Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures Page 5

  Against the compact lines of the Dublin Danes the wild tribesmen of Connacht thundered, and the men of South Munster and their Scottish allies fell vengefully on the Irish of Leinster.

  Across the plain the iron lines writhed and interwove, slaughtering and dying. Conn, following Dunlang and Murrogh, grinned savagely as he smote home with dripping blade, and his fierce eyes sought for Thorwald Raven among the spears. But in that mad sea of battle where wild faces came and went like waves, it was difficult to pick out any one man.

  At first both lines held without giving an inch; feet braced, straining breast to breast, they snarled and hacked, shield jammed hard against shield. All up and down the line of battle the blades shimmered and flashed like sea-spray in the sun and the deep-toned roar shook the ravens that wheeled like Valkyries above. Then when human flesh and blood could stand no more, the long serried lines began to roll forward or back. The Leinstermen flinched before the savage onslaught of the Munster clans and their Scottish allies, giving back slowly, foot by foot, cursed by their king who fought on foot with a sword in the forefront of the fray.

  But on the other flank the Danes of Dublin under the redoubtable Dubhgall had held against the first blasting charge of the western tribes, though their lines reeled at the shock, and now the wild men in their wolf-skins were falling like garnered grain before the Danish axes.

  In the center the battle raged most fiercely; the wedge-shaped shield-wall of the foreign Vikings held and against its iron ranks the Dalcassians hurled their half-naked bodies in vain. A ghastly heap ringed that grim wall and Broder and Sigurd began a slow but steady advance, the inexorable onstride of the Vikings, hacking deeper and deeper into the loose formation of the Gaels.

  On the walls of Dublin Castle, King Sitric, watching the fight with Kormlada and his wife, exclaimed: “Well do the sea-kings reap the field!” Kormlada’s beautiful eyes were blazing, her white hands clenched in cruel exultation.

  “Fall, Brian!” she cried fiercely. “Fall, Murrogh! And, fall, too, Broder! Let the keen ravens feed!”

  But at the foremost point of the Gaelic advance, the line held. There, like the convex center of a curving axe-blade, fought Murrogh and his chiefs. The great prince was already streaming blood from gashes on his limbs, but his heavy swords flamed in double strokes that dealt death like a harvest and the chiefs at his side mowed down the corn of battle. Fiercely Murrogh sought to reach Sigurd through the press but the chance of battle had thus far held them apart. Murrogh saw the tall Jarl looming across the waves of spears and heads, striking blows like thunder-strokes, and the sight drove the Gaelic prince to madness. But he could not reach the Viking lord, strive as he would.

  “The warriors are forced back,” gasped Dunlang, seeking to shake the sweat from his eyes. The young chief was untouched; spears and axes alike splintered on the Roman helmet or glanced from the ancient cuirass, but he was unused to fighting in armor and felt weighted, hampered, prisoned – like a chained wolf.

  Murrogh spared a single swift glance; on either side of the clump of chiefs the gallaglachs were being forced back, slowly, savagely, selling each foot of ground with blood, but unable to halt the irresistible advance of the mailed Northmen. The Vikings were falling too, all along the battle-line, but they closed their ranks and forced their way forward, legs hard-braced, bodies straining, spears driving without cease or pause; through a red surf of dead and dying they ploughed on.

  “Turlogh!” gasped Murrogh, dashing the blood and sweat from his eyes. “Haste – break from the fray and go to Malachi! Bid him charge, in God’s name!”

  But the frenzy of slaughter was on Black Turlogh; froth was on his lips and his eyes were those of a madman.

  “The Devil eat Malachi!” he snarled, splitting a Dane’s skull with a stroke like the slash of a tiger’s paw. “Here is the sword-feast before us!”

  “Conn!” exclaimed Murrogh, gripping the big kern’s shoulder and dragging him back from the sword-strokes. “Haste to Malachi – we cannot long abide this press!”

  Reluctantly Conn drew away from the fray, clearing his way with mighty strokes. Across the reeling sea of blades and rocking helmets he saw the towering forms of Jarl Sigurd, Broder, Anrad, Hrafn the Red – the billowing black folds of the raven banner floating above them as their whistling swords hewed down men like wheat before the reaper.

