At last a carle shouted: "Rognor will have seen the fire and be returning-Olaf, run you and meet him; and tell him Hakon and his Jutes are pent in the stable. We will surround the place and keep them there until Rognor gets here. Then we shall see!"
A carle set off at full speed and Cormac laughed softly to himself.
"Just what I was hoping for! The gods have been good to us this night, Wulfhere! But back-further into the shadows, lest the flames discover us."
Then followed a tense time of waiting for all concerned-for the Jutes imprisoned in the stable, for the Norsemen lying about it, and for the unseen Danes lurking just within the forest edge. The fire burnt itself out and the flames died in smoking embers. Away in the east shone the first touch of dawn. A wind blew up from the sea and stirred the forest leaves. And through the woods echoed the tramp of many men, the clash of steel and deep angry shouts. Cormac's nerves hummed like taut lute strings. Now was the crucial moment. If Rognor's men passed from the forest into the clearing without seeing their hidden foes, all was well. Cormac made the Danes lie prone and, with heart in his mouth, waited.
Again came the glimmer of torches through the trees, and with a sigh of relief Cormac saw that Rognor was approaching the steading from another direction than that he had taken in leaving it. The motley horde broke cover almost opposite the point where Cormac and his men lay.
Rognor was roaring like a wild bull and swinging his two-handed sword in great arcs.
"Break down the doors!" he shouted. "Follow me-shatter the walls!"
The whole horde streamed out across the clearing, Rognor and his veterans in the lead.
Wulfhere had leaped to his feet and his Danes rose as a man behind him. The chief's eyes were blazing with battle-lust.
"Wait!" Cormac thrust him hack. "Wait until they are pounding at the doors!"
Rognor's Vikings crashed headlong against the stable. They bunched at the windows, stabbing and hacking at the blades that thrust from within. The clash of steel rose deafeningly, frightened horses screamed and kicked thunderously at their stalls, while the heavy doors shook to the impact of a hundred axes.
"Now!" Cormac leaped to his feet, and across the clearing swept a sudden storm of arrows. Men went down in windrows, and the rest turned bewilderedly to face this sudden and unguessed foe. The Danes were bowmen as well as swordsmen; they excelled all other nations of the North in this art. Now as they leaped from their hiding place, they loosed their shafts as they ran with unerring aim. But the Norsemen were not ready to break yet. Seeing their red-maned foes charging them, they supposed, dazedly, that a great host was upon them, but with the reckless valor of their breed they leaped to meet them.
Driving their last flight of shafts point-blank, the Danes dropped their bows and leaped into close quarters, yelling like fiends, to slash and hack with swords and axes.
They were far outnumbered, but the surprise told heavily and the unexpected arrows had taken terrific toll. Still Cormac, slashing and thrusting with reddened sword, knew that their only chance lay in a quick victory. Let the battle be drawn out and the superior numbers of the Norse must win. Hakon and his Jutes had sallied from the stable and were assailing their former mates from that side. There in the first white light of dawn was enacted a scene of fury.
Rognor, thought Cormac as he mechanically dodged an axe and ran the wielder through, must die quickly if the coup he wished for was to be brought about.
And now he saw Rognor and Wulfhere surging toward each other through the waves of battle. A Dane, thrusting savagely at the Norseman, went down with a shattered skull, and then with a thunderous yell of fury the two red-bearded giants crashed together. All the pent up ferocity of years of hatred burst into flame, and the opposing hordes halted their own fight mutually to watch their chieftains battle.
There was little to choose between them in size and strength. Rognor was armed with a great sword that he swung in both hands, while Wulfhere bore a long-shafted axe and a heavy shield. That shield was rent in twain beneath Rognor's first incredible stroke, and tossing the fragments away, Wulfhere struck back and hewed one of the horns from the Norseman's helmet. Rognor roared and cut terrifically at Wulfhere's legs, but the huge Dane, with a quickness astounding in a man of his bulk, bounded high in the air, cleared the whistling blade and in mid-air chopped down at Rognor's head. The heavy axe struck glancingly on the iron helmet, but even so Rognor went to his knees with a grunt. Then even as the Dane heaved up his axe for another stroke, Rognor was up and his mighty arms brought down his great sword in an arc that crashed full on Wulfhere's helmet. The huge blade shivered with a tremendous crash and Wulfhere staggered, his eyes filling with blood. Like a wounded tiger he struck back with all the might of his gigantic frame, and his blind, terrible stroke cleft Rognor's helmet and shattered the skull beneath. Both hosts cried out at the marvel of that blow as Rognor's corpse tumbled at Wulfhere's feet-and the next instant the blinded giant went down before a perfect storm of swords as Rognor's picked swordsmen rushed to avenge their chief.
