Son of a woman of the O’Briens and a renegade Norman knight, Geoffrey the Bastard, in whose veins, it is said, coursed the blood of William the Conqueror, Cormac had seldom known an hour of peace or ease in all his thirty years of violent life. He was born in a feud-torn and blood-drenched land, and raised in a heritage of hate and savagery. The ancient culture of Erin had long crumbled before the repeated onslaughts of Norsemen and Danes. Harried on all sides by cruel foes, the rising civilization of the Celts had faded before the fierce necessity of incessant conflict, and the merciless struggle for survival had made the Gaels as savage as the heathens who assailed them.
Now, in Cormac’s time, war upon red war swept the crimson isle, where clan fought clan, and the Norman adventurers tore at one another’s throats, or resisted the attacks of the Irish, playing tribe against tribe, while from Norway and the Orkneys the still half-pagan Vikings ravaged all impartially.
A vague realization of all this flashed through Sir Rupert’s mind as he stood staring at his friend.
“We heard you were slain in a sea-fight off Sicily,” he repeated.
Cormac shrugged his shoulders. “Many died then, it is true, and I was struck senseless by a stone from a ballista. Doubtless that is how the rumor started. But you see me, as much alive as ever.”
“Sit down, old friend.” Sir Rupert thrust forward one of the rude benches which formed part of the tavern’s furniture. “What is forward in the West?”
Cormac took the wine goblet proffered him by a dark-skinned servitor, and drank deeply.
“Little of note,” said he. “In France the king counts his pence and squabbles with his nobles. Richard — if he lives — languishes somewhere in Germany, ’tis thought. In England Shane — that is to say, John — oppresses the people and betrays the barons. And in Ireland — Hell!” He laughed shortly and without mirth. “What shall I say of Ireland but the same old tale? Gael and foreigner cut each other’s throat and plot together against the king. John De Coursey, since Hugh de Lacy supplanted him as governor, has raged like a madman, burning and pillaging, while Donal O’Brien lurks in the west to destroy what remains. Yet, by Satan, I think this land is but little better.”
“Yet there is peace of a sort now,” murmured Sir Rupert.
“Aye — peace while the jackal Saladin gathers his powers,” grunted Cormac. “Think you he will rest idle while Acre, Antioch and Tripoli remain in Christian hands? He but waits an excuse to seize the remnants of Outremer.”
Sir Rupert shook his head, his eyes shadowed.
“It is a naked land and a bloody one. Were it not akin to blasphemy I could curse the day I followed my King eastward. Betimes I dream of the orchards of Normandy, the deep cool forests and the dreaming vineyards. Methinks my happiest hours were when a page of twelve years—”
“At twelve,” grunted FitzGeoffrey, “I was running wild with shock-head kerns on the naked fens — I wore wolf skins, weighed near to fourteen stone, and had killed three men.”
Sir Rupert looked curiously at his friend. Separated from Cormac’s native land by a width of sea and the breadth of Britain, the Norman knew but little of the affairs in that far isle. But he knew vaguely that Cormac’s life had not been an easy one. Hated by the Irish and despised by the Normans, he had paid back contempt and ill-treatment with savage hate and ruthless vengeance. It was known that he owned a shadow of allegiance only to the great house of Fitzgerald, who, as much Welsh as Norman, had even then begun to take up Irish customs and Irish quarrels.
“You wear another sword than that you wore when I saw you last.”
“They break in my hands,” said Cormac. “Three Turkish sabers went into the forging of the sword I wielded at Joppa — yet it shattered like glass in that sea-fight off Sicily. I took this from the body of a Norse sea-king who led a raid into Munster. It was forged in Norway — see the pagan runes on the steel?”
He drew the sword and the great blade shimmered bluely, like a thing alive in the candle light. The servants crossed themselves and Sir Rupert shook his head.
“You should not have drawn it here — they say blood follows such a sword.”
“Bloodshed follows my trail anyway,” growled Cormac. “This blade has already drunk FitzGeoffrey blood — with this that Norse sea-king slew my brother, Shane.”
“And you wear such a sword?” exclaimed Sir Rupert in horror. “No good will come of that evil blade, Cormac!”