  Free of the press the kern ran swiftly along the battle-line until he came to the higher ground of Cabra where the Meathmen thronged, tense and trembling like hunting dogs as they gripped their weapons and looked eagerly at their king. Malachi stood apart, watching the fray with moody eyes, his lion-like head bowed, his fingers twined in his golden beard.

  “King Melaghlin,” said Conn bluntly, “my prince, Murrogh, urges you to charge home, for the press grows great and the men of the Gael are hard beset.”

  The great O’Neill lifted his head and stared absently at the kern. Conn little guessed the chaotic struggle which was taking place in Malachi’s soul – the red visions which thronged his brain – riches, power, the rule of all Ireland, balanced against the black shame of treachery. He gazed out across the field where the banner of his nephew O’Kelly heaved among the spears. And Malachi shuddered with a sudden sickness, but shook his head.

  “Nay,” said he, “it is not time – I will charge – when the time comes.”

  For an instant king and kern looked into each others’ eyes and the eyes of Malachi dropped. And Conn turned without a word and sped down the slope. And as he went he saw that the advance of Lennox and the men of Desmond had been checked. Mailmora, raging like a wild man, had cut down Prince Meathla O’Faelan with his own hand, a chance spear thrust had wounded the Great Steward, and now the Leinstermen held fast against the onset of the Munster and Scottish clans. But where the chiefs of the Dalcassians fought, the battle was at a locked stand-still; like a jutting cliff that breaks the sea, the prince of Thomond broke the advance of the Norsemen.

  In the titanic upheaval of slaughter, Conn came again to Murrogh and said: “Melaghlin says he will charge when the time comes.”

  “Hell to his soul,” snarled Black Turlogh. “We are betrayed!”

  Murrogh’s blue eyes flamed.

  “Then in the name of God,” he roared like a west wind, “let us charge and die!”

  The gasping struggling bloody men heard his shout and were electrified. The blind passion of the Gael surged up in their souls bred of desperate despair; the lines stiffened like iron and a great yell shook the field that made King Sitric, on his castle wall, whiten and grip the parapet. He had heard that yell before.

  And now as Murrogh leaped forward, shouting, the strange, slumbering soul of the Gael woke to red fury, as it wakes in men who have no hope. Like inspired madmen the Gaels hurled their last charge, and like a blast from Hell they smote the shield-wall which reeled to the blow.

  And now no human power could stay the onslaught of Murrogh and his chiefs, fired to superhuman fury by desperation and battle-madness. They no longer hoped to live or even to win, but only to glut their fury as they died, and in their despair they were like wounded tigers. As a storm smites the fleets, Murrogh smote the close-locked ranks and his double strokes hacked a bloody way, cleaving iron and bone alike; severing limbs, splitting skulls, cleaving breasts and shoulder-bones. Close at his heels flamed the axe of Black Turlogh, the swords of Dunlang, young Turlogh and Conn; under that torrent of steel the iron line crumpled and gave and through the breach the frenzied Gaels ploughed hacking. The shield-wall formation melted away.

  And at this moment the wild men of Connacht who still lived again hurled a desperate charge against the Dublin Danes. O’Hyne and Dubhgall fell together and the Dublin men were battered backward, disputing every foot.

  And now the whole field melted into a mingled mass of men without rank or formation. Among the serried press Murrogh came at last upon Jarl Sigurd who stood among a torn heap of Dalcassian dead.

  Behind the Jarl sto
od grim old Rane Asgrimm’s son, holding the raven banner, and Murrogh rushed upon him and slew him with a single stroke. Sigurd turned and his sword rent Murrogh’s tunic and gashed his chest, but the Gaelic prince smote so fiercely on the Norseman’s shield, Jarl Sigurd reeled. For an instant he could but defend himself against the rain of blows Murrogh showered with either hand upon him, and only the strength of his helmet saved him.

  Thorleif Hordi had picked up the banner but scarce had he lifted it when Black Turlogh, eyes glaring, broke through and split his skull to the teeth. Sigurd, seeing his banner fall once more, struck Murrogh with such desperate power that his sword bit through the prince’s steel cap and gashed the scalp. Blood jetted down Murrogh’s face and he reeled, but before Sigurd could strike again, Black Turlogh’s axe licked out like a flash of lightning. The Jarl’s warding shield fell shattered from his arm, and Sigurd gave back for an instant, daunted by the whistling play of that deathly axe. And a rush of kerns and Vikings alike swept the chiefs apart.

