Merlin's Ring

by H. Warner Munn

  They wondered also to what land they might have sailed, but the prince had taken the record with him and by that time only Gwalchmai and Corenice could have told them— and they were no longer in Britain.

  11

  nArngrim and the Cjolden (jirl

  The world had been long in turmoil. While Gwalchmai lay in the glacier massive movements of restless peoples had taken place.

  Rome had collapsed before the terrible Goths, had been rescued by the Greeks of Byzantium and fallen again to the tribes of the Lombards, or Long Knives, descending upon them out of the forests of her ancient enemy, Germania. Men then began to think of Italy as a nation, for Rome was dead and those who still could call themselves Romans were refugees in the swamps of Venice.

  The lights still shone brightly in Byzantium, but the boundaries of the Eastern Empire expanded and shrank like those of an amoeba. Sometimes they were broad and irregular during times of uneasy peace; sometimes they were confined only to the walls which surrounded that often beleaguered city, still the pride of Europe.

  Scholars looked toward Byzantium as they looked toward Heaven. The religious found in it their holiest treasures. Raiders longed to sack it for its wealth. Military men studied its campaigns and strategy, and diplomats learned their involved art of swaying the minds of men by observing the trickery practiced there.

  There were no finer examples of architecture remaining anywhere else that had not yet been vandalized; no other arenas still in use to entertain the people comparable to Byzantium’s Hippodrome; no other rulers more conscious of their divine destiny in any land of Christendom.

  The Moors had stormed north out of Africa during that long encysting of Gwalchmai in the ice. In Spain Christianity met Mohammedanism and was hurled back and northward toward the sea.

  At one time it was said that only one mountain peak in all Spain was free and upon it only twelve knights and their families held out to contest the paynim hordes.

  Charles the Great had built another “empire, Roman only in name, and it too had been dismembered and the grandeur become a dream., ‘t

  While Gwalchmai spent his night in Elveron and time went on unheeded by frim, other movements occurred.

  More mountains became free in Spain, for Christian and Moor learned to live with one another almost as neighbors, although they often fought as neighbors do. The north became a crazy-quilt of tiny Christian kingdoms, consolidated by way of war and marriages of expedience.

  The south was Islamic, divided by the Moors—stern, bearded, intolerant Berbers from North Africa and the milder Saracens—the cultured, sybaritic Arabs. They scorned each other’s ideals, but were united by their faith. Here also was a collection of warring states, where a single battle or marriage could change the pattern of power.

  Then a third element was infused into the witches’ cauldron of conflicting faiths and politics.

  Rurik^ the Norseman, had led his savage conquerors into Muscovy, burning, slaying, establishing an empire of his own. His sucessors came down the Don, into the Sea of Ravens, to attack Byzantium like a storm, meaning only to sack it and destroy.

  His Varangians remained in the end to work for those they had hoped to conquer and to become the most trusted guards of the Byzantine Emperors. They were Christian only in name when they made that bargain, and for a long time after they still swore by Thor’s hammer.

  It was inevitable that these powers should grind against each other.

  During the winter Gwalchmai and Corenice spent in Har-lech Castle, a new jihad was being preached by a Berber warrior who called himself Abu, the Dawn-Maker. Horrified by the lapses of his kinsmen in faith and their love of luxury, he swore to purge all Spain by the sword and to slay indiscriminately both infidel Christians and apostate sons of Islam. With this aim in view, his fleet crossed from Ceuta and soon held all of southern Spain and the western end of the Mediterranean under his despotic rule. From these points, his riders and his ships harried the north both by land and sea.

  While the wine-ship from Malaga, upon which Gwalchmai and Corenice had taken passage, wallowed down the coast of France and across the Bay of Biscay, a galley manned by Abu’s corsairs had passed througk the Straits of Gebal Tarik, likewise coasting, and was looking for just such a prize.

  On the way north, it had rounded Capes Finisterre and Ortegal, made several lightning raids to gain supplies and booty, and had arrived about opposite Santander.

  Here, because of a failing wind, the galley slaves were ordered to run out their sweeps and the ship soon picked up speed.

