CHAPTER III

Thou the bane of thy brothers wast, The chief of thy kin,--whence curse of Hel Awaits thee, good as thy wits may be! BEOWULF.

At the alarm of the Danes, the trembling heart of the little princess leaped with joy. But the sudden hope gave way as quickly to renewed terror. Why should the cruel sea-count linger on the trade-ship alone if not to carry out his ferocious revenge? Closer than ever the girl clasped the senseless warrior in her arms, until the blood from his wounded head seeped warm through her silken kirtle, and the bell-like rim of his helmet bruised her tender bosom.

Breathless, she listened to the rush and outcry of the vikings as with their wounded fellows they poured back into the longship. Then, in the lull which followed, she could hear the smothered wail of her tiring-woman, crouched in the cubby beneath her. Gaining courage from the silence, she at last ventured to raise her head. She saw Hroar at the farther bulwark, gazing intently down the estuary. He did not move, and Rothada rose timidly to look around.

The second Dane ship was coming about only a few yards astern; but its crew, like the crew of its consort, were far too intent on watching the Norse ship to give heed to the little maiden. Even the Frisian sailors had ceased to cower, and were lined along the bulwarks forward, full of eager hope that the approaching longship might bring them a change of masters. Hroar's cruelty was only too well known throughout Frisia.

Rothada also gazed at the stately prow of the stranger and joined in the longing of her fellow-captives that the new-comers would seize the trade-ship for their own. But the little maiden's faith gave her still fairer hopes than those cherished by the Frisians. To her girlish innocence, deliverance now seemed certain. She had only to appeal to the Norse count, and he would accept ransom for all. Tears of gratitude shone in her violet eyes as she stooped to bind up with deft fingers such of Roland's wounds as the Danes had failed to stanch.

Her task ended, the girl started up again to gaze over into the Norse ship as it glided alongside. The vessel swarmed with huge warriors, whose superiority to the Danes both in discipline and armor was so striking that even the convent-bred maiden could not but perceive the difference. Against such men, even had the odds been reversed, the Danes could not have hoped to hold their own.

When Rothada comprehended this, she clasped her hands in joy and looked eagerly about for the Norse leader. A small blue banner, emblazoned with a gold star, fluttered on the longship's stern, and Rothada's first thought was that the blond viking at the helm beneath it must be the sea-king. But then, standing alone in the vessel's prow, she saw a warrior whom even she could not but recognize as the Norse leader. His round casque, though wingless, was of blue steel and rimmed with a gold band in whose front sparkled a garnet star. Even more beautiful was the young sea-king's serk, or coat, of ring-mail, which shimmered in the sun like ice. His small round shield differed from the usual Norse and Frankish patterns both in the greater convexity of its shape and in the material of its face,--a disc of hammered steel. Its bluish surface, polished like a mirror, was traced with gold damascening both on the boss and on the thickened rim.

Yet with all the young sea-king's splendid war-gear, so slight and boyish did he appear in contrast to his followers that Rothada at first thought he could be little older than herself. But when he stepped forward and answered Hroar's hail, it was with a haughtiness of tone and bearing far other than childlike.

Even as he spoke, the Northman sprang upon the bulwark of his ship and, great as was the distance which yet separated the vessels, leaped for the trade-ship's deck. With a cry of astonishment, Hroar sprang sideways from before him, down upon the smooth surface of the bales of goods in the after hold; while high above the water the leaper's bright figure flashed through the air and shot in over the bulwark. Lightly as a panther, the Northman struck the deck and turned instantly to confront the Dane. But Hroar stood motionless, overcome with wonder at the daring leap, and did not seek to regain the deck.

Seeing that there was no danger of immediate attack, the Northman lowered his shield and looked about with keen glances at the slaughtered Franks and Danes.

"Thor!" he cried, "these Rhinemen fought well. Would that I had led the heroes! But what's this?--a Frank yet alive, and beside him a child-maid!"

Now entirely heedless of the Danish sea-king, the Northman advanced to stare at the forlorn survivors of Hroar's attack. Had Rothada possessed her cousin's knowledge of men and customs, she would have stared back at the sea-king in bewilderment. The haughty face which so coldly confronted her was dark and oval, with arched nose, lofty brow, and black eyes of intense brightness,--features part Arab, part Greek in character, but in no respect Norse. Yet the young chief's hair proved quite as fully that his leadership must be founded on kingly Norse blood. It was of silky fineness and curled down beneath his helmet rim in locks like burnished red gold. His dress also was that of a king's son. The cloak of sable, clasped by a jewelled brooch, was lined with cloth of gold, while money-rings coiled their yellow spirals around the ring-mail sleeves which extended to his wrists.