  “Thorstein!” shouted Sigurd. “Take up the banner!”

  “Touch it not,” exclaimed Asmund. “It is cursed; who bears it, dies!”

  And even as he spoke, Dunlang’s sword crushed his skull.

  “Hrafn!” exclaimed Sigurd desperately. “Bear thou the banner!”

  “Bear your own curse!” answered Hrafn with a wild laugh, hewing desperately right and left. “This is the end of us all!”

  “Cowards!” roared the Jarl, snatching up the banner himself and striving to gather it under his cloak as Murrogh, face bloody and eyes blazing, rushed at him through the press. Sigurd flung up his sword but it was too late. The sword in Murrogh’s right hand splintered on his helmet, bursting the straps that held it and ripping it from his head, and Murrogh’s left-hand sword, whistling in behind the first blow, shattered the Jarl’s skull and felled him dead in the bloody folds of his banner which wrapped about him as he fell.

  Now a great roar went up and the Gaels redoubled their strokes. With the shield-wall formation torn apart, the mail of the armored Vikings could not save them for the Dalcassian axes, flashing like summer-lightning, hewed through chain-mesh and iron plates alike, rending linden-wood shield and horned helmet. Yet though the Danes were hurled backward in a struggling chaotic mass by repeated charges, they did not break.

  But on the high ramparts King Sitric had turned deathly pale; he crouched, gripping the parapet with hands that trembled. For he knew that these wild men could not be beaten now, who spilled their lives like water, hurling their naked bodies again and again into the fangs of spear and axe. Kormlada was white and silent, but Sitric’s wife, King Brian’s daughter, cried out in sudden joy, for her heart was with her own people.

  Murrogh was striving to reach Broder, but the black Viking had seen Sigurd die and he was not eager to face the maddened prince. Broder’s world was crumbling under his feet. Even his vaunted mail was failing him, for though it had thus far saved his skin, it hung on him in tatters. Never before had the Manx Viking faced the dread Dalcassian axe. He drew back from Murrogh’s onset, not from any cowardice, but as a man might avoid a charging lion.

  And in the thickest of the press an axe shattered on Murrogh’s helmet, knocking him to his knees and blinding him momentarily with the terrific impact. Dunlang O’Hartigan stood above him and his sword wove a wheel of death above the writhing prince.

  Murrogh reeled up calling: “Dunlang! Where are you? I hear the thunder of your blows, but I cannot see you!”

  The press slackened as Black Turlogh, Conn and young Turlogh drove in hacking and stabbing, and Dunlang, frenzied by the heat of battle, tore off his helmet and flung it aside, ripping off his cuirass.

  “The Devil eat such cages!” he roared, catching at the reeling prince to support him, and even at that instant Thorstein the Dane ran in and drove his spear deep into Dunlang’s side. The young Dalcassian staggered and fell at Murrogh’s feet, and Conn roared and with a lion-like leap, struck Thorstein’s head from his shoulders so that it whirled grinning through the air in a shower of crimson.

  Murrogh shook the blood and darkness from his eyes. “Dunlang!” he cried in a fearful voice, falling to his knees at the side of his friend and raising his head; but Dunlang’s eyes were already glazing.

  “Murrogh! Eevin!” he whispered, then blood gushed from his lips and he went limp in the prince’s arms. Murrogh leaped up with a scream like a madman. Roaring he rushed into the thick of the Vikings and his men swept in like a storm behind him. Slashing right and left he mowed down the ranks, and on the hill of Cabra, Malachi cried out suddenly, flinging doubts and plots to the wind. As Broder had plotted, so had he. He had but to stand aside until both hosts were cut to pieces, then he could seize Ireland, tricking the Danes as they had planned to betray him. But the blood in his veins cried out against him and would not be stilled. He gripped the collar about his neck – the golden collar of Tomar, that he had taken so many years before from the Danish king his sword had broken, and the old fire leaped up anew.

  “Charge and die!” he roared, drawing his sword, and at his back the men of Meath yelled like a hunting pack and swarmed down into the field.

  Under the shock of those fresh new hordes the weakened Danes staggered and broke, and tore away singly and in slashing desperate clumps, seeking to gain the bay where their ships were anchored. But the Meathmen had cut off their retreat. And the ships lay far out, for the tide was at flood. All day that terrific battle had raged, yet to Conn, snatching, between mighty blows, a startled glance at the sinking sun, it seemed that scarce an hour had passed since the lines crashed.

