“But where are your guards, my lord?” exclaimed Conn.
“They have joined in the pursuit,” Brian answered and Conn said: “Come, my lord, let me take you to a safer spot; the Gall are flying all about us here.”
King Brian shook his head like a man whose doom is upon him.
“Nay, I know I leave not this place alive, for Eevin of Craglea told me last night that I should fall this day. And what avails me to survive Murrogh and the champions of the Gael? Let me lie at Armagh, in the peace of God.”
And now the attendant cried out: “My king, we are undone! Men blue and naked are upon us!”
“The armored Danes!” snarled Conn, wheeling about as King Brian drew his heavy sword. And they saw a group of blood-stained Vikings approaching the tent. Before them strode Broder and Prince Amlaff, their vaunted mail hanging in shreds, their swords notched and dripping. It was not chance that brought Broder to the king’s tent. He had marked its location and now he came through the ruins of the flying fight, his soul a raging Hell of shame and fury in which the forms of Brian, Sigurd and Kormlada spun in a devil’s dance. He had lost the battle, lost Ireland, lost Kormlada; now he was ready to give up his life in a last dying effort of vengeance.
And Broder yelled like a wolf and rushed upon the king, with Prince Amlaff, and Conn sprang to bar their way like a fierce grizzly at bay. But Broder swerved aside and avoided the kern, leaving him to Amlaff, as he rushed on the king. And Conn took Amlaff’s blade in his arm and smote a single terrible blow that rent the prince’s hauberk like paper, severed the shoulder bone and shattered the spine, then he sprang back to guard King Brian.
But the red drama was already played. Even as he turned, Conn saw Broder parry Brian’s stroke and drive his sword through the ancient king’s breast. Brian went down, but even as he fell, he caught himself on one knee and struck as a dying lion strikes. The keen blade shore through flesh and bone, cutting both Broder’s legs from under him, and the Viking’s scream of triumph broke in a ghastly groan as he toppled in a widening pool of crimson where he struggled convulsively and lay still.
Conn looked about dazedly. Men were coming to Brian’s tent; the sound of the keening for the heroes already rose, mingling with the screams and shouts that still rose from the struggling hordes along the river. They were bringing Murrogh’s body to the king’s tent; slowly they walked, weary, bloody men with bowed heads. Behind the litter that bore the prince’s corpse came others – the body of Turlogh, Murrogh’s son – of Donald, Steward of Mar – of O’Kelly and O’Hyne, the western chiefs – of prince Meathla O’Faelan – of Dunlang O’Hartigan. Beside that litter walked Eevin of Craglea, her dark head sunk on her breast. She did not cry out, she did not weep. She walked as one in a trance. The bloody litters were set down and the warriors gathered silently and wearily about the corpse of their great king. They gazed unspeaking, their brains still so weary and dull and frozen from the agony of strife that they hardly knew what they saw or did. Eevin of Craglea lay motionless beside the body of her lover, as if she herself were dead; no cry or moan escaped her pallid lips.
The clamor of battle was dying as the setting sun bathed the trampled field in a bloody light. The fugitives, tattered and slashed, were limping into the gates of Dublin, and the warriors of King Sitric were preparing to stand siege. But the Irish were in no condition to besiege the city. Four thousand warriors and chiefs had fallen, and nearly all the champions of the Gael. But more than seven thousand Danes and Leinstermen lay stretched on the blood-soaked earth, and the power of the Vikings was broken forever. No more would their swarming fleets sweep down to crush whole kingdoms beneath their iron heels. The dying sun sank in an ocean of dark blood, like a symbol of the passing of the Viking.
Conn walked toward the river, slowly, feeling now the ache of his stiffening wounds, and he met Turlogh Dubh. The battle-madness was gone from Black Turlogh and his dark face was inscrutable. From head to foot he was stained with crimson.
“My lord,” said Conn, fingering the great copper ring about his neck, “I have slain the man who put this thrall-mark on me, and I would be free of it.”
Black Turlogh took his axe-head in his hands and pressing it against the ring, drove the keen edge through the soft metal. The axe gashed Conn’s shoulder, but neither of them heeded it.
