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By Andrew J. Offutt

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At the sight of his enemy Wulfhere shivered as with a chill. Under Cormac’s restraining hand the great thews of his arm swelled and knotted into ridges of iron. “A flight of arrows, Cormac,” he urged in a passionate whisper, his voice heavy with hate. ” hissed the Gael. “There are nearly three hundred men with Rognor. He is playing into our hands and we must not lose the chance the gods have given us! ” Not a sound betrayed the presence of the fifty-odd Danes as they lay like the shadow of Doom above the slope.

Rognor greeted him. “Hail, Hakon! ” “I was hunting wolves in the hills,” answered the young Viking, glancing curiously at the dark stranger. Rognor followed his gaze. “That is one Cormac Mac Art, chief of a band of reivers. His galley was wrecked in the gale last night and he alone won through the breakers to shore. He came to the skalli doors early in the dawn, dripping wet, and argued the carles into bringing him in to me instead of slaying him as they had intended. He offered to prove his right to follow me on the Viking path, and fought my best swordsmen, one after the other, weary as he was.

It was the reflection that Rognor was going to take Tarala for his unwilling bride and that he, Hakon, was unable to prevent it... He froze as a light, wary step sounded outside. ” grumbled the guard. “Go and ask Rognor; I will stand guard while you go. ” “Go in, in the name of Loki,” snarled the guard. ” There was a fumbling of bolts and bars; the door swung open, framing a tall, lithe form; then it closed again. Cormac Mac Art looked down at the prostrate Hakon. Cormac was fully armed, and on his head he wore a helmet with a crest ornamented with flowing horse hair.

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