Tigers Of The Sea

V.

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.

Marcus, leaning on the rail, glanced at the wolfish warriors beside and below him, and glanced across the intervening waves at the fierce, light-eyed, yellow-bearded Vikings who lined the sides of the opposing galley-Jutes they were, and hereditary enemies of the red-maned Danes. The young Briton shuddered involuntarily, not from fear but because of the innate, ruthless savagery of the scene, as a man might shudder at a pack of ravening wolves, without fearing them.

And now there came a giant twanging of bowstrings and a rain of death leaped through the air. Here the Danes had the advantage; they were the bowmen of the North Sea. The Jutes, like their Saxon cousins, knew little of archery. Arrows came whistling back, but their flight lacked the deadly accuracy of the Danish shafts. Marcus saw men go down in windrows aboard the Juttish craft, while the rest crouched behind the shields that lined the sides. The three men at the sweep-head fell and the long sweep swung in a wide, erratic arc; the galley lost way and Marcus saw a blond giant he instinctively knew to be Rudd Thorwald himself leap to the sweep-head. Arrows rattled off his mail like hailstones, and then the two craft ran alongside with a rending and crashing of oars and a grinding of timbers.

The wolf-yell of the Vikings split the skies and in an instant all was a red chaos. The grappling hooks bit in, gripping keel to keel. Shields locked, the double line writhed and rocked as each crew sought to beat the other back from its bulwarks and gain the opposing deck. Marcus, thrusting and parrying with a wild-eyed giant across the rails, saw in a quick glance over his foe's shoulder Rudd Thorwald rushing from the sweep-head to the rail. Then his straight sword was through the Jute's throat and he flung one leg over the rail. But before he could leap into the other ship, another howling devil was hacking and hewing at him, and only a shield suddenly flung above his head saved his life. It was Donal the minstrel who had come to his aid.

Toward the waist of the ship, Wulfhere surged on through the fray and one mighty sweep of his axe cleared a space for him for an instant. In that instant he was over the rail on the deck of the Fire-Woman and Cormac, Thorfinn, Edric and Snorri were close behind him. Snorri died the moment his feet touched the Fire-Woman's deck and a second later a Juttish axe split Edric's skull, but already the Danes were pouring through the breach made in the lines of the defenders and in a moment the Jutes were fighting with their backs to the wall.

On the blood-slippery deck the two Viking chieftains met. Wulfhere's axe hewed the shaft of Rudd Thorwald's spear in twain, but before the Dane could strike again, the Jute snatched a sword from a dying hand and the edge bit through Wulfhere's corselet over his ribs. In an instant the Skull-splitter's mail was dyed red, but with a mad roar he swung his axe in a two-handed stroke that rent Rudd Thorwald's armor like paper and cleft through shoulder bone and spine. The Juttish chief fell dead in a red welter of blood and the Juttish warriors, disheartened, fell back, fighting desperately.

The Danes yelled with fierce delight. But the battle was not over. The Jutes, knowing there was no mercy for the losers of a sea-fight, battled stubbornly. Marcus was in the thick of it, with Donal close at his side. A strange madness had gripped the young Briton. To his mind, distorted momentarily by the fury of the fray, it seemed that these Jutes were holding him back from Helen. They stood in his way and while he and his comrades wasted time with them, Helen might be in desperate need of rescue. A red haze burned before Marcus' eyes and his sword wove a web of death in front of him. A huge Jute dented his shield with a sweeping axe-head and Marcus flung his shield away, ripping the warrior open with the other hand.

"By the blood of the gods," Cormac rasped, "I never heard before that Romans went berserk, but-"

Marcus had forced his way over the corpse-littered benches to the poop. A sword battered down on his helm as he leaped upward, but he paid no heed; even as he thrust mechanically, his eyes fell on a strangely incongruous ornament suspended by a slender, golden chain from the Jute's bull neck. On the end of that chain, glittering against his broad, mailed chest, hung a tiny jewel-a single ruby carved in the symbol of the acanthus. Marcus cried out like a man with a death wound under his heart and like a madman plunged in blindly, scarcely knowing what he did. He felt his blade sink deep and the force of his charge hurled him to the poop deck on top of his victim.

Struggling to his knees, oblivious to the hell of battle about him, Marcus tore the jewel from the pirate's neck and pressed it to his lips. Then he gripped the Jute's shoulders fiercely.

