Andrew J. Offutt - Cormac 04 - Tigers Of The Sea

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AURTHURIAN WARRIOR WITH A

HEART OF STEEL:

CORMAC MAC ART

The chamber into which he went with Wulfhere was lined with pillars decorated with human figures. But not

even the most perverse and barbaric geniuses of Rome could have conceived such obscenities or breathed

such foul life into the tortured stone.

Here and there in the sculpturing, the unknown artists had struck a cord of unrealness, a hint of abnormality

beyond any human deformity. The thought that Cormac had briefly entertained—that he had seen and slain

an hallucination—vanished.

Cormac gazed at the floor on which he stood. The pattern of tiles converged to a single, broad, octagonal slab

on which he was standing. Then, even as he realized he was standing on the slab, it fell away silently from

beneath his feet and he felt himself plunging into an abyss beneath...

The Cormac mac Art Series

THE MISTS OF DOOM by Andrew J. Offutt

THE TOWER OF DEATH by Andrew J. Offutt & Keith Taylor

WHEN DEATH BIRDS FLY by Andrew J. Offutt & Keith Taylor

TIGERS OF THE SEA by Robert E. Howard

THE SWORD OF THE GAEL by Andrew J. Offutt

THE UNDYING WIZARD by Andrew J. Offutt

THE SIGN OF THE MOONBOW by Andrew J. Offutt & Keith Taylor

TIGERS OF THE SEA

A WARRIOR FIT TO STAND BESIDE CONAN...

“This man’s eyes were narrow slits and of a cold-steel

grey, and they, with a number of scars that marred his

face, lent him a peculiaryly sinister aspect...”

The seas of King Arthur’s Britain rage wild and cold, and

only the wild cold heart of Cormac can match them.

With his Viking comrade, Wulfhere the Skull-splitter,

Cormac battles theives and monarchs alike in

thrilling adventures that could only have been created by

Robert E. Howard, master of heroic fantasy.

ROBERT E. HOWARD’S

OTHER GREAT HERO

CORMAC MAC ART

All characters in this book are fictitious.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead

is purely coincidental.

for Bran Mak Morn (Dell Publishing Co., New York, 1969)

TIGERS OF THE SEA

An Ace Fantasy Book / published by arrangement with

the Estate of Robert E. Howard

PRINTING HISTORY

First Ace printing / June 1979

Second printing / April 1984

to the Estate of Robert E. Howard.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part

by mimeograph or an other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-80706-2

Ace Fantasy Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group

200 Madison Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10016.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

Introduction

Tigers of the Sea

Swords of the Northern Sea

The Night of the Wolf

The Temple of Abomination

Tigers Of The Sea

Robert E Howard

Edited by Richard L. Tierney

Illustrated by Tim Kirk

ACE FANTASY BOOKS

NEW YORK

INTRODUCTION

One of the most astounding literary phenomena of this century is Robert E. Howard (1906-1936) who, despite

the disadvantage of living his entire short life in or near the dusty little village of Cross Plains, Texas—over a

thousand miles from any of his literary peers in the genre of fantastic fiction—nevertheless produced a

considerable body of inspiring fantasy-epic prose and poetry. Perhaps his very isolation helped spur his keen

and colorful imagination in a frantic search for relief from the bucolic drabness around him; at any rate, the

fastmoving adventures he contributed to the pulp magazines of the ’20’s and ’30’s are definitely among the

best of their kind, equal to the creations of such masters as Burroughs and Merritt in engrossing the reader in

the excitement of the plot or evoking wonder through the depiction of strange ages and lost empires, and

second to none in their display of a heroic, poetic writing-style that derives from a line of epic bards extending

from Robert Service back to Homer. Howard was first of all a poet in the heroic tradition, and a few of his tales

deserved to be considered modern classics in that field.

In his article, “Robert E. Howard: The Other Heroes” Etchings and Odysseys #1, 1973, Ted Pons states:

“Most readers tend to associate Robert E. Howard with his four principal creations: Conan, Solomon Kane,

Kull of Atlantis, and the Pictish tribal king Bran Mak Mom... Not to be forgotten, however, are the other

heroes: those other characters in the weird genre who also sprang to life from Howard’s fertile imagination

and talented pen...” One such character is the hero of this collection of tales: Cormac Mac Art, the Gaelic

renegade and pirate who roved and slew with the Vikings in the days of King Arthur.

Howard seems to have had a preference for heroes with a strong Gaelic strain in their ancestry. All his

protagonists tended to be vital and muscular to a superlative degree, to be sure, but his Gaelic heroes had a

depth of character development and a certain intensity that set them apart. Howard himself had a strong Irish

strain in his ancestry and identified heavily with it. Also, he very often used the idea of reincarnation in his

tales—though it is doubtful that he took the idea very seriously, and probably used it for its poetic effect only.

Still, it is tempting to think that Howard—himself a muscular, darkhaired man over six feet in height, like most

of his heroes—may have toyed with the notion that the heroic figures blossoming so readily into his

imagination were his own previous incarnations.

Just for fun, let’s examine this notion. Howard’s favorite hero-type is a tall, rangy, wolflike warrior of pure

Gaelic ancestry—blue-eyed but with a rather swarthy complexion, black-maned and with a scarred,

somewhat sinister countenance; he is always a barbarian, neither giving nor expecting quarter in open battle,

but possessing a concealed, innate chivalry or basic decency that keeps him from being downright cruel.

