The Sign of the Moonbow cma-7
Page 3
“Thorleif, “Cormac said, and he gasped the name.
O gods, would it never end? This was Thorleif Hordi’s son, whom Wulfhere had slain years agone, on the isle of Kaldjorn when he and Cormac had been at the matter of regaining the kidnaped sister of Gerinth of Britain.*
* See Tigers of the Sea, Ace Fantasy.
“Wulfhere slew you, Norseman! Must I spend my life facing dead men risen to challenge me anew?”
A frown darkened the wind-etched face of Hordi’s son of Norge.
“It’s madness on you in your declining years and last moments of life, Wolf,” he said. In a crouch, he twisted his buckler and waggled the powerful wrist of his sword-arm.
Blood of the gods! Cormac’s brain lurched. First it was those illusory men Cutha Atheldane of Norge set against me, in the passage beneath Kull’s castle-all men I myself had done death on in years past. Then a fullscore and more dead men, Danes and Norse alike, enemies and former comrades raised by Thulsa Doom’s’ horrid arts in that same castle less than a fortnight agone, and them not to be slain by mere steel. And now it’s Thorleif I face-whom Wulfhere slew!
Will steel prevail this time? Is this some trick of Thulsa Doom who is somehow also Cutha Atheldane? Can I put darkness of death on Thorleif’s eyes-again, with point and edge? Or need I mistletoe and holy oak to lay this life-like lich?
Or-is it mere illusion?
Thorleif lunged; Cormac dodged and cat-stepped aside without trying a counter-blow. If this were illusion, only the face was; the ringing blow on his shield and the jolt to that arm were real enow!
Thorleif turned, a big man light on his feet, to keep his eyes ever focused on his foe.
“You want this skinny little wench with the darkness of your own hide on her, Skaeling? Take her then-you have only to come through me!”
“I wear no horn for her, mad dog-but it’s two I’ll have, once I’ve sliced yours off!”
With an enraged cry Thorleif swung; Cormac’s buckler took the blow and his point leaped-to thud into the other man’s shield and be turned aside with a hideous scraping sound. Prepared to strike again, the Norseman saw his foe’s readiness and glittering eyes and thought better of it.
It was then that a slender leg whipped up from the leaf-strewn sward and a bare foot struck flat, hard-driven, into the back of Thorleif’s left knee.
The Norse raider lurched, staggered, sagging to leftward, and Cormac stabbed past his shield into Thorleif’s armpit. Thorleif gasped loudly, vocally. Gone suddenly all shivery, he tried an offensive swing of his buckler. Cormac was better at it; shield smashed the other man’s face and he showed his mercy by ending the Norseman’s misery: the point of his glaive leaped through blond beard into throat.
Breathing through his open mouth, Cormac went to one knee to wipe his sword on Thorleif’s leggings. The leg twitched. The Gael turned then to the girl for whom he’d acted so foolishly-and who had aided him in turn.
“It’s well we team,” he said, “and be easy-I seek no strength-taken woman.”
She blinked, frowned slightly-as if she did not understand-and then swung her head to her fallen companion. Without reply she went to him.
She was tiny, less than five feet in height, and passing slim as well. Her clothing had been torn away considerably more than half by her assailants, and certain attributes proclaimed her woman, though she appeared just to have come into her nubile days. Yet her startlingly dark eyes said otherwise. Mayhap she was not yet a score of years in age, Cormac mused, but it would not be long ere she observed that birthday.
She went down beside the fallen youth, murmuring. He looked much like her, the Gael saw; her brother, sure, lying asprawl on his back with a bloody gash on the right side of his head. He breathed, and the gash was not deep. Ere Cormac was to them in that glade of corpses, she was away into the edge of the woods, plucking the leaves from plants Cormac did not know.
He looked on while she pressed them to the youth’s head, murmuring, and the Gael saw that she knew what she was about. He could not help but note how dusky they both were. Black of hair both were too, like himself, but with a shortness of stature that surely could not mark Gaels. Their skin could be the result of much sun… but not those raven locks.
The youth groaned, muttered, groaned again, and only her hands stilled the movement of his ax-struck head. Cormac saw his eyelids flickering.
