Tigers Of The Sea cma-4 Read online

  Cormac, weaving in and out among the huts like a flying shadow, came on an unguarded point of the wall and, without slackening his headlong gait, cleared the low barrier with a bound and raced toward the forest. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him that his escape had been seen. Warriors were swarming over the wall, weapons in their hands.

  It was some distance to the first thick tangle of trees. Cormac took it full speed, running low and momentarily expecting an arrow between his shoulders. But the Dalriadians had no skill at archery and he reached the fringe of forest unscathed.

  He had outfooted the fleet Caledonians, all save one who had outdistanced his fellows by a hundred yards and was now close upon the reiver's heels. Cormac wheeled to dispose of this single foe, and even as he turned a stone rolled under his foot and flung him to his knee. He flung up his blade to block the sword that hovered over him like the shadow of Doom-but before it could fall, a giant shape catapulted from the trees, a heavy sword crashed down, and the Scot fell limply across Cormac, his skull shattered.

  The Gael flung off the corpse and leaped to his feet. The yelling pursuers were close now, and Hrut, snarling like a wild beast, faced them-but Cormac seized his wrist and dragged him back among the trees. The next instant they were fleeing in the direction from which they had first come to Ara, ducking and dodging among the trees.

  Behind them, and presently on either side, they heard the crashing of men through the underbrush, and savage yells. Hundreds of warriors had joined in the hunt of their arch-enemy. Cormac and Hrut slackened their speed and went warily, keeping in the deep shadows, flitting from tree to tree, now lying prone in the bushes to let a band of searchers go by. They had progressed some little distance when Cormac was galvanized by the deep baying of hounds far behind them.

  "We are ahead of our pursuers now, I think," muttered the Gael. "We might make a dash of it and gain the ridge and from thence the promontory and the ship. But they have loosed the wolfhounds on our trail and if we take that way, we will lead them and the warriors straight to Wulfhere's ship. There are enough of them to swim out and board her and take her by storm. We must swim for it."

  Cormac turned westward, almost at right-angles to the course they had been following, and they quickened their pace recklessly-and emerging into a small glade ran full into three Dalriadians who assailed them with yells. Evidently they had not been ahead of their hunters as far as Cormac had thought, and the Gael, hurling himself fiercely into the fray, knew that the fight must be short or else the sound would bring scores of warriors hastening to the spot.

  One, of the Scots engaged Cormac while the other two fell upon the giant Hrut. A buckler turned Cormac's first vicious thrust and the Dalriadian's sword beat down on his helmet, biting through the metal and into the scalp beneath. But before the warrior could strike again, Cormac's sword cut his left leg from under him, through the knee, and as he crumpled another stroke shore through his neck cords.

  In the meantime Hrut had killed one of his opponents with a bear-like stroke that rended the upflung shield as though it had been paper and crushed the skull it sought to guard, and as Cormac turned to aid him, the remaining foe leaped in with the desperate recklessness of a dying wolf, and it seemed to the Gael that his stabbing sword sank half way to the hilt in the Dane's mighty bosom. But Hrut gripped the Scot's throat in his huge left hand, thrust him away and struck a blow that shore through corselet and ribs and left the broken blade wedged in the dead man's spinal column.

  "Are you hurt badly, Hrut?" Cormac was at his side, striving to undo the Dane's rent corselet so that he might staunch the flow of blood. But the carle pushed him away.

  "A scratch," he said thickly. "I've broken my sword-let us haste."

  Cormac cast a doubtful look at his companion, then turned and hurried on in the direction they had been following. Seeing that Hrut followed with apparent ease, and hearing the baying of the hounds grow nearer, Cormac increased his gait until the two were running fleetly through the midnight forest. At length they heard the lapping of the sea, and even as Hrut's breathing grew heavy and labored they emerged upon a steep rocky shore, where the trees overhung the water. To the north, jutting out into the sea could be seen the vague bulk of the promontory behind which lay the Raven. Three miles of rugged coast lay between the promontory and the bay of Ara. Cormac and Hrut were at a point a little over halfway between, and slightly nearer the promontory than the bay.

  "We swim. from here," growled Cormac, "and it's a long swim to Wulfhere's ship, around the end of the promontory for the cliffs are too steep to climb on this side-but we can make it and the hounds can't follow our tracks in the water-what in the name of gods-!"

