Without a backward glance he mounted his steed and rode away, with Conn trotting easily alongside. Looking back in the gathering dusk, the kern saw Eevin standing there still, a poignant picture of despair.
III
The campfires sent up showers of sparks and illumined the land like day. In the distance loomed the grim walls of Dublin, dark and ominously silent; before the walls flickered other fires where the warriors of Leinster, under King Mailmora, whetted their axes for the coming battle. Out in the bay, the starlight glinted on myriad sails, shield-rails and arching serpent-prows. Between the city and the fires of the Irish host stretched the plain of Clontarf, bordered by Tomar’s Wood, dark and rustling in the night, and the Liffey’s dark, star-flecked waters.
Before his tent, the firelight playing on his white beard and glinting from his undimmed eagle eyes, sat the great King Brian Boru, among his chiefs. The king was old–seventy-three winters had passed over his lion-like head–long years crammed with fierce wars and bloody intrigues. Yet his back was straight, his arm unwithered, his voice deep and resonant. His chiefs stood about him, tall warriors with war-hardened hands and eyes whetted by the sun and the winds and the high places; tigerish princes in their rich tunics, green girdles, leathern sandals and saffron mantles caught with great golden brooches.
They were an array of war-eagles–Murrogh, Brian’s eldest son, the pride of all Erin, tall and mighty, with wide blue eyes that were never placid, but danced with mirth, dulled with sadness, or blazed with fury; Murrogh’s young son, Turlogh, a supple lad of fifteen with golden locks and an eager face–tense with anticipation of trying his hand for the first time in the great game of war. And there was that other Turlogh, his cousin–Turlogh Dubh, who was only a few years older but who already had his full stature and was famed throughout all Erin for his berserk rages and the cunning of his deadly ax-play. And there were Meathla O’Faelan, prince of Desmond or South Munster, and his kin–the Great Stewards of Scotland–Lennox, and Donald of Mar, who had crossed the Irish Channel with their wild Highlanders–tall men, sombre and gaunt and silent. And there were Dunlang O’Hartigan and O’Hyne, chief of Connacht. But O’Kelly, brother chief of the O’Hyne, and prince of Hy Many, was in the tent of his uncle, King Malachi O’Neill, which was pitched in the camp of the Meathmen, apart from the Dalcassians, and King Brian was brooding on the matter. For since the setting of the sun, O’Kelly had been closeted with the King of Meath, and no man knew what passed between them.
Nor was Donagh, son of Brian, among the chiefs before the royal pavilion, for he was afield with a band ravaging the holdings of Mailmora of Leinster.
Now Dunlang approached the king, leading with him Conn the kern.
“My Lord,” quoth Dunlang, “here is a man who was outlawed aforetime, who has spent vile durance among the Gall, and who risked his life by storm and sea to return and fight under your banner. From the Orkneys in an open boat he came, naked and alone, and the sea cast him all but lifeless on the sand.”
Brian stiffened; even in small things his memory was sharp as a whetted stone. “Thou!” he cried. “Aye, I remember him. Well, Conn, you have come back–and with your red hands!”
“Aye, King Brian,” answered Conn stolidly, “my hands are red, it is true, and so I look to washing off the stain in Danish blood.”
“You dare stand before me, to whom your life is forfeit!”
“This alone I know, King Brian,” said Conn boldly, “my father was with you at Sulcoit and the sack of Limerick, and before that followed you in your days of wandering and was one of the fifteen warriors who remained to you when King Mahon, your brother, came seeking you in the forest. And my grandsire followed Murkertagh of the Leather Cloaks, and my people have fought the Danes since the days of Thorgils. You need men who can strike strong blows, and it is my right to die in battle against my ancient enemies, rather than shamefully at the end of a rope.”
King Brian nodded. “Well spoken. Take your life. Your days of outlawry are at an end. King Malachi would perhaps think otherwise, since it was a man of his you slew, but–” He paused; an old doubt ate at his soul at the thought of the King of Meath. “Let it be,” he went on, “let it rest until after the battle–mayhap that will be world’s end for us all.”
Dunlang stepped toward Conn and laid hand on the copper collar. “Let us cut this away; you are a free man now.”