Cormac Mac Art fits into this type precisely.

So also do Howard’s mightiest epic-heroes, King Kull of Atlantis and Conan the Cimmerian. Kull, a barbarian

from the island-continent of Atlantis, wins to the throne of Valusia—the mightiest kingdom of what then

corresponded to the continent of Europe—through his skill with the sword and the might of his own steely

thews; all this took place 100,000 years ago, if one is to believe the utterances of the old Pictish priest Gonar

in one of Howard’s finest tales, “Kings of the Night.” Ages later, about 18,000 B.C., Atlantis sank and terrific

cataclysms changed the face of the world; the Hyborian Age came into being, its glamorous civilization rising

only after long millennia of barbarism following the cataclysms. Eventually, Conan the Cimmerian—a

black-maned, muscular, scar-faced hero like Kull—wins to the throne of Aquilonia, mightiest of the Hyborian

nations. In “The Hyborian Age,” an elaborate article Howard penned to detail the background for his Kull and

Conan stories, it is stated that “North of Aquilonia... are the Cimmerians, ferocious savages...; they are the

descendants of the Atlanteans...” Thus Conan turns out to be of the same basic racial strain as Kull. Finally,

near the end of his article, after describing the destruction of the Hyborian Age, Howard states: “The Gaels,

ancestors of the Irish and Highland Scotch, descended from pure-blooded Cimmerian clans.” Thus a racial

link is established between Kull of Atlantis, Conan of Cimmeria and the various black-maned, sinister-faced

Gaelic heroes of Howard’s who rove and slay within the framework of more-or-less known history.

Perhaps the earliest of these “historical-Cimmerian” heroes is Conan of the reivers, who appears in the tale

“People of the Dark.” Raiding a village on the west coast of Britain with his fellow reavers from Erin, Conan

pursues into the forest a blond girl who has excited his primitive lust—and finds himself battling in her behalf

the horrid, semi-human “Little People” (so well depicted first in modern horror-fiction by Arthur Machen, and

later elaborated on by Howard). Conan of the reivers, like his Cimmerian predecessor, seems to have little on

his mind but satisfying his brutish appetites, though a primitive chivalry comes to the fore in him when the

chips are down; King Kull, on the other hand, often displayed a melancholy, philosophical temperament—a

brooding wonderment that wrestled with the problems of what the universe was all about.

Conan of the reivers, judging from internal evidence, probably ranged the British Isles sometime during the

first millennium B.C., before the coming of the Roman legions to the isles. Cormac of Connacht, the next

Gaelic hero-figure in the series, appears at the time of the final military defeat that breaks the power of Rome

in Britain. Actually Cormac is more of an observer than a hero, for the real hero at this time is Bran Mak

Morn, king of the Picts. Cormac is a major figure in “Kings of the Night,” perhaps Howard’s greatest tale of

epic heroism, in which the mighty King Kull comes out of the past to aid the people of the heather in

smashing the overbearing legions of Rome; the only other story mentioning Cormac is “Worms of the Earth,”

in which Bran Mak Morn induces the Little People to aid him in the destruction of a cruel and overweening

Roman general. (Incidentally, I think an amalgamation of these two Bran Mak Morn tales would make an epic

movie worthy of Cecil B. deMille—with someone like Jack Palance playing the part of the Gaelic hero Cormac

of Connacht...)

Not long after Bran and Cormac smashed the Roman legions in Britain, Rome itself fell to the Goths and the

Empire was at an end. The British Isles slowly reverted to the bronze-age savagery of the Dark Ages as Pict,

Gael, Saxon and Jute strove with the semi-Romanized Britons for supremacy, while the first trickle of Viking

activity began to be felt from the north. It was during this period, renowned in semi-mythical history for the

exploits of King Arthur, that the hero of this book flourished—Cormac Mac Art. Cormac is a hero out of the

standard cloth—“a tall, rangily built man, deepchested and strong,” with “square-cut black hair and dark,

smooth face... This man’s eyes were narrow slits and of a cold-steel grey, and they, with a number of scars

that marred his face, lent him a peculiarly sinister aspect.” Cormac is an outcast Irish sea-rover who ranges

with the Danish Viking, Wulfhere the Skull-splitter.

Four tales of Cormac Mac Art are know to exist. Except for “The Night of the Wolf,” which appeared in the

Dell paperback collection Bran Mak Morn, they are published in this collection for the first time. I have

arranged these four tales in what I think is as logical an order as may be inferred from the internal evidence. In

“The Temple of Abomination” (evidently the earliest attempt of Howard’s concerning this hero, and the only

tale in the series having a supernatural theme) Cormac states to Wulfhere: “Alaric led his Goths through the

Forum fifty years ago, yet you barbarians still start at the name of Rome. Fear not; there are no legions in

Britain.” He goes on to say that “most of the chiefs are gathering about Arthur Pendragon for a great.

concerted drive”—against the Saxons. “The Night of the Wolf,” which I have placed third in the series, ends

with Cormac and Wulfhere escaping with their crew in a long ship called the Raven, which is the name of their

ship in the fourth tale, “Tigers of the Sea.” Now, in “Tigers” there is a discrepancy: Cormac states in this tale

that “Some eighty years ago... Alaric and his Goths sacked the imperial city”—implying that thirty years have

passed since “The Temple of Abomination” yet he also says that “Damnonia and the country extending to

Caer Odun, is ruled over by Uther Pendragon.” Yet mythology states that Uther preceded Arthur. I have

changed the text to read “80 years” in both cases, as this is a little closer to the supposed period of Arthurian

events. Evidently Howard wrote “Tigers of the Sea” so long after “The Temple of Abomination” that he had

forgotten what he had written in the earlier story.