  One of these slaves was no stranger to war. His story was later told by the skalds, in the great Hall of the Mercenaries at Miklegarth, as Byzantium was known among the Norse, when the feasting was over and the drinking horns were raised. It was then that the sadness of wine lay upon men and they wished for mead; their minds dwelt upon the glories of Valhalla and were filled with doomful thoughts of Ragnarok. Then someone would.cry, “Let us hear again the Saga of Arngrim!” and the saga-man would begin:

  “First it-must be told that there was a man named Arngrim. He was a Varangian captain of the Northern Guard in the service of the Emperor Alexius, the First, of Miklegarth. He took the Emperor’s pay and carried the Emperor’s sword in his hand and looked on the Emperor’s face upon the coins in his pouch. His joy was to strike down the enemies of the Emperor.

  “He was the son of Steinar, the son of Thorvald, the son of Jodd, the Dane. He was the master of a patrol ship. His hair was black.

  “Now the story turns westward, for hither through the Gates of Hercules flees Augmund, the Unwashed, son of Thorberg Snorrison, the Evil, busked and bound for Tons-berg, by way of Hrossey, with many goods on board reaped from spoiled and burned churches on Lesbos Island. Behind sails Arngrim, with his sword Life-Biter, heading the sea-rover off from the landward veering, and the sea-stags drive on so for six days into the northern ocean.

  “Now back turns Augmund and they run their ships alongside and grapple and the steel-storm begins; fire-pots fall into Arngrim’s ship, setting it alight and they cast off to fight on Augmund’s deck.

  “Up and down the waist rages the slaying till mid-even,-when none, are left but Augmund and Arngrim, both gruesome at the man-hewing and well matched.

  “‘Yield ye!” cries Arngrim, but Augmund comes against him to smite at once with his sword. Arngrim catches the blow on his shield and twists the blade short off, then with Life-Biter he hews the sea-rover’s legs away and the war-spoil is his.

  “So no more of Augmund.”

  Thus, the saga-man—but there were some things that did not appear in the account, for Arngrim did not mention them when he came home to Miklegarth with a golden girl. Because of his tight mouth, these matters did not enter into his saga.

  Rais Salih el Talib captained a galley of weary men. His soldiers longed for the shore and the shade of green trees, as the sore-footed camel longs to leave the burning sand for the oasis. His rowers pulled without spirit, even under the whip.

  He surveyed the benches with no enthusiasm. They were a scurvy lot to begin with. Time had not brought improvement. He felt little hope that they would last out the trip.

  Salih was a landsman himself. He had been given the title of Rais al Bohr—Captain of the Sea—more as an encouragement to do his best than in any hope of his Al-mir-al that such an event was likely to occur.

  His eyes strayed up and down the two long lines of slaves, straining at the oars. The new man was shaping up welL His wounds were minor and were almost healed. His head was up. The corded muscles moved easily under the skin of his unscarred back. It had been unnecessary to use the whip. After he had realized the futility of an attempt to escape, he had done more than his share.

  Since he had been picked up from the drifting wreck, he had proved himself a good worker, if not a willing one. The Rais idly wondered why.

  Their eyes met and held. Salih no longer wondered. There was a flame hi those eyes that told him th
is piece of flotsam lived only to kill. He would never be broken. What he was planning the Rais knew well.

  At one time, the black-haired slave’s nose had been smashed and carelessly reset. He could never have been handsome, but this gave him a savage appearance that denied trust. He was too ugly to resell for personal service to any great house. He was too dangerous as a slave. It would be like having a tiger on board.

  When this voyage was over it would be best to have him killed. At present his strength was needed. With a little feeling of chill, the Rais turned away.

  When he was no longer under observation, Arngrim renewed the conversation with his partner at the oar. They spoke in the faintest of whispers, with no movement of the lips.

  “You say this is the coast of your people?”

  The other indicated direction with the tiniest glance forward at the mountains in the distance. He was hugely built, barrel-chested, bullet-headed, with a large nose and blue eyes. He had the short, thick, slightly bowed legs of a born mountaineer.

