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Authors: Robert E. Howard
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unspeaking, their brains still so weary and dull and frozen from the agony of strife that they hardly knew what they saw or did. Eevin of Craglea lay motionless beside the body of her lover, as if she herself were dead; no cry or moan escaped her pallid lips.
The clamor of battle was dying as the setting sun bathed the trampled field in a bloody light. The fugitives, tattered and slashed, were limping into the gates of Dublin, and the warriors of King Sitric were preparing to stand siege. But the Irish were in no condition to besiege the city. Four thousand warriors and chiefs had fallen, and nearly all the champions of the Gael. But more than seven thousand Danes and Leinstermen lay stretched on the blood-soaked earth, and the power of the Vikings was broken forever. No more would their swarming fleets sweep down to crush whole kingdoms beneath their iron heels. The dying sun sank in an ocean of dark blood, like a symbol of the passing of the Viking.
Conn walked toward the river, slowly, feeling now the ache of his stiffening wounds, and he met Turlogh Dubh. The battle-madness was gone from Black Turlogh and his dark face was inscrutable. From head to foot he was stained with crimson.
“My lord,” said Conn, fingering the great copper ring about his neck, “I have slain the man who put this thrall-mark on me, and I would be free of it.”
Black Turlogh took his axe-head in his hands and pressing it against the ring, drove the keen edge through the soft metal. The axe gashed Conn’s shoulder, but neither of them heeded it.
“You who were a thrall are a free man,” said Turlogh Dubh. “And you have a tale to tell your grandsons in the days to come, for the hordes of the sea have fallen before the swords of the South. And such a battle as we have fought this day, the tribes of men will see never again. The days of the twilight come on amain and a strange feeling is upon me as of a waning age. The king has fallen and all his heroes and though we have freed the land of the foreign chains, we too are as but ghosts waning into the night.”
“I know not,” said Conn, flexing his mighty arms. “I am but a kern and the wisdom of chiefs is not for me – but this day I have seen kings fall like ripe grain and have fought at the side of heroes, and surely man need ask no better fate than this.”
* “They (the Irish) go to battle without armor, considering it a burden, and deeming it brave and honorable to fight without it.” Giraldus Cambrensis
Hawks Over Egypt
I
The tall figure in the white khalat wheeled, cursing softly, hand at scimitar hilt. Not lightly men walked the nighted streets of Cairo in the troublous days of the year 1021 A.D. In this dark, winding alley of the unsavory river quarter of el Maks, anything might happen.
“Why do you follow me, dog?” The voice was harsh, edged with a Turkish accent.
Another tall figure emerged from the shadows, clad, like the first, in a khalat of white silk, but lacking the other’s spired helmet.
“I do not follow you!” The voice was not so guttural as the Turk’s, and the accent was different. “Can not a stranger walk the streets without being subjected to insult by every reeling drunkard of the gutter?”
The stormy anger in his voice was not feigned, any more than was the suspicion in the voice of the other. They glared at each other, each gripping his hilt with a hand tense with passion.
“I have been followed since nightfall,” accused the Turk. “I have heard stealthy footsteps along the dark alleys. Now you come unexpectedly into view, in a place most suited for murder!”
“Allah confound you!” swore the other wrathfully. “Why should I follow you? I have lost my way in the streets. I never saw you before, as I hope never to see you again. I am Yusuf ibn Suleyman of Cordova, but recently come to Egypt – you Turkish dog!” he added, as if impelled by overflowing spleen.
“I thought your accent betokened the Moor,” quoth the Turk.
The clamor of battle was dying as the setting sun bathed the trampled field in a bloody light. The fugitives, tattered and slashed, were limping into the gates of Dublin, and the warriors of King Sitric were preparing to stand siege. But the Irish were in no condition to besiege the city. Four thousand warriors and chiefs had fallen, and nearly all the champions of the Gael. But more than seven thousand Danes and Leinstermen lay stretched on the blood-soaked earth, and the power of the Vikings was broken forever. No more would their swarming fleets sweep down to crush whole kingdoms beneath their iron heels. The dying sun sank in an ocean of dark blood, like a symbol of the passing of the Viking.
Conn walked toward the river, slowly, feeling now the ache of his stiffening wounds, and he met Turlogh Dubh. The battle-madness was gone from Black Turlogh and his dark face was inscrutable. From head to foot he was stained with crimson.
“My lord,” said Conn, fingering the great copper ring about his neck, “I have slain the man who put this thrall-mark on me, and I would be free of it.”
Black Turlogh took his axe-head in his hands and pressing it against the ring, drove the keen edge through the soft metal. The axe gashed Conn’s shoulder, but neither of them heeded it.
“You who were a thrall are a free man,” said Turlogh Dubh. “And you have a tale to tell your grandsons in the days to come, for the hordes of the sea have fallen before the swords of the South. And such a battle as we have fought this day, the tribes of men will see never again. The days of the twilight come on amain and a strange feeling is upon me as of a waning age. The king has fallen and all his heroes and though we have freed the land of the foreign chains, we too are as but ghosts waning into the night.”
“I know not,” said Conn, flexing his mighty arms. “I am but a kern and the wisdom of chiefs is not for me – but this day I have seen kings fall like ripe grain and have fought at the side of heroes, and surely man need ask no better fate than this.”
* “They (the Irish) go to battle without armor, considering it a burden, and deeming it brave and honorable to fight without it.” Giraldus Cambrensis
Hawks Over Egypt
I
The tall figure in the white khalat wheeled, cursing softly, hand at scimitar hilt. Not lightly men walked the nighted streets of Cairo in the troublous days of the year 1021 A.D. In this dark, winding alley of the unsavory river quarter of el Maks, anything might happen.
“Why do you follow me, dog?” The voice was harsh, edged with a Turkish accent.
Another tall figure emerged from the shadows, clad, like the first, in a khalat of white silk, but lacking the other’s spired helmet.
“I do not follow you!” The voice was not so guttural as the Turk’s, and the accent was different. “Can not a stranger walk the streets without being subjected to insult by every reeling drunkard of the gutter?”
The stormy anger in his voice was not feigned, any more than was the suspicion in the voice of the other. They glared at each other, each gripping his hilt with a hand tense with passion.
“I have been followed since nightfall,” accused the Turk. “I have heard stealthy footsteps along the dark alleys. Now you come unexpectedly into view, in a place most suited for murder!”
“Allah confound you!” swore the other wrathfully. “Why should I follow you? I have lost my way in the streets. I never saw you before, as I hope never to see you again. I am Yusuf ibn Suleyman of Cordova, but recently come to Egypt – you Turkish dog!” he added, as if impelled by overflowing spleen.
“I thought your accent betokened the Moor,” quoth the Turk.
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