A few centuries later Turlogh O’Brien, an Irish outlaw-wolf very similar to Cormac Mac Art, appears on the

scene. He roams alone, an outcast, fighting with Viking and Gael alike, the hands of all men against him.

“The Dark Man,” in which a super naturally-endowed image of the now-legendary Bran Mak Morn aids Turlogh

in destroying the Vikings who kidnapped and slew an Irish princess, is one of Howard’s finest tales. Turlogh

possesses the same streak of moody pessimism about the universe as Kull and Cormac; in “The Gods of

Bal-Sagoth” Howard writes of him: “...but to the black haired fighting-man of the West, it seemed that even in

the loudest clamor of triumph, the trumpet, the drum and the shouting faded away into the forgotten dust and

silence of eternity. Kingdoms and empires pass away like mist from the sea, thought Turlogh... and it

seemed to him that he and Athelstane walked in a dead city, through throngs of dim ghosts...” This is

Howard’s own basic attitude showing through—the attitude of the outsider who feels life to be somehow

unsatisfying and unreal.

Another Irish hero takes the stage in “The Cairn on the Headland”—Red Cumal, who fought under King Brian

Boru against the Vikings at the battle of Clontarf. But Red Cumal does not quite fit into the pattern, for he is

described as massive, bearlike and red-bearded; he is doubtless descended from one of those tribes with a

strong dash of Celtic who arrived in Ireland later than the pure-strain Gaels.

Finally we have Cormac Fitzgeoffrey, another outlaw-warrior, who followed Richard the Lionhearted to the Holy

Land for plunder and adventure. Cormac, of Norman-Gaelic ancestry, looks and acts more like Conan than

any of Howard’s heroes since the Hyborian age. Dark, scarred, sinister, his great muscular frame suited in

chain mail, he wades through his enemies like a steel juggernaut, the silver skull embossed on his shield

striking terror into the hearts of Turk and Bedouin while his great Frankish broadsword hews them asunder.

Only three tales of this Conanomorphic adventurer exist, none of which has appeared between hard covers.

An unpublished fragment (which I have completed and titled “The Slave-Princess”) describes how Cormac

Fitzgeoffrey fought in his first battle at the age of eight! Like Conan, he shows little tendency toward moody

philosophizing on the ephemeral nature of life; he is out for what plunder he can get from Moslem or Christian,

but possesses a rude, basic chivalry withal.

Such were the heroes one might call Robert E. Howard’s “former incarnations.” Certainly they symbolize his

idealized self-conception, and no doubt it must have amused him to fantasize that such men had been part of

his own ancestry back through the mists of time, even into prehistory and the heroic ages of myth.

Two of the tales in this book were incomplete when they were discovered among Howard’s effects; judging

from appearances, he probably finished them rather than abandoned them midway, and the endings were

later lost. I have written the last 700 or so words of “The Temple of Abomination” and the last 5,200 of “Tigers

of the Sea.” While I was editing this book, Glenn Lord discovered a much shorter and presumably earlier

version of “The Temple of Abomination” the final sentences of the version presented here were taken from it.

Howard’s text was left as he wrote it, except for routine editing where errors and slight inconsistencies have

made changes desirable.

Richard L. Tierney

St. Paul, Minnesota

February 19, 1974

TIGERS OF THE SEA

“Tigers of the sea! Men with the hearts of wolves and thews of fire and steel! Feeders of ravens whose only joy

lies in slaying and dying! Giants to whom the death-song of the sword is sweeter than the love-song of a girl!”

The tired eyes of King Gerinth were shadowed.

“This is no new tale to me; for a score of years such men have assailed my people like hunger-maddened

wolves.”

“Take a page from Caesar’s book,” answered Donal the minstrel as he lifted a wine goblet and drank deep.

“Have we not read in the Roman books how he pitted wolf against wolf? Aye—that way he conquered our

ancestors, who in their day were wolves also.”

“And now they are more like sheep,” murmured the king, a quiet bitterness in his voice. “In the years of the

peace of Rome, our people forgot the arts of war. Now Rome has fallen and we fight for our lives—and cannot

even protect our women.”

Donal set down the goblet and leaned across the finely carved oak table.

“Wolf against wolf!” he cried. “You have told me—as well I knew!—that no warriors could be spared from the

borders to search for your sister, the princess Helen—even if you knew where she is to be found. Therefore,

you must enlist the aid of other men—and these men I have just described to you are as superior in ferocity

and barbarity to the savage Angles that assail us as the Angles themselves are superior to our softened

peasantry.”

“But would they serve under a Briton against their own blood?” demurred the king. “And would they keep faith

with me?”

“They hate each other as much as we hate them both,” answered the minstrel. “Moreover, you can promise

them the reward—only when they return with the princess Helen.”

“Tell me more of them,” requested King Gerinth.