But Conn shook his head. “Not until I have slain Thorwald Raven who put it there. I’ll wear it into battle as a sign of no quarter.”
“That is a noble sword you wear, kern,” said Murrogh suddenly.
“Aye, my Lord. Murkertagh of the Leather Cloaks wielded this blade until Blacair the Dane slew him at Ardee, and it remained in the possession of the Gall until I took it from the body of Wolfgar Snorri’s son.”
“It is not fitting that a kern should wear the sword of a king,” said Murrogh brusquely. “Let one of the chiefs take it and give him an ax instead.”
Conn’s fingers locked about the hilt. “He would take the sword from me had best give me the ax first,” he said grimly, “and that suddenly.”
Murrogh’s hot temper blazed. With an oath, he strode toward Conn, who met him eye to eye and gave back not a step.
“Be at ease, my son,” ordered King Brian. “Let the kern keep the blade.”
Murrogh shrugged. His mood changed. “Aye, keep it and follow me into battle. We shall see if a king’s sword in a kern’s hands can hew as wide a path as a prince’s blade.”
“My lords,” said Conn, “it may be God’s will that I fall in the first onset–but the scars of slavery burn deep in my back this night, and I will not be backward when the spears are splintering.”
IV
Therefore your doom is on you,
Is on you and your kings….
—Chesterton
While King Brian communed with his chiefs on the plains above Clontarf, a grisly ritual was being enacted within the gloomy castle that was at once the fortress and palace of Dublin’s king. With good reason did Christians fear and hate those grim walls; Dublin was a pagan city, ruled by savage heathen kings, and dark were the deeds committed therein.
In an inner chamber in the castle stood the Viking Brodir, sombrely watching a ghastly sacrifice on a grim black altar. On that monstrous stone writhed a naked, frothing thing that had been a comely youth; brutally bound and gagged, he could only twist convulsively beneath the dripping, inexorable dagger in the hands of the white-bearded wild-eyed priest of Odin.
The blade hacked through flesh and thew and bone; blood gushed, to be caught in a broad, copper bowl, which the priest, with his red-dappled beard, held high, invoking Odin in a frenzied chant. His thin, bony fingers tore the yet pulsing heart from the butchered breast, and his wild half-mad eyes scanned it with avid intensity.
“What of your divinations?” demanded Brodir impatiently.
Shadows flickered in the priest’s cold eyes, and his flesh crawled with a mysterious horror. “Fifty years I have served Odin,” he said–“Fifty years divined by the bleeding heart, but never such portents as these. Hark, Brodir!–If ye fight not on Good Friday, as the Christians call it, your host will be utterly routed and all your chiefs slain; if ye fight on Good Friday, King Brian will die–but he will win the day.”
Brodir cursed with cold venom.
The priest shook his ancient head. “I cannot fathom the portent–and I am the last of the priests of the Flaming Circle, who learned mysteries at the feet of Thorgils. I see battle and slaughter–and yet more–shapes gigantic and terrible that stalk monstrously through the mists…”
“Enough of such mummery,” snarled Brodir. “If I fall I would take Brian to Helheim with me. We go against the Gaels on the morrow, fall fair, fall foul!” He turned and strode from the room.
Brodir traversed a winding corridor and entered another, more spacious chamber, adorned, like all the Dublin king’s palace, with the loot of all the world–gold-chased weapons,
rare tapestries, rich rugs, divans from Byzantium and the East–plunder taken from all peoples by the roving Norsemen; for Dublin was the center of the Vikings’ wide-flung world, the headquarters whence they fared forth to loot the kings of the earth.
A queenly form rose to greet him. Kormlada, whom the Gaels called Gormlaith, was indeed fair, but there was cruelty in her face and in her hard, scintillant eyes. She was of mixed Irish and Danish blood, and looked the part of a barbaric queen, with her pendant ear-rings, her golden armlets and anklets, and her silver breastplates set with jewels. But for these breastplates, her only garments were a short silken skirt which came half way to her knees and was held in place by a wide girdle about her lithe waist, and sandals of soft red leather. Her hair was red-gold, her eyes light grey and glittering. Queen she had been, of Dublin, of Meath, and of Thomond. And queen she was still, for she held her son Sitric and her brother Mailmora in the palm of her slim white hand. Carried off in a raid in her childhood by Amlaff Cauran, King of Dublin, she had early discovered her power over men. As the child-wife of the rough Dane, she had swayed his kingdom at will, and her ambitions increased with her power.
