“We will take it!” Wulfhere said.
Even as he spoke, Sigebert’s bodyguard of Franks came arunning from an alley beside the custom-house. Their long oval shields rattled together and they howled like demons. Cormac had time to judge their numbers at thirty, before the two parties met.
They clashed like colliding waves of bone and metal. No civilized fighters these! The Franks in their leather vests, with their deadly long swords and hand-axes, were as ruthlessly fierce as the Danes. If the tough oxhide protecting their torsos was somewhat less strong than the Danish scale-mail shirt, it was also less weighty and allowed greater freedom of movement.
Blood spurted; deep fierce war-shouts drowned the first death-yells.
Cormac glared into a snarling face under a fringe of mouse-coloured hair. The Frank warded a cut with his long shield, then chopped at Cormac’s shoulder. The Gael’s point flickered like lightning to drive into the fellow’s mouth and through the back of his neck. His spine severed, the Frank toppled, emitting a death-gurgle. Cormac trod ruthlessly over the corpse, his blade taking further toll as he went.
Wulfhere was howling like a berserker. His terrible ax made nothing of the Franks’ oxhide vests, splitting leather and ribs alike, while the iron boss and rim of his skillfully handled shield broke limbs as they had been twigs. Aye, for this day he wielded his ax one-handed.
“Sigebert One-ear!” he thundered. “Dog! Cur and torturer of wounded men! Where be ye?”
“Here, you blundering oaf!” Sigebert’s voice answered, mocking and amused. He leaned in the custom-house doorway, sword in hand but as yet unblooded. “Come if you can reach me. You shall be welcome.”
Wulfhere snarled his frustration and his blue eyes blazed. A knot of Frankish soldiery stood betwixt him and Sigebert; he could only fight his way past them. His ax thundered, rose and fell with a racket of breaking shields. Three Danes broke from the melee to aid him. The Franks went down in their welling blood.
“Come!” Wulfhere panted, and charged.
The custom-house door slammed in his face.
No matter that it was made of iron-bound oak. Wulfhere attacked it with an ax he wielded like a madman. The door began to splinter.
Cormac, cool and deadly in battle, had seen and heard what befell. Guessing that Sigebert had gulled Wulfhere into charging the front and would now vanish out the back, he sent five Danes to prevent it. His powers of command were tested greatly to separate them from the murder boiling in the alley and make them go. Just as he made to accompany them, several Franks came running. Mac Art found himself in a desperate rearguard fight.
The Franks spread out to flank him. Cormac got an alley wall at his back and glowered at them. One lean wight moved in too recklessly; his foot slipped on the blood-greasy stones.
Instinctively, Cormac leaped forward, a man who was ever happier taking the initiative. His shield-rim broke the man’s exposed neck almost in passing. Then immediately, it was interposed between himself and a Frankish sword swung two-handed. Cormac’s own point vanished into that man’s belly, and his knees buckled.
In the mean time, Sigebert One-ear departed the customs-house by its rear. With him were three stout soldiers. They emerged just in time to meet the five Danes dispatched there by mac Art, and Sigebert ceased to laugh and mock. He tasted cold fear. The red-bearded giant would be upon him at any moment.
Snarling in desperation, Sigebert fought like a demon.
This was his first experience of real battle, and he went well at it, goaded by fear and necessity. Hungry Danish swords sought a way past his shield and blade. Dropping almost to one knee, Sigebert rammed his point into a bearded pirate’s crotch. Though that harsh thrust failed to pierce the skirt of the man’s shirt, it dropped him writhing in agony for all that. His face a snarl, Sigebert straightened and all in that motion his point ran into a Danish throat. Beside him an ax cut through the cheekpiece of a Danish helm and into that pirate’s brain through the temple.
Sigebert took that opportunity to run. His horse was tied in the customs yard and he knew he had acquitted himself well. With a sweep of his blade he cut the black animal free, and sheathing his sword he leaped to the saddle. Behind him, ignored and unsung, his Frankish guards were dying.
Wulfhere burst into the yard in time to see the horse’s tail vanish.
He wasted no time in outbursts of rage or disappointment. Striding like a colossus, he crossed the yard and gained the street on its far side. Sigebert had kicked the horse into a gallop, to trample pedestrians as if they were so much rubbish. His short cape flapped from his shoulders.
