Cormac ducked a singing sword-blade, leaped under his attacker's guard and drove his dagger against the warrior's scale-mail with all his strength. The blade snapped-but not before it had ripped through the mail and buried itself deep in the Viking's heart.
Snatching up the fallen warrior's sword and shield, Cormac leaped to where Marcus and Halfgar were battling. The young Briton was having the worst of it; his wounds had weakened him, and his strength was not equal to his fury. Even as Cormac sprang forward Halfgar broke the furious grip of his opponent and smashed the front of his shield into the youth's face; then, even as he shifted his axe to slay the stunned Marcus, the Jute saw a glitter of bright crimson at his feet. It was the gem that had adorned the princess Helen, its slender chain now broken, torn from Marcus during the fight. Halfgar stooped quickly and snatched it up, hastily looping the chain round his axe-belt. That instant of avarice was all Cormac needed to close the gap and save Marcus from the stroke of a butcher's axe; when the Jute looked up the Gael was already upon him like a whirlwind of fury. He hove up his axe in an instinctive attempt to ward off Cormac's furious stroke, but the sword-blade bit through the handle, sending the axe-head flying, and crashed to fragments on his iron helm. The good metal saved Halfgar's skull but the force of Cormac's blow sent the Jute crashing senseless to the beach.
"Fall back to the ship," yelled Cormac. "Aid here for the prince Marcus!"
Donal rushed to Cormac's aid, and the princess Helen with him, her face white and tearful but strong with a concern that overrode her fear. Ignoring Cormac's bewildered cursings, she helped the minstrel lift the stunned Marcus and bear him away.
The Jutes and Norsemen, having seen both their chieftains fall, had momentarily slackened in their battle-fury; but now, seeing the Danes withdrawing rapidly toward their ship with the hostage British noblewoman in their midst, they surged back to the fight with renewed frenzy. And then, as if in answer to a prearranged signal, the war-cries of a mighty host came roaring from the far end of the beach, beyond when the Raven lay with her prow on the sand-and from the forest burst a horde of charging Norsemen that outnumbered both the contesting groups put together.
"The trap's sprung!" yelled Cormac, raging. "To the ship!"
"Wotan!" Wulfhere scattered a Norseman's brains with a mighty stroke of his axe. "Let your blades drink blood, sons of Dane-mark!"
But even as the retreating Danes reached the prow of their beached ship, Cormac saw it was too late. They had barely time to group themselves into a knot about the bow, with shields overlapping and blades bristling from their ranks like steel quills, when Thorleif's forces smote from both sides like giant ocean waves dashing in fury against a great rock. The Danes raged like giants at Ragnarok in their battlefury, dealing death to two for every one of their own that was slain, yet even as Cormac raged and slew with the best of them he knew that the odds were too great. They were outnumbered three to one and the newcomers to the battle were fresh. The Danes could not practice their superior archery at these close quarters, nor could they scramble up the sides of their long ship…
Suddenly a howl of fury seemed to shake the skies-a scream of war-fury that welled up from a thousand throats-and then a storm of arrows from all sides darkened the already murky skies. Wooden shafts rattled down like rain and splintered against the scaled corselets of Dane, Jute and Norseman alike. Cormac saw one of Wulfhere's men reel, his neck transfixed by a dark, flint-tipped arrow; a blond Norse warrior staggered and fell with a similar arrow jutting from his right eye-socket. Most of the shafts that found a mark broke and splintered harmlessly against the bucklers and mail of the Vikings, but all too many out of those hurtling thousands thudded to rest in living flesh.
The Norsemen and Jutes whirled to face this new foe, and Cormac, straining to see above the heads of his enemies, saw the beach in both directions a-swarm with dark, running figures-Picts! Now the arrow-storm ceased and the dark runners, with howls of blood-mad battle frenzy, hurled themselves on the confused outer ranks of the Norsemen.
"Into the ship!" yelled Cormac as the battle-press slackened. "Once there we can hold off both Pict and Norseman with arrow-storm if need be."
The Danes surged over the sides of their long ship, unhindered by the Norsemen who had turned to meet the savage charge of the Picts. A second rain of arrows from the charging Picts swept the deck as the warriors clambered aboard. Donal and Cormac, who had shielded Helen with their bucklers at some risk to themselves, hurried the girl to the hold despite her protests over the safety of Marcus. Wulfhere himself helped lift the wounded prince to the deck and bear him to safety.