  “Yonder lies the home of Jaun Magrurin. There are the mountains of Escual-Herria,*” he said in halting Latin, of which both understood a little. “There I was born. There I shall die.”

  “You seem very sure you will not die a slave.”

  “Ez! Ez! Never! We Eskualdunak make poor slaves. We are the oldest people hi Europe and the freest. We have never been conquered. For me to die here would shame all of my family and disgrace my nation. Even before you came I had already racked my bench loose at all its joints. I wait my time.”

  “And I also!” breathed Arngrim.

  Then they could no longer converse, for the overseer strode along the walkway, swinging his flail.

  Suddenly the lookout hailed the bridge. “Sail ho!”

  *The Country of the Basques.

  “Whither away?”

  “Six points to the north. Merchantman under full sail, bearing south-southeast by east—riding high!”

  “Under what flag? Can you make her out?”

  “The Red Lion, Captain! Fair prey!”

  At this period in their conquests, almost anything upon the seas was prey for the corsairs, but they had learned a healthy respect for the Viking banners. It was possible yet to see the Raven flag farther south than along this coast They had met, even in the Mediterranean, opposite the beaches of France, and only to the detriment of the Moors.

  It would be many years yet before the crescent banners dared appear in the harbors of England, but no one, not even the novice seaman Salih el Talib, feared the various flags of Spain. Moreover, a merchant ship that had disposed of its cargo and was returning empty to port must be carrying rich and easily portable treasure for which it had traded.

  “Pick up the beat! Whips!”

  The prow swung to intercept the merchant vessel, as the drum set a quickened pace and the rowers, under the crack of the lash, bent their aching backs to the oars.

  On board the wine-ship, Gwalchmai and Corenice- were leaning idly upon the rail, admiring the snow-capped peaks in the distance.

  The ship lay helplessly in the water as it had for some hours, drifting becalmed, but moving gently toward the land upon the now incoming tide. It was about midday. No clouds were in the sky and there was no hint of any wind. All sails were full set to catch the smallest breeze, but there was hardly a ripple upon the quiet ocean.

  Then die merchantman’s lookout sighted the corsair. It was coming up fast, in a thrash of white foam along its wake and there was no doubt that they were on a collision course.

  The sun gleamed upon the wet oars and their rapid motion could be discerned, as could the sparkle of light upon the Moorish soldiers’ weapons and their polished chain mail.

  In less than half an hour they would obviously be ready to attack.

  The merchantman was not fitted for war or speed. As quickly as possible, boarding nets were set up and arms were served out, but there was little time to melt pitch or heat oil. However, stones for ballast were brought and lined along the bulwarks to be dropped into the galley when it came alongside. A barrel of wine slung at the end of the bowsprit, hung free to fall and so add insult to injury if by some miracle it could be cut loose over those boarders to whom wine was forbidden by their Prophet.

  Gwalchmai almost wondered if this were some deliberately sneaky trick of Thor’s, to avoid keeping his promise, but he put aside the thought as unworthy. If the tricky god had intended such a deed, it would have been unnecessary to go to so much trouble, involving so many people, in order to cheat one man.

  He clenched his fists upon the rail. He still carried his flint ax, almost ancient now. He had the sword he had taken from the dead Norman knight after the battle at Getain’s howe, but Corenice carried nothing but a dagger that had just been issued to her.

  It was meant not for killing Moors but for her own death upon capture—which now seemed certain.

  Gwalchmai’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the rail tighter at the thought. His ring gleamed upon his finger. It was not even slightly warm.

  Could it be that they were in no danger? Had it finally lost its power?

  He took off the ring and read the spell engraved upon the inner face of the hoop, as he had done before to slow the Viking fleet from reaching Iceland’s shore. This time he pointed the long arm of the mysterious constellation almost at the zenith, for the corsair was perilously close.

  A little black cloud no larger than a man’s cap formed instantly, less than a hundred feet above the bare mast of the galley. It rushed toward the corsair, for hanging in this position it moved with the speed of the attacker, but it grew in size as it came. It was fifty, then a hundred feet across, and it grew, it grew, taking on the semblance of a monstrous raven with ink-black beating wings that smote down great buffets of air upon the long low vessel striding the waves beneath it with oars for legs.

