People of the Dark Read Free Page B

forward, a tall gaunt warrior on whose scarred, wolfish face the flickering firelight reflected deep shadows. With his wolfskin mantle flung carelessly about his wide shoulders, and the great horns on his helmet adding to his height, he stood there in the swaying shadows, like some half-human thing, a brooding shape of the dark barbarism that was soon to engulf the world.
    “Well, Wulfhere,” said the Pictish king, “you have drunk the mead of council and have spoken about the fires — what is your decision?”
    The Northman’s eyes flashed in the gloom. “Give us a king of our own race to follow if you wish us to fight for you.”
    Bran flung out his hands. “Ask me to drag down the stars to gem your helmets! Will not your comrades follow you?”
    “Not against the legions,” answered Wulfhere sullenly. “A king led us on the Viking path — a king must lead us against the Romans. And Rognar is dead.”
    “I am a king,” said Bran. “Will you fight for me if I stand at the tip of your fight wedge?”
    “A king of our own race,” said Wulfhere doggedly. “We are all picked men of the North. We fight for none but a king, and a king must lead us — against the legions.”
    Cormac sensed a subtle threat in this repeated phrase.
    “Here is a prince of Erin,” said Bran. “Will you fight for the Westerner?”
    “We fight under no Celt, West or East,” growled the Viking, and a low rumble of approval rose from the onlookers. “It is enough to fight by their side.”
    The hot Gaelic blood rose in Cormac’s brain and he pushed past Bran, his hand on his sword. “How mean you that, pirate?”
    Before Wulfhere could reply Bran interposed: “Have done! Will you fools throw away the battle before it is fought, by your madness? What of your oath, Wulfhere?”
    “We swore it under Rognar; when he died from a Roman arrow we were absolved of it. We will follow only a king — against the legions.”
    “But your comrades will follow you — against the heather people!” snapped Bran.
    “Aye,” the Northman’s eyes met his brazenly. “Send us a king or we join the Romans tomorrow.”
    Bran snarled. In his rage he dominated the scene, dwarfing the huge men who towered over him.
    “Traitors! Liars! I hold your lives in my hand! Aye, draw your swords if you will — Cormac, keep your blade in its sheath. These wolves will not bite a king! Wulfhere — I spared your lives when I could have taken them.
    “You came to raid the countries of the South, sweeping down from the northern sea in your galleys. You ravaged the coasts and the smoke of burning villages hung like a cloud over the shores of Caledon. I trapped you all when you were pillaging and burning — with the blood of my people on your hands. I burned your long ships and ambushed you when you followed. With thrice your number of bowmen who burned for your lives hidden in the heathered hills about you, I spared you when we could have shot you down like trapped wolves. Because I spared you, you swore to come and fight for me.”
    “And shall we die because the Picts fight Rome?” rumbled a bearded raider.
    “Your lives are forfeit to me; you came to ravage the South. I did not promise to send you all back to your homes in the North unharmed and loaded with loot. Your vow was to fight one battle against Rome under my standard. Then I will aid your survivors to build ships and you may go where you will, with a goodly share of the plunder we take from the legions. Rognar had kept his oath. But Rognar died in a skirmish with Roman scouts and now you, Wulfhere the Dissension-breeder, you stir up your comrades to dishonor themselves by that which a Northman hates — the breaking of the sworn word.”
    “We break no oath,” snarled the Viking, and the king sensed the basic Germanic stubbornness, far harder to combat than the fickleness of the fiery Celts. “Give us a king, neither Pict, Gael nor Briton, and we will die for you. If not — then we will fight