“Why not?” asked the big warrior impatiently. “It’s a good blade — I wiped out the stain of my brother’s blood when I slew his slayer. By Satan, but that sea-king was a grand sight in his coat of mail with silvered scales. His silvered helmet was strong too — ax, helmet and skull shattered together.”
“You had another brother, did you not?”
“Aye — Donal. Eochaidh O’Donnell ate his heart out after the battle at Coolmanagh. There was a feud between us at the time, so it may be Eochaidh merely saved me the trouble — but for all that I burned the O’Donnell in his own castle.”
“How came you to first ride on the Crusade?” asked Sir Rupert curiously. “Were you stirred with a desire to cleanse your soul by smiting the Paynim?”
“Ireland was too hot for me,” answered the Norman-Gael candidly. “Lord Shamus MacGearailt — James Fitzgerald — wished to make peace with the English king and I feared he would buy favor by delivering me into the hands of the king’s governor. As there was feud between my family and most of the Irish clans, there was nowhere for me to go. I was about to seek my fortune in Scotland when young Eamonn Fitzgerald was stung by the hornet of Crusade and I accompanied him.”
“But you gained favor with Richard — tell me the tale.”
“Soon told. It was on the plains of Azotus when we came to grips with the Turks. Aye, you were there! I was fighting alone in the thick of the fray and helmets and turbans were cracking like eggs all around when I noted a strong knight in the forefront of our battle. He cut deeper and deeper into the close- ranked lines of the heathen and his heavy mace scattered brains like water. But so dented was his shield and so stained with blood his armor, I could not tell who he might be.
“But suddenly his horse went down and in an instant he was hemmed in on all sides by the howling fiends who bore him down by sheer weight of numbers. So hacking a way to his side I dismounted—”
“Dismounted?” exclaimed Sir Rupert in amazement.
Cormac’s head jerked up in irritation at the interruption. “Why not?” he snapped. “I am no French she-knight to fear wading in the muck — anyway, I fight better on foot. Well, I cleared a space with a sweep or so of my sword, and the fallen knight, the press being lightened, came up roaring like a bull and swinging his blood-clotted mace with such fury he nearly brained me as well as the Turks. A charge of English knights swept the heathen away and when he lifted his visor I saw I had succored Richard of England.
“‘Who are you and who is your master?’ said he.
“‘I am Cormac FitzGeoffrey and I have no master,’ said I. ‘I followed young Eamonn Fitzgerald to the Holy Land and since he fell before the walls of Acre, I seek my fortune alone.’
“‘What think ye of me as a master?’ asked he, while the battle raged half a bow-shot about us.
“‘You fight reasonably well for a man with Saxon blood in his veins,’ I answered, ‘but I own allegiance to no English king.’
“He swore like a trooper. ‘By the bones of the saints,’ said he, ‘that had cost another man his head. You saved my life, but for this insolence, no prince shall knight you!’
“‘Keep your knighthoods and be damned,’ said I. ‘I am a chief in Ireland — but we waste words; yonder are pagan heads to be smashed.’
“Later he bade me to his royal presence and waxed merry with me; a rare drinker he is, though a fool withal. But I distrust kings — I attached myself to the train of a brave and gallant young knight of France — the Sieur Gerard de Gissclin, full of insane ideals of chivalry, but a nobl
e youth.
“When peace was made between the hosts, I heard hints of a renewal of strife between the Fitzgeralds and the Le Boteliers, and Lord Shamus having been slain by Nial Mac Art, and I being in favor with the king anyway, I took leave of Sieur Gerard and betook myself back to Erin. Well — we swept Ormond with torch and sword and hanged old Sir William le Botelier to his own barbican. Then, the Geraldines having no particular need of my sword at the moment, I bethought myself once more of Sieur Gerard, to whom I owed my life and which debt I have not yet had opportunity to pay. How, Sir Rupert, dwells he still in his castle of Ali-El-Yar?”
Sir Rupert’s face went suddenly white, and he leaned back as if shrinking from something. Cormac’s head jerked up and his dark face grew more forbidding and fraught with somber potentialities. He seized the Norman’s arm in an unconsciously savage grip.