“You who were a thrall are a free man,” said Turlogh Dubh. “And you have a tale to tell your grandsons in the days to come, for the hordes of the sea have fallen before the swords of the South. And such a battle as we have fought this day, the tribes of men will see never again. The days of the twilight come on amain and a strange feeling is upon me as of a waning age. The king has fallen and all his heroes and though we have freed the land of the foreign chains, we too are as but ghosts waning into the night.”
“I know not,” said Conn, flexing his mighty arms. “I am but a kern and the wisdom of chiefs is not for me – but this day I have seen kings fall like ripe grain and have fought at the side of heroes, and surely man need ask no better fate than this.”
* “They (the Irish) go to battle without armor, considering it a burden, and deeming it brave and honorable to fight without it.” Giraldus Cambrensis
Hawks Over Egypt
I
The tall figure in the white khalat wheeled, cursing softly, hand at scimitar hilt. Not lightly men walked the nighted streets of Cairo in the troublous days of the year 1021 A.D. In this dark, winding alley of the unsavory river quarter of el Maks, anything might happen.
“Why do you follow me, dog?” The voice was harsh, edged with a Turkish accent.
Another tall figure emerged from the shadows, clad, like the first, in a khalat of white silk, but lacking the other’s spired helmet.
“I do not follow you!” The voice was not so guttural as the Turk’s, and the accent was different. “Can not a stranger walk the streets without being subjected to insult by every reeling drunkard of the gutter?”
The stormy anger in his voice was not feigned, any more than was the suspicion in the voice of the other. They glared at each other, each gripping his hilt with a hand tense with passion.
“I have been followed since nightfall,” accused the Turk. “I have heard stealthy footsteps along the dark alleys. Now you come unexpectedly into view, in a place most suited for murder!”
“Allah confound you!” swore the other wrathfully. “Why should I follow you? I have lost my way in the streets. I never saw you before, as I hope never to see you again. I am Yusuf ibn Suleyman of Cordova, but recently come to Egypt – you Turkish dog!” he added, as if impelled by overflowing spleen.
“I thought your accent betokened the Moor,” quoth the Turk. “No matter. An Andalusian sword can be bought as easily as a Cairene’s, and – ”
“By the beard of Ali!” exclaimed the Moor in a gust of ungovernable passion, tearing out his saber; then a stealthy pad of feet brought him round, springing back and wheeling to keep both the Turk and the newcomers before him. But the Turk had drawn his own scimitar, and was glaring past him.
Three huge figures loomed menacingly in the shadows, the dim starlight glinting on broad curved blades. There was a glimmer, too, of white teeth, and rolling white eyeballs.
For an instant there was tense stillness; then one muttered in the thick gutturals of the Sudan: “Which is the dog? Here be two clad alike and the darkness makes them twins.”
“Cut them both down,” replied another, who towered half a head above his tall companions. “We must make no mistake, nor leave any witness.”
And so saying the three negroes came on in deadly silence, the giant advancing on the Moor, the other two on the Turk.
Yusuf ibn Suleyman did not await the attack. With a snarling oath, he ran at the approaching colossus and slashed furiously at his head. The black man caught the stroke on his uplifted blade, and grunted beneath the impact. But the next instant, with a crafty twist and wrench, he had locked the Moor’s blade under his guard and torn the w
eapon from his opponent’s hand, to fall ringing on the stones. A searing curse ripped from Yusuf’s lips. He had not expected to encounter such a combination of skill and brute strength.
But fired to fighting madness, he did not hesitate. Even as the giant swept the broad scimitar aloft, the Moor sprang in under his lifted arm, shouting a wild war-cry, and drove his poniard to the hilt in the negro’s broad breast. Blood spurted along Yusuf’s wrist, and the scimitar fell waveringly, to cut through his silk kafiyeh and glance from the steel cap beneath. The giant sank dying to the ground.
Yusuf ibn Suleyman caught up his saber and looked about to locate his late antagonist.
The Turk had met the attack of the two negroes coolly, retreating slowly to keep them in front of him, and suddenly slashed one across the breast and shoulder, so that he dropped his sword and fell to his knees with a moan. But even as he fell, he gripped his slayer’s knees and hung on like a brainless leech, without mind or reason. The Turk kicked and struggled in vain; those black arms, bulging with iron muscles, held him motionless, while the remaining black redoubled the fury of his strokes. The Turk could neither advance nor retreat, nor could he spare the single lightning flicker of his blade that would have rid him of his incubus.