Wulfhere raised his huge ax, and hurled it.
The terrible weapon flashed through the air, turning almost gently, flying for Sigebert’s backbone. Wulfhere began to run, even while the missile was in the air. It needn’t slay Sigebert. Gods! An it merely knocked the cur-begot bastard from his horse’s back, or struck the horse itself and caused it to throw Sigebert, that would be enow. Wulfhere yearned only for the chance to get his hands on the swine. Of that there could be but one end.
Ever after, Wulfhere cursed the fools who made that street too short. Sigebert had reached its end and was turning the corner to safety by the time the Danish ax caught up to him-and hissed by. The head caught his flapping cape, tangled therein and ripped it from his shoulders. Though rocked in his saddle, Sigebert was untouched. His horse galloped.
Swearing mightily, Wulfhere continued his ponderous, armoured run and swore the more. The iron scales of his byrnie jolted and rang with each step. A woman, helping her young brother from the street after Sigebert had ridden him down, shrank fearfully aside from the big red beard. He never noticed her, nor gave thought to the possibility of being mobbed by the people.
They showed no sign of wishing to meddle with this enraged giant loose on their city. The contagion of mass fear had convinced them all in moments that they had a Saxon invasion to dread.
Wulfhere grunted with satisfaction to see his cherished ax lying in the street, enwrapped by the Frank’s rich cape. Seizing the weapon, he left the garment in the muck and returned to the customhouse, bawling for Cormac.
“Wolf!” he roared, absently knocking a wounded Frank aside with his shield when the fool-still on his feet-seemed to want to attack him. “The slimy dock-rat’s escaped us! He’s run, the mangy scum, and left his men! There’s no more to be done here!”
“Bad,” Cormac said, betrying little emotion. “We must leave. It’s defeat we’ve put on these Franks, but if we tarry, the Count of Nantes will be sending a little war-host against us. This time, let us be very sure we leave no wounded, for that polished filth to play with.”
Wulfhere, fully agreeing, began to shout orders.
Cormac ran to inspect the three Danes by the custom-house’s back door. Poor old Horsejaw had his helmet off and his brains, showing. Unquestionably he was dead. Another lay in his blood with a sword-thrust through the throat. Anlaf’s gullet, windpipe and arteries were severed, all. Cormac took in the nature of that particular wound, and did not miss its significance. His icy eyes slitted briefly in thought.
The third Dane was Einar, still suffering greatly from that blow in the stones. He’d lurched to his knees, sweating, grey-faced and bent over, but he needed Cormac’s aid to rise and walk. On the way to Norn he vomited; once he’d gained her deck he sank down groaning. He’d lack interest in women for at least a month, mayhap for life.
“Out of here, swiftly,” Cormac bade Odathi, and added with harsh humour, “Best ye be not come trading again in this port!”
Odathi chuckled. “I’d not ha’ lent myself to your scheme if I’d any pressing need to return! Your enemy, chieftain-did he die hard?”
“He died not,” Cormac said bitterly. “It all went for naught. It is the rest of the day ye mean to stand there babbling?”
Grimly, they counted their dead. Those numbered not so many as Cormac had feared; indeed fewer than he’d dared to hope: three only. Some oth
ers were sore wounded, and most, including Cormac and Wulfhere, had at least minor hurts.
“The first good thing in this business, Wulfhere growled as they cleared Loire-mouth, “is that no trap was set for us this time.”
He was thinking of their first meeting with Sigebert, when they had almost been captured. That had been a most carefully planned trap. Few could have scaped it. Even Cormac and Wulfhere had found it needful to abandon their hard-won loot in order to keep their lives, and cross the tempestuous waters of the Cantanabrian Sea to evade the Romish warships that pursued them.
“Sigebert cannot have dreamed we’d dare set foot in Nantes again,” Cormac said. “He knows better now, curse him-and it’s even greater care he’ll be taking to safeguard his putrid life!”
Morbid silence descended on them both. Three men slain, others hurt, and naught gained. Further, Einar was victim of Sigebert himself and so, Cormac thought, was Anlaf.
