Tigers Of The Sea

VI.

"It is not far from here to Kaldjorn where Thorleif Hordi's son has built his stealing," said Cormac, glancing abstractedly at the mast where now sixteen brass nails gleamed dully.

The Norse were already establishing themselves in the Hebrides, the Orkneys and the Shetlands. Later these movements would become permanent colonizations; at this time, however, their steadings were merely pirate camps.

"The Sudeyar lie to the east, just out of sight over the sea-rim," Cormac continued. "We must resort to craft again. Thorleif Hordi's son has four long ships and three hundred carles. We have one ship and less than eighty men. We can not do as Wulfhere wishes: go ashore and burn Thorleif's skalli-and he will not be likely to give up such a prize as the princess Helen without a battle.

"This is what I suggest: Thorleif's steading is on the east side of the isle of Kaldjorn, which luckily is a small one. We will draw in under cover of night, on the west side. There are high cliffs there and the ship should be safe from detection for a time, since none of Thorleif's folk have any reason to wander about on the western part of the island. Then I will go ashore and seek to steal the princess."

Wulfhere laughed. "You will find it a more difficult matter to hoax the Norse than you did the Scots. Your locks will brand you as a Gael and they will cut the blood-eagle in your back."

"I will creep among them like a serpent and they will know naught of my coming," answered the Gael. "Your Norseman is a very dullard when it comes to stealth, and easy to deceive."

"I will go with you," broke in Marcus. "This time I will not be denied."

"While I must gnaw my thumb on the west side of the isle," grumbled Wulfhere enviously. "Wait," said Donal. "I have a better plan, Cormac."

"Say on," the Gael prompted him.

"We shall buy the princess from Thorleif Hordi's son. Wulfhere-how much loot have you aboard this ship?"

"Enough gold to ransom a noble lady, mayhap," grunted the Dane, "but not enough to buy back Gerinth's sister-that would cost half a kingdom. Moreover, Thorleif is my bloodenemy, and would rather see my head on a spear at his skalli-door than all Gerinth's gold in his coffers."

"Thorleif need not know this is your ship," said Donal. "Nor can he know that the lady he holds captive is the princess Helen; to him she will be the lady Atalanta, no more. Now, here is my plan: you, Wulfhere, shall disguise yourself and take your place with your warriors, while Thorfinn, your second-in-command, acts as chief. Marcus here shall play the part of Atalanta's brother, while I shall be her childhood mentor; we shall say we have come to ransom her, cost what it may-hiring this Viking-crew to aid us, since the Britons have no more ships and no men to spare from their borders."

"It will cost a-plenty," grumbled Wulfhere. "Thorleif is as shrewd as he is rapacious; he will drive a hard bargain.".

"Let him. Gerinth will pay you back, though it cost you all the loot in your hold. The king has sent me with you to be his judge in these matters-and let my head be forfeit for any promise I should make in his name, for he shall keep it!"

"I trust your sincerity and Gerinth's," said Wulfhere, "yet this plan is not to my liking. Rather would I fall on Thorleif's skalli like a thunderbolt, with arrow-storm and sharp-edged steel."

"As would I," said Cormac; "yet Donal's plan is best if rescue of the princess Helen is our goal. Thorleif's carles outnumber us at least three to one, and even were we to best them in a surprise attack the princess might well be slain in the fray. Donal's plan is good; Thorleif would contest us with steel were he to know whom he holds as captive, but if he thinks he holds hostage only a noble lady of the Britons, Atalanta, then doubtless he'll accept a hold full of loot for her rather than risk his ships and men in a fight. And if Donal's plan fails, then we'll still have mine to try.

"Well," said Wulfhere, "there's wisdom in Donal's way, I'll not gainsay it. But I'll stay on the strand with the crew while Thorfinn and Marcus and Donal bargain for Gerinth's sister, lest I should betray our venture; for I have sworn that when next I see Thorleif Hordi's son's treacherous face I shall cleave it to the chin!"

"I'll be in on the bargaining," said Cormac. "Thorleif shall not recognize me through this beard."