Even as the black swordsman drew breath for a stroke that the cumbered Turk could not have parried, he heard the swift rush of feet behind him, cast a wild glance over his shoulder, and saw the Moor close upon him, eyes blazing, lips asnarl in the starlight. Before the negro could turn, the Moorish saber drove through him with such fury that the blade sprang its full length out of his breast, while the hilt smote him fiercely between the shoulders; life went out of him with an inarticulate cry.
The Turk caved in the shaven skull of the other negro with his scimitar hilt, and shaking himself free of the corpse, turned to the Moor who was twisting his saber out of the twitching body it transfixed.
“Why did you come to my aid?” inquired the Turk. Yusuf ibn Suleyman shrugged his broad shoulders at the unnecessary quality of the question.
“We were two men beset by rogues,” quoth he. “Fate made us allies. Now if you wish, we will take up anew our quarrel. You said I spied upon you.”
“And I see my mistake and crave your pardon,” answered the other promptly. “I know now who has been skulking after me down the dark alleys.”
Sheathing his scimitar, he bent over each corpse in turn, peering intently at the bloody features. When he reached the body of the giant slain by the Moor’s poniard, he paused longer, and presently murmured softly, as if to himself: “Soho! Zaman the Sworder! Of high rank the archer whose shaft is panelled with pearls!” And wrenching from the limp black finger a heavy, curiously bezelled ring, he slipped it into his girdle, and then laid hold on the garments of the dead man.
“Aid me, brother,” said he. “Let us dispose of this carrion, so that no questions will be asked.”
Without question Yusuf ibn Suleyman grasped a blood-stained jacket in each hand, and dragged the bodies after the Turk down a reeking black alley, in the midst of which rose the broken curb of a ruined and forgotten well. The corpses plunged headfirst into the abyss, and struck far below with a sullen splash; and with a light laugh, the Turk turned to the Moor.
“Allah hath made us allies,” he repeated. “I owe you a debt.”
“You owe me naught,” answered the Moor in a rather surly tone.
“Words can not level a mountain,” returned the Turk imperturbably. “I am Al Afdhal, a Memluk. Come with me out of these rat dens, and we will converse.”
Yusuf ibn Suleyman sheathed his saber somewhat grudgingly, as if he rather regretted the decision of the Turk toward peace; but he followed the latter without comment. Their way led through the rat-haunted gloom of reeking alleys, and across narrow winding streets, noisome with refuse. Cairo was then, as later, a fantastic contrast of splendor and decay, where exotic palaces rose among the smoke-stained ruins of forgotten cities; a swarm of motley suburbs clustering about the walls of El Kahira, the forbidden inner city where dwelt the caliph and his nobles.
Presently the companions came to a newer and more respectable quarter, where the overhanging balconies with their richly latticed windows of cedar and nacre inlay almost touched one another across the narrow street.
“All the shops are dark,” grunted the Moor. “A few days ago the city was lighted like day, from dusk to sunrise.”
“That was one of Al Hakim’s whims,” said the Turk. “Now he has another whim, and no lights burn in the streets of al medina. What his mood will be tomorrow, only Allah knows.”
“There is no knowledge, save in Allah,” agreed the Moor piously, and scowled. The Turk had tugged at his thin drooping moustache as if to hide a grin.
They halted before an iron-bound door in a heavy stone arch, and the Turk rapped cautiously. A voice challenged from within, and was answered in the gutturals of Turan, unintelligible to Yusuf ibn Suleyman. The door was opened, and Al Afdhal pushed into thick darkness, drawing the Moor with him. They heard the door closed behind them, then a heavy leather curtain was pulled back, revealing a lamp-lit corridor, and a scarred ancient whose fierce moustachios proclaimed the Turk.
“An old Memluk turned to wine-selling,” said Al Afdhal to the Moor. “Lead us to a chamber where we can be alone, Ahmed.”
“All the chambers are empty,” grumbled old Ahmed, limping before them. “I am a ruined man. Men fear to touch the cup, since the caliph banned wine. Allah smite him with the gout!”