With a yell Cormac bounded into the press and his sword wove a web of death above the chief who, having grappled with some-of his attackers, now kicked and wrestled with them on the bloody earth. The Danes surged in to aid their leaders, and about the fallen chieftains eddied a whirlpool of steel. Cormac found himself opposed to Rane, one of Rognor's prize swordsmen, while Hakon battled with his mate, Halfgar. Cormac laughed; he had crossed swords with Rane, a lean shaggy wolf of a man, that morning and he knew all he wished to know about him. A quick parry of an overhand stroke, a dazzling feint to draw a wide lunge, and the Gael's sword was through the Viking's heart.
Then he turned to Hakon. The young Viking was hard pressed; Halfgar, a giant, taller than Wulfhere, towered over him, raining terrific blows upon his shield so swiftly Hakon could make no attempt to launch an offensive of his own. An unusually vicious stroke beat his helmet down over his eyes and for an instant he lost touch of his opponent's blade. In that instant he would have died, but a slim, girlish figure leaped in front of him and took the blow on her own blade, the force of it dashing her to her knees. Up went the giant's sword again-but at that second Cormac's point pierced his bull throat just above the mail.
Then the Gael wheeled back, just as a powerful carle raised an axe high above the still prostrate Wulfhere. The point was Cormac's favorite, but that he could use the edge as well he proved by splitting the carle's skull to the chin. Then, grabbing Wulfhere's shoulders, he hauled him off the men he was seeking to throttle and dragged him, cursing and bellowing like a bull, out of the press.
A quick glance showed him that Rognor's veterans had fallen before the axes of the Danes, and that the rest of the Norsemen, seeing their chief fall, had renewed the fight only halfheartedly. Then what he had hoped for occurred. One of the Norsemen shouted: "The woods are full of Danes!" And the strange, inexplicable panic that sometimes seizes men gripped the carles. Shouting, they gave back and fled for the skalli in a straggling body. Wulfhere, shaking the blood out of his eyes and bellowing for his axe; would have hurled his men after them, but Cormac stopped him. His shouted commands kept the Danes from following the fugitives, who were fortified in the skalli and ready to sell their lives as dearly as only cornered men can.
Hakon, prompted by Cormac, shouted to them: "Ho, warriors, will ye listen to me?"
"We listen, Hakon," came back a shout from the barred windows, "but keep back; mayhap we be doomed men, but many shall die with us if you seek to take the skalli."
"I have no quarrel with you," answered Hakon. "I look upon you as friends, though you allowed Rognor to bind and imprison me. But that is past; let it be forgotten. Rognor is dead; his picked veterans are dead and ye have no leader. The forest about the steading swarms with Danes who but await my signal. But that signal I am loath to give. They will burn the skalli and cut the throats of every man, woman and child among you. Now attend me-if you will accept me as your chieftain, and swear fealty
to me, no harm will come to you."
"What of the Danes?" came the shouted question. "Who are they that we should trust them?"
"You trust me, do you not? Have I ever broken my word?"
"No," they admitted, "you have always kept faith."
"Good enough. I swear to you that the Danes will not harm you. I have promised them a ship; that promise I must keep if they are to go in peace. But if you follow me on the Viking path, we can soon get another ship or build one. And one thing more-here stands beside me the girl who is to be my wife-the daughter of a British prince. She has promised me the aid of her people in all our endeavors. With friends on the British mainland we can have a source of supplies from whence we can raid the Angles and Saxons to our hearts' content-with the aid of Tarala's Britons we may carve us out a kingdom in Britain as Cerdic, Hengist and Horsa did. Now, speak-will you take me as your chief?"
A short silence followed in which the Vikings were evidently holding council with each other; then presently their spokesman shouted: "We agree to your wishes, O Hakon!"
Hakon laid down his notched and bloody sword and approached the skalli door emptyhanded. "And will you swear fealty to me on the bull, the fire and the sword?"