"Likely not," grunted the Dane, "for he saw you but briefly, and that during a sea-fight. Yet I'll be ready to lead the crew in a charge should aught go wrong at the dickering. Steersman!" he bellowed, "make for the Scottish mainland-we'll need a day's rest to lick our wounds and, gather provisions before we sail for the Hebrides."

As the ship headed for the wild coastland, not one man of its sharp-eyed crew noticed the ship of the defeated Jutes, with barely enough men left to man the oars, bearing off across the horizon of the gray sea toward the northeast, its square sail belled to the wind, its rowers working frantically-

Nor, far in its wake, too far to be seen save by the most keen-eyed of lookouts, the small, dark longboat full of small, dark men-men with bows, flint-tipped arrows and dark eyes full of intent watchfulness and grim purpose.

A cold, thin drizzle chilled the air and made the rocks on the beach before Thorleif Hordi's son's steading glimmer as if with dark slime. Beyond drifting wraiths of mist the forest of spruce and pine rose like minarets in a sea of murk. Four long ships lay drawn up on the shore. Farther down the beach lay a fifth with the forepart of its keel upon the sand; near it stood a large band of red-bearded men in scale mail corselets and horned helmets, bearing spears, bows and shields. A high wall of pointed logs paralleled the upper edge of the beach, and from behind this wall rose smoke from the skalli of Thorleif and the lesser dwellings of his carles; while before it and about its broad gate stood ranked over a hundred blond Vikings, armored and armed much like those clustered about the lone long ship. Between the two large bands of warriors, some distance from either, stood a small knot of men divided into two parts and facing one another.

"Bring forth your loot," rumbled Thorleif Hordi's son. "You'll not purchase the Lady Atalanta without a lot of it. By Odin, she's a comely wench, and I'd minded to have her for one of my own brides."

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…

Cormac wheeled and dodged the whistling blade just in time. Then his foot slipped in a patch of beach-slime and he fell sprawling. Thorleif hove up his sword for a final blow-but as he swung it down the blade crashed on an upraised shield and suddenly he was gazing into the blazing eyes of Wulfhere the Skull-splitter.

"Smite again!" roared the Danish chieftain. "Aye, try your steel against another than wounded warriors and helpless women, spawn of Helheim!"

Cormac lurched to his feet and raced to the aid of Marcus; a Norse warrior surged to stop him, but Cormac was beneath the sweep of the man's axe like a cat and his broken sword ripped into his bull-throat.

Thorleif Hordi's son roared with rage and struck with all his might, and his great thick-bladed sword crashed ringingly against the rim of Wulfhere's horned helmet and sent sparks flying. The Danish chief reeled back, half-dazed, and Thorleif rushed in for the kill; but Wulfhere, rallying, roared and swung his axe with all his strength. The axe-blade dipped beneath Thorleif's shield and crunched in through steel mail and into flesh. Thorleif, maddened, lashed back with a blow that clove Wulfhere's shield asunder-but the Dane, bellowing like a wounded bear, gave back a blow of his axe that shore through the Norseman's helmet and split his skull to the jawbone, and Thorleif crashed to the earth like a felled tree.

The battle raged like a maelstrom of steel as the Danes from the long ship rushed to battle with the Norse warriors, who in turn had charged from their position by the stockade-wall. Cormac raced to the side of Marcus, who with the help of Donal was protecting the princess Helen.

"Back to the ship!" yelled Cormac. "Leave the treasure and forget your blood-feuds! Protect the princess!"

The Danes paused in their retreat to draw bow to ear, and at least a score of the charging Norsemen went down before a storm of arrows, somewhat evening the odds-but the rest came on. Halfgar and his Jutes had retreated slightly, but now with their Norse allies at their backs returned to the offense with wild war-cries.

The rushing factions crashed together in a storm of ringing steel; flashing blades ripped through mail and flesh, bones snapped under the impact of mighty blows, and in a moment the beach-stones were slippery with blood while Dane strove against Jute and Norseman in a desperate fury that neither gave nor asked for quarter. Halfgar slew a Dane with a mighty stroke of his axe, then leaped for Donal who was warding the frightened princess. Donal was a competent swordsman but he could not stand before the berserker fury of the Jute's charge; the force of Halfgar's blow against the buckler he threw up barely in time drove him to his knees. Then the Juttish chief hove up his axe for a killing blow.