Bowing them into a small chamber he spread mats for them, set before them a great dish of pistachio kernels, Tihamah raisins, and citrons, poured wine from a bulging skin, and limped away, muttering under his breath.
“Egypt has come upon evil days,” drawled the Turk lazily, quaffing deep of the Shiraz liquor. He was a tall man, leanly but strongly built, with keen black eyes that danced restlessly and were never still. His khalat was plain, but of costly fabric; his spired helmet was chased with silver, and jewels glinted in the hilt of his scimitar.
Over against him Yusuf ibn Suleyman presented something of the same hawk-like appearance, which is characteristic of all men who live by war. The Moor was fully as tall as the Turk, but with thicker limbs and a greater depth of chest. His was the build of the mountaineer – strength combined with endurance. Under his white kafiyeh his brown face showed smooth shaven, and he was lighter in complection than the Turk, the darkness of his features being more of the sun than of nature. His grey eyes in repose were cold as chilled steel, but even so there smoldered in them a hint of stormy fires.
He gulped his wine and smacked his lips in appreciation, and the Turk grinned and refilled his goblet.
“How fare the Faithful in Spain, brother?”
“Badly enough, since the Vizir Mozaffar ibn Al Mansur died,” answered the Moor. “The Caliph Hischam is a weakling. He can not curb his nobles, each of whom would set up an independent state. The land groans under civil war, and yearly the Christian kingdoms wax mightier. A strong hand could yet save Andalusia; but in all Spain there is no such strong hand.”
“In Egypt such a hand might be found,” remarked the Turk. “Here are many powerful emirs who love brave men. In the ranks of the Memluks there is always a place for a saber like yours.”
“I am neither Turk nor slave,” grunted Yusuf.
“No!” Al Afdhal’s voice was soft; the hint of a smile touched his thin lips. “Do not fear; I am in your debt, and I can keep a secret.”
“What do you mean?” The Moor’s hawk-like head came up with a jerk. His grey eyes began to smolder. His sinewy hand sought his hilt.
“I heard you cry out in the stress of the fight as you smote the black sworder,” said Al Afdhal. “You roared ‘Santiago!’ So shout the Caphars of Spain in battle. You are no Moor; you are a Christian!”
The other was on his feet in an instant, saber drawn. But Al Afdhal had not stirred; he reclined at ease on the cushions, sipping his wine.
“Fear not,” he repeated. “I have said that I would keep your secret. I owe you my life. A man like you could never be a spy; you are too quick to anger, too open in your wrath. There can be but one reason why you come among the Moslems – to avenge yourself upon a private enemy.”
The Christian stood motionless for a moment, feet braced as if for an attack, the sleeve of his khalat falling back to reveal the ridged muscles of his thick brown arm. He scowled uncertainly, and standing thus, looked much less like a Moslem than he had previously looked.
There was an instant of breathless tension, then with a shrug of his brawny shoulders, the false Moor reseated himself, though with his saber across his knees.
“Very well,” he said candidly, tearing off a great bunch of grapes with a bronzed hand and cramming them into his mouth. He spoke between mastication. “I am Diego de Guzman, of Castile. I seek an enemy in Egypt.”
“Whom?” inquired Al Afdhal with interest.
“A Berber named Zahir el Ghazi, may the dogs gnaw his bones!”
The Turk started.
“By Allah, you aim at a lofty target! Know you that this man is now an emir of Egypt, and general of all the Berber troops of the Fatimid caliphs?”
“By Saint Pedro,” answered the Spaniard, “it matters as little as if he were a street-sweeper.”
“Your blood-feud has led you far,” commented Al Afdhal.
“The Berbers of Malaga revolted against their Arab governor,” said de Guzman abruptly. “They asked aid of Castile. Five hundred knights marched to their assistance. Before we could reach Malaga, this accursed Zahir el Ghazi had betrayed his companions into the hands of the caliph. Then he betrayed us, who were marching to their aid. Ignorant of all that had passed, we fell into a trap laid by the Moors. Only I escaped with my life. Three brothers and an uncle fell beside me on that day. I was cast into a Moorish prison, and a year passed before my people were able to raise enough gold to ransom me.
Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures Page 6