"A sword!" gasped the half-conscious youth. "Give me a sword to slay the damned Jute who tortured my lady's maid before her eyes!"
"Methinks Halfgar is dead," rumbled the Dane gently, admiration for the Briton's courage stirring his fierce soul. "I saw Cormac smite him on the helm in battle, and he rose not from that stroke."
"Then he died too swiftly!" cried Marcus, striving to lift himself from the deck; but Wulfhere held him down firmly.
The surviving Danes were now all aboard ship and ranged with their bows behind the row of shields that lined both rails; but the ship's bow was still grounded on the strand and they could not escape to sea. The Norsemen on shore, rallying from the confusion of the Pictish onslaught, closed ranks and locked shields and began a slow retreat to the stockade where the dark warriors were already swarming in through the open gates. The Picts hurled themselves in screaming fury upon the retreating Norse phalanx, clad only in animal hides and wielding weapons of flint and bronze against the iron mail and blades of the Vikings, seemingly willing to lose three or four men for every Norseman they dragged down to death. Then smoke began to curl up from behind the stockade wall, and the Vikings roared with dismay as they realized their huts and storehouses were being fired. The phalanx wavered, then broke as the enraged Norsemen charged in frenzied rage toward the skalli, hewing down the naked warriors who barred their path, while the bulk of the Pictish force pursued and harried them through the gates and into the stockade.
A wave of Picts rushed the long ship, but a storm of arrows from Wulfhere's archers drove them back. The dark warriors retreated to the edge of the forest, where they rallied. The Danes tensed for another attack, but it did not come; instead, a flag of truce was raised. Then a half dozen warriors strode down the beach and halted before the prow of the long ship. In their midst was an old man, spare but erect, who wore a robe of wolf-hides ornamented barbarically with the feathered heads of birds and the skulls of animals.
"What do you want?" demanded Cormac in the language of the Picts.
"I am Gonar, High Priest of Pictdom." The old man's voice, though high-pitched, was resonant and strong. "Give us the moon-maid who is to be our sacrifice to Golka, and whom the Jutes stole from us-else we shall burn your ship with fire-arrows."
"There is no moon-maid here," said Cormac.
"We saw her borne aboard your ship," persisted the Pictish priest. "She was brought to us from a land far to the south, wearing the Bloodstone of the Moon on a golden chain. A generation agone that gem was stolen from its shrine on the Isle of the Altar, and now Golka has sent it back to us about the neck of the sacrifice."
"The ruby!" muttered Donal, who had learned much of the Pictish tongue in his wandering life as a minstrel. "I remember now-Marcus once told me his father found it on a beach amid the wreckage of a Pictish longboat…"
Cormac recalled the red gem Halfgar had snatched up from the sand. Automatically he glanced to the spot where the man had fallen-and saw the Juttish chieftain rising unsteadily to his feet. Evidently Cormac's swordblow had merely stunned him.
"Give us the girl who bears the Blood-stone," persisted the old man.
"Your god has chosen another for you than her," said Cormac, pointing down the beach. "See, Gonar-that man rising up amid the slain corpses; go to him, and you will find Golka's token."
The old man started, then nodded
to the warriors with him, who immediately sprinted off like lean wolves and surrounded Halfgar. Then savage cries of glee rang out as they spied the gem dangling at the Jute's belt. Halfgar drew his dagger and strove to fight, but the Picts overpowered him easily in his dazed condition and began to bind him with rawhide cords.
"Go then, Danes," cried old Gonar, "and return no more, for this isle belongs to the Pictish clans, and for too long have your Norse brethren ravaged its forests with their axes and sullied its turf with their heavy tread."
Danish warriors swarmed over the gunwales and put their shoulders to the hull; the keel grated upon the beach until the long-ship floated free, and a great shout went up from the Danes as they realized they were seaborne again.
"But the gem," shouted Cormac from the deck as the shore receded,"-surely it is of Rome rather than Pictdom, for I saw the Corinthian symbol, graven on its face."
"Not the acanthus," Gonar cried back, "but the Blood of the Sacrifice-the crimson fountain that spurts from the ripped breast to pleasure the heart of Golka of the Moon."