Cormac, his sword and shield useless, tensed to charge Halfgar bare-handed-yet knew with a pang of despair that he was too far away to avert the blow that would slay Donal. Then with a roar of rage a hurtling form crashed into the Jute and the two went down together, threshing and snarling. It was Marcus, unarmed, yet in the grip of a berserker-rage as terrible as any Viking's.

Cormac ducked a singing sword-blade, leaped under his attacker's guard and drove his dagger against the warrior's scale-mail with all his strength. The blade snapped-but not before it had ripped through the mail and buried itself deep in the Viking's heart.

Snatching up the fallen warrior's sword and shield, Cormac leaped to where Marcus and Halfgar were battling. The young Briton was having the worst of it; his wounds had weakened him, and his strength was not equal to his fury. Even as Cormac sprang forward Halfgar broke the furious grip of his opponent and smashed the front of his shield into the youth's face; then, even as he shifted his axe to slay the stunned Marcus, the Jute saw a glitter of bright crimson at his feet. It was the gem that had adorned the princess Helen, its slender chain now broken, torn from Marcus during the fight. Halfgar stooped quickly and snatched it up, hastily looping the chain round his axe-belt. That instant of avarice was all Cormac needed to close the gap and save Marcus from the stroke of a butcher's axe; when the Jute looked up the Gael was already upon him like a whirlwind of fury. He hove up his axe in an instinctive attempt to ward off Cormac's furious stroke, but the sword-blade bit through the handle, sending the axe-head flying, and crashed to fragments on his iron helm. The good metal saved Halfgar's skull but the force of Cormac's blow sent the Jute crashing senseless to the beach.

"Fall back to the ship," yelled Cormac. "Aid here for the prince Marcus!"

Donal rushed to Cormac's aid, and the princess Helen with him, her face white and tearful but strong with a concern that overrode her fear. Ignoring Cormac's bewildered cursings, she helped the minstrel lift the stunned Marcus and bear him away.

The Jutes and Norsemen, having seen both their chieftains fall, had momentarily slackened in their battle-fury; but now, seeing the Danes withdrawing rapidly toward their ship with the hostage British noblewoman in their midst, they surged back to the fight with renewed frenzy. And then, as if in answer to a prearranged signal, the war-cries of a mighty host came roaring from the far end of the beach, beyond when the Raven lay with her prow on the sand-and from the forest burst a horde of charging Norsemen that outnumbered both the contesting groups put together.

"The trap's sprung!" yelled Cormac, raging. "To the ship!"

"Wotan!" Wulfhere scattered a Norseman's brains with a mighty stroke of his axe. "Let your blades drink blood, sons of Dane-mark!"

But even as the retreating Danes reached the prow of their beached ship, Cormac saw it was too late. They had barely time to group themselves into a knot about the bow, with shields overlapping and blades bristling from their ranks like steel quills, when Thorleif's forces smote from both sides like giant ocean waves dashing in fury against a great rock. The Danes raged like giants at Ragnarok in their battlefury, dealing death to two for every one of their own that was slain, yet even as Cormac raged and slew with the best of them he knew that the odds were too great. They were outnumbered three to one and the newcomers to the battle were fresh. The Danes could not practice their superior archery at these close quarters, nor could they scramble up the sides of their long ship…

Suddenly a howl of fury seemed to shake the skies-a scream of war-fury that welled up from a thousand throats-and then a storm of arrows from all sides darkened the already murky skies. Wooden shafts rattled down like rain and splintered against the scaled corselets of Dane, Jute and Norseman alike. Cormac saw one of Wulfhere's men reel, his neck transfixed by a dark, flint-tipped arrow; a blond Norse warrior staggered and fell with a similar arrow jutting from his right eye-socket. Most of the shafts that found a mark broke and splintered harmlessly against the bucklers and mail of the Vikings, but all too many out of those hurtling thousands thudded to rest in living flesh.

The Norsemen and Jutes whirled to face this new foe, and Cormac, straining to see above the heads of his enemies, saw the beach in both directions a-swarm with dark, running figures-Picts! Now the arrow-storm ceased and the dark runners, with howls of blood-mad battle frenzy, hurled themselves on the confused outer ranks of the Norsemen.