  Hrut had reeled and pitched headlong down the steep bank, his hands trailing in the water. Cormac reached him instantly and turned him on his back; but the Dane's fierce face was set in death. Cormac tore open his corselet and felt beneath it for an instant, then withdrew his hand and swore in amazement at the vitality that had enabled the carle to run for nearly half a mile with that terrible wound beneath his heart. The Gael hesitated; then to his ears came the deep baying of the hounds. With a bitter curse he tore off his helmet and corselet and threw them aside, kicking off his sandals. Drawing his sword belt up another notch, he waded out into the water and then struck out strongly.

  In the darkness before dawn Wulfhere, pacing the deck of his dragon-ship, heard a faint sound that was not the lapping of the waves against the hull or the cliffs. With a quick word to his comrades, the Dane stepped to the rail and peered over. Marcus and Donal pressed close behind him, and presently saw a ghostly figure clamber out of the water and up the side. Cormac Mac Art, blood-stained and half naked, clambered over the rail and snarled:

  "Out oars, wolves, and pull for the open sea, before we have half a thousand Dalriadians on our backs! And head her prow for the Shetlands-the Picts have taken Gerinth's sister there."

  "Where's Hrut?" rumbled Wulfhere, as Cormac started toward the sweep-head.

  "Drive a brass nail into the main-mast," snarled the Gael. "Gerinth owes us ten pounds already."

  The bitterness in his eyes belied the harsh callousness of his words.

  V.

  Marcus paced the deck of the dragon-ship. The wind filled the sails and the long ash oars of the rowers sent the long, lean craft hurtling through the water, but to the impatient Briton it seemed that they moved at a snail's pace.

  "But why did the Pict call her Atalanta?" he cried, turning to Cormac. "True, her maid was named Marcia-but we have no real proof that the woman with her is the princess Helen."

  "We have all the proof in the world," answered the Gael. "Do you think the princess would admit her true identity to her abductors? If they knew they held Gerinth's sister, they would have half his kingdom as ransom."

  "But what did the Pict mean by the Nuptials of the Moon?"

  Wulfhere looked at Cormac and Cormac started to speak, shot a quick glance at Marcus and hesitated.

  "Tell him," nodded Donal. "He must know eventually."

  "The Picts worship strange and abhorrent gods," said the Gael, "as is well known to we who roam the sea, eh Wulfhere?"

  "Right," growled the giant. "Many a Viking has died. on their altar stones."

  "One of their gods is Golka of the Moon. Every so often they present a captured virgin of high rank to him. On a strange, lonely isle in the Shetlands stands a grim black altar, surrounded by columns of stone, such as you have seen at Stonehenge. On that altar, when the moon is full, the girl is sacrificed to Golka."

  Marcus shuddered; his nails bit into his palms.

  "Gods of Rome, can such things be?"

  "Rome has fallen," grunted the Skull-splitter. "Her gods are dead. They will not aid us. But fear not-" he lifted his gleaming, keen-edged axe, "here is that which will aid us. Let me lead my wolves into the stone circle and we will give Golka such a blood-sacrifice as he has never dreamed of!"

  "Sail on the port bow!" came the
sudden shout of the look-out in the cross-trees. Wulfhere wheeled suddenly, beard bristling. A few moments later all on board could make out the long, low lines of the strange craft.

  "A dragon-ship," swore Cormac, "and making full speed with oar and sail-she means to cut across our bows, Wulfhere."

  The chieftain swore, his cold blue eyes beginning to blaze. His whole body quivered with eagerness and a new roaring note came into the voice that bellowed commands to his crew.

  "By the bones of Thor, he must be a fool! But we'll give him his fill!"

  Marcus caught the Dane's mighty arm and swung him about.

  "Our mission is not to fight every sea-thief we meet," the young Briton cried angrily. "You were engaged to search for the princess Helen; we must not jeopardize this expedition. Now we have at last a clue; will you throw away our chances merely to glut your foolish lust for battle?"

  Wulfhere's eyes flamed.

  "This to me on my own deck?" he roared. "I'll not show my stern to any rover for Gerinth and all his gold! If it's fight he wants, it's fight he'll get."