“Wulfhere the Skull-splitter, the chieftain, is a red-bearded giant like all his race. He is crafty in his way, but

leads his Vikings mainly because of his fury in battle. He handles his heavy, long shafted axe as lightly as if

it were a toy, and with it he shatters the swords, shields, helmets and skulls of all who oppose him. When

Wulfhere crashes through the ranks, stained with blood, his crimson beard bristling and his terrible eyes

blazing and his great axe clotted with blood and brains, few there are who dare face him.

“But it is on his righthand man that Wulfhere depends for advice and council. That one is crafty as a serpent

and is known to us Britons of old—for he is no Viking at all by birth, but a Gael of Erin, by name Cormac Mac

Art, called an Cliuin, or the Wolf. Of old he led a band of Irish reivers and harried the coasts of the British

Isles and Gaul and Spain—aye, and he preyed also on the Vikings themselves, But civil war broke up his

band and he joined the forces of Wulfhere—they are Danes and dwell in a land south of the people who are

called Norsemen.

“Cormac Mac Art has all the guile and reckless valor of his race. He is tall and rangy, a tiger where Wulfhere

is a wild bull. His weapon is the sword, and his skill is incredible. The Vikings rely little on the art of fencing;

their manner of fighting is to deliver mighty blows with the full sweep of their arms. Well, the Gael can deal a

full arm blow with the best of them, but he favors the point. In a world where the old-time skill of the Roman

swordsman is almost forgotten, Cormac Mac Art is well-nigh invincible. He is cool and deadly as the wolf for

which he is named, yet at times, in the fury of battle, a madness comes upon him that transcends the frenzy

of the Berserk. At such times he is more terrible than Wulfhere, and men who would face the Dane flee before

the blood-lust of the Gael.”

King Gerinth nodded. “And could you find these men for me?”

“Lord King, even now they are within reach. In a lonely bay on the western coast, in a little-frequented region,

they have beached their dragon-ship and are making sure that it is fully sea-worthy before moving against the

Angles. Wulfhere is no sea-king; he has but one ship—but so swiftly he moves and so fierce is his crew that

the Angles, Jutes and Saxons fear him more than any of their other foes. He revels in battle. He will do as

you wish him, if the reward is great enough.”

“Promise him anything you will, answered Gerinth. “It is more than a princess of the realm that has been

stolen—it is my little sister.”

His fine, deeply-lined face was strangely tender as he spoke.

“Let me attend to it,” said Donal, refilling his goblet. “I know where these Vikings are to be found. I can pass

among them—but I tell you before I start that it will take your Majesty’s word, from your own lips, to convince

Cormac Mac Art of—anything! Those Western Celts are more wary than the Vikings themselves.”

Again King Gerinth nodded. He knew that the minstrel had walked strange paths and that though he was

loquacious on most subjects, he was tight-lipped on others. Donal was blest or cursed with a strange and

roving mind and his skill with the harp, opened many doors to him that axes could not open. Where a warrior

had died, Donal of the Harp walked unscathed. He knew well many fierce sea-kings who were but grim

legends and myths to most of the people of Britain, but Gerinth had never had cause to doubt the minstrel’s

loyalty.

II.

Wulfhere of the Danes fingered his crimson beard and scowled abstractedly. He was a giant; his breast

muscles bulged like twin shields under his scale mail corselet. The horned helmet on his head added to his

great height, and with his huge hand knotted about the long shaft of a great axe he made a picture of rampant

barbarism not easily forgotten. But for all his evident savagery, the chief of the Danes seemed slightly

bewildered and undecided. He turned and growled a question to a man who sat near.

This man was tall and rangy. He was big and powerful, and though he lacked the massive bulk of the Dane,

he more than made up for it by the tigerish litheness that was apparent in his every move. He was dark, with

a smooth-shaven face and square-cut black hair. He wore none of the golden armlets or ornaments of which

the Vikings were so fond. His mail was of chain mesh and his helmet, which lay beside him, was crested

with flowing horse-hair.

“Well, Cormac,” growled the pirate chief, “what think you?”

Cormac Mac Art did not reply directly to his friend. His cold, narrow, grey eyes gazed full into the blue eyes

of Donal the minstrel. Donal was a thin man of more than medium height. His wayward unruly hair was

yellow. Now he bore neither harp nor sword and his dress was whimsically reminiscent of a court jester. His

thin, patrician face was as inscrutable at the moment as the sinister, scarred features of the Gael.

“I trust you as much as I trust any man,” said Cormac, “but I must have more than your mere word on the

matter. How do I know that this is not some trick to send us on a wild goose chase, or mayhap into a nest of

our enemies? We have business on the east coast of Britain—”

“The matter of which I speak will pay you better than the looting of some pirate’s den,” answered the minstrel.

“If you will come with me, I will bring you to the man who may be able to convince you. But you must come

alone, you and Wulfhere.”

“A trap,” grumbled the Dane. “Donal, I am disappointed in you—”

Cormac, looking deep into the minstrel’s strange eyes, shook his head slowly.

“No, Wulfhere; if it be a trap, Donal too is duped and that I cannot believe.”

“If you believe that,” said Donal, “why can you not believe my mere word in regard to the other matter?”

“That is different,” answered the reiver. “Here only my life and Wulfhere’s is involved. The other concerns every

member of our crew. It is my duty to them to require every proof. I do not think you lie; but you may have

been lied to.”

“Come, then, and I will bring you to one whom you will believe in spite of yourself.”