The great portals swung open, framing fierce, bearded faces. "We will swear, Hakon; our swords are yours to command."
"And when they've found we've tricked them, they'll turn and cut his throat and ours," grunted Wulfhere, mopping the blood from his face.
Cormac smiled and shook his head. "They've sworn, they will keep faith. Are you badly wounded?"
"A trifle," growled the giant. "A gash in the thigh and a few more on the arms and shoulders. It was the cursed blood that got in my eyes when Rognor's sword bit through my helmet and into my scalp, as it broke…"
"Your head's harder than your helmet, Wulfhere," laughed Cormac. "But here, we must be attending to our wounded. Some ten of our men are dead and nearly all of them slashed more or less. Also, some of the Jutes are down. But, by the gods, what a killing we have made this night!"
He indicated the stark and silent rows of arrow-feathered or sword-gashed Norsemen.
The sun, not yet in the zenith of the clear blue sky, glimmered on the white sails of a long ship as they spread and swelled to catch the wind. On the deck stood a small group of figures.
Cormac extended his hand to Hakon. "We have hunted together well this night, young sir. A few hours since you were a captive doomed to die and Wulfhere and I were hunted outlaws. Now you are lord of Ladbhan and a band of hardy Vikings, and Wulfhere and I have a staunch ship under our feet-though forsooth, the crew is rather scant. Still, that can be overcome as soon as the Danes hear that Wulfhere and Cormac Mac Art need men.
"And you-" he turned to the girl who stood beside Hakon, still clad in the mail that hung loosely on her lithe form-"you are in truth a valkyrie-a shield woman. Your sons will be kings."
"Aye, that they will," rumbled Wulfhere, enveloping Tarala's slim hand with his own huge paw. "Were I a marrying man, I might cut Hakon's throat and carry you off for myself. But now the wind is rising and my very heart quivers to feel the deck rocking under my feet again. Good fortune attend you all."
Hakon, his bride and the Norsemen attending them swung down into the boat that waited to carry them ashore. At Wulfhere's shout, his Danes cast off; the oars began to ply and the sails filled. The watchers in the boat and on shore saw the long ship stand off.
"What now, old wolf?" roared Wulfhere, dealing Cormac a buffet between the shoulders that would have felled a horse. "Where away?-it is for you to say."
"To the Isle of Swords, first, for a full crew," the Gael answered, his eyes alight. "Then-" he drank in deeply the crisp strong tang of the sea-wind-"then, skoal for the Viking path again and the ends of the world!"
NIGHT OF THE WOLF
Thorwald Shield-hewer's gaze wandered from the glittering menace in the hard eyes of the man who fronted him, and strayed down the length of his great skalli. He marked the long lines of mailed, horn-helmed carles, the hawk-faced chiefs who had ceased feasting to listen. And Thorwald Shield-hewer laughed.
True, the man who had just flung his defiance into the Viking's teeth did not look particularly impressive beside the armored giants who thronged the hall. He was a short, heavily-muscled man, smooth-faced and very dark. His only garments or ornaments were rude sandals on his feet, a deerskin loincloth, and a broad leather girdle from which swung a short curiously-barbed sword. He wore no armor and his square-cut black mane was confined only by a thin silver band about his temples. His cold black eyes glittered with concentrated fury and his inner passions stirred the expressions of his usually immobile face.
"A year ago," said he, in barbarous Norse, "you came to Golara, desiring only peace with my people. You would be our friend and protect us from the raids of others of your accursed race. We were fools; we dreamed there was faith in a sea-thief. We listened. We brought you game and fish and cut timbers when you built your steading, and shielded you from others of our people who were wiser than we. Then you were a handful with one longship. But as soon as your stockade was built, more of you came. Now your warriors number four hundred, and six dragonships are drawn up on the beach.
"Soon you became arrogant and overbearing. You insulted our chiefs, beat our young men -of late your devils have been carrying off our women and murdering our children and our warriors."
"And what would you have me do?" cynically asked Thorwald. "I have offered to pay your chief man-bote for each warrior slain causelessly by my carles. And as for your wenches and brats-a warrior should not trouble himself about such trifles."