"Quick!" he cried in the tongue of the Angles, which the Jutes understood. "Tell me, before I rend the heart from your breast, whence you got this gem!"

The Jute's eyes were already glazing. He was past acting on his own initiative. He heard an insistent voice questioning him, and answered dully, scarcely knowing that he did so: "From one of the girls we took… from the… Pictish boat."

Marcus shook him, frantic with a sudden agony. "What of them? Where are they?"

Cormac, seeing something was forward, had broken from the fight and now bent, with Donal, over the dying pirate.

"We… sold… them," muttered the Jute in a fading-whisper, "to… Thorleif Hordi's son… at.."

His head fell back; the voice ceased.

Marcus looked up at Donal with pain-haunted eyes.

"Look, Donal," he cried, holding up the chain with the ruby pendant. "See? It is Helen's! I myself gave it to her-she and Marcia were on this very ship-but now-who is this Thorleif Hordi's son?"

"Easy to say," broke in Cormac. "He is a Norse reiver who has established himself in the Hebrides. Be of good cheer, young sir; Helen is better off in the hands of the Vikings than in those of the Pictish savages of the Hjaltlands."

"But surely we must waste no time now!" cried Marcus. "The gods have cast this knowledge into our hands; if we tarry we may again be put upon a false scent!"

Wulfhere and his Danes had cleared the poop and waist, but on the after deck the survivors still stubbornly contended with their conquerors. There was scant mercy shown in a sea-fight of that age. Had the Jutes been victorious they would have spared none; nor did they expect or ask for mercy.

Cormac made his way through the waist of the ship where dead and dying lay heaped, and struggled his way through the yelling Danes to where Wulfhere stood plying his dripping axe. By main force he tore the Skull-splitter from his prey and jerked him about.

"Have done, old wolf," he growled. "The fight is won; Rudd Thorwald is dead. Would you waste steel on these miserable carles?"

"I leave this ship when no Jute remains alive!" thundered the battle-maddened Dane. Cormac laughed grimly.

"Have done! Bigger game is afoot! These Jutes will drink blood before you slaughter them all and we will need every man before the faring is over. From the lips of a dying Jute we have heard it-the princess is in the steading of Thorleif Hordi's son, in the Hebrides."

Wulfhere's beard bristled with ferocious joy. So many were his foes that it was hard to name a Viking farer with whom he had no feud.

"Is it so? Then, ho, wolves-leave the rest of these sea-rats to drown or swim as they will! We go to burn Thorleif Hordi's son's skalli over his head!"

Slowly, by words and blows, he beat his raging Danes off and, marshalling them together, drove them over the gunwales into their own ship. The bleeding, battle-weary Jutes watched them go, leaning on their reddened weapons in sullen silence. The toll taken had been terrific, but by far the greater loss aboard the Fire-Woman. From stem to stern dead men wallowed among the broken benches in a welter of crimson.

"Ho, rats!" Wulfhere shouted, as his Vikings cast off and the oars of the Raven began to ply, "I leave you your blood-gutted craft and the carrion that was Rudd Thorwald. Make the best you can of them and thank the gods that I spared your lives!"

The losers harkened in sullen silence, answering only with black scowls, all save one-a lean, wolfish figure of a warrior, who brandished a notched and bloody axe and shouted: "Mayhap you will curse the gods some day, Skull-splitter, because you spared Halfgar Wolf's-tooth!"

It was a name, in sooth, that Wulfhere had cause to remember well in later days. But now the chief merely roared in laughter, though Cork mac frowned.

"It is a foolish thing to taunt beaten men, Wulfhere," said he. "But you have a nasty cut across your ribs. Let me see to it."

Marcus turned away with the gem that Helen had worn. The flood of savagery during the last few hours left him dazed and weary. But he had discovered strange, dark deeps in his own soul. A few minutes of fierce sword-play on the gunwales of a sea-rover had sufficed to bridge the gap of three centuries. Coolness in action, a characteristic drilled into his forebears by countless Roman officers, and inherited by him, had been swept away in an instant before the wild, old Celtic fury before which Caesar had staggered on the Ceanntish beaches. For a few mad moments he had been one with the wild men about him. The shadows of Rome were fading; was he, too, like all the world, reverting to the nature of his British ancestors, bloodbrothers in: savagery to Wulfhere Skull-splitter?