Now she faced Brodir with her alluring, mysterious smile, but secret uneasiness ate at her. In all the world there was but one woman she feared, and but one man. And the man was Brodir. With him she was never entirely certain of her course; she duped him as she duped all men, but it was with many misgivings, for she sensed in him an elemental savagery which, once loosed, she might not be able to control.
“What of the priest’s words, Brodir?” she asked.
“If we avoid battle on the morrow we lose,” the Viking answered moodily. “If we fight, Brian wins, but falls. We fight–the more because my spies tell me Donagh is away from camp with a strong band, ravaging Mailmora’s lands. We have sent spies to Malachi, who has an old grudge against Brian, urging him to desert the king–or at least to stand aside and aid neither of us. We have offered him rich rewards and Brian’s lands to rule. Ha! Let him step into our trap! Not gold, but a bloody sword we will give him. With Brian crushed we will turn on Malachi and tread him into the dust! But first–Brian.”
She clenched her white hands in savage exultation. “Bring me his head! I’ll hang it above our bridal bed.”
“I have heard strange tales,” said Brodir soberly. “Sigurd has boasted in his cups.”
Kormlada started and scanned the inscrutable countenance. Again she felt a quiver of fear as she gazed at the sombre Viking with his tall, strong stature, his dark, menacing face, and his heavy black locks which he wore braided and caught in his sword-belt.
“What has Sigurd said?” she asked, striving to make her voice casual.
“When Sitric came to me in my skalli on the Isle of Man,” said Brodir, red glints beginning to smoulder in his dark eyes, “it was his oath that if I came to his aid, I should sit on the throne of Ireland with you as my queen. Now that fool of an Orkneyman, Sigurd, boasts in his ale that he was promised the same reward.”
She forced a laugh. “He was drunk.”
Brodir burst into wild cursing as the violence of the untamed Viking surged up in him. “You lie, you wanton!” he shouted, seizing her white wrist in an iron grip. “You were born to lure men to their doom! But you will not play fast and loose with Brodir of Man!”
“You are mad!” she cried, twisting vainly in his grasp. “Release me, or I’ll call my guards!”
“Call them!” he snarled, “and I’ll slash the heads from their bodies. Cross me now and blood will run ankle-deep in Dublin’s streets. By Thor! there will be no city left for Brian to burn! Mailmora, Sitric, Sigurd, Amlaff–I’ll cut all their throats and drag you naked to my ship by your yellow hair. Dare to call out!”
She dared not. He forced her to her knees, twisting her white arm so brutally that she bit her lip to keep from screaming.
“You promised Sigurd the same thing you promised me,” he went on in ill-controlled fury, “knowing neither of us would throw away his life for less!”
“No! No!” she shrieked. “I swear by the ring of Thor!” Then, as the agony grew unbearable, she dropped pretense. “Yes–yes, I promised him–oh, let me go!”
“So!” The Viking tossed her contemptuously on to a pile of silken cushions, where she lay whimpering and disheveled. “You promised me and you promised Sigurd,” he said, looming menacingly above her, “but your promise to me you’ll keep–else you had better never been born. The throne of Ireland is a small thing beside my desire for you–if I cannot have you, no one shall.”
“But what of Sigurd?”
“He’ll fall in battle–or afterward,” he answered grimly.
“Good enough!” Dire indeed was the extremity in which Kormlada had not her wits about her. “It’s you I love, Brodir; I promised him only because he would not aid us otherwise.”
“Love!” The Viking laughed savagely. “You love Kormlada–none other. But you’ll keep your vow to me or you’ll rue it.” And, turning on his heel, he left her chamber.
Kormlada rose, rubbing her arm where the blue marks of his fingers marred her skin. “May he fall in the first charge!” she ground between her teeth. “If either survive, may it be that tall fool, Sigurd–methinks he would be a husband easier to manage than that black-haired savage. I will perforce marry him if he survives the battle, but by Thor! he shall not long press the throne of Ireland–I’ll send him to join Brian.”