Abashed by the extreme brightness of the sea-king's gaze, Rothada lowered her admiring eyes to the splendid recurved sword which swung at his belt. Roland could have told her that the weapon was a sword of the Saracen folk,--a Damascus blade, which would bend to the hilt without snapping and, like the Wrath of Sigurd, cut alike through iron bars and floating wool. With the peace-thongs knotted, even that far-famed blade of Regin's forging could not have compared with this magnificent weapon, whose sheath sparkled with gems, and upon whose pommel blazed the splendor of a priceless ruby.

The glint of gold and jewels recalled to Rothada's mind her own high rank, and gave her courage to glance up again. At sight of the milder light in the dark eyes of the sea-king, she raised her arms to him appealingly.

"Bright count of the sea!" she cried, "the dear Christ has sent you to save us. The cruel Dane's knife shall not harm my kinsman!"

The Northman glanced down at the wounded Frank.

"Who is this warrior?" he demanded.

"My kinsman, Count Roland. He is a high lord of King Karl, my father--"

"Your father,--the Frank king!" cried the Northman, and his eyes flashed a look at the girl that made her tremble. But again their keenness softened, and he pointed to her bosom.

"There's blood upon your kirtle," he muttered. "Do these Danes war upon babes and bairns?"

"It is my kinsman's blood. The Dane count would have harmed him as he lay helpless. I tried to shield him."

"Bravely done, little maiden! Though twice over the daughter of King Karl, the deed shall count you good weight in the balance. Take heart! Not all vikings are swine. Olvir Thorbiornson does not war upon maids and stricken heroes. Now I go to settle with this Dane boar who rends fallen foes."

"It is time to cease prattle," Hroar called up jeeringly. "Come, talk with a warrior. What says the bairn with outland face? Will he meet a sea-king singly in sword-play, and stake the trade-ship as prize?"

At the challenge a strange smile lit up the Northman's dark face; but he replied gravely: "A shrewd bargain, Dane! You would have me fight for what I need only reach out my hand to take. First tell me your name."

"You 're late from your mother's bower, bairn. Few vikings ask the name of Hroar the Cruel."

"Hroar! Hroar the Cruel!" repeated the Northman, in a smothered voice. His hand closed on the hilt of his sword, and his face went white with anger. Had Hroar seen the look in his eyes, he would not have grinned at his pallor or at the soft lisping voice in which the Northman answered: "Go, bid your other ship make fast. All craft shall lie quiet while I make an end of Hroar the Cruel."

The Dane laughed derisively, yet turned to repeat to his own crew the command which the Northman shouted over the opposite bulwark. Soon all six ships were drifting abreast on the stream,--the two Danes on one side of the trader, the three Norse craft on the other. The Danish crews kept warily aboard their ships, ready either for fight or flight. But as the first Norse ship grappled, from its prow a blond young giant leaped, axe in hand, sheer over Hroar's head, and down upon the cargo beyond him.

"Loki!" cried Hroar, starting back. "Erling Fairhair! The dead come to life!"

"Your guilt stings you, murderer," rejoined Olvir. "This is only Liutrad, son of Erling--but he bears his father's axe; and now comes one--"

"Ha, Floki--Floki the Crane!" gasped Hroar; and he glared like a trapped wolf at the strange viking who sprang down over the bulwark after young Liutrad. Though little broader than his fellow-Northmen, the man towered up a good span above seven feet in height, and the long-shafted halberd which he bore on his shoulder did not tend to lessen the effect of his giant stature.

At sight of the Dane chief a ferocious smile distorted the wry face of the giant, and he bent to him mockingly.

"Heya, old shipmate!" he croaked. "Many winters have sped since we parted on the Rhine bank."

Hroar licked his dry lips and answered thickly: "Those were good old days when we followed Thorbiorn and Otkar over sea and land. I call to mind the loot of Kars, when Thorbiorn bore off the emir's daughter for bride. You were not so mean in those days as to sail under a boy whose outland swartness--"

"--Proves the blood of the emir's daughter."

"How!--this elf the son of Thorbiorn Viking?"

"Ay," murmured Olvir; "the son of the lord you betrayed. Ho, Danes! now shall the murderer pay his blood-debt. Many times I have harried your dune coasts in search of this foul traitor, who, one and twenty winters gone, sold his sword-fellows and his earl into the ambush of the boy Karl."

