Andrew Offutt: The Sword of the Gael

“The Druid said he hath business with her,” another Viking answered, “above stairs. Amuse yourself with her pretty brother, there!”

There was raucous laughter. Cormac and Wulfhere exchanged grim looks.

“They’ve all gathered in the great hall,” the man called Skull-splitter muttered. Their companions had drawn about them now, listening to the revelry within.

“Aye,” Cormac snarled, “all save the robed Druid-it’s him I’d be going after!”

Wulfhere snorted. “It’s the wench ye’d be going after, Wolf!”

Cormac earned the sobriquet an Cliuin , the Wolf, in his pre-Wulfhere rieving years. Now he gave the other man a challenging look, but the Dane was smiling.

Wulfhere turned to the others. “They are nineteen now, and we six to fall upon them. There will be thirteen in seconds, an we do our work properly. Fear we those odds?”

“Ye should,” Cormac tried one last time, but the grim-faced men made assurance that they did not.

“Then Halfdan,” Wulfhere said, “do you cut loose the captive first off, an he be tied. Mayhap he knows how to wield sword or ax, and we’ll be seven. Cormac goes above, to the simpler work of dealing with an old man.”

Cormac shot him a look. That was all; again, Wulfhere’s teeth flashed in his broad grin.

They gathered themselves and entered the keep, doom-shadows in the pallid moonlight. The Gael touched two men; they went with him up the leftward stair, whilst Wulfhere and the others mounted by the far steps. The two little parties were soon gazing down the long corridor at each other, having met no sentry. The noises of the merrymaking Vikings had got louder.

Wulfhere was right, Cormac mac Art knew. The Norsemen, one less now than a score in number, were disporting themselves in the sprawling main hall, through that central doorway and down the steps. Doubtless they lay luxuriously about, their bellies stuffed with food and the ale they still quaffed. Surprise would surely give the attackers just what Wulfhere had said: six less foes in the initial onslaught. For Cormac there would be only the light work of despoiling the old Druid of his captive.

It’s back with them I’ll be , he thought, ere sword and ax have stopped drinking Norse blood!

“Give me a small bit of time,” he muttered, and set off along the corridor that ran directly back from the ‘stairs.

His goal was easily seen: every ancient door was closed or rotted away to expose the black entry to a dark empty room-save one. Halfway down the corridor, light spilled from an open doorway. Toward that glim Cormac hurried, on feet that moved as silently as he could will them.

Then he heard the old voice, dry as blowing leaves in autumn.

“Then, my dear Lady Samaire, ye’d wear a chaplet on your head among the Norse, and be far better-off than were ye in the household of your murderous brother!”

Samaire , Cormac thought. A daughter of Eirrin. And with the same name as his… friend, of many ears past. And he offers her wedlock to some Viking one of those below, or be there treachery in the heart of this Cutha Atheldane? He heard the captive woman’s reply:

“And my brother?”

“He will live,” the Druid said, and Cormac stepped into the doorway.

The room was partially restored, looking warm and comfortable with stolen drapes. A torch stood from a sconce bracketed to a wall of paneled wood. There was a table, with the remains of a good meal and a brace of ale-jacks, and a chair. In it sat the woman, her hair loosened and aflow now, and so golden red as to be orange. She yet wore the dirty white tunic or shirt, since it was sleeved, and the leather leggings that vanished into short boots.

Over her stood the tall, reed-thin Druid, his beard six shades of gray and white, his flowing robe of mauve, and a rich fabric as well.

Four eyes stared at the man who had come silently upon them, and him with a naked sword.

“Samaire!”

The familiar face, older now and even better to look upon than when she’d been but a girl and he a boyish soldier in her father’s employ, disconcerted Cormac mac Art.

The Druid availed himself of the pause, and that swiftly. He stared, catching and then holding the warrior’s eyes, and dolmen-sleeved arms moved in slow gestures. The old man’s lips were invisible within his mustache and beard, but they moved as he murmured…

Knowing some ensorcelment was being prepared, Cormac twisted his mouth and swung his sword into line for a swift thrust. He started forward-and there facing him was his old friend and comrade-at-arms, Wulfhere Hausakliufr of the Danes!

Staring, seeing the familiar smile that was ever nigh-mocking, Cormac felt his arm growing heavy. The point of his sword lowered…

It was the young woman’s scream of warning that shook the hypnotic mist of Druidic power from the eyes of Cormac mac Art. With a blink, he saw that “Wulfhere” was the tall robed man of the Norse-and that he had filled his hand with a glittering dagger. Already he was stabbing-and Cormac hurled himself desperately out of the path of that downrushing blade It swished past like a striking cobra. The thwarted sorcerer snarled in disappointment.

The intended victim had no time to choose the direction of his sideward lunge. The table was there to meet him; with a crash, man and table went to the floor. Cormac’s buckler slammed down noisily on one side and his sword on the other. His feet flew high, and the shock of his backside’s hitting the floor sent pain-shock up into his brain. Darkness eddied before his eyes. Even so his warrior’s reflexes were drawing him together, and he went a-rolling to avoid a killing blow.

There was none. Cutha Atheldane spurned or durst not risk another attempt. One long bony hand snatched the torch from its sconce, another clamped the girl’s wrist. Cormac knew the man’s strength, then, for she screwed up her face and writhed in pain.

The sorcerer’s shod boot thumped into the paneled wall-and a narrow doorway opened for him, the wood swinging away into a dark passage beyond!

The musty odour of ages gone poured into the room to assail Cormac’s nostrils. He was still on the floor when Cutha Atheldane and his captive vanished into the space behind the wall-and the slim door of thick wood began to swing shut.

Chapter Five:The Power of Cutha Atheldane

The Bochanach and The Bachanachs

And the witches of the deep vales

Shriek’d from the rims of the shields

And keen’d from the blades of the swords.

– “Cormac the Gael,” Ceann Ruadh

Cutha Atheldane and his captive vanished into some dark passage, taking the only source of light; the narrow door commenced to close behind them; Cormac mac Art heard the yelling, clanging eruption of his companions’ attack on the Vikings in the great hall of the old castle.

He paid them no heed. His business lay beyond the wall. In desperation, he kicked out both legs with all his strength. His feet thudded into the overturned table, which was catapulted toward the small doorway in the wall. The table groaned and one of its legs broke, but it wedged itself into the opening. The door’s closing was blocked.

Gaining his feet, Cormac sprang across the room. It was well he had done his job, so well that he had to lay aside his sword to wrest the table from the small doorway. Within the passage, he leaned the sword against the wall while he made sure the table was again wedged in place. Then, with sword and buckler, he turned to chase down the fleeing Norse Druid like a hungry wolf on the scent-trail.

The passage was dark, and narrow, and dusty. Why it was dark when he should have seen the glimmer of the other man’s torch, Cormac soon learned-by running squarely into the wall with a clang and clash of shield and sword. Sparks seemed to dance in the darkness, but he knew they were behind his eyes, not before.