Free of the press the kern ran swiftly along the battle-line until he came to the higher ground of Cabra where the Meathmen thronged, tense and trembling like hunting dogs as they gripped their weapons and looked eagerly at their king. Malachi stood apart, watching the fray with moody eyes, his lion-like head bowed, his fingers twined in his golden beard.
“King Melaghlin,” said Conn bluntly, “my prince, Murrogh, urges you to charge home, for the press grows great and the men of the Gael are hard beset.”
The great O’Neill lifted his head and stared absently at the kern. Conn little guessed the chaotic struggle which was taking place in Malachi’s soul – the red visions which thronged his brain – riches, power, the rule of all Ireland, balanced against the black shame of treachery. He gazed out across the field where the banner of his nephew O’Kelly heaved among the spears. And Malachi shuddered with a sudden sickness, but shook his head.
“Nay,” said he, “it is not time – I will charge – when the time comes.”
For an instant king and kern looked into each others’ eyes and the eyes of Malachi dropped. And Conn turned without a word and sped down the slope. And as he went he saw that the advance of Lennox and the men of Desmond had been checked. Mailmora, raging like a wild man, had cut down Prince Meathla O’Faelan with his own hand, a chance spear thrust had wounded the Great Steward, and now the Leinstermen held fast against the onset of the Munster and Scottish clans. But where the chiefs of the Dalcassians fought, the battle was at a locked stand-still; like a jutting cliff that breaks the sea, the prince of Thomond broke the advance of the Norsemen.
In the titanic upheaval of slaughter, Conn came again to Murrogh and said: “Melaghlin says he will charge when the time comes.”
“Hell to his soul,” snarled Black Turlogh. “We are betrayed!”
Murrogh’s blue eyes flamed.
“Then in the name of God,” he roared like a west wind, “let us charge and die!”
The gasping struggling bloody men heard his shout and were electrified. The blind passion of the Gael surged up in their souls bred of desperate despair; the lines stiffened like iron and a great yell shook the field that made King Sitric, on his castle wall, whiten and grip the parapet. He had heard that yell before.
And now as Murrogh leaped forward, shouting, the strange, slumbering soul of the Gael woke to red fury, as it wakes in men who have no hope. Like inspired madmen the Gaels hurled their last charge, and like a blast from Hell they smote the shield-wall which reeled to the blow.
And now no human power could stay the onslaught of Murrogh and his chiefs, fired to superhuman fury by desperation and battle-madness. They no longer hoped to live or even to win, but only to glut their fury as they died, and in their despair they were like wounded tigers. As a storm smites the fleets, Murrogh smote the close-locked ranks and his double strokes hacked a bloody way, cleaving iron and bone alike; severing limbs, splitting skulls, cleaving breasts and shoulder-bones. Close at his heels flamed the axe of Black Turlogh, the swords of Dunlang, young Turlogh and Conn; under that torrent of steel the iron line crumpled and gave and through the breach the frenzied Gaels ploughed hacking. The shield-wall formation melted away.
And at this moment the wild men of Connacht who still lived again hurled a desperate charge against the Dublin Danes. O’Hyne and Dubhgall fell together and the Dublin men were battered backward, disputing every foot.
And now the whole field melted into a mingled mass of men without rank or formation. Among the serried press Murrogh came at last upon Jarl Sigurd who stood among a torn heap of Dalcassian dead.
Behind the Jarl stood grim old Rane Asgrimm’s son, holding the raven banner, and Murrogh rushed upon him and slew him with a single stroke. Sigurd turned and his sword rent Murrogh’s tunic and gashed his chest, but the Gaelic prince smote so fiercely on the Norseman’s shield, Jarl Sigurd reeled. For an instant he could but defend himself against the rain of blows Murrogh showered with either hand upon him, and only the strength of his helmet saved him.
Thorleif Hordi had picked up the banner but scarce had he lifted it when Black Turlogh, eyes glaring, broke through and split his skull to the teeth. Sigurd, seeing his banner fall once more, struck Murrogh with such desperate power that his sword bit through the prince’s steel cap and gashed the scalp. Blood jetted down Murrogh’s face and he reeled, but before Sigurd could strike again, Black Turlogh’s axe licked out like a flash of lightning. The Jarl’s warding shield fell shattered from his arm, and Sigurd gave back for an instant, daunted by the whistling play of that deathly axe. And a rush of kerns and Vikings alike swept the chiefs apart.
“Thorstein!” shouted Sigurd. “Take up the banner!”
“Touch it not,” exclaimed Asmund. “It is cursed; who bears it, dies!”
And even as he spoke, Dunlang’s sword crushed his skull.
“Hrafn!” exclaimed Sigurd desperately. “Bear thou the banner!”
“Bear your own curse!” answered Hrafn with a wild laugh, hewing desperately right and left. “This is the end of us all!”
“Cowards!” roared the Jarl, snatching up the banner himself and striving to gather it under his cloak as Murrogh, face bloody and eyes blazing, rushed at him through the press. Sigurd flung up his sword but it was too late. The sword in Murrogh’s right hand splintered on his helmet, bursting the straps that held it and ripping it from his head, and Murrogh’s left-hand sword, whistling in behind the first blow, shattered the Jarl’s skull and felled him dead in the bloody folds of his banner which wrapped about him as he fell.
Now a great roar went up and the Gaels redoubled their strokes. With the shield-wall formation torn apart, the mail of the armored Vikings could not save them for the Dalcassian axes, flashing like summer-lightning, hewed through chain-mesh and iron plates alike, rending linden-wood shield and horned helmet. Yet though the Danes were hurled backward in a struggling chaotic mass by repeated charges, they did not break.
But on the high ramparts King Sitric had turned deathly pale; he crouched, gripping the parapet with hands that trembled. For he knew that these wild men could not be beaten now, who spilled their lives like water, hurling their naked bodies again and again into the fangs of spear and axe. Kormlada was white and silent, but Sitric’s wife, King Brian’s daughter, cried out in sudden joy, for her heart was with her own people.
Murrogh was striving to reach Broder, but the black Viking had seen Sigurd die and he was not eager to face the maddened prince. Broder’s world was crumbling under his feet. Even his vaunted mail was failing him, for though it had thus far saved his skin, it hung on him in tatters. Never before had the Manx Viking faced the dread Dalcassian axe. He drew back from Murrogh’s onset, not from any cowardice, but as a man might avoid a charging lion.
And in the thickest of the press an axe shattered on Murrogh’s helmet, knocking him to his knees and blinding him momentarily with the terrific impact. Dunlang O’Hartigan stood above him and his sword wove a wheel of death above the writhing prince.
Murrogh reeled up calling: “Dunlang! Where are you? I hear the thunder of your blows, but I cannot see you!”
The press slackened as Black Turlogh, Conn and young Turlogh drove in hacking and stabbing, and Dunlang, frenzied by the heat of battle, tore off his helmet and flung it aside, ripping off his cuirass.
“The Devil eat such cages!” he roared, catching at the reeling prince to support him, and even at that instant Thorstein the Dane ran in and drove his spear deep into Dunlang’s side. The young Dalcassian staggered and fell at Murrogh’s feet, and Conn roared and with a lion-like leap, struck Thorstein’s head from his shoulders so that it whirled grinning through the air in a shower of crimson.