"That is a lie!" shouted Hroar. "Only to save my own life--"

"Be still!" commanded Olvir. "The Crane shall bear witness for me. State the charge, Floki."

The lofty Northman stepped upon a cask, and his grey eyes swept their gaze over the Danish ships and back to the Danish sea-king, cold and hard as steel.

"Hearken, Danes," he began in a dry croak; "Floki the Crane is not given to lying. He can strike his bill straight to the mark, and his tongue thrusts as straight. Doubtless this murderer has told you how in days gone by Thorbiorn Viking fell in the Frankish ambush on Rhine Stream. I, too, was there. Like the earl, I was struck down by the Frankish spears. I saw the boy Karl rush out upon our fallen leader; then a war-hammer stretched me witless. When I saw again, before me stood the traitor Hroar. In his hand was the sword of his lord, and he was making blood-play of his own shipmate, Hauk Otterson, whom men called Longarm. When Hauk was dead, his slayer came to me. He was minded first to cut off my feet, because, as he said, I was too tall. But then came the son of Pepin, and, casting at the traitor the gold for which he had sold his fellows, bade him begone from Frank Land. When, after many years, I broke from the Frankish thrall-bonds, I searched long and fruitlessly for the murderer. He had hid his shame in the Saxon forests."

"He lies--the croaking stork lies! There is no proof!" cried Hroar, loudly; but his eyes fell before the look of his grim accuser, and glanced uneasily over the bloody deck, until a dry chuckle from Floki stung him out of his caution.

"At the least, you will grant that the charge is somewhat stale," he sneered.

"The fouler the deed's stench," retorted Floki, thrusting forward his sharp face with a look of deadly menace. "We have run you down at last, coward, and you shall pay your share of the blood-debt. Hearken, Danes! The viking's son is not hunting this boar alone; he hunts bigger game! When I, hopeless of finding the traitor singly, after many winters fared home to Trondheim to gain aid, I found this unknown son of Thorbiorn dwelling outlaw in Starkad's grave-mound with Otkar, his foster-father. Since then each season we have scoured your dune coasts for the traitor. But the great wielder of Starkad's axe set foot on the trail of mightier game. Who of the North has not heard how, in the hall of King Carloman the Frank, and in the realm of Desiderius the Lombard, Otkar Jotuntop, wisest and strongest of warriors, fought and plotted against King Karl with all the craft of his wit and lore and the terror of his axe? Yet the grey bear failed to wreak vengeance against Thorbiorn's slayer, and his ashes lie in Starkad's mound. But here above me stands his bright fosterling, and when Olvir Thorbiornson has slain Hroar the traitor, he shall sail on to bring to an end the task of Otkar."

"Otkar--Otkar!" echoed a feeble voice. "Who speaks of the Dane hero?"

As the viking leaders wheeled about in surprise, Roland, aided by Rothada, sat up and stared at them with dazed eyes.

"The Frank earl!" muttered Olvir. "You 've heard of him, Floki,--Count Roland, the Frank king's kinsman."

"Ay, ring-breaker; I remember how, when he returned, Otkar spoke much of this brave Frank."

"Even when he lay dying--"

"Saint Michael! he is not dead,---Otkar the Dane, who, all but single-handed, cut his way from Pavia through the thick of our host! I stood in his battle-path, thinking, in my boyish folly, to check the rush of the grey bear. But he was high-minded; he struck with the flat. Would that he had not fled to the Greeks! When the king saw his battle-path, he swore to make him Count of the Saxon Mark."

"How! Otkar his foe?" exclaimed Olvir.

The Frank stared up at him and nodded faintly as he sank back upon the heap of bodies. The Northman gazed back at him for a little with a puzzled look. But an impatient growl from Hroar recalled his attention to the Dane.

"Hark, my Frank hero," he said; "we will talk of this later. Now my sword sings the death of Hroar the betrayer. Run, maiden; fetch drink for the hero, that he may have strength to watch the sword-game."

"So the laggard at last draws sword," sneered Hroar. "He has had his pleasure; now I claim mine. Ironbiter thirsts; yet before he tastes the warm blood the pledge of the fight shall be made known. Speak out, bairn! If I win I go hence with trade-ship and all, unhindered,--let the charge against me be what it may."

"Such are the terms,--all men bear witness!"

A grin of cunning triumph broadened the Dane's ferocious face.

"Then now is Hroar ready," he called loudly. "Now will Ironbiter split the skull of this base-born changeling as it split the skull of the man he calls father."

