Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures Read Free Page B

that the Gaels are gathering to war upon the foreigners, I see my way clearly enough. King Brian will need all the weapon-men he can muster; it is not likely he will hang me when I come to strike a blow for the clan. The time has come; I will kill you and take that sword – which was once the sword of King Murkertagh – and I will fare forth. I will go in your strongest fishing boat; it is no short voyage from Orkneyar to Erin and the sea is wild with the storms of spring, but better drown in a good effort than die under the lash of a pirate.”
    Wolfgar, during this speech, which the thrall had spoken as calmly as though discussing the crops or the weather, had sat gaping in dumbfounded amazement. Now he exclaimed: “You addle-witted fool! Are you yet to be taught I am not a man with whom to jest?”
    “Here is no jest,” answered Conn and Wolfgar suddenly read the fixed intent in the thrall’s cold eyes.
    “You Irish dog!” roared the Norseman, leaping in frantic haste from his bench. His sword flashed from its scabbard but in the same instant Conn, quick as a leaping tiger, snatched up a log of fire-wood and struck with all the ferocious power of his iron muscles. The crude weapon crushed Wolfgar Snorri’s son’s head like an egg-shell and the master of the steading fell like a slaughtered ox in a pool of his own blood.
    Swiftly Conn bent and caught up the sword which had fallen from the nerveless hand; he tore off the belt that encircled the dead man’s waist and buckled it about his own body. A quick glance about showed him the vast hall was empty; no one had seen the deed. Conn caught up a bear-skin at random, to serve as a cloak, and fled the skalli.
    The big thrall knew his limitations; he realized that if anyone stopped him and questioned him concerning his possession of his master’s sword and the blood on his hands, he could not reply with subtlety enough to allay suspicion. His only safety lay in swift flight, before the body was discovered.
    Luck, so long a stranger to the giant Gael, at last favored him. No one saw him emerge from the skalli and run swiftly between the store-houses and stables, heading for the shore of the small bay on which the steading was situated. There was peace between the wolves of the Orkneys; vigilance was relaxed as the carles and their masters busied themselves at their various occupations.
    Conn was beyond the cluster of log-built houses before someone spied and hailed him, in swift suspicion at his haste. When he did not stop, the carle who had hailed him shouted for his fellows and pursuit began, though they did not yet know the reason for his flight.
    But his start was long; bent low in fear of arrows, he raced down the slight slope to the beach where lay the fishing boats. A single carle gaped at him stupidly as with swift strokes he stove in all but one.
    “Aside, Hrut!” gasped the Gael, casting free the painter of the remaining boat and preparing to shove off. The pursuers were nearing fast.
    “But you cannot put to sea now,” protested the slow-witted carle. “A storm is brewing – and why do they shout at you – ? – ”
    He dropped like a log under the impact of Conn’s left fist against his temple. Working with frantic haste the Gael pushed off and plied the oars mightily, as the yelling Orkneymen gained the beach. Arrows hissed about him and one ripped the skin on his shoulder, spattering blood. Then the rising wind caught the small sail and the tiny boat leaped like a spurred horse and went dancing swiftly across the white-capped waves.
    “Aye,” muttered Conn grimly, as he steered without a backward glance at his erstwhile masters who brandished their swords along the beach and howled fearful threats. “Aye – a storm is rising on Erin and red will be the spray of the gale!”

II
T HE W EREGIRL OF C RAGLEA

    The spring gale had blown itself out. The sky smiled blue overhead and the sea lay placid as a pool, with only a few scattered bits of