Robert Howard: Tigers Of The Sea

Cormac eyed the huge Viking chieftain closely. Thorleif was a giant of a man, greater even than Wulfhere, with a face pitted with scars and creased with lines of hard cruelty. There was a gap in the jawline where pale flesh showed through the thick blond beard, and Cormac hoped the man would not remember who had given him that scar in battle; but the Gael's dark beard had grown thickly, and Thorleif had given no sign of recognition since the opening of negotiations.

"What is a wench to you," said Cormac, "even a noble one, to a hold full of riches? Bring the lady forth, and we'll lay the gold at your feet."

"The gold first," grunted Thorleif. "If it's not enough, I'll keep her."

"Who will pay you more," said Donal, "than her own brother? Your raids will bring you wenches aplenty, even noble ones; but the price offered you by the noble Marcus, Atalanta's brother, is far greater than another would pay, as you must well know."

"Aye," said Marcus, "and if you'll not accept this lavish sum, I'll spend a greater to return with a fleet that'll sweep this island clean of pirates! By Christ, when Rome was in power…"

Thorleif laughed; Cormac laid a hand on Marcus' shoulder.

"Rome is dead!" roared the Viking. "And not even at the height of her power did her rule touch these islands. But you are a headstrong youth. If you could bring an army here, why do you come now with this single shipload of Danish pirates? Bah! bring forth your gold, and I'll decide whether it's worthy to ransom the Lady Atalanta and her maid."

Cormac signalled the group of Danes clustered about the long ship, and a dozen of them lifted burdens and trudged up the beach toward the debating parties.

"'Ware a trap," growled one of Thorleif's aides-a lean, hard sea-wolf. "We be but twenty here, and with this approaching twelve they will outnumber us."

"Well, then-" Thorleif raised his hand, and twenty men detached themselves from those ranks by the fortress-wall, striding down the beach to join the score or so that already formed his band. Cormac felt a twinge of suspicion. Then Thorleif turned to the Viking Thorfinn and said: "I recognize your ship, the Raven-it belonged to my enemy Wulfhere Hausakluifr. How came you into possession of it?"

"Wulfhere was my captain," said Thorfinn, "but he wronged me and I split his skull in combat."

The dozen men from the Danish ship joined the group and let fall their burdens on the beach. Knives ripped open the cloth bags and a glittering profusion of gold-wrought works of art and sparkling jewelry spilled out on the sand.

"This is a ransom worthy of a princess," said Donal, "not merely a noble lady. Give us Atalanta and we shall go in peace."

The eyes of Thorleif Hordi's son lit up at the sight of so much gold and jewelry. "Let it be so," he said, and Cormac relaxed slightly. The twenty-odd men who had detached themselves from the ranked warriors near the wall had now joined Thorleif's group; the Gael now saw that in their midst was a woman of surpassing beauty, and he knew that she could be none other than the princess Helen. Yet as she drew closer he saw that her white garments were torn-her dark hair was in disarray-her beautiful features were strained as if in agony, and her wide dark eyes seemed to burn with a hopeless yearning, a mute appeal mingled with a near-hopeless resignation.

"Helen!"

The girl looked up at the sound of Marcus' involuntary cry; her face suddenly lost its look of hopeless apathy and took on an expression of animation and joy. Then, before her guards could stop her, she leaped away and dashed across the narrow space between the two opposing groups and threw herself into her lover's arms.

"Marcus-oh Marcus, help me!" she cried. "They tortured Marcia-O God! They made her tell all, and then they killed her-and they mean to kill you. Flee, Marcus-flee! It's a trap!"

Suddenly Cormac saw, too late, that the men who had joined Thorleif's delegation were not Vikings but-Jutes. In the fore-front of them stood Halfgar Wolf's-tooth-and Cormac suddenly realized that the twenty-odd men who had joined Thorleif's party were the survivors of the Juttish ship Fire-Woman.

"Fools!" roared Thorleif. "I knew who you were from the start of your thievish bargainings. These Juttish wolves sailed night and day to beat you here, for a wounded member of their crew overheard what Marcus learned from the dying carle. Aye, the princess Helen, sister of Gerinth, is she you seek to regain-deny it not, for Halfgar and I learned it from the lips of the maid Marcia ere she died under the torture. And now you shall die also, Cormac Mac Art, and your fool chieftain who doubtless hides amid his red-bearded carles by the long ship. I shall have your treasure, your long ship, the princess Helen-and the head of Wulfhere!"

Marcus, only half-comprehending what was said, looked up from Helen's tear-stained face and realized that Thorleif and Halfgar were the ones who had tortured the girl beyond endurance. With a frantic roar he unsheathed his sword and drove straight at Thorleif. The Viking chief laughed as he drew his own blade and parried the youth's frantic stroke.

"Devil!" shrieked Marcus. "I'll have your heart…"

Thorleif laughed again as his blade parried Marcus' once more and shattered the youth's sword like glass. Marcus sprang for the Viking with a fury equal to the Norseman's berserker-rage, and only Cormac's sword, intercepting Thorleif's whistling blade, saved the youth from a split skull; as it was, the Gael's blade was shattered to flinders as well. Then Marcus leaped and his fingers locked about Thorleif's throat; the bearlike Viking gasped at the steely grip of the youth's fingers, at the desperate strength and ferocity of the Briton who was scarcely half his weight, and tried to cry out in terror, but felt his windpipe choked off. Dropping his sword, useless at these close quarters, he battered with his massive fists at the youth's rib-cage till Marcus fell back, half conscious yet still clutching at the Viking's bull neck…

The Norsemen rushed in and Cormac, striving to save Marcus from the bull-like Thorleif, was driven back. A fierce blond warrior swung at him with an axe; Cormac's shield fended off the blow but his broken sword left him helpless to retaliate; then, as the Viking hove up his axe for another stroke, Donal's blade darted in to pierce the links of his scale armor and the warrior crashed to the earth like a fallen tree. Cormac saw a Juttish warrior leaping toward Donal like a maddened wolf; with all his strength he sprang and interposed his battered shield between Donal and the Jute's axe. The arching blade crashed through the lifted shield and Cormac cried out involuntarily as pain lanced his left arm; then Donal's sword slashed in a silvery arc and the Juttish carle fell with his head half-severed, blood spurting from his heart-veins while his last dying war-cry turned abruptly to bloody gurglings from his sundered windpipe.

Battle-cries rang out and the clash of steel, filled the air. Cormac rose shakily as the battle surged about him; his right hand clutched the hilt of a broken sword, his shield hung shattered on his bleeding left arm. He saw, amid the press of fighting-men around him, Thorleif Hordi's son contending against Wulfhere's captain Thorfinn, who held his ground with valor while Marcus attempted to crawl away with the fainting Helen. Then, even as Cormac watched, a dying Jute slashed across Thorfinn's ankles with a dagger and the Dane fell-and as he fell Thorleif's blade lashed out and split his skull. Donal was engaged with the lean Viking who was Thorleif's lieutenant, and Cormac saw with horror that Thorleif Hordi's son was about to cleave the defenseless Marcus in half as he strove to hurry Helen to safety. Without thinking Cormac roared and launched himself toward the Viking; Thorleif wheeled and, seeing the Gael charging him with shattered blade and broken shield, laughed aloud and hove his sword aloft for the death-stroke…