A terrible oath burst from the lips of Floki; but Olvir silenced him with a look. Then, white to the lips, the young sea-king turned again to his enemy.

"Dare you repeat that lie?" he asked in the soft lisp that betrayed to his steersmen how deadly was his anger.

"So the bairn begins to quake," jeered the Dane, deceived by the Northman's seeming mildness. "Even so quaked that braggart Thorbiorn when I swung Ironbiter his own sword above his head."

"That is a double lie," rejoined Olvir, in the same quiet voice. "If you met Thorbiorn, son of Starkad, in battle, it was not he who quaked. Nor did you slay the hero. When he lay dying, pierced by the darts of hidden foes, the boy Karl ran from behind and thrust him in the back. Floki is no liar."

"No, by Odin," boasted Hroar. "Floki did not see all. Pepin's son sought to stay me when I ran to end the snared wolf. Would that I had broken the back of the meddlesome bairn! Floki has told how he drove me from his camp before I was half done my play with the thralls."

"Enough, murderer!" cried Olvir. "Now are you doomed; look on your bane!"

With the words, the young sea-king's hand gripped the hilt of his curved sword. The blade flashed from its sheath like a tongue of blue flame. Proudly its wielder held the weapon up before him and gazed at the play of iridescent light on its mirror surface.

"Al-hatif, the Priceless! the Beautiful!" he half whispered. Then suddenly his black eyes flamed with a terrible joy. He flung off his cloak and leaped down before Hroar, whirling the blade about his head.

"Come, Dane! come, coward!" he shouted. "Long have I sought you. Come to the serpent's kiss! come to your bane! Hel's blue hand outstretches; Fenir shall rend you!"

At the biting taunts the Dane's massive figure quivered with passion, and all the malevolence of his nature showed in his brutal face. Up swung his ponderous sword, and he advanced upon his foe like an aurochs bull.

"Leap, bairn!" he yelled. "Ironbiter swings; he will split your swart face!"

But the Northman did not leap.

"Strike and see," he called tauntingly.

Even more scornful than his words was the Northman's bearing as he lowered his sword and stood with the little shield raised overhead. To thus set himself in the way of his huge opponent seemed little short of madness alike to the Danish vikings and to Roland. The Frank could not restrain a groan of despair, while Rothada, darting back to his side with a flask of wine, cried out in terror. Already the great sword whirled overhead to cut down their champion.

A glance at the Norse steersmen might have reassured the captives. The blond young giant and his lofty companion were waiting the outcome of Hroar's attack no less calmly than their slender leader. Cool and quiet, Olvir faced the savage Dane, his lip curled in a haughty smile; but his eyes glittered like an angry snake's. Stung by the scorn of the smile, Hroar put all his strength into the sweep of his sword.

"Thor aid!" he roared, and the sword whirled down with terrific force. But the Northman only smiled the more scornfully and caught the blow on his tilted shield with such consummate skill that the blade glanced harmlessly aside from the steel surface.

A deafening uproar greeted the feat, the Danes on the one side crying out their wonder, while the Northmen across answered with shouts of triumph. The noise ceased as abruptly as it burst out. Olvir had raised his curved sword and tapped the hauberk of the Dane in warning. Had he wished it, he could have slain his enemy then; for Hroar was so astonished by the turning of the blow that he stood with lowered shield.

"Ward yourself, Dane!" cried the Northman; and as Hroar started back, the Damascus sword began to dart forward like the beak of a striking heron. Up whirled Ironbiter for a second stroke; but Olvir did not wait its fall. With a wild cry he hurled himself upon the Dane like a maddened wolf. Above, below, on all sides, his sword flashed around Hroar's shield in thrusts so swift that no eye could follow. In vain Hroar sought to cut down with sweeping strokes the bright figure that leaped in upon him till the two shields clashed; in vain he sought to avoid the lightning sword-thrusts that dazzled his eyes.

Bleeding from a dozen stabs, his shield-arm pierced and cheek laid open, the ferocious Dane drew back appalled. His glaring eyes no longer saw a human foe before him; that shimmering, leaping figure was Thor, the Danish Thor, terrible in his youth and beauty.

Step by step the Dane retreated, until his back struck the bulwark. The touch spurred him to desperate fury. But he sprang forward, only to reel back again before the stabs of the pitiless sword. The end was now come. Half dazed, he dropped his shield to meet a leg feint, and the blade lunged through his unguarded neck, so that the point stood out a span behind.