They knew not of the lost and hating young girl Sigebert kept in his house. They cared not that their bold attempt on the Frank’s life was the talk of Nantes by midday. Sigebert’s guards were those who spoke of it loudest and most vehemently, for they had greatest cause. The names of Wulfhere Skull-splitter and Cormac mac Art were freely bandied about. Cathula recognized them with great joy when the story came to her ears.
12
Omens
Bright was the weather as Norn eased through the straits of Mor-bihan, bright the weather and gloomy the mood of the reivers. As the vessel moored, a horse came plunging along the beach. Its rider unhesitatingly urged it up the timber ramp and galloped recklessly along the jetty.
He was Prince Howel of Bro Erech. The reverberations of hoofbeats on timber yet echoed while he greeted them.
“Cormac! And Wulfhere, I see! No wounds that show?” Then he looked again, seeing Cormac’s moodiness and the thundercloud darkness on Wulfhere’s brow. “It went not well, did it?”
Cormac shrugged, then vaulted the ship’s rail. He performed the feat with ease and landed well balanced, despite the weight of his mail shirt. The links of it chimed together on his body. Howel’s horse shied a bit. The prince patted its shoulder, soothing it with an absent, “Sa, sa my beauty.”
“It went not well,” Cormac admitted. “Almost we had success-bah! Almost! The beggar who squats naked on the modden can say he’s almost a king! All he requires is different parents.”
Wulfhere trod down the gangplank. It bent like a drawn bow under his weight.
“Three men slain! With those who had their death in a sea-fight with the Basques, far south, there be nine-and-twenty living of the two score sailed from Galicia with us. And neither vengeance nor plunder to show for any of it! Sigebert yet breathing! I think that bastard of Loki’s get must bear a charmed life!”
Howel swore in genuine disappointment. “That be worse than a sorry business. What will you do now?”
“Return to Nantes and make a new attempt!”
“Nay, Wulf,” Cormac said. “That we’ll not be doing. Sigebert now knows we be about, and hungry for his blood. He’ll not be exposing himself to weapon-steel of ours again. Nor will he omit to have every ship to dock in Nantes searched most carefully from now on, the moment it touches the quayside! And it’s thrice as many guards Sigebert will surround himself with, now.”
“Franks of the likes of those others?” Wulfhere snorted. “How will he get them? Conjure them out of the air? And if he makes do with Gallo-Romans, I fear them not.”
“Something in that, mayhap,” Cormac conceded, “although it’s many Frankish warriors there may be serving as mercenaries or levy troops in the Roman kingdom.” He sighed. “Yet my main argument holds, even should Sigebert be unable to get any such. He will be expecting us again, and take all the precautions he can. It’s too long the odds are, Wulfhere.”
Wulfhere spoke angrily, knowing it was not feasible but hating to give up-and hoping Cormac would devise a scheme to make it succeed. “We might try an attack from the landward side.”
Cormac considered the notion. At last he shook his head. “Not with such few men as we have left. We’d never get through the city gates. It’s unlikely that we could sneak over the walls at night; but supposing we did, Wulfhere. We’d just about be after reaching Sigebert’s mansion-and die there, not even slaying him, but once again failing to slay him. Bear the truth, Wulfhere. We have failed.” Cormac added grimly, “For this time.”
Gnawing his beard, Wulfhere snarled, “So! So! When we have been to Jutland and gathered a full crew, though-”
“Oh, aye!” Cormac said. He gave Howel the thin-lipped ghost of a smile. “Your gallop along the jetty was fine to see. Although some might say it wasn’t befitting your princely dignity, quite.”
“My princely dignity is my concern!” Howel answered. “And strong enow to survive, I’m thinking. I’d been exercising this horse along the beach when I saw Norn’s sail. The day I return sedately to my hall and sit my throne looking splendid while a friend’s fate is in doubt will-will-”
He sputtered briefly, searching for words to describe what sort of improbable day that would be. Cormac’s heart lightened. He clapped Howel lightly on the shoulder and proceeded along the jetty with him. Their destination was the great hall, Cormac dreaming of shedding his war-gear, of bathing luxuriously and donning fresh clothes. He did bend an appraising gaze on Raven.
The war-bird’s lean dark length had been drawn far up the shore, beyond reach of the highest tide or any likely excess of storm-lashed sea. Rough triangular cradles had been made for her from timber baulks, and tenting of sail-leather was folded nearby to prevent rain from delaying her drying out. Some few of Howel’s seamen had begun scraping weed and barnacles from her hull.
