of feeling
crossed the Tartar's face. His lips parted and the corners of his mouth
pulled down in a grimace of pain and disgust.

Daoud had to parry one more blow of the scimitar before the Tartar
slumped over in the saddle and slid to the ground, disappearing in the
dust kicked up by the hooves of a dozen milling horses. In his last
moment the Tartar had still been trying to kill him.

"We have destroyed them!" a voice cried near him. It was Mahmoud, naqeeb
of Daoud's old training troop. He now wore the plain gold belt buckle of
an emir of drums, in command of forty mounted warriors. His beard was
whiter now, but he rode easily and held his scimitar with a young man's
strength.

Mamelukes rode forward on all sides of Daoud, their saifs stabbing the
air.

The victory whoops of his fellow Mamelukes were, for Daoud, a draft of
elixir from paradise filling him with new strength.

"Great Baibars, honor to his name, has defeated those who never knew
defeat!" Mahmoud exulted.

As the last word left his lips, a Tartar arrow, long as a javelin,
thudded into his chest. He gasped, and his pain-filled eyes met Daoud's.
He dropped his scimitar and his hand reached out to grasp Daoud's arm.

"A good moment," he grated. "Praise God!" He slumped in the saddle, the
flowing white bear