Tigers Of The Sea cma-4 Read online

  "As it is they seldom act in concert for long. The Jutes, Angles and Saxons who assail them are forever at war among themselves also, as you know, but a never-ending supply streams across the Narrow Seas in their long, low galleys."

  "That too I well know," growled the Dane, "having sent some score of those galleys to Midgaard. Some day my own people will come and take Britain from them."

  "It is a land worth fighting for," responded the Gael. "What think you of the men we have shipped aboard?"

  "Donal we know of old. He can tear the heart from my breast with his harp when he is so minded, or make me a boy again. And in a pinch we know he can wield a sword. As for the Roman-" so Wulfhere termed Marcus, "he has the look of a seasoned warrior."

  "His ancestors were commanders of British legions for three centuries, and before that they trod the battlefields of Gaul and Italy with Caesar. It is but the remnant of Roman strategy lingering in the British knights that has enabled them to beat back the Saxons thus far. But, Wulfhere, what think you of my beard?" The Gael rubbed the bristly stubble that covered his face.

  "I never saw you so unkempt before," grunted the Dane, "save when we had fled or fought for days so you could not be hacking at your face with a razor."

  "It will hide my scars in a few days," grinned Cormac. "When I told you to head for Ara in Dalriadia, did naught occur to you?"

  "Why, I assumed you would ask for news of the princess among the wild Scots there."

  "And why did you suppose I would expect them to know?"

  Wulfhere shrugged his shoulders. "I am done seeking to reason out your actions."

  Cormac drew from his pouch the flint arrowhead. "In all the British Isles there is but one race who makes such points for their arrows. They are the Picts of Caledonia, who ruled these isles before the Celts came, in the age of stone. Even now they tip their arrows often with flint, as I learned when I fought under King Gol of Dalriadia. There was a time, soon after the legions left Britain, when the Picts ranged, like wolves clear to the southern coast. But the Jutes and Angles and Saxons drove them back into the heather country, and for so long has King Garth served as a buffer between them and Gerinth that he and his people have forgotten their ways."

  "Then you think Picts stole the princess? But how did they-?"

  "That is for me to learn; that's why we are heading for Ara. The Dalriadians and the Picts have been alternately fighting with each other and against each other for over a hundred years. Just now there is peace between them and the Scots are likely to know much of what goes on in the Dark Empire, as the Pictish kingdom is called-and dark it is, and strange. For these Picts come of an old, old race and their ways are beyond our ken."

  "And we will capture a Scot and question him?"

  Cormac shook his head. "I will go ashore and mingle with them; they are of my race and language."

  "And when they recognize you," grunted Wulfhere, "they will hang you to the highest tree. They have no cause to love you. True, you fought under King Gol in your early youth, but since then you have raided Dalriadia's coasts more than once-not only with your Irish reivers, but with me, likewise."

  "And that is why I am growing a beard, old sea-dragon," laughed the Gael.

  IV.

  Night had fallen over the rugged western coast of Caledon. Eastward loomed against the stars the distant mountains; westward, the dark seas stretched away to uncharted gulfs and unknown shores. The Raven rode at anchor on the northern side of a wild and rugged promontory that ran out into the sea, hugging close those beetling cliffs. Under cover of darkness Cormac had steered her inshore, threading the treacherous reefs of that grim shore with a knowledge born of long experience. Cormac Mac Art was Erin-born, but all the isles of the Western Sea had been his stamping ground since the day he had been able to lift his first sword.

  "And now," said Cormac, "I go ashore-alone."

  "Let me go with you!" cried Marcus, eagerly, but the Gael shook his head.

  "Your appearance and accent would betray us both. Nor can you either, Donal, for though I know the kings of the Scots have listened to your harp, you are the only one besides myself who knows this coast, and if I fail to return you must take her out."

  The Gael's appearance was vastly altered. A thick, short beard masked his features, concealing his scars. He had laid aside his horse-hair crested helmet and his finely worked mail shirt, and had donned the round helmet and crude scale mail corselet of the Dalriadians. The arms of many nations were part of the Raven's cargo.

