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."
SWORDS OF THE NORTHERN SEA
"Skoal!" The smoke-stained rafters shook as the deep-throated roar went up. Drinking horns clashed and sword hilts beat upon the oaken board. Dirks hacked at the great joints of meat, and under the feet of the revelers gaunt, shaggy wolf-hounds fought over the remnants.
At the head of the board sat Rognor the Red, scourge of the Narrow Seas. The huge Viking meditatively stroked his crimson beard, while his great, arrogant eyes roved about the hall, taking in the familiar scene. A hundred warriors feasted here, waited on by bold-eyed, yellow-haired women and by trembling slaves. Spoils of the Southland were flung about in careless profusion. Rare tapestries and brocades, bales of silk and spice, tables and benches of fine mahogany, curiously chased weapons and delicate masterpieces of art vied with the spoils of the hunt-horns and heads of forest beasts. Thus the Viking proclaimed his mastery over man and beast.