Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures by Robert E. Howard Read Free Book Online

the heathen hordes which revile His Name and slay His people! I have but one command to give – Conquer or die!”
    The wild hordes yelled like wolves and a forest of axes brandished on high. King Brian bowed his head and his face was suddenly grey.
    “Let them lead me back to my tent,” he whispered to Murrogh. “Age has withered me from the play of the axes and my doom is hard upon me. Go forth and may God stiffen your arms to the slaying!”
    Now as the king rode slowly back to his tent among his guardsmen, there was a tightening of girdles, a drawing of blades, a dressing of shields. Conn placed the Roman helmet on the head of Dunlang and grinned at the result; thus cased the young chief looked like some mythical iron monster out of Norse legendry. And now the hosts moved inexorably toward each other.
    The Vikings had assumed their favorite wedge-shaped formation with Sigurd and Broder with their thousand iron-clad slayers at the tip. The Northmen offered a strong contrast to the loose lines of half-naked Gaels. They moved in compact ranks, armored with horned helmets, heavy scale-mail coats reaching to their knees, and leggings of seasoned wolf-hide braced with iron plates, and bearing great kite-shaped shields of linden-wood with iron rims, and long spears. The thousand warriors in the forefront wore not only heavy hauberks, but long leggings and gauntlets of mail also, so that from crown to heel they were armored. These marched in a solid shield-wall, bucklers overlapping, and over their iron ranks floated the grim raven banner which legend said always brought victory to Sigurd but death to the bearer. Now it was borne by old Rane Asgrimm’s son who felt that the hour of his death was at hand anyway.
    At the tip of the wedge, like the point of a spear, were the champions of Lochlann – Broder in his dully glittering blue mail which no blade had ever dinted; Jarl Sigurd, tall, blond-bearded, gleaming in his golden-scaled hauberk; Hrafn the Red, in whose soul lurked a mocking devil that moved him to gargantuan laughter, even in the madness of battle; the comrades Thorstein and Asmund, tall, fierce chiefs; Prince Amlaff, roving son of the king of Norway; Platt of Danemark; Jarl Thorwald Raven of the Hebrides; Anrad the berserk.

    Toward this formidable array the Irish advanced at quick pace in more or less open formation and with scant attempt at orderly ranks. But Malachi and his warriors wheeled suddenly and drew off to the extreme left, taking up their position on the high ground by Cabra. And when Murrogh saw this he cursed beneath his breath and Black Turlogh growled: “Who said an O’Neill forgets an old grudge? By Crom, Murrogh, we may have to guard our backs as well as our breasts, before this fight be won!”
    Now suddenly from the Viking ranks strode Platt of Danemark whose red hair floated like a crimson veil about his bare head. The hosts watched eagerly, for in those days few battles began without preliminary single combats.
    “Donald!” shouted Platt, his blue eyes blazing with a reckless mirth, flinging up his naked sword so that the rising sun caught it with a sheen of silver. “Where is Donald of Mar? Are you there, Donald, as you were at Rhu Stoir, or do you skulk from the fray?”
    “I am here, rogue!” answered the Scotch chief as he strode, tall, gaunt and sombre from among his men, flinging away his scabbard. Highlander and Dane met in the middle space between the hosts, Donald wary as a hunting wolf, Platt leaping in, reckless and head-long, his eyes alight and dancing with a kind of laughing madness. Yet it was the wary Steward’s foot which slipped suddenly on a rolling pebble, and before he could regain his balance, Platt’s sword lunged into him so fiercely the keen point tore through the scales of his corselet and sank deep beneath his heart. Platt yelled in mad exultation and the shout broke in a sudden gasp. Even as he crumpled Donald of Mar lashed out with a dying stroke that