Her rescuer started to touch the girl, decided against it; she’d enough of the hands of strangers this day. “It’s no death-wound he’s taken,” he said, squatting beside that pair of dark slim youths. “Your brother?”
They spoke, both of them, as the young man gained a hold on consciousness and wits. Cormac was startled. He knew now why she had frowned and blinked at his first words; his reaction to hers was the same.
The words they uttered were recognizable, aye, but only just. Different. Old; they spoke in the old way. He had heard the druids pronounce the language of Eirrin in such a wise. They were of Eirrin, but as if from her past, or as if raised apart by some unchanging oldster without ever hearing others speak their tongue.
“It’s slowly we must speak,” Cormac said, enunciating carefully, with his hand on the boy’s arm and his gaze on the girl’s great eyes. They were brown as good walnut. Seldom did a man see such eyes, who-what were these people? “Slowly and with care, to understand one another. I am Cormac mac Art of Connacht-and ye be not of Eirrin as well, but know her, language.”
She gazed long into his eyes, then looked down at her brother.
“He saved us,” the youth said. His eyes were brown as good walnut…
“We are not enemies,” Cormac said, and added, “tongu do dia toinges mo thuath.”
She looked at him again. She nodded, touched his arm. “Tongu, do Dana’,” she said quietly.
Cormac’s eyes narrowed. He had spoken ritual to her: I swear to the god my people swear by. And she had replied that she swore by… Danu!
She went on, in her quiet voice, whilst her brother struggled up into a sitting position and looked about the blood-splashed clearing among the oaks. Her name was Sinshi, she told Cormac, and it was a name he had never heard. This her brother was Consaer, and he repeated it after her to be sure. Aye, Consaer. Far more familiar, that; “Con” was a common enough name-sound among the people of Eirrin, with others, including even Conn, of the Hundred Battles. And “saer” meant wright; carpenter. Yet her accent and inflections and even the turning of some phrases remained unfamiliar, as she told him that she and her brother were of a city or village inland, Daneira. And the eyes and hair…
“Of this isle? You are-of this land?”
She nodded. “Aye,” she said, and her brother echoed, “Aye.”
Cormac started to ask. He gave his head a jerk; questions born of astonishment could wait.
“Then it’s to Daneira we’d best be taking Consaer and yourself, for these men from a far land, enemy of mine, cannot be alone on this isle.”
Again Sinshi looked nervously at her brother-though her hand remained trustingly on Cormac’s wrist. Mayhap it was not a trusting touch at that, the Gael mused; the diminutive hand was after all on his sword arm.
It was then came the great crashing and jingle of mail in the brush to hillward, and even as Cormac sprang backward and up into a fighting stance the bushes burst inward to admit a rushing form to the clearing. A huge man he was, bigger than big and taller than tall, wielding ax and buckler and on him a great lurid beard the colour of dancing flames, Blue eyes darted a swift look about the glade, taking in the four fallen Norsemen. His face went disconsolate.
“Ah, ye gods-abandoned son of an Eirrin Pig-farmer,” Wulfhere cried accusingly, “could ye not have saved so much as one of these dogs for your old weapon-comrade?”
Chapter Two:
The People of Daneira
While Consaer of Daneira both steadied himself and comforted his sister with an arm across the shaky girl’s bared shoulders, she pressed close to Corma
c. Her small hand remained on his arm. Wulfhere Hausakluifr examined the sprawled Norseman, one Hausakluifr examined the sprawled Norsemen, one by one. He kept his eyes carefully from Sinshi, who was more than half naked. Then the Dane came to the man last slain.
“Thorleif!”
The Gael nodded, grim-faced. “Aye.”
“But… Thorleif! Odin’s name, I slew the man, Cormac! My ax split this skull to the chin! What Loki-sent horror is this! More dead men to fight and slay again?”
“He was very alive, Wulfhere, and vaunting it that it was he slew you-years agone, he said.”
The two men stared frowning at each other. Then of a sudden the answer came to the Gael.
“The-the other ‘dimension’ Bas spoke of, whatever that means. Thulsa Doom’s refuge-world, like ours and yet unlike… blood of the gods! Mayhap in this dimension-och, we have much to talk on, and to learn, about this business of being in another dimension.”