Cormac rose from the great rock whereon he had been sitting and donned his helmet. Wulfhere, still

grumbling and shaking his head, shouted an order to the Vikings who sat grouped about a small fire a short

distance away, cooking a haunch of venison. Others were tossing dice in the sand, and others still working

on the dragonship which was drawn up on the beach. Thick forest grew close about this cove, and that fact,

coupled with the wild nature of the region, made it an ideal place for a pirate’s rendezvous.

“All sea-worthy and ship-shape,” grumbled Wulfhere, referring to the galley. “On the morrow we could have

sailed forth on the Viking path again—”

“Be at ease, Wulfhere,” advised the Gael. “If Donal’s man does not make matters sufficiently clear for our

satisfaction, we have but to return and take the path.”

“Aye—if we return.”

“Why, Donal knew of our presence. Had he wished to betray us, he could have led a troop of Gerinth’s

horsemen upon us, or surrounded us with British bowmen. Donal, at least, I think, means to deal squarely

with us as, he has done in the past. It is the man behind Donal I mistrust.”

The three had left the small bay behind them and now walked along in the shadow of the forest. The land

tilted upward rapidly and soon the forest thinned out to straggling clumps and single gnarled oaks that grew

between and among huge boulders—boulders broken as if in a Titan’s play. The landscape was rugged and

wild in the extreme. Then at last they rounded a cliff and saw a tall man, wrapped in a purple cloak, standing

beneath a mountain oak. He was alone and Donal walked quickly toward him, beckoning his companions to

follow. Cormac showed no sign of what he thought, but Wulfhere growled in his beard as he gripped the shaft

of his axe and glanced suspiciously on all sides, as if expecting a horde of swordsmen to burst out of

ambush. The three stopped before the silent man and Donal doffed his feathered cap. The man dropped his

cloak and Cormac gave a low exclamation.

“By the blood of the gods! King Gerinth himself!”

He made no movement to kneel or to uncover his head, nor did Wulfhere. These wild rovers of the sea

acknowledged the rule of no king. Their attitude was the respect accorded a fellow warrior; that was all. There

was neither insolence nor deference in their manner, though Wulfhere’s eyes did widen slightly as he gazed

at the man whose keen brain and matchless valor had for years, and against terrific odds, stemmed the

triumphant march of the Saxons to the Western sea.

The Dane saw a tall, slender man with a weary aristocratic face and kindly grey eyes. Only in his black hair

was the Latin strain in his veins evident. Behind him lay the ages of a civilization now crumbled to the dust

before the onstriding barbarians. He represented the last far-flung remnant of Rome’s once mighty empire,

struggling on the waves of barbarism which had engulfed the rest of that empire in one red inundation.

Cormac, while possessing the true Gaelic antipathy for his Cymric kin in general, sensed the pathos and

valor of this brave, vain struggle, and even Wulfhere, looking into the far-seeing eyes of the British king, felt a

trifle awed. Here was a people, with their back to the wall, fighting grimly for their lives and at the same time

vainly endeavoring to uphold the culture and ideals of an age already gone forever. ‘The gods of Rome had

faded under the ruthless heel of Goth and Vandal. Flaxen-haired savages reigned in the purple halls of the

vanished Caesars. Only in this far-flung isle a little band of Romanized Celts clung to the traditions of

yesterday.

“These are the warriors, your Majesty,” said Donal, and Gerinth nodded and thanked him with the quiet

courtesy of a born nobleman.

“They wish to hear again from your lips what I have told them,” said the bard.

“My friends,” said the king quietly, “I come to ask your aid. My sister, the princess Helen, a girl of twenty

years of age, has been stolen—how, or by whom, I do not know. She rode into the forest one morning

attended only by her maid and a page, and she did not return. It was on one of those rare occasions when

our coasts were peaceful; but when search parties were sent out, they found the page dead and horribly

mangled in a small glade deep in the forest. The horses were found later, wandering loose, but of the princess

Helen and her maid there was no trace. Nor was there ever a trace found of her, though we combed the

kingdom from border to sea. Spies sent among the Angles and Saxons found no sign of her, and we at last

decided that she had been taken captive and borne away by some wandering band of sea-farers who,

roaming inland, had seized her and then taken to sea again.

“We are helpless to carry on such a search as must be necessary if she is to be found. We have no

ships—the last remnant of the British fleet was destroyed in the sea-fight off Cornwall by the Saxons. And if

we had ships, we could not spare the men to man them, not even for the princess Helen. The Angles press

hard on our eastern borders and Cerdic’s brood raven upon us from the south. In my extremity I appeal to

you. I cannot tell you where to look for my sister. I cannot tell you how to recover her if found. I can only say:

in the name of God, search the ends of the world for her, and if you find her, return with her and name your

price.”

Wulfhere glanced at Cormac as he always did in matters that required thought.

“Better that we set a price before we go,” grunted the Gael.

“Then you agree?” cried the king, his fine face lighting.

“Not so fast,” returned the wary Gael. “Let us first bargain. It is no easy task you set us: to comb the seas for

a girl of whom nothing is known save that she was stolen. How if we search the oceans and return

empty-handed?”

“Still I will reward you,” answered the king. “I have gold in plenty. Would I could trade it for warriors—but I have

Vortigern’s example before me.”

“If we go and bring back the princess, alive or dead,” said Cormac, “you shall give us a hundred pounds of

virgin gold, and ten pounds of gold for each man we lose on the voyage. If we do our best and cannot find the

princess, you shall still give us ten pounds for every man slain in the search, but we will waive further reward.