“Speak, man,” he rasped. “What ails you?”
“Sieur Gerard,” half-whispered Sir Rupert. “Had you not heard? Ali-El-Yar lies in smoldering ruins and Gerard is dead.”
Cormac snarled like a mad dog, his terrible eyes blazing with a fearful light. He shook Sir Rupert in the intensity of his passion.
“Who did the deed? He shall die, were he Emperor of Byzantium!”
“I know not!” Sir Rupert gasped, his mind half-stunned by the blast of the Gael’s primitive fury. “There be foul rumors — Sieur Gerard loved a girl in a sheik’s harem, it is said. A horde of wild riders from the desert assailed his castle and a rider broke through to ask aid of the baron Conrad Von Gonler. But Conrad refused—”
“Aye!” snarled Cormac, with a savage gesture. “He hated Gerard because long ago the youngster had the best of him at sword-play on shipboard before old Frederick Barbarossa’s eyes. And what then?”
“Ali-El-Yar fell with all its people. Their stripped and mutilated bodies lay among the coals, but no sign was found of Gerard. Whether he died before or after the attack on the castle is not known, but dead he must be, since no demand for ransom has been made.”
“Thus Saladin keeps the peace!”
Sir Rupert, who knew Cormac’s unreasoning hatred for the great Kurdish sultan, shook his head. “This was no work of his — there is incessant bickering along the border — Christian as much at fault as Moslem. It could not be otherwise with Frankish barons holding castles in the very heart of Muhammadan country. There are many private feuds and there are wild desert and mountain tribes who owe no lordship even to Saladin, and wage their own wars. Many suppose that the sheik Nureddin El Ghor destroyed Ali-El-Yar and put Sieur Gerard to death.”
Cormac caught up his helmet.
“Wait!” exclaimed Sir Rupert, rising. “What would you do?”
Cormac laughed savagely. “What would I do? I have eaten the bread of the de Gissclins. Am I a jackal to sneak home and leave my patron to the kites? Out on it!”
“But wait,” Sir Rupert urged. “What will your life be worth if you ride on Nureddin’s trail alone? I will return to Antioch and gather my retainers; we will avenge your friend together.”
“Nureddin is a half-independent chief and I am a masterless wanderer,” rumbled the Norman-Gael, “but you are Seneschal of Antioch. If you ride over the border with your men-at-arms, the swine Saladin will take advantage to break the truce and sweep the remnants of the Christian kingdoms into the sea. They are but weak shells, as it is, shadows of the glories of Baldwin and Bohemund. No — the FitzGeoffreys wreak their own vengeance. I ride alone.”
He jammed his helmet into place and with a gruff “Farewell!” he turned and strode into the night, roaring for his horse. A trembling servant brought the great black stallion, which reared and snorted with a flash of wicked teeth. Cormac seized the reins and savagely jerked down the rearing steed, swinging into the saddle before the pawing front hoofs touched earth.
“Hate and the glutting of vengeance!” he yelled savagely, as the great stallion whirled away, and Sir Rupert, staring bewilderedly after him, heard the swiftly receding clash of the brazen-shod hoofs. Cormac FitzGeoffrey was riding east.
* * *
II. — THE CAST OF AN AX
WHITE DAWN surged out of the Orient to break in rose-red billows on the hills of Outremer. The rich tints softened the rugged outlines, deepened the blue wastes of the sleeping desert.
The castle of the baron Conrad Von Gonler frowned out over a wild and savage waste. Once a stronghold of the Seljuk Turks, its metamorphosis into the manor of a Frankish lord had abated none of the Eastern menace of its appearance. The walls had been strengthened and a barbican built in place of the usual wide gates. Otherwise the keep had not been altered.
Now in the dawn a grim, dark figure rode up to the deep, waterless moat which encircled the stronghold, and smote with iron-clad fist on hollow-ringing shield until the echoes reverberated among the hills. A sleepy man-at-arms thrust his head and his pike over the wall above the barbican and bellowed a challenge.
The lone rider threw back his helmeted head, disclosing a face dark with a passion that an all-night’s ride had not cooled in the least.