"Into the ship!" yelled Cormac as the battle-press slackened. "Once there we can hold off both Pict and Norseman with arrow-storm if need be."

The Danes surged over the sides of their long ship, unhindered by the Norsemen who had turned to meet the savage charge of the Picts. A second rain of arrows from the charging Picts swept the deck as the warriors clambered aboard. Donal and Cormac, who had shielded Helen with their bucklers at some risk to themselves, hurried the girl to the hold despite her protests over the safety of Marcus. Wulfhere himself helped lift the wounded prince to the deck and bear him to safety.

"A sword!" gasped the half-conscious youth. "Give me a sword to slay the damned Jute who tortured my lady's maid before her eyes!"

"Methinks Halfgar is dead," rumbled the Dane gently, admiration for the Briton's courage stirring his fierce soul. "I saw Cormac smite him on the helm in battle, and he rose not from that stroke."

"Then he died too swiftly!" cried Marcus, striving to lift himself from the deck; but Wulfhere held him down firmly.

The surviving Danes were now all aboard ship and ranged with their bows behind the row of shields that lined both rails; but the ship's bow was still grounded on the strand and they could not escape to sea. The Norsemen on shore, rallying from the confusion of the Pictish onslaught, closed ranks and locked shields and began a slow retreat to the stockade where the dark warriors were already swarming in through the open gates. The Picts hurled themselves in screaming fury upon the retreating Norse phalanx, clad only in animal hides and wielding weapons of flint and bronze against the iron mail and blades of the Vikings, seemingly willing to lose three or four men for every Norseman they dragged down to death. Then smoke began to curl up from behind the stockade wall, and the Vikings roared with dismay as they realized their huts and storehouses were being fired. The phalanx wavered, then broke as the enraged Norsemen charged in frenzied rage toward the skalli, hewing down the naked warriors who barred their path, while the bulk of the Pictish force pursued and harried them through the gates and into the stockade.

A wave of Picts rushed the long ship, but a storm of arrows from Wulfhere's archers drove them back. The dark warriors retreated to the edge of the forest, where they rallied. The Danes tensed for another attack, but it did not come; instead, a flag of truce was raised. Then a half dozen warriors strode down the beach and halted before the prow of the long ship. In their midst was an old man, spare but erect, who wore a robe of wolf-hides ornamented barbarically with the feathered heads of birds and the skulls of animals.

"What do you want?" demanded Cormac in the language of the Picts.

"I am Gonar, High Priest of Pictdom." The old man's voice, though high-pitched, was resonant and strong. "Give us the moon-maid who is to be our sacrifice to Golka, and whom the Jutes stole from us-else we shall burn your ship with fire-arrows."

"There is no moon-maid here," said Cormac.

"We saw her borne aboard your ship," persisted the Pictish priest. "She was brought to us from a land far to the south, wearing the Bloodstone of the Moon on a golden chain. A generation agone that gem was stolen from its shrine on the Isle of the Altar, and now Golka has sent it back to us about the neck of the sacrifice."

"The ruby!" muttered Donal, who had learned much of the Pictish tongue in his wandering life as a minstrel. "I remember now-Marcus once told me his father found it on a beach amid the wreckage of a Pictish longboat…"

Cormac recalled the red gem Halfgar had snatched up from the sand. Automatically he glanced to the spot where the man had fallen-and saw the Juttish chieftain rising unsteadily to his feet. Evidently Cormac's swordblow had merely stunned him.

"Give us the girl who bears the Blood-stone," persisted the old man.

"Your god has chosen another for you than her," said Cormac, pointing down the beach. "See, Gonar-that man rising up amid the slain corpses; go to him, and you will find Golka's token."

The old man started, then nodded to the warriors with him, who immediately sprinted off like lean wolves and surrounded Halfgar. Then savage cries of glee rang out as they spied the gem dangling at the Jute's belt. Halfgar drew his dagger and strove to fight, but the Picts overpowered him easily in his dazed condition and began to bind him with rawhide cords.

"Go then, Danes," cried old Gonar, "and return no more, for this isle belongs to the Pictish clans, and for too long have your Norse brethren ravaged its forests with their axes and sullied its turf with their heavy tread."