  "Well, old sea-wolf," said he with a wicked grin, as he prepared to lower himself over the rail, "you have said nothing, but I see a gleam in your eyes; do you also wish to accompany me? Surely the Dalriadians could have nothing but welcome for so kind a friend who has burnt their villages and sunk their hide-bottomed boats."

  Wulfhere cursed him heartedly. "We seafarers are so well loved by the Scots that my red beard alone would be enough to hang me. But even so, were I not captain of this ship, and bound by duty to it, I'd chance it rather than see you go into danger alone, and you such an empty-headed fool!"

  Cormac laughed deeply. "Wait for me until dawn," he instructed, "and no longer."

  Then, dropping from the after rail, he struck out for the shore, swimming strongly in spite of his mail and weapons. He swam along the base of the cliffs and presently found a shelving ledge from which a steep incline led upward. It might have taxed the agility of a mountain goat to have made the ascent there, but Cormac was not inclined to make the long circuit about the promontory. He climbed straight upward and, after a considerable strain of energy and skill, he gained the top of the cliffs and made his way along them to the point where they joined a steep ridge on the mainland. Down the southern slope of this he made his way toward the distant twinkle of fires that marked the Dalriadian town of Ara.

  He had not taken half a dozen steps when a sound behind him brought him about, blade at the ready. A huge figure bulked dimly in the starlight.

  "Hrut! What in the name of seven devils-"

  "Wulfhere sent me after you," rumbled the big carle. "He feared harm might come to you."

  Cormac was a man of irascible temper. He cursed Hrut and Wulfhere impartially. Hrut listened stolidly and Cormac knew the futility of arguing with him. The big Dane was a silent, moody creature whose mind had been slightly affected by a sword-cut on the head. But he was brave and loyal and his skill at woodcraft was second only to Cormac's.

  "Come along," said Cormac, concluding his tirade, "but you cannot come into the village with me. You understand that you must hide outside the walls?"

  The carle nodded, and motioning him to follow, Cormac took up his way at a steady trot. Hrut followed swiftly and silently as a ghost for all his bulk. Cormac went swiftly, for he would be crowded indeed to accomplish what he had set out to do and return to the dragon-ship by mid-day-but he went warily, for he expected momentarily to meet a party of warriors leaving or returning to the town. Yet luck was with him, and soon he crouched among the trees within arrow shot of the village.

  "Hide here," he whispered to Hrut, "and on no account come any nearer the town. If you hear a brawl, wait until an hour before dawn; then, if you have heard naught from me, go back to Wulfhere. Do you understand?"

  The usual nod was the answer and as Hrut faded back among the trees, Cormac went boldly toward the village.

  Ara was build close to the shore of a small, land-locked bay and Cormac saw the crude hide coracles of the Dalriadians drawn up on the beach. In these they swept south in fierce raids on the Britons' and Saxons, or crossed to Ulster for supplies and reinforcements. Ara was more of an army camp than a town, the real seat of Dalriadia lying some distance inland.

  The village was not a particularly imposing place. Its few hundred wattle and mud huts were surrounded by a low wall of rough stones, but Cormac knew the temper of its inhabitants. What the Caledonian Gaels lacked in wealth and armament they made up in unquenchable ferocity. A hundred years o
f ceaseless conflict with Pict, Roman, Briton and Saxon had left them little opportunity to cultivate the natural seeds of civilization that was an heritage of their native land. The Gaels of Caledonia had gone backward a step; they were behind their Irish cousins in culture and artisanship, but they had not lost an iota of the Gaelic fighting fury.

  Their ancestors had come from Ulahd into Caledonia, driven by a stronger tribe of the southern Irish. Cormac, born in what was later known as Connacht, was a son of these conquerors, and felt himself not only distinct from these transplanted Gaels, but from their cousins in northern Erin. Still, he had spent enough time among these people to deceive them, he felt.

  He strode up to the crude gate and shouted for entrance before he was perceived by the guard, who were prone to be lax in their vigilance in the face of apparent quietude-a universal Celtic trait. A harsh voice ordered him to stand still, while a torch thrust above the gate shone its flickering light full on him. In its illumination Cormac could see, framed above the gate, fierce faces with unkempt beards and cold grey or blue eyes.

  "Who are you?" one of the guards demanded.

  "Partha Mac Othna, of Ulahd. I have come to take service under your chief, Eochaidh Mac Aible."