  Under these powerful gusts, the corsair reeled and spun around. Above, the sable bird shape circled even more madly. The water was lashed to fury and a whirlpool took form. Its sides were glassy and streaked with foani that outlined the racing ship as it whirled about the edges of an opening funnel now plunging deeper and deeper into the sea.

  With it, the corsair descended. It sank below the level of the flattened waves, until only the tip of the wildly waving mast could be seen, circling in dizzy wobbling sweeps to every point of the compass.

  As the two ships were less than half a mile apart, those aboard the wine-ship could plainly hear the screams of the doomed men, but they came as it were from far below.

  Then the wind stopped. The black cloud was dissipated and the whirlpool disappeared, the waters rushing hi from all sides hi a fury of tossing choppy waves in which there was no direction and only a small amount of floating wreckage from the sunken warship of the Moors.

  Drawn hi that direction by the currents set up by the disturbance, the merchantman soon entered the spin-drift and there they came upon the only survivors—two slaves barely kept afloat upon the rowing bench, which witk their united immense strength they had ripped loose as the corsair went down.

  Still weighted by their attached chains they hung there, faces awash—Arngrim, son of Steinar, and Jaun, the Basque.

  Not long after being picked up they went ashore as free men, upon the reaches of sand leading to the green stonewalled fields and rushing streams of Escual-Herria—and witk them went Gwalchmai and Corenice, set there according to their own desire. Gwalchmai knew he was coming to the conclusion of Thor’s promise, for he was sure now that the god meant to keep it.

  As the captain of the wine-ship said, “There have been many sudden squalls that have sunk ships in the Bay of Biscay, but I never heard of one before that came out of a cloud hi the shape of a raven!”

  And Gwalchmai knew that this had sprung from no plan of his. Thor had proved himself a true and trustworthy friend.

  They had been landed almost at the angle of the peninsula. France meets here with Spain, separated by th
e Pyrenees, which lie across the country like a fern frond carelessly flung down, stretching from east to west. On both sides of the stem, the pinnate fronds are tall ranges running north and south and between these are valleys, peopled and cultivated for millenniums.

  Here the cave-bears dwelt in ages past; here the Cro-Magnon race mysteriously appeared for the first time, with a culture strangely similar to that of those in the Americas, as though they shared a kinship and a common origin. In those same deep caves these doughty fighters and hunts-, men pitted their strength and arms against the beast-like men they found there and told -the story of their wars and hunts in wondrous paintings.

  Here now dwelt the Eskualdunak.

  Along the southern front of this mountain range marched the four companions, bound in the same direction for different reasons. Arngrim meant to return to Byzantium, where he held a position of honor and life was soft; Gwal-chmai and Corenice wished to find the proper pass into France among all these dead-end northerly valleys; Jaun, the Basque, had promised to lead them there.

  After they left the coast, the mountains began rising higher and more sheer. There were snowcaps and later there were glaciers and always brawling rivulets and larger streams to cross.

  Occasionally they slept in villages, more often in caves. Although Gwalchmai felt a crawling along his spine when he was underground, for he remembered the Lord x>f the Dark Face had more power there than elsewhere, they were never troubled by any enemies, either spirit or mortal.

  He felt that around him were remnants of very ancient magics, and indeed some of these caverns were holy places even before Oduarpa came to Earth from the Morning Star.

  In the settled places they found the villagers hospitable and friendly once their Basque guide introduced his friends, for he seemed to have cousins or acquaintances everywhere. They always ate well in the stone black-roofed houses of Magrurin’s relatives.

  Although Gwalchmai, while he wore the ring, could understand any language Merlin had known, this strange agglutinative tongue baffled him. Corenice cried out in joy when she heard it, for she said it was the language of her youth, spoken by all in Poseidonis, but in a purer form. She wondered if colonists from Atlantis had come much earlier than that last sinking and brought their speech with them. Had they found life too hard and become savages upon that savage coast and lost all else?