Cormac turned away with a sudden revulsion as the oarsmen swept the craft about and pulled for the clean open sea. Behind him rose a high keening like the wail of a lost soul, and the Gael shuddered as he realized Halfgar had come to full comprehension of his impending fate. Nothing of civilized weakness clung to Cormac's red, barbaric soul-yet something in the complete raw savagery of the Picts rasped on the armor around his heart.
"Well, you were right, Cormac," rumbled Wulfhere as the shore of the isle of Kaldjorn receded into the murk; "it was ill of me to taunt a defeated man, for my taunts doubtless spurred Halfgar on to vengeance at any price, and in the end it cost me near half my carles. It will take another voyage to Dane-mark to replenish my crew."
"Halfgar was a treacherous wolf and a torturer of women," said Cormac moodily, "yet he was a brave fighter, and it sits ill with me that a sea-warrior should spill his heart's blood on the altar of "Golka of the Moon."
"Well, then," said Donal, "gladden your heart with the happiness in the faces of the princess Helen and her lover Marcus. Look-even under the leaden drizzle of these murky-skies their evident joy as they gaze on one another, oblivious to the rest of us, is like the sunrise heralding the return of the gods. Be glad, too, at the thought of the gold King Gerinth will pay you for the safe return of his sister-and knowing the generosity of the man, I doubt not he'll pay you twice what you ask out of joy to see her alive." So saying, the minstrel lifted his ancient Roman lyre, plucked its iron strings and began to sing: Picts stole King Gerinth's sister fair And the king knew black despair. ''Las, what can I do?" cried he. "Foes assail by land and sea; "Warriors I have none to spare. "Thieves have ta'en my sister fair." Then to the king his minstrel came: "Wulfhere's crew of Viking-fame "Rests for a space in yonder bay; "Stout of heart and true be they. "Even to Ocean's utmost lair "They'll ply to find your sister fair." The King, his face a-streak with tears, Bared to the Viking-men his fears. "By Wotan!" Wulfhere roared, "my blade "Shall cleave the rogues who stole the maid." Then quoth black Cormac wrathfully: "They'll face the Tigers of the Sea!" Far on the roaring, wind-wracked tide The dragon-ship of the rovers plied. Juttish dragons barred their way; Then did the tigers rend and slay. Thorwald died 'neath Wulfhere's steel- See, how the hungry raven's wheel! Anon they sailed to Kaldjorn's strand Where Thorleif with his mighty band Held the fair maid in bondage sore. "Ho, ho!" quoth Hordi's son, "no more "The shores of your native land you'll see." And the poor maid wept bitterly. Then Kaldjorn felt the dragon's keel And the tigers raged with fangs of steel. Wulfhere roared with joy of battle- Norsemen fell to's blade like cattle. Thorleif's skull he clove in twain; Long his rovers heaped the slain. Now Pict and raven prowl the strand Where the Norse lie heaped on the crimson sand; The rovers ply from their valiant raid With an empty hold and a joyful maid. And Briton's king most happily Shall greet the Tigers of the Sea.
"By Thor, Donal!" roared Wulfhere gruffly, his great eyes a-swim with tears. "'Tis a song, for the gods! Sing it again-aye, and this time forget not how I turned Thorleif's blow aside and shore through his mail with my axe. What think you Cormac-is it not a good song?"
Cormac gazed broodingly toward the shore, where flames from the burning skalli were now glimmering redly through the murk.
"Aye, it's a good song, I'll not gainsay it. But already it differs in ways from the things I saw, and I doubt not the difference will grow with each singing. Well, it matters little-the world itself shifts and changes and fades to mist like the strains of a minstrel's harp, and mayhap the dreams we forge are more enduring than the works of kings and gods."
SWORDS OF THE NORTHERN SEA
"Skoal!" The smoke-stained rafters shook as the deep-throated roar went up. Drinking horns clashed and sword hilts beat upon the oaken board. Dirks hacked at the great joints of meat, and under the feet of the revelers gaunt, shaggy wolf-hounds fought over the remnants.
At the head of the board sat Rognor the Red, scourge of the Narrow Seas. The huge Viking meditatively stroked his crimson beard, while his great, arrogant eyes roved about the hall, taking in the familiar scene. A hundred warriors feasted here, waited on by bold-eyed, yellow-haired women and by trembling slaves. Spoils of the Southland were flung about in careless profusion. Rare tapestries and brocades, bales of silk and spice, tables and benches of fine mahogany, curiously chased weapons and delicate masterpieces of art vied with the spoils of the hunt-horns and heads of forest beasts. Thus the Viking proclaimed his mastery over man and beast.