“You speak as though King Brian were already dead.” A tranquil voice behind Kormlada brought her about to face the other person in the world she feared besides Brodir. Her eyes widened as they fell upon a slender girl clad in shimmering green, a girl whose golden hair glimmered with unearthly light in the glow of the candles. The queen recoiled, hands outstretched as if to fend her away.
“Eevin! Stand back, witch! Cast no spell on me! How came you into my palace?”
“How came the breeze through the trees?” answered the Danaan girl. “What was Brodir saying to you before I entered?”
“If you are a sorceress, you know,” sullenly answered the queen.
Eevin nodded. “Aye, I know. In your own mind I read it. He had consulted the oracle of the sea-people–the blood and the torn heart,”–her dainty lips curled with disgust–“and he told you he would attack tomorrow.”
The queen blenched and made no reply, fearing to meet Eevin’s magnetic eyes. She felt naked before the mysterious girl who could uncannily sift the contents of her mind and empty it of its secrets.
Eevin stood with bent head for a moment, then raised her head suddenly. Kormlada started, for something akin to fear shone in the were-girl’s eyes.
“Who is in this castle?” she cried.
“You know as well as I,” muttered Kormlada. “Sitric, Sigurd, Brodir.”
“There is another!” exclaimed Eevin, paling and shuddering. “Ah, I know him of old–I feel him–he bears the cold of the North with him, the shivering tang of icy seas…”
She turned and slipped swiftly through the velvet hangings that masked a hidden doorway Kormlada had thought known only to herself and her women, leaving the queen bewildered and uneasy.
In the sacrificial chamber, the ancient priest still mumbled over the gory altar upon which lay the mutilated victim of his rite. “Fifty years I have served Odin,” he maundered. “And never such portents have I read. Odin laid his mark upon me long ago in a night of horror. The years fall like withered leaves, and my age draws to a close. One by one I have seen the altars of Odin crumble. If the Christians win this battle, Odin’s day is done. It comes upon me that I have offered up my last sacrifice…”
A deep, powerful voice spoke behind him. “And what more fitting than that you should accompany the soul of that last sacrifice to the realm of him you served?”
The priest wheeled, the sacrificial dagger falling from his hand. Before him stood a tall man, wrapped in a cloak beneath which shone the gleam of armor. A slouch hat was pulled low over his fo
rehead, and when he pushed it back, a single eye, glittering and grim as the grey sea, met his horrified gaze.
Warriors who rushed into the chamber at the strangled scream that burst hideously forth, found the old priest dead beside his corpse-laden altar, unwounded, but with face and body shriveled as by some intolerable exposure, and a soul-shaking horror in his glassy eyes. Yet, save for the corpses, the chamber was empty, and none had been seen to enter it since Brodir had gone forth.
Alone in his tent with the heavily-armed gallaglachs ranged outside, King Brian was dreaming a strange dream. In his dream a tall grey giant loomed terribly above him and cried in a voice that was like thunder among the clouds, “Beware, champion of the white Christ! Though you smite my children with the sword and drive me into the dark voids of Jotunheim, yet shall I work you rue! As you smite my children with the sword, so shall I smite the son of your body, and as I go into the dark, so shall you go, likewise, when the Choosers of the Slain ride the clouds above the battlefield!”
The thunder of the giant’s voice and the awesome glitter of his single eye froze the blood of the king who had never known fear, and with a strangled cry, he woke, starting up. The thick torches which burned outside illumined the interior of his tent sufficiently well for him to make out a slender form.
“Eevin!” he cried. “By my soul! it is well for kings that your people take no part in the intrigues of mortals, when you can steal under the very noses of the guards into our tents. Do you seek Dunlang?”
The girl shook her head sadly. “I see him no more alive, great king. Were I to go to him now, my own black sorrow might unman him. I will come to him among the dead tomorrow.”
King Brian shivered.
“But it is not of my woes that I came to speak, My Lord,” she continued wearily. “It is not the way of the Dark People to take part in the quarrels of the Tall Folk–but I love one of them. This night I talked with Gormlaith.”