“What? Think you that here… wherever here is… things are indeed different? Even the past? Dead men are not?”
“And mayhap living men are, Wulfhere. Consider. It would seem that here, in this… world, Thorleif killed you, old friend.”
“But…” Wulfhere broke off, struggling with the concept, visibly worrying it about in a mind that none had deemed overly speedy. “Does this mean “ He broke off again. “Could there be… have been… two of me here? Another Wulfhere Hausakluifr? Another me?”
Cormac shook his head. “Who knows? Mayhap Bas can tell us-and mayhap we must learn of ourselves, with time and experiences. But just now, Wulf-it’s other matters we must be giving heed to. It’s treasure we have on Quester, and Thulsa Doom-and were better sure to lose the booty than have him loosed again! Only Samaire and Brian and Bas be there with him-and there are Norse about.
“Ye allowed some to escape?
“I did not. Can ye imagine four alone?”
“Oh. No, no of course not. Ha! Enemies here on our island, is it! Well, they’ll find no easy road to Thulsa Doom or treasure or even ship!”
The Dane gave his ax such a ferocious sweep that it moaned in the air. Both Sinshi and Consaer drew back. Cormac felt her hand on his arm, suddenly clamping.
“Och, ye bullish madman, Wulfhere! A woman and a druid and a green weapon-man and him not even a Dane? Suppose the Norse discover them now, with you here?”
That ploy was instantly effective. “Aye, But-yourself, shipmate?”
Cormac looked at the youths of Daneira. “Wulfhere, there is mystery here. Let me be going with them. I will join ye soon. Do you remain with the ship.”
“Mystery? Hmp! Cormac, Cormac. The mystery is how she stands before the breeze, and her with so little womanly meat on her.”
Cormac gave him a look and spoke with his lips tightly together. “It is not, Wulf, this girl.”
“I know.” Wulfhere looked down and heaved a sigh. “I know, blood-brother. It’s just the prospect of climbing this accursed hill I descended for naught that makes me more than hesitant.”
“And surly.”
“Aye. Ye’ve noted how much longer hills are when one is climbing than when one is coming down?”
“Why-it’s scant attention I’ve paid, Wulfhere. Could it be age coming upon ye, man?”
Wulfhere stiffened, stared, turned with dignity, and re-entered the woods on the hill side of the glade. Cormac heard him muttering. So were Sinshi and Consaer; they were struck by the colour of Wulfhere’s hair.
Cormac considered the corpses; he decided it were better to gain Daneira swiftly than to attempt to conceal the Norsemen and all signs of their deaths. One trace of blood, found on a blade of grass, would set off a thorough search by their comrades. The people of Daneira could come and dispose of these, later; at present his efforts were better spent getting to them with the warning of danger he and these two would bear.
“Your people have armour? Where are your daggers? Swords?”
She looked at him with large eyes of soft dark doe-brown, and her voice was soft, gentle as that of a frightened or chastised child.
“We have no need, Cormac mac Art.” She was staring-at his eyes. Were grey eyes as unusual to her as her brown glims were to him?
“No need-Blood of the gods! But you must have axes.”
“My sister and I were not on a woodcutting expedition, Cormac mac Art.”
Cormac clamped his teeth in exasperation.
Consaer, asking his sister for help in drawing his tunic up over his head, started to undress. Already nonplussed, Cormac for a moment thought they must both be insane. Then he realized that the lad meant to clothe his sister’s near-nudity in his own garment.
“And then we can strip off at least one of these leathern coats for you, Consaer,” he said, indicating the bodies.
The youth chuckled. His tunic came off to reveal a lean dusky torso, with long stringy muscles that Cormac knew held considerable strength, if only the fellow were not so little above five and a half feet in height.
“I’d not wear such clothing of such men,” Consaer said, and he had to repeat it ere Cormac understood, for the Daneiran youth had forgot to speak with slow care against the difference in their accents and phrasing. “And what fits any of them would be far too large, anyhow.” He slapped his leg. “These leggings are leather, Cormac mac Art. I need no tunic-and Sinshi does.”
Hardly, Cormac thought, but he held silent with only a nod.