We are not Saxons, to haggle over money. Moreover, in either event you will allow us to overhaul our long

ship in one of your bays, and furnish us with material enough to replace such equipment as may be damaged

during the voyage. Is it agreed?"

“You have my word and my hand on it,” answered the king, stretching out his arm, and as their hands met

Cormac felt the nervous strength in the Briton’s fingers.

“You sail at once?”

“As soon as we can return to the cove.”

“I will accompany you,” said Donal suddenly, “and there is another who would come also.”

He whistled abruptly—and came nearer to sudden decapitation than he guessed; the sound was too much

like a signal of attack to leave the wolf-like nerves of the sea-farers untouched. Cormac and Wulfhere,

however, relaxed as a single man strode from the forest.

“This is Marcus, of a noble British house,” said Donal, “the betrothed of the princess Helen. He too will

accompany us if he may.”

The young man was above medium height and well built. He was in full chain mail armor and wore the crested

helmet of a legionary; a straight thrusting-sword was girt upon him. His eyes were grey, but his black hair and

the faint olive-brown tint of his complexion showed that the warm blood of the South ran far more strongly in

his veins than in those of his king. He was undeniably handsome, though now his face was shadowed with

worry.

“I pray you will allow me to accompany you.” He addressed himself to Wulfhere. “The game of war is not

unknown to me—and waiting here in ignorance of the fate of my promised bride would be worse to me than

death.”

“Come if you will,” growled Wulfhere. “It’s like we’ll need all the swords we can muster before the cruise is

over. King Gerinth, have you no hint whatever of who took the princess?"

“None. We found only a single trace of anything out of the ordinary in the forests. Here it is.”

The king drew from his garments a tiny object and passed it to the chieftain. Wulfhere stared, unenlightened,

at the small, polished flint arrowhead which lay in his huge palm. Cormac took it and looked closely at it. His

face was inscrutable but his cold eyes flickered momentarily. Then the Gael said a strange thing:

“I will not shave today, after all.”

III.

The fresh wind filled the sails of the dragonship and the rhythmic clack of many oars answered the

deep-chested chant of the rowers. Cormac Mac Art, in full armor, the horse-hair of his helmet floating in the

breeze, leaned on the rail of the poop-deck. Wulfhere banged his axe on the deal planking and roared an

unnecessary order at the steersman.

“Cormac,” said the huge Viking, “who is king of Britain?”

“Who is king of Hades when Pluto is away?” asked the Gael.

“Read me no runes from your knowledge of Roman myths,” growled Wulfhere.

“Rome ruled Britain as Pluto rules Hades,” answered Cormac. “Now Rome has fallen and the lesser demons

are battling among themselves for mastery. Some eighty years ago the legions were withdrawn from Britain

when Alaric and his Goths sacked the imperial city. Vortigern, was king of Britain—or rather, made himself

so when the Britons had to look to themselves for aid. He let the wolves in, himself, when he hired Hengist

and Horsa and their Jutes to fight off the Picts, as you know. The Saxons and Angles poured in after them

like a red wave and Vortigern fell. Britain is split into three Celtic kingdoms now, with the pirates holding all

the eastern coast and slowly but surely forcing their way westward. The southern kingdom, Damnonia and

the country extending to Caer Odun, is ruled over by Uther Pendragon. The middle kingdom, from Uther’s

lines to the foot of the Cumbrian Mountains, is held by Gerinth. North of his kingdom is the realm known by

the Britons as Strath-Clyde—King Garth’s domain. His people are the wildest of all the Britons, for many of

them are tribes which were never fully conquered by Rome. Also, in the most westwardly tip of Damnonia and

among the western mountains of Gerinth’s land are barbaric tribes who never acknowledged Rome and do not

now acknowledge any one of the three kings. The whole land is prey to robbers and bandits, and the three

kings are not always at peace among themselves, owing to Uther’s waywardness, which is tinged with

madness, and to Garth’s innate savagery. Were it not that Gerinth acts as a buffer between them, they would

have been at each other’s throats long ago.

“As it is they seldom act in concert for long. The Jutes, Angles and Saxons who assail them are forever at

war among themselves also, as you know, but a never-ending supply streams across the Narrow Seas in

their long, low galleys.”

“That too I well know,” growled the Dane, “having sent some score of those galleys to Midgaard. Some day

my own people will come and take Britain from them.”

“It is a land worth fighting for,” responded the Gael. “What think you of the men we have shipped aboard?”

“Donal we know of old. He can tear the heart from my breast with his harp when he is so minded, or make me

a boy again. And in a pinch we know he can wield a sword. As for the Roman—” so Wulfhere termed Marcus,

“he has the look of a seasoned warrior.”

“His ancestors were commanders of British legions for three centuries, and before that they trod the

battlefields of Gaul and Italy with Caesar. It is but the remnant of Roman strategy lingering in the British

knights that has enabled them to beat back the Saxons thus far. But, Wulfhere, what think you of my beard?”

The Gael rubbed the bristly stubble that covered his face.

“I never saw you so unkempt before,” grunted the Dane, “save when we had fled or fought for days so you

could not be hacking at your face with a razor.”

“It will hide my scars in a few days,” grinned Cormac. “When I told you to head for Ara in Dalriadia, did naught

occur to you?”