Wulfhere, ambling beside his Gaelic bloodbrother and the prince, cast a middling jealous eye at this activity.
“Those planks near the prow that were sprung in Galicia-they want renewing, Cormac,” he said. “Remember ye when we rammed yon deathly barge and sent it splintered into the arms of Ran?”
“Who could be forgetting? Was made of monstrous bones,” Cormac explained to the prince, “and it burned with fire that did not consume. The crew were sea-women of spectral beauty, or seemed so, though in truth it’s monsters they were, in a disguise of illusion. We smashed their craft and slew them all… and the look in your eyes warns me ye have doubt on you that it’s the unadorned truth ye’re hearing.”
“Never!” Howel said valiantly, and they entered his hall.
Evening fell, warm and dark blue. In a chamber panelled with beechwood and lit by oil lamps, the two reivers sat clean and freshly clad. Morfydd was present, in a gown blue as the gloaming. Gold-worked at the border it was, and gold cinctured her tiny waist. For once, her hair was decorously coiled atop her head. Prince Howel stood with feet planted wide, his strong features heavy with concern. His tunic was almost ridiculous on him; plunder it was, off a ship out of Greece. The tunic was silk, and deep blue and silver bordered.
“I’ve held converse with Odathi,” he said. “By the Great Abyss! I like not the omens that haunted your voyage, Cormac!”
He used the word carelessly. Two days’ run to Nantes was scarce what Cormac would have called a ‘voyage,’ or Howel either, had he been thinking about it.
“They were summat… disconcerting.” Cormac agreed. “It’s with Odathi ye’ve spoken, ye say. With his crew as well?”
“With some of them. All spoke of Arawn leading the Wild Hunt through the sky-”
Wulfhere sighed deeply. “By your leave, prince, not one o’ them knows whereof he speaks-and Cormac here is in error for once! Was Odin the Spear-Brandisher, on his way to some great battle in the east, with his valkyrior! Ask any of my Danes. They, too, were there.”
Cormac shrugged, and spoke to Morfydd. “There it is, lady. The Skull-splitter knows what he saw, and so do I. What make you of this?”
“Peradventure it is not the mystery it seems, Cormac. Captain Wulf
here… your Spear-Brandisher, Odin the One-eyed… he is a god of death, is he not?”
“Of death in combat, aye,” Wulfhere answered, looking askance at the wise-woman, wondering what she was about. “Slain warriors revel and fight in his halls until the day of the last battle for gods and men.”
“My people have known Arawn the Hunter for very long. He too is a god of death, and all that live is his warranted prey-but equally he is the god of rebirth. The one-eyed wanderer or the antlered huntsman; what matters it.” She gestured. “These are the guises of poetry and common memory. It’s in my mind that neither of you saw what was truly there. No matter; surely was a presage of great death coming. A war perhaps-and there is usually a war. I’m satisfied it does not hang over this realm of Bro Erech. I would know.”
“It may be that I will add to that, very soon,” Prince Howel said. There was a note in his voice that none could have taken lightly. “We’re hard upon Midsummer, and I am priest as well as prince. The rites may tell us more than we’d comfortably wish to know.”
“Why, here’s a thing, prince!” Wulfhere chuckled. “Ye follow the old ways still, and intercede before the gods for your people? What does this Christer bishop over in Vannes think of such?”
Morfydd’s eyes flashed. Although the query was addressed to her lord, she bit back an angry outburst of her own. Cormac observed it, and sympathized with her. The subject was a sore one with him also.
Howel grimaced as if he had swigged ale from a barrel with bad wood in it. “Paternus? He says little to my face! To be sure, he knows the people still keep the rites of Beltaine and Samhain, Midwinter and Midsummer as the year turns, and he likes it not. He’s too wise to provoke trouble to no gain. I suppose he fancies that Bro Erech will come within his Church’s net gradually.”
“It’s no fancy, that,” Cormac said, and his bearing was grim. “Given time, this Church will destroy the worship of all other gods. Hang your Bishop Paternus, Howel; see him swing and make it known ye’ll be having none to replace him. An rulers enow act so, the Cross-worshipers may yet be stopped.”
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