  The fleeing Northmen made for the river and the Gaels plunged in after them to drag them down. Among the fugitives and the clumps of Norsemen who here and there made determined stands, the Irish chiefs were divided. The boy Turlogh was separated from Murrogh’s side and no man saw him again until they dragged his drowned body from the fishing weir of the Tolka, his fingers tangled in a Dane’s shaggy hair.

  The clans of Leinster, first to flinch in the early battle, now were the last to break. Their king had worked them into the semblance of a formation, and they were fighting like fiends, when Black Turlogh rushed like a blood-mad tiger into the thick of them and struck Mailmora dead in the midst of his warriors. And the Gaels of Leinster broke under the charge of their maddened kinsmen.

  The flight became general and Murrogh, still blood-mad but staggering from fatigue and loss of blood, came upon a band of Vikings who, back to back, resisted the conquerors. Their leader was Anrad the berserk and when he saw Murrogh he rushed upon him furiously. Murrogh, too weary to parry the Dane’s stroke, dropped his own sword and closed with Anrad, hurling him to the ground. The sword was wrenched from the Dane’s hand as they fell and both snatched at it, but Murrogh caught the hilt and Anrad the blade. The Gaelic prince tore it away, dragging the keen edge through the Viking’s hand, severing nerve and thew, and setting a knee on Anrad’s chest, Murrogh drove the sword thrice through his body. And Anrad, dying, drew a dagger with his left hand and plunged it under Murrogh’s heart. So from the dead man, Murrogh fell back dying.

  The Danes were all flying now, and in the river that seethed and foamed crimson, the work of slaughter went on. There Dane and Gael, close-locked, tore out each other’s throats and entrails, and sank unheeding. On the high wall King Sitric stared stunned and bewildered, watching his high ambitions crumble and fade away – and Kormlada gazed wild-eyed into ruin, defeat, shame.

  Conn ran among the dying and the fugitives, seeking Thorwald Raven. The kern’s buckler was gone, shattered among the axes. His broad breast was gashed in half a dozen places; a sword-edge had bitten into his scalp when only his shock of tangled hair had saved his brain. A spear had girded deep into his thigh. Yet now in the heat and fury he scarce felt these wounds.

  Suddenly he stumbled over a prostrate form where dead men in wolf-skins lay thick among a heap of mailed corpses. A weakening hand caught at his kn
ee and Conn bent down to the chief of Hy Many – O’Kelly, nephew of Malachi. The chief’s eyes were glazed and he murmured in delirium.

  “Tell my uncle, King Malachi, that not for all the gold he has offered me, will I betray King Brian – yet I will keep his secret – ”

  Conn lifted his head and sanity came back into the dying eyes and a smile curled the blue lips.

  “I hear the war-cry of the O’Neill!” he whispered. “Malachi could not be a traitor! He could not stand from the fray, despite his ambitions! The Red – Hand – the Red Hand – to – Victory! – ”

  And so died O’Kelly, prince of Connacht, as blameless a knight as ever walked the red ways of battle.

  Conn rose suddenly, his eyes blazing, as a familiar figure met his gaze. Thorwald Raven had broken from the press and now he fled alone and swiftly, not toward the sea or the river, where his comrades were dying like flies beneath the axes of the avengers, but toward Tomar’s Wood. And on the swift feet of hate, Conn followed.

  Thorwald saw his fate and turned snarling; so the thrall met his former master and red was the tryst. As Conn rushed into close quarters, the Norseman gripped his spear shaft with both hands and lunged fiercely, but the point glanced from the great copper collar about the kern’s neck. And Conn lunged upward with all his tigerish power, so that the great blade ripped through Jarl Thorwald’s tattered mail and spilled his entrails on the sand.

  Conn turned about and realized that the chase had brought him almost to the tent of the king, pitched behind the battle-lines. He saw King Brian standing in front of the tent, his white elf-locks flowing in the wind, and but one man attending him. Swearing, Conn ran forward.

  “Kern,” said the king, “what are the tidings?”

  “The foreigners flee, as thou seest,” said Conn. “But Murrogh has fallen.”

  “Evil are those tidings,” said Brian, his age falling suddenly on him like a cold cloud. “Erin shall never again look on a champion like him.”