“You keep rare watch here,” roared Cormac FitzGeoffrey. “Is it because you’re so hand-in-glove with the Paynim that you fear no attack? Where is that ale-guzzling swine you call your liege?”
“The baron is at wine,” the fellow answered sullenly, in broken English.
“So early?” marveled Cormac.
“Nay,” the other gave a surly grin, “he has feasted all night.”
“Wine-bibber! Glutton!” raged Cormac. “Tell him I have business with him.”
“And what shall I say your business is, Lord FitzGeoffrey?” asked the carl, impressed.
“Tell him I bring a passport to Hell!” yelled Cormac, gnashing his teeth, and the scared soldier vanished like a puppet on a string.
The Norman-Gael sat his horse impatiently, shield slung on his shoulders, lance in its stirrup socket, and to his surprize, suddenly the barbican door swung wide and out of it strutted a fantastic figure. Baron Conrad Von Gonler was short and fat; broad of shoulder and portly of belly, though still a young man. His long arms and wide shoulders had gained him a reputation as a deadly broadsword man, but just now he looked little of the fighter. Germany and Austria sent many noble knights to the Holy Land. Baron Von Gonler was not one of them.
His only arm was a gold-chased dagger in a richly brocaded sheath. He wore no armor, and his costume, flaming with gay silk and heavy with gold, was a bizarre mingling of European gauds and Oriental finery. In one hand, on each finger of which sparkled a great jewel, he held a golden wine goblet. A band of drunken revelers reeled out behind him — minnesingers, dwarfs, dancing girls, wine-companions, vacuous-faced, blinking like owls in the daylight. All the boot-kissers and hangers-on that swarm after a rich and degenerate lord trooped with their master — scum of both races. The luxury of the East had worked quick ruin on Baron Von Gonler.
“Well,” shouted the baron, “who is it wishes to interrupt my drinking?”
“Any but a drunkard would know Cormac FitzGeoffrey,” snarled the horseman, his lip writhing back from his strong teeth in contempt. “We have an account to settle.”
That name and Cormac’s tone had been enough to sober any drunken knight of the Outremer. But Von Gonler was not only drunk; he was a degenerate fool. The baron took a long drink while his drunken crew stared curiously at the savage figure on the other side of the dry moat, whispering to one another.
“Once you were a man, Von Gonler,” said Cormac in a tone of concentrated venom; “now you have become a groveling debauchee. Well, that’s your own affair. The matter I have in mind is another — why did you refuse aid to the Sieur de Gissclin?”
The German’s puffy, arrogant face took on new hauteur. He pursed his thick lips haughtily, while his bleared eyes blinked over his bulbous nose like an owl. He was an image of pompous stupidity that made Cormac grind his teeth.
“What was the Frenchman to me?” the baron retorted
brutally. “It was his own fault — out of a thousand girls he might have taken, the young fool tried to steal one a sheik wanted himself. He, the purity of honor! Bah!”
He added a coarse jest and the creatures with him screamed with mirth, leaping and flinging themselves into obscene postures. Cormac’s sudden and lion- like roar of fury gave them pause.
“Conrad Von Gonler!” thundered the maddened Gael, “I name you liar, traitor and coward — dastard, poltroon and villain! Arm yourself and ride out here on the plain. And haste — I can not waste much time on you — I must kill you quick and ride on lest another vermin escape me.”
The baron laughed cynically, “Why should I fight you? You are not even a knight. You wear no knightly emblem on your shield.”
“Evasions of a coward,” raged FitzGeoffrey. “I am a chief in Ireland and I have cleft the skulls of men whose boots you are not worthy to touch. Will you arm yourself and ride out, or are you become the swinish coward I deem you?”
Von Gonler laughed in scornful anger.
“I need not risk my hide fighting you. I will not fight you, but I will have my men-at-arms fill your hide with crossbow bolts if you tarry longer.”
“Von Gonler,” Cormac’s voice was deep and terrible in its brooding menace, “will you fight, or die in cold blood?”
The German burst into a sudden brainless shout of laughter.
“Listen to him!” he roared. “He threatens me — he on the other side of the moat, with the drawbridge lifted — I here in the midst of my henchmen!”
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 306