“Why, I assumed you would ask for news of the princess among the wild Scots there.”

“And why did you suppose I would expect them to know?”

Wulfhere shrugged his shoulders. “I am done seeking to reason out your actions.”

Cormac drew from his pouch the flint arrowhead. “In all the British Isles there is but one race who makes

such points for their arrows. They are the Picts of Caledonia, who ruled these isles before the Celts came, in

the age of stone. Even now they tip their arrows often with flint, as I learned when I fought under King Gol of

Dalriadia. There was a time, soon after the legions left Britain, when the Picts ranged, like wolves clear to the

southern coast. But the Jutes and Angles and Saxons drove them back into the heather country, and for so

long has King Garth served as a buffer between them and Gerinth that he and his people have forgotten their

ways.”

“Then you think Picts stole the princess? But how did they—?”

“That is for me to learn; that’s why we are heading for Ara. The Dalriadians and the Picts have been

alternately fighting with each other and against each other for over a hundred years. Just now there is peace

between them and the Scots are likely to know much of what goes on in the Dark Empire, as the Pictish

kingdom is called—and dark it is, and strange. For these Picts come of an old, old race and their ways are

beyond our ken.”

“And we will capture a Scot and question him?”

Cormac shook his head. “I will go ashore and mingle with them; they are of my race and language.”

“And when they recognize you,” grunted Wulfhere, “they will hang you to the highest tree. They have no

cause to love you. True, you fought under King Gol in your early youth, but since then you have raided

Dalriadia’s coasts more than once—not only with your Irish reivers, but with me, likewise.”

“And that is why I am growing a beard, old sea-dragon,” laughed the Gael.

IV.

Night had fallen over the rugged western coast of Caledon. Eastward loomed against the stars the distant

mountains; westward, the dark seas stretched away to uncharted gulfs and unknown shores. The Raven rode

at anchor on the northern side of a wild and rugged promontory that ran out into the sea, hugging close those

beetling cliffs. Under cover of darkness Cormac had steered her inshore, threading the treacherous reefs of

that grim shore with a knowledge born of long experience. Cormac Mac Art was Erin-born, but all the isles of

the Western Sea had been his stamping ground since the day he had been able to lift his first sword.

“And now,” said Cormac, “I go ashore—alone.”

“Let me go with you!” cried Marcus, eagerly, but the Gael shook his head.

“Your appearance and accent would betray us both. Nor can you either, Donal, for though I know the kings of

the Scots have listened to your harp, you are the only one besides myself who knows this coast, and if I fail

to return you must take her out.”

The Gael’s appearance was vastly altered. A thick, short beard masked his features, concealing his scars.

He had laid aside his horse-hair crested helmet and his finely worked mail shirt, and had donned the round

helmet and crude scale mail corselet of the Dalriadians. The arms of many nations were part of the Raven’s

cargo.

“Well, old sea-wolf,” said he with a wicked grin, as he prepared to lower himself over the rail, “you have said

nothing, but I see a gleam in your eyes; do you also wish to accompany me? Surely the Dalriadians could

have nothing but welcome for so kind a friend who has burnt their villages and sunk their hide-bottomed

boats.”

Wulfhere cursed him heartedly. “We seafarers are so well loved by the Scots that my red beard alone would

be enough to hang me. But even so, were I not captain of this ship, and bound by duty to it, I’d chance it

rather than see you go into danger alone, and you such an empty-headed fool!”

Cormac laughed deeply. “Wait for me until dawn,” he instructed, “and no longer.”

Then, dropping from the after rail, he struck out for the shore, swimming strongly in spite of his mail and

weapons. He swam along the base of the cliffs and presently found a shelving ledge from which a steep

incline led upward. It might have taxed the agility of a mountain goat to have made the ascent there, but

Cormac was not inclined to make the long circuit about the promontory. He climbed straight upward and,

after a considerable strain of energy and skill, he gained the top of the cliffs and made his way along them to

the point where they joined a steep ridge on the mainland. Down the southern slope of this he made his way

toward the distant twinkle of fires that marked the Dalriadian town of Ara.

He had not taken half a dozen steps when a sound behind him brought him about, blade at the ready. A huge

figure bulked dimly in the starlight.

“Hrut! What in the name of seven devils—”

“Wulfhere sent me after you,” rumbled the big carle. “He feared harm might come to you.”

Cormac was a man of irascible temper. He cursed Hrut and Wulfhere impartially. Hrut listened stolidly and

Cormac knew the futility of arguing with him. The big Dane was a silent, moody creature whose mind had

been slightly affected by a sword-cut on the head. But he was brave and loyal and his skill at woodcraft was

second only to Cormac’s.

“Come along,” said Cormac, concluding his tirade, “but you cannot come into the village with me. You

understand that you must hide outside the walls?”

The carle nodded, and motioning him to follow, Cormac took up his way at a steady trot. Hrut followed swiftly

and silently as a ghost for all his bulk. Cormac went swiftly, for he would be crowded indeed to accomplish

what he had set out to do and return to the dragon-ship by mid-day—but he went warily, for he expected

momentarily to meet a party of warriors leaving or returning to the town. Yet luck was with him, and soon he

crouched among the trees within arrow shot of the village.

“Hide here,” he whispered to Hrut, “and on no account come any nearer the town. If you hear a brawl, wait

until an hour before dawn; then, if you have heard naught from me, go back to Wulfhere. Do you

understand?”

