(Fragment)

Published in Bran Mak Morn, 1969.

A gray sky arched over the dreary waste. The tall dry grass rippled in the cold wind; but for this no hint of movement stirred the primeval quietude of the level land, which ran to the low mountains rearing bleak and barren: In the center of this waste and desolation one lonely figure moved—a tall gaunt man who partook of the wildness of his surroundings. The wolfishness of his appearance was increased by his horned helmet and rusty mail-shirt. His lank hair was yellow, his scarred face sinister. Now he wheeled suddenly, his lean hand on his sword, as another man stepped suddenly from behind a clump of leafless trees. The two faced each other, tensed for anything. The newcomer fitted into the desolate scene even more perfectly than the other. Every line of his lean hard body betokened the wild savagery that had molded it. He was of medium height, but his shoulders were broad, and he was built with the savage economy of a wolf. His face was dark and inscrutable, his eyes gleaming like black ice. Like the first man he wore helmet and mail-shirt. And he was the first to speak.

“I give you greetings, stranger. I am Partha Mac Othna. I am on a mission for my liege—I bear words of friendship from Bran Mak Morn, king of Pictdom, to the chiefs of the Red-beards.”

The tall man relaxed and a grin twisted his bearded lips.

“I hail you, good sir. I am called Thorvald the Smiter, and until a day agone I was chief of a long-serpent and a goodly band of Vikings. But the storms cast my ship upon a reef and all my crew went to glut Fafnir except myself. I am seeking to reach the settlements on Caithness.”

Each smiled and nodded courteously, and each knew the other lied.

“Well it would be might we travel together,” said the Pict, “but my way lies to the west; and yours to the east.”

Thorvald assented and stood, leaning on his sheathed sword, as the Pict strode away. Just before he was out of sight, the Pict glanced back and lifted his hand in salute, and the impassive Norseman returned the gesture. Then as the other vanished over a slight rise, Thorvald grinned savagely and went swiftly in a course that slanted slowly eastward, swinging along with tireless strides of his long legs.

The man who had called himself Partha Mac Othna did not go far before he turned suddenly aside and slid silently into a brown leafless copse. There he waited grimly, his sword ready. But the gray clouds rolled and drifted overhead, the cold wind blew across the rattling grass, and no stealthy shape came gliding on his trail. He rose at last and swept the bleak landscape with his keen black eyes. Far away to the east he saw a tiny figure momentarily etched against the gray clouds on the crest of a hill. And the black-haired wanderer shrugged his shoulders and took up his journey.

The land grew wilder and more rugged. His way lay among low sloping hills bare except for the brown dead grass. To the left the gray sea boomed along the cliffs and the gray stone promontories. To his right the mountains rose dark and grim. Now as the day drew to a close, a strong wind from the sea rolled the clouds in flying gray scrolls and drove them, torn and scattered, over the world-rim. The sinking sun blazed in a cold crimson glow over the reddening ocean, and the wanderer came up upon a high promontory that jutted above the sea, and saw a woman sitting on a gray boulder, her red hair blown in the wind.

She drew his eyes as a magnet draws steel. Indifferent to the chill of the wind, she sat there, her only garments a scant kirtle which left her arms bare and came barely to her knees, and leather sandals on her feet. A short sword hung at her girdle.

She was almost as tall as the man who watched her, and she was broadly built and deep-bosomed. Her hair was red as the sunset, and her eyes were cold and strange and magnetic. The Romans who represented the world’s civilization would not have called her beautiful, but there was a wild something about her which held the eyes of the Pict. Her own eyes gave back his stare boldly.

“What evil wind brings you into this land, feeder of ravens?” she asked in no friendly tone.

The Pict scowled, antagonized by her manner.

“What is that to you, wench?” he retorted.

“This is my land,” she answered, sweeping the bleak magnificence with a bold sweep of her strong white arm. “My people claim this land and own no master. It is my right to ask of any intruder, ‘What do you here?’ ”

“It’s not my custom to give an account of myself to every hussy I happen to meet,” growled the warrior, nettled.

“Who are you?” How her hair glinted in the dying glow of the sun.

“Partha Mac Othna.”

“You lie!” she rose lithely and came up to him, meeting his scowling black eyes unflinchingly. “You come into the land to spy.”

“