"Man-bote!" the dark chief's eyes flashed in fierce anger. "Will silver wash out spilt blood? What is silver to we of the isles? Aye-the women of other races are trifles to you Vikings, I know. But you may find that dealing thus with the girls of the forest people is far from a trifle!"
"Well," broke in Thorwald sharply, "speak your mind and get hence. Your betters have more important affairs than listening to your clamor."
Though the other's eyes burned wolfishly, he made no reply to the insult.
"Go!" he answered, pointing seaward. "Back to Norge (Norway) or Hell or wherever you came from. If you will take your accursed presence hence, you may go in peace. I, Brulla, a chief of Hjaltland (Shetland Islands), have spoken."
Thorwald leaned back and laughed deeply; his comrades echoed his laughter and the smoky rafters shook with roars of jeering mirth.
"Why, you fool," sneered the Norseman, "do you think that Vikings ever let go of what they have taken hold? You Picts were fools enough to let us in-now we are the stronger. We of the North rule! Down on your knees, fool, and thank the fates that we allow you to live and serve us, rather than wiping out your verminous tribe altogether! But henceforth ye shall no longer be known as the Free People of Golara-nay, ye shall wear the silver collar of thralldom and men shall know ye as Thorwald's serfs!"
The Pict's face went livid and his self-control vanished.
"Fool!" he snarled in a voice that rang through the great hall like the grating of swords in battle. "You have sealed your doom! You Norse rule all nations, eh? Well, there be some who die, mayhap, but never serve alien masters! Remember this, you blond swine, when the forest comes to life about your walls and you see your skalli crumble in flames and rivers of blood! We of Golara were kings of the world in the long ago when your ancestors ran with wolves in the Arctic forests, and we do not bow the neck to such as you! The hounds of Doom whine at your gates and you shall die, Thorwald Shield-hewer, and you, Aslaf Jarl's-bane, and you, Grimm Snorri's son, and you Osric, and you, Hakon Skel, and-" the Pict's finger, stabbing at each of the flaxen-haired chiefs in turn, wavered; the man who sat next to Hakon Skel differed strangely from the others. Not that he was a whit less wild and ferocious in his appearance. Indeed, with his dark, scarred features and narrow, cold gray eyes, he appeared more sinister than any of the rest. But he was black-haired and
clean-shaven, and his mail was of the chain-mesh type forged by Irish armor-makers instead of the scale-mail of the Norse. His helmet, crested with flowing horse-hair, lay on the bench beside him.
The Pict passed over him and ended with the pronunciation of doom on the man beyond him-"And you, Hordi Raven."
Aslaf Jarl's-bane, a tall, evil-visaged chief, leaped to his feet: "Thor's blood, Thorwald, are we to listen to the insolence of this jackal? I, who have been the death of a jarl in my day-"
Thorwald silenced him with a gesture. The sea-king was a yellow-bearded giant, whose eyes were those of a man used to rule. His every motion and intonation proclaimed the driving power, the ruthless strength of the man.
"You have talked much and loudly, Brulla," he said mildly. "Mayhap you are thirsty."
He extended a brimming drinking horn, and the Pict, thrown off guard by surprise, reached a mechanical hand for it, moving as if against his will. Then with a quick turn of his wrist, Thorwald dashed the contents full in his face. Brulla staggered with a catlike scream of hellish fury, then his sword was out like a flash of summer lightning, and he bounded at his baiter. But his eyes were blinded by the stinging ale and Thorwald's quick-drawn sword parried his blind slashes while the Viking laughed mockingly. Then Aslaf caught up a bench and struck the Pict a terrible blow that stretched him stunned and bleeding at Thorwald's feet. Hakon Skel drew his dagger, but Thorwald halted him.
"I'll have no vermin's blood polluting my skalli floor. Ho, carles, drag this carrion forth."
The men-at-arms sprang forward with brutal eagerness. Brulla, half-senseless and bleeding, was struggling uncertainly to his knees, guided only by the wild beast fighting instinct of his race and his Age. They beat him down with shields, javelin shafts and the flat of axes, showering cruel blows on his defenseless body until he lay still. Then, jeering and jesting, they dragged him through the hall by the heels, arms trailing, and flung him contemptuously from the doorway with a kick and a curse. The Pictish chief lay face down and limply in the reddened dust, blood oozing from his pulped mouth-a symbol of the Viking's ruthless power.
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