Andrew Offutt: The Sword of the Gael

There was no time for so much as a grim smile at the, sound of an exultant cry from his comrades outside.

“COMMMMMMME!” the son of Art of Eirrin shouted, and then he was slamming his shoulder against a wall. From it dangled dusty tatters of an eons-old tapestry that had once lent beauty to these somber basaltic halls. From the corner of his eye Cormac had seen the appearance of another man, at the top of the steps at the far end of the broad corridor.

He wore a winged helmet, and he held a bow with arrow nocked. The string snapped home and the arrow came too fast for Cormac to see it, at this close range. His shield was angle-held, and the arrow was deflected with a ring and a rap of its tail that was followed instantly by the sound of its glancing off the wall to his left.

Already another arrow was being fitted to string.

Only an idiot charged an archer at such proximity. Had he been a bit closer, only an idiot of a bow-man would have tried to stop attack with an arrow. As it was, the other man had the better of it, and Cormac adopted an uncoventional defense and attack-born of desperation.

With all his might he hurled his sword at the archer.

At the same time, he lunged wildly leftward, toward that gaping window. Even then he was mindful of keeping his buckler betwixt him and the enemy.

It was unnecessary; the disconcerted yeoman sent his shaft on a wild upward angle, in his attempt to dodge the flung sword. He did not succeed, nor did it do him harm. But in the seconds he took to recover from that ridiculous “attack,” his foe covered yards of stone floor.

Cormac’s shield smashed into the other man’s breast and face and the Gael’s dagger drove into his belly, its impact heightened by the speed of his charge and muscles so powerful that mail parted like paper. The dagger’s hilt clanked against steel scales.

With a deliberate twist of his wrist, Cormac jerked the blade back and swung the shield straight up, away from the clawing hand that sought to grasp it.

Nose smashed and belly gutted, the wide-eyed man in the winged helmet staggered back one step, then two. The third time his foot came down not on floor, but on empty air, and then the topmost step.

The man Cormac recognized as of the Norse went tumbling and clattering and clanging down the stone stairwell.

“What’s this?” a great voice came bellowing up. “Cormac sends us a gift of welcome?” And there was a chunk . That, the Gael knew, was Wulfhere’s ax, and they’d never know which of them had slain Knud’s slayer.

Knotty-legged Wulfhere rounded the corner of the landing, and then Hakon and Ivarr, and from behind himself Cormac heard others of his Danish companions, who had come by the steps he had chosen. For the space of several seconds, all stood in that ancient corridor and stared at each other, in wondering silence.

A great castle the size of a Roman circus and the height of an oak lofty enough for the highest Druidic rites-and but three men to defend?

Aye, for by the time the sun had moved across the sky the length of two joints of Cormac’s finger, the eight men had assured themselves that the castle was empty of life other than their own. But not of other things…

“It be the hiding-hie and treasure-keep of a band of rievers,” Cormac muttered, as they stood to stare with greed-bright eyes at what they’d found. “And them off a-roving. They came upon this place as we did, and made it theirs, and left three of their number as guards. Against nothing, for we should not be here but for that treacherous wind.”

“And they’ve gone a-raiding again,” Wulfhere murmured.

They gazed at the large room piled and strewn with bales of fine fabric and, cloaks, and arms, and gold and gems that gave off their dull light in the dimness, and they nodded.

“Touch,” Wulfhere said, and stepped past the Gael. His word was a warning and assurance that he meant not to grab for himself.

The bearded Dane scooped up and held aloft a string of shining pearls the colour of milk and the size of large peas. There were full thirty on the strand. He brandished them, shaking his head.

“From far and far came these beauties, by Odin, and it’s a ship and arms they’d buy, and two women for a month as well!”

“Find me the women!” Ivarr called.

“Find me the ship,” Cormac said darkly, and the laughter died.

So too had Knud died, and the three men from Norge, nor could they be sent their way properly into the world of grim shades or high joy. Their laden bodies were removed to the sunlight, each wrapped in rich cloth from the booty. With more of that dear fabric that was surely for the cloaks and robes of kings and their women, the Danes and their Gaelic comrade wiped and mopped up the blood. Wulfhere was unyielding: no disporting of themselves until the dead were away. And so all of them carried those four in their purple and scarlet wrappings back along the valley, and along the narrow defile that opened into it, and far down the beach. And on their return, despite their anxiousness, they obliterated their own tracks.

Then did the eight return to that magickal castle from a time long gone, for they had found other booty there as well: food, and ale. There was even a small quantity of wine. And the fabulous room that might have contained an army of hundreds.

In it, their voices echoing, they ate, and drank. There was many a growled admonition from Wulfhere and Cormac against gluttony in the matter of wine and ale, for those who had first found this unlikely place might return at any time. Nor would their number be so few as eight.

Eeriness struck among them. Seconds after he drank of the ale, Snorri Evil-eye groaned, and his wayward eyes bulged, and he gasped and rattled deep in his throat. Then he fell. He was dead.

Men who had faced death and slain, and that bloodily and often, stared at him and at each other, and their flesh crawled.

“Sorcery,” Halfdan whispered, for his mind was of such a bent more than his companions’.

“It’s the sorcery and the power of the Druids I’ve believed in all these years,” Cormac mac Art said quietly, “but never have I seen its evidence.”

Others looked at him, hopefully. Then Wulfhere spoke.

“Call it then the displeasure of the gods, and the delayed death I have seen afore with these eyes. It was within himself that poor old Evil-eye took some injury, when the sea flung him upon the strand. But he knew it not, and felt nothing of it-until now, when he sought to drink. Any man knows that inward injuries may leave no sign upon the body-and later bring such results.” He gazed down at their dead companion.

“Aye,” a voice said in relief, and a ruddy-haired hand went out for a pothern of ale.

“Mayhap,” Cormac said. “But it’s none of that strong drink I’ll be tasting.”

Widened eyes fixed upon him, and his words did more to protect their sobriety than all Wulfhere’s grousing, though Cormac was as sure as the huge Dane that it was unknown internal injuries had slain Snorri thus.

Striding to the grand old throne of ironwood that sat imperiously on its dais, Guthrum whipped from its base the bale of purple, shot through with cloth-of-silver. Ivarr had placed it there’ as a joke: an offering to the invisible king of this land. With the cloth, Guthrum now covered their dead companion, and wound him about.

They had been one and twenty, and then nine, and then eight, and now they numbered but seven.

Slowly they returned to the business of filling their bellies, but with less noise and jubilation. Cormac would have liked to be in the magnificent dome overhead, and it set with a cyclopean eye that must have been the size of his shield. For he knew how ridiculous they must look, so few in this vast hall.