The Northern nations were drunken with victory and conquest. Rome had fallen; Frank, Goth, Vandal and Saxon had looted the fairest possessions of the world. And now these races found themselves hard put to hold their prizes from the wilder, fiercer peoples who swept down on them from the blue mists of the North. The Franks, already settled in Gaul and beginning to show signs of Latinization, found the long, lean galleys of the Norsemen bringing the sword up their rivers; the Goth further south felt the weight of their kinsmen's fury and the Saxons, forcing the Britons westward, found themselves assailed by a more furious foe from the rear. East, west and south to the ends of the world ranged the dragon-beaked long ships of the Vikings.
The Norse had already begun to settle in the Hebrides and the Orkneys, though as yet it was more a rendezvous of pirates than the later colonization. And the lair of Rognor the Red was this isle, called by the Scots Ladbhan, the Picts Golmara and the Norse Valgaard. His word was law, the only law this wild horde recognized; his hand was heavy, his soul ruthless, his range the open world.
The sea-king's eyes ranged about the board, while he nodded slightly in satisfaction. No pirate that sailed the seas could boast a fiercer assortment of fighting men than he; a mixed horde they were, Norsemen and Jutes-big, yellow-bearded men with wild, light eyes. Even now as they feasted they were fully armed and girt in mail, though they had laid aside their horned helmets. A ferocious, wayward race they were, with a latent madness burning in their brains, ready to leap into terrible flame at an instant.
Rognor's gaze turned from them, with their great bare arms heavy with golden armlets, to rest on one who seemed strangely different from the rest. This was a tall, rangily built man, deep-chested and strong, whose square-cut black hair and dark, smooth face contrasted with the yellow manes and beards about him. This man's eyes were narrow slits and of a cold-steel grey, and they, with a number of scars that marred his face, lent him a peculiarly sinister aspect. He wore no gold ornaments of any kind and his mail was of chain mesh instead of the scale type worn by the men about him.
Rognor frowned abstractedly as he eyed this man, but just as he was about to speak, another man entered the huge hall and approached the head of the board. This newcomer was a tall, splendidly made young Viking, beardless but wearing a yellow mustache. Rognor greeted him.
"Hail, Hakon! I have not seen you since yesterday."
"I was hunting wolves in the hills," answered the young Viking, glanc
ing curiously at the dark stranger. Rognor followed his gaze.
"That is one Cormac Mac Art, chief of a band of reivers. His galley was wrecked in the gale last night and he alone won through the breakers to shore. He came to the skalli doors early in the dawn, dripping wet, and argued the carles into bringing him in to me instead of slaying him as they had intended. He offered to prove his right to follow me on the Viking path, and fought my best swordsmen, one after the other, weary as he was. Rane, Tostig. and Halfgar he played with as they were children and disarmed each without giving scathe or taking a wound himself."
Hakon turned to the stranger and spoke a courtly greeting, and the Gael answered in kind, with a stately inclination of his head.
"You speak our language well," said the young Viking.
"I have many friends among your people," answered Cormac. Hakon's eyes rested on him strangely for a moment, but the inscrutable eyes of the Gael gave back the gaze, with no hint of what was going on in his mind.
Hakon turned back to the sea-king. Irish pirates were common enough in the Narrow Seas, and their forays carried them sometimes as far as Spain and Egypt, though their ships were far less seaworthy than the long ships of the Vikings. But there was little friendship between the races. When a reiver met a Viking, generally a ferocious battle ensued. They were rivals of the Western seas.
"You have come at a good time, Cormac," Rognor was rumbling. "You will see me take a wife tomorrow. By the hammer of Thor! I have taken many women in my time-from the people of Rome and Spain and Egypt, from the Franks, from the Saxons, and from the Danes, the curse of Loki on them!. But never have I married one before. Always I tired of them and gave them to my men for sport. But it is time I thought of sons and so I have found a woman, worthy even of the favors of Rognor the Red. Ho-Osric, Eadwig, bring in the British wench! You shall judge for yourself, Cormac."
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