  "Your garments are dripping wet."

  "And they were not it would be a marvel," answered Cormac. "There was a boat load of us set sail from Ulahd this morning. On the way a Saxon sea-rover ran us down and all but I perished in the waves and the arrows the pirates rained upon us. I caught a piece of the broken mast and essayed to float."

  "And what of the Saxon?"

  "I saw the sails disappear southward. Mayhap they raid the Britons."

  "How is it that the guard along the beach did not see you when you finally came ashore?"

  "I made shore more than a mile to the south, and glimpsing the lights through the trees, came here. I have been here aforetime and knew it to be Ara, whither I was bound."

  "Let him in," growled one of the Dalriadians. "His tale rings true."

  The clumsy gate swung open and Cormac entered the fortified camp of his hereditary foes. Fires blazed between the huts, and gathered close about the gate was the curious throng who had heard the guard challenge Cormac. Men, women and children partook of the wildness and savagery of their hard country. The women, splendidly built amazons with loose flowing hair, stared at him curiously, and dirty-faced, half-naked children peered at him from under shocks of tangled hair-and Cormac noted that each held' a weapon of sorts. Brats scarcely able to toddle held a stone or a piece of wood. This symbolized the fierce life they led, when even the very babes had learned to snatch up a weapon at the first hint of alarm-aye, and to fight like wounded wildcats if need be. Cormac noted the fierceness of the people, their lean, hard savagery. No wonder Rome had never broken these people!

  Some fifteen years had passed since Cormac had fought in the ranks of the ferocious warriors. He had no fear of being recognized by any of his former comrades. Nor, with his thick beard as a disguise, did he expect recognition as Wulfhere's comrade.

  Cormac followed the warrior who led him toward the largest hut in the village. This, the pirate was sure, housed the chieftain and his folk. There was no elegance in Caledonia. King Gol's palace was a wattled hut. Cormac smiled to himself as he compared this village with the cities he had seen in his wanderings. Yet it was not walls and towers that made a city, he reflected, but the people within.

  He was escorted into the great hut where a score of warriors were drinking from leather jacks about a crudely carved table. At the head sat the chief, known to Cormac of old, and at his elbow the inevitable minstrel-a characteristic of Celtic court life, however crude the court. Cormac involuntarily compared this skin-clad, shock-headed kern to the cultured and chivalrous Donal.

  "Son of Ailbe," said Cormac's escort, "here is a weapon-man from Erin who wishes to take service under you."

  "Who is your chief?" hiccupped Eochaidh, and Cormac saw that the Dalriadian was drunk.

  "I am a free wanderer," answered the Wolf. "Aforetime I followed the bows of Donn Ruadh Mac Fin, flaith na Ulahd."

  "Sit ye down and drink," ordered Eochaidh with an uncertain wave of his hairy hand. "Later I will talk with you."

  No more attention was paid to Cormac, except the Scots made a place for him and a shockheaded gilly filled his cup with the fiery potheen so relished by the Gaels. The Wolf's ranging eye took in all the details of the scene, passed casually over the Dalriadian fighting-men and rested long on two men who sat almost opposite him. One of these Cormac knew-he was a renegade Norseman, Sigrel by name, who had found sanctuary among the foes of his race. Cormac's pulse quickened as he caught the evil eyes of the man fixed narrowly on him, but the sight of the man beside the Norseman made him forget Sigrel for the moment.

  This man was short and strongly made. He was dark, much darker than Cormac himself, and from a face as immobile as an idol's, two black eyes glittered reptile-like. His square-cut black hair was caught back and confined by a narrow silver band about his temples, and he wore only a loin cloth and a broad leather girdle from which hung a short, barbed sword. A Pict! Cormac's heart leaped. He had intended drawing Eochaidh into conversation at once and, by the means of a tale he had already fabricated, to draw from him any information he might have of the whereabouts of the princess Helen. But the Dalriadian chief was too drunk for that now. He roared barbaric songs, pounded the board with his sword hilt in accompaniment to the wild strains of his minstrel's harp, and between times guzzled potheen at an astounding rate. All were drunk-all save Cormac and Sigrel, who furtively eyed the Gael over the rim of his goblet.