The usual nod was the answer and as Hrut faded back among the trees, Cormac went boldly toward the

village.

Ara was build close to the shore of a small, land-locked bay and Cormac saw the crude hide coracles of the

Dalriadians drawn up on the beach. In these they swept south in fierce raids on the Britons’ and Saxons, or

crossed to Ulster for supplies and reinforcements. Ara was more of an army camp than a town, the real seat

of Dalriadia lying some distance inland.

The village was not a particularly imposing place. Its few hundred wattle and mud huts were surrounded by a

low wall of rough stones, but Cormac knew the temper of its inhabitants. What the Caledonian Gaels lacked

in wealth and armament they made up in unquenchable ferocity. A hundred years of ceaseless conflict with

Pict, Roman, Briton and Saxon had left them little opportunity to cultivate the natural seeds of civilization that

was an heritage of their native land. The Gaels of Caledonia had gone backward a step; they were behind

their Irish cousins in culture and artisanship, but they had not lost an iota of the Gaelic fighting fury.

Their ancestors had come from Ulahd into Caledonia, driven by a stronger tribe of the southern Irish. Cormac,

born in what was later known as Connacht, was a son of these conquerors, and felt himself not only distinct

from these transplanted Gaels, but from their cousins in northern Erin. Still, he had spent enough time among

these people to deceive them, he felt.

He strode up to the crude gate and shouted for entrance before he was perceived by the guard, who were

prone to be lax in their vigilance in the face of apparent quietude-a universal Celtic trait. A harsh voice ordered

him to stand still, while a torch thrust above the gate shone its flickering light full on him. In its illumination

Cormac could see, framed above the gate, fierce faces with unkempt beards and cold grey or blue eyes.

“Who are you?” one of the guards demanded.

“Partha Mac Othna, of Ulahd. I have come to take service under your chief, Eochaidh Mac Aible.”

“Your garments are dripping wet.”

“And they were not it would be a marvel,” answered Cormac. “There was a boat load of us set sail from Ulahd

this morning. On the way a Saxon sea-rover ran us down and all but I perished in the waves and the arrows

the pirates rained upon us. I caught a piece of the broken mast and essayed to float.”

“And what of the Saxon?”

“I saw the sails disappear southward. Mayhap they raid the Britons.”

“How is it that the guard along the beach did not see you when you finally came ashore?”

“I made shore more than a mile to the south, and glimpsing the lights through the trees, came here. I have

been here aforetime and knew it to be Ara, whither I was bound.”

“Let him in,” growled one of the Dalriadians. “His tale rings true.”

The clumsy gate swung open and Cormac entered the fortified camp of his hereditary foes. Fires blazed

between the huts, and gathered close about the gate was the curious throng who had heard the guard

challenge Cormac. Men, women and children partook of the wildness and savagery of their hard country. The

women, splendidly built amazons with loose flowing hair, stared at him curiously, and dirty-faced, half-naked

children peered at him from under shocks of tangled hair—and Cormac noted that each held’ a weapon of

sorts. Brats scarcely able to toddle held a stone or a piece of wood. This symbolized the fierce life they led,

when even the very babes had learned to snatch up a weapon at the first hint of alarm—aye, and to fight like

wounded wildcats if need be. Cormac noted the fierceness of the people, their lean, hard savagery. No

wonder Rome had never broken these people!

Some fifteen years had passed since Cormac had fought in the ranks of the ferocious warriors. He had no

fear of being recognized by any of his former comrades. Nor, with his thick beard as a disguise, did he expect

recognition as Wulfhere’s comrade.

Cormac followed the warrior who led him toward the largest hut in the village. This, the pirate was sure,

housed the chieftain and his folk. There was no elegance in Caledonia. King Gol’s palace was a wattled hut.

Cormac smiled to himself as he compared this village with the cities he had seen in his wanderings. Yet it

was not walls and towers that made a city, he reflected, but the people within.

He was escorted into the great hut where a score of warriors were drinking from leather jacks about a crudely

carved table. At the head sat the chief, known to Cormac of old, and at his elbow the inevitable minstrel—a

characteristic of Celtic court life, however crude the court. Cormac involuntarily compared this skin-clad,

shock-headed kern to the cultured and chivalrous Donal.

“Son of Ailbe,” said Cormac’s escort, “here is a weapon-man from Erin who wishes to take service under

you.”

“Who is your chief?” hiccupped Eochaidh, and Cormac saw that the Dalriadian was drunk.

“I am a free wanderer,” answered the Wolf. “Aforetime I followed the bows of Donn Ruadh Mac Fin, flaith na

Ulahd.”

“Sit ye down and drink,” ordered Eochaidh with an uncertain wave of his hairy hand. “Later I will talk with

you.”

No more attention was paid to Cormac, except the Scots made a place for him and a shockheaded gilly filled

his cup with the fiery potheen so relished by the Gaels. The Wolf’s ranging eye took in all the details of the

scene, passed casually over the Dalriadian fighting-men and rested long on two men who sat almost opposite

him. One of these Cormac knew—he was a renegade Norseman, Sigrel by name, who had found sanctuary

among the foes of his race. Cormac’s pulse quickened as he caught the evil eyes of the man fixed narrowly

on him, but the sight of the man beside the Norseman made him forget Sigrel for the moment.

This man was short and strongly made. He was dark, much darker than Cormac himself, and from a face as

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