Robert Howard - Tigers Of The Sea

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.

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.