His sword sheathed, he gathered the Norsemen’s bucklers and burdened Sinshi with them, once she was enveloped in her brother’s tunic; he was both bigger built and a full eight inches taller than she. An ax the Gael handed to Consaer, who was none so steady on his feet and showed by little winces and the way he held his gashed head that it was a-throb. Cormac carried the other two axes and Thorleif’s sword, with five daggers in their sheaths fastened to his belt.
“Lead me to Daneira. At least four of your people will have shields, and decent weapons. These.”
Consaer and Sinshi but looked at him, whether in pity or incomprehension he could not be certain. Without speaking, they entered the woods. Long black hair trembled and swung down their backs. Cormac followed, but not too close, that there would be space for maneuvering if there was need. About them rose lofty trees in grey and black. A few leaves were green; most were the colourful hues of autumn. No one had ever swung ax here, Cormac knew. Insects flitted and buzzed; birds called and trilled and warbled-and now and again fluttered in bushes so that Cormac looked sharply that way.
He asked; no, there were no animals on this island, save those brought with them here by the Daneirans long and long ago; pigs and goats and sheep, for meat and milk, fleece and silky hair, and hides.
Paradise!
Cormac could hardly believe it. Serpents? Aye, they made reply, there were reptiles… though throughout all the history of Daneira none had got his death from a serpent’s bite. Cormac could but. shake his head. Paradise! The enchanted land of a chosen people!
Aye. An innocent and naif people, menaced by naught and thus unprepared for any menace; open to attack, the perfect prey for a score or two Norsemen unimpressed with gentle people living in idyllic circumstances. There would be no battle. There would be rape and butchery, and none left to know or to keen the red death of Daneira and its gentle people.
Possibly the Daneirans had naught worth coveting or stealing-save the isle itself and their very existence, their lives. No matter to the men of Norge! Their god was War; their gods were warriors. He who was chief among those nigh-guileless warrior-deities had but one eye and hurled lightning, while his simple-minded son used his hammer to create the thunder. He who was most intelligent among them was the villainous and crafty Loki, loved by none. Once the men of ice-ruled Norge got their crops out in the short growing season, they deserted their steadings, leaving the work of growing food to their women and children and oldsters. The younger men fared forth in ships laden with arms to go a-viking: a-reaving; a-killing.
Following the weaponless, armour-less pair of sheep for Norse slaughterers, Cormac gritted his teeth. He should have stayed away. Did such foolish people deserve aid, rescue?
A short distance into the wood, the trio came onto a clear and well-trod trail, and Cormac realized how woods-wise were Sinshi and her brother. They went swiftly then, the youths in soft buskins and he bare above the waist-aye, and reeling a bit from the wound in his head. Cormac followed cautiously, alertly, marveling at people who were not cautious because they’d never been so-because they’d never had reason to be cautious or alert!
No beasts, he thought. No enemies. No swords!
They wended through the woods, two sheep and a wolf who trod a carpet of leaves in orange and yellow and scarlet, and Cormac wondered whether he felt pity for them-or envy. As for them-what felt they for him, a scarred and blood-splashed man of weapons who clinked when he walked for he wore steel, and whose narrowed eyes were constantly amove, seeking an enemy not there?
Cormac did not know. He could not imagine their lives. His had been a life of arms and combat, all his days. It seemed that he had been born with sword to hand.
In the time when Laegair’s son Lugaid was High-king in Eirrin, Art mac Comail was a member of the powerless bear sept of the clan na Morna of Connacht, though he was kinsman of the ua-Neill, the descendants of that great Niall, High-king. This same Art got a child on his wife, and it was a son. Cormac remembered Art’s telling him of his name.
“He was the greatest king that Eirrin ever knew,” the boy’s father told him, of that son of King Art the Lonely of a time long gone by. “In power and eloquence, in the vigour and splendour of his reign, he has not had his like before or since. In his reign none needed bar the door, no flocks need be guarded, nor was anyone in all Eirrin distressed for want of food or clothing. For all Eirrin that wise and just king made a beautiful land of promise. His grandfather was Conn of the Hundred Battles; his father was Art the Lonely; he was King Cormac. Like you, son, for I have given you the greatest name in the history of our land: Cormac mac Art.