  While Cormac racked his brain for a convincing way of drawing the Pict into conversation, the minstrel concluded one of his wild chants with a burst of sound and a rhyme that named Eochaidh Mac Ailbe "Wolf of Alba, greatest of raven-saters!"

  The Pict reeled drunkenly to his feet, dashing his drinking-jack down on the board. The Picts habitually drank a smooth ale made from the heather blossoms. The fiery barley malt brewed by the Gaels maddened them. This particular Pict's brain was on fire. His face, no longer immobile, writhed demoniacally and his eyes glowed like coals of black fire.

  "True, Eochaidh Mac Ailbe is a great warrior," he cried in his barbarous Gaelic, "but even he is not the greatest warrior in Caledonia. Who is greater than King Brogar, the Dark One, who rules the ancient throne of Pictdom? And next to him is Grulk! I am Grulk the Skull-cleaver! In my house in Grothga there is a mat woven of the scalps of Britons, Angles, Saxons-aye, and Scots!"

  Cormac shrugged his shoulders in impatience. The drunken boastings of this savage would be likely to bring him a sword-thrust from the drink-fired Scots, that would cut off all chance of learning anything from him. But the Pict's next words electrified the Gael.

  "Who of all Caledonia has taken a more beautiful women from the southern Britons than Grulk?" he shouted, reeling and glaring. "There were five of us in the hide-bottomed boat the gale blew southward. We went ashore in Gerinth's realm for fresh water, and there we came upon three Britons deep in the forest-one lad and two beautiful maidens. The boy showed fight, but I, Grulk, leaping upon his shoulders, bore him to earth and disembowelled him with my sword. The women we took into our boat and fled with them northward, and gained the coast of Caledonia, and took the women to Grothga!"

  "Words-and empty words," sneered Cormac, leaning across the table. "There are no such women in Grothga now!"-taking a long chance.

  The Pict howled like a wolf and fumbled drunkenly for his sword.

  "When old Gonar, the high priest, looked on the face of the most finely dressed one-she who called herself Atalanta-he cried out that she was sacred to the moon god-that the symbol was upon her breast, though none but he could, see. So he sent her, with the other, Marcia, to the Isle of Altars, in the Shetlands, in a long boat the Scots lent him, with fifteen warriors. The girl Atalanta is the daughter of a British nobleman and she will be acceptable in the eyes of Golka of
the moon."

  "How long since they departed for the Shetlands?" asked Cormac, as the Pict showed signs of making a quarrel of it.

  "Three weeks; the night of the Nuptials of the Moon is not yet. But you said I lied-"

  "Drink and forget it," growled a warrior, thrusting a brimming goblet at him. The Pict seized it with both hands and thrust his face into the liquor, guzzling ravenously, while the liquid slopped down on his bare chest. Cormac rose from his bench. He had learned all he wished to know, and he believed the Scots were too drunk to notice his casual departure from the hut. Outside it might be a different matter to get past the wall. But no sooner had he risen than another was on his feet. Sigrel, the renegade Viking, came around the table toward him.

  "What, Partha," he said maliciously, "is your thirst so soon satisfied?"

  Suddenly he thrust out a hand and pushed back the Gael's helmet from his brows. Cormac angrily struck his hand away, and Sigrel leaped back with a yell of ferocious triumph.

  "Eochaidh! Men of Caledonia! A thief and a liar is among you!"

  The drunken warriors gaped stupidly.

  "This is Cormac an Cliuin," shouted Sigrel, reaching for his sword, "Cormac Mac Art, comrade of Wulfhere the Viking!

  Cormac moved with the volcanic quickness of a wounded tiger. Steel flashed in the flickering torchlight and Sigrel's head rolled grinning beneath the feet of the astonished revelers. A single bound carried the reiver to the door and he vanished while the Scots were struggling to their feet, roaring bewilderedly and tugging at their swords.

  In an instant the whole village was in an uproar. Men had seen Cormac leap from the chief's hut with his red-stained sword in his hand and they gave chase without asking the reason for his flight. The partially sobered feasters came tumbling out of the hut yelling and cursing, and when they shouted the real identity of their erstwhile guest a thunderous roar of rage went up and the whole village joined vengefully in the chase.