Danish warriors swarmed over the gunwales and put their shoulders to the hull; the keel grated upon the beach until the long-ship floated free, and a great shout went up from the Danes as they realized they were seaborne again.

"But the gem," shouted Cormac from the deck as the shore receded,"-surely it is of Rome rather than Pictdom, for I saw the Corinthian symbol, graven on its face."

"Not the acanthus," Gonar cried back, "but the Blood of the Sacrifice-the crimson fountain that spurts from the ripped breast to pleasure the heart of Golka of the Moon."

Cormac turned away with a sudden revulsion as the oarsmen swept the craft about and pulled for the clean open sea. Behind him rose a high keening like the wail of a lost soul, and the Gael shuddered as he realized Halfgar had come to full comprehension of his impending fate. Nothing of civilized weakness clung to Cormac's red, barbaric soul-yet something in the complete raw savagery of the Picts rasped on the armor around his heart.

"Well, you were right, Cormac," rumbled Wulfhere as the shore of the isle of Kaldjorn receded into the murk; "it was ill of me to taunt a defeated man, for my taunts doubtless spurred Halfgar on to vengeance at any price, and in the end it cost me near half my carles. It will take another voyage to Dane-mark to replenish my crew."

"Halfgar was a treacherous wolf and a torturer of women," said Cormac moodily, "yet he was a brave fighter, and it sits ill with me that a sea-warrior should spill his heart's blood on the altar of "Golka of the Moon."

"Well, then," said Donal, "gladden your heart with the happiness in the faces of the princess Helen and her lover Marcus. Look-even under the leaden drizzle of these murky-skies their evident joy as they gaze on one another, oblivious to the rest of us, is like the sunrise heralding the return of the gods. Be glad, too, at the thought of the gold King Gerinth will pay you for the safe return of his sister-and knowing the generosity of the man, I doubt not he'll pay you twice what you ask out of joy to see her alive." So saying, the minstrel lifted his ancient Roman lyre, plucked its iron strings and began to sing: Picts stole King Gerinth's sister fair And the king knew black despair. ''Las, what can I do?" cried he. "Foes assail by land and sea; "Warriors I have none to spare. "Thieves have ta'en my sister fair." Then to the king his minstrel came: "Wulfhere's crew of Viking-fame "Rests for a space in yonder bay; "Stout of heart and true be they. "Even to Ocean's utmost lair "They'll ply to find your sister fair." The King, his face a-streak with tears, Bared to the Viking-men his fears. "By Wotan!" Wulfhere roared, "my blade "Shall cleave the rogues who stole the maid." Then quoth black Cormac wrathfully: "They'll face the Tigers of the Sea!" Far on the roaring, wind-wracked tide The dragon-ship of the rovers plied. Juttish dragons barred their way; Then did the tigers rend and slay. Thorwald died 'neath Wulfhere's steel- See, how the hungry raven's wheel! Anon they sailed to Kaldjorn's strand Where Thorleif with his mighty band Held the fair maid in bondage sore. "Ho, ho!" quoth Hordi's son, "no more "The shores of your native land you'll see." And the poor maid wept bitterly. Then Kaldjorn felt the dragon's keel And the tigers raged with fangs of steel. Wulfhere roared with joy of battle- Norsemen fell to's blade like cattle. Thorleif's skull he clove in twain; Long his rovers heaped the slain. Now Pict and raven prowl the strand Where the Norse lie heaped on the crimson sand; The rovers ply from their valiant raid With an empty hold and a joyful maid. And Briton's king most happily Shall greet the Tigers of the Sea.

"By Thor, Donal!" roared Wulfhere gruffly, his great eyes a-swim with tears. "'Tis a song, for the gods! Sing it again-aye, and this time forget not how I turned Thorleif's blow aside and shore through his mail with my axe. What think you Cormac-is it not a good song?"

Cormac gazed broodingly toward the shore, where flames from the burning skalli were now glimmering redly through the murk.

"Aye, it's a good song, I'll not gainsay it. But already it differs in ways from the things I saw, and I doubt not the difference will grow with each singing. Well, it matters little-the world itself shifts and changes and fades to mist like the strains of a minstrel's harp, and mayhap the dreams we forge are more enduring than the works of kings and gods."