  "The lad's right, Wulfhere," said Cormac quietly, "but by the blood of the gods we'll have to run for it, for yon ship is aimed straight for us and I see a running about on the deck that can mean naught but preparation for a sea-fight."

  "And run we cannot," said Wulfhere in deep satisfaction, "for I know her-that ship is Rudd Thorwald's Fire-Woman, and he is my life-long enemy. She is as fleet as the Raven and if we flee we will have her hanging on our stern all the way to the Shetlands. We must, fight."

  "Then let us make it short and desperate," snapped Cormac, scowling. "There's scant use in trying to ram her; run alongside and we'll take her by storm."

  "I was born in a sea-fight, and I sank dragon-ships before I ever saw you," roared Wulfhere. "Take the sweep-head." He turned to Marcus. "Hast ever been in a sea-brawl, youngster?"

  "No, but if I fail to go further than you can lead, hang me to your dragon-beak!" snapped the angered Briton.

  Wulfhere's cold eyes glinted in amused appreciation as he turned away.

  There was little maneuvering of ships in that primitive age. The Vikings attained the sea-craft they had in a later day. The long, low serpents of the sea drove straight for each other, while warriors lined the sides of each, yelling and clashing sword on shield.

  Marcus, leaning on the rail, glanced at the wolfish warriors beside and below him, and glanced across the intervening waves at the fierce, light-eyed, yellow-bearded Vikings who lined the sides of the opposing galley-Jutes they were, and hereditary enemies of the red-maned Danes. The young Briton shuddered involuntarily, not from fear but because of the innate, ruthless savagery of the scene, as a man might shudder at a pack of ravening wolves, without fearing them.

  And now there came a giant twanging of bowstrings and a rain of death leaped through the air. Here the Danes had the advantage; they were the bowmen of the North Sea. The Jutes, like their Saxon cousins, knew little of archery. Arrows came whistling back, but their flight lacked the deadly accuracy of the Danish shafts. Marcus saw men go down in windrows aboard the Juttish craft, while the rest crouched behind the shields that lined the sides. The three men at the sweep-head fell and the long sweep swung in a wide, erratic arc; the galley lost way and Marcus saw a blond giant he instinctively knew to be Rudd Thorwald himself leap to the sweep-head. Arrows rattled off his mail like hailstones, and then the two craft ran alongside with a rending and crashing of oars and a grinding of timbers.

  The wolf-yell of the Vikings split the skies and in an instant all was a red chaos. The grappling hooks bit in, gripping keel to keel. Shields locked, the double line writhed and rocked as each crew sought to beat the other back from its bulwarks and gain the opposing deck. Marcus, thrusting and parrying with a wild-eyed giant across the rails, saw in a quick glance over his foe's shoulder Rudd Thorwald rushing from the sweep-head to the rail. Then his straight sword was through the Jute's throat and he flung one leg over the rail. But before he could leap into the other ship, another howling devil was hacking and hewing at him, and only a shield suddenly flung above his head saved his life. It was Donal the minstrel who had come to his aid.

  Toward the waist of the ship, Wulfhere surged on through the fray and one mighty sweep of his axe cleared a space for him for an instant. In that instant he was over the rail on the deck of the Fire-Woman and Cormac, Thorfinn, Edric and Snorri were close behind him. Snorri died the moment his feet touched the Fire-Woman's deck and a second later a Juttish axe split Edric's skull, but already the Danes were pouring through the breach made in the lines of the defenders and in a moment the Jutes were fighting with their backs to the wall.

  On the blood-slippery deck the two Viking chieftains met. Wulfhere's axe hewed the shaft of Rudd Thorwald's spear in twain, but before the Dane could strike again, the Jute snatched a sword from a dying hand and the edge bit through Wulfhere's corselet over his ribs. In an instant the Skull-splitter's mail was dyed red, but with a mad roar he swung his axe in a two-handed stroke that rent Rudd Thorwald's armor like paper and cleft through shoulder bone and spine. The Juttish chief fell dead in a red welter of blood and the Juttish warriors, disheartened, fell back, fighting desperately.

  The Danes yelled with fierce delight. But the battle was not over. The Jutes, knowing there was no mercy for the losers of a sea-fight, battled stubbornly. Marcus was in the thick of it, with Donal close at his side. A strange madness had gripped the young Briton. To his mind, distorted momentarily by the fury of the fray, it seemed that these Jutes were holding him back from Helen. They stood in his way and while he and his comrades wasted time with them, Helen might be in desperate need of rescue. A red haze burned before Marcus' eyes and his sword wove a web of death in front of him. A huge Jute dented his shield with a sweeping axe-head and Marcus flung his shield away, ripping the warrior open with the other hand.

  "By the blood of the gods," Cormac rasped, "I never heard before that Romans went berserk, but-"

  Marcus had forced his way over the corpse-littered benches to the poop. A sword battered down on his helm as he leaped upward, but he paid no heed; even as he thrust mechanically, his eyes fell on a strangely incongruous ornament suspended by a slender, golden chain from the Jute's bull neck. On the end of that chain, glittering against his broad, mailed chest, hung a tiny jewel-a single ruby carved in the symbol of the acanthus. Marcus cried out like a man with a death wound under his heart and like a madman plunged in blindly, scarcely knowing what he did. He felt his blade sink deep and the force of his charge hurled him to the poop deck on top of his victim.

  Struggling to his knees, oblivious to the hell of battle about him, Marcus tore the jewel from the pirate's neck and pressed it to his lips. Then he gripped the Jute's shoulders fiercely.

  "Quick!" he cried in the tongue of the Angles, which the Jutes understood. "Tell me, before I rend the heart from your breast, whence you got this gem!"

  The Jute's eyes were already glazing. He was past acting on his own initiative. He heard an insistent voice questioning him, and answered dully, scarcely knowing that he did so: "From one of the girls we took… from the… Pictish boat."

  Marcus shook him, frantic with a sudden agony. "What of them? Where are they?"

  Cormac, seeing something was forward, had broken from the fight and now bent, with Donal, over the dying pirate.

  "We… sold… them," muttered the Jute in a fading-whisper, "to… Thorleif Hordi's son… at.."

  His head fell back; the voice ceased.

  Marcus looked up at Donal with pain-haunted eyes.

  "Look, Donal," he cried, holding up the chain with the ruby pendant. "See? It is Helen's! I myself gave it to her-she and Marcia were on this very ship-but now-who is this Thorleif Hordi's son?"

  "Easy to say," broke in Cormac. "He is a Norse reiver who has established himself in the Hebrides. Be of good cheer, young sir; Helen is better off in the hands of the Vikings than in those of the Pictish savages of the H
jaltlands."

  "But surely we must waste no time now!" cried Marcus. "The gods have cast this knowledge into our hands; if we tarry we may again be put upon a false scent!"

  Wulfhere and his Danes had cleared the poop and waist, but on the after deck the survivors still stubbornly contended with their conquerors. There was scant mercy shown in a sea-fight of that age. Had the Jutes been victorious they would have spared none; nor did they expect or ask for mercy.

  Cormac made his way through the waist of the ship where dead and dying lay heaped, and struggled his way through the yelling Danes to where Wulfhere stood plying his dripping axe. By main force he tore the Skull-splitter from his prey and jerked him about.

  "Have done, old wolf," he growled. "The fight is won; Rudd Thorwald is dead. Would you waste steel on these miserable carles?"

  "I leave this ship when no Jute remains alive!" thundered the battle-maddened Dane. Cormac laughed grimly.

  "Have done! Bigger game is afoot! These Jutes will drink blood before you slaughter them all and we will need every man before the faring is over. From the lips of a dying Jute we have heard it-the princess is in the steading of Thorleif Hordi's son, in the Hebrides."

  Wulfhere's beard bristled with ferocious joy. So many were his foes that it was hard to name a Viking farer with whom he had no feud.

  "Is it so? Then, ho, wolves-leave the rest of these sea-rats to drown or swim as they will! We go to burn Thorleif Hordi's son's skalli over his head!"

  Slowly, by words and blows, he beat his raging Danes off and, marshalling them together, drove them over the gunwales into their own ship. The bleeding, battle-weary Jutes watched them go, leaning on their reddened weapons in sullen silence. The toll taken had been terrific, but by far the greater loss aboard the Fire-Woman. From stem to stern dead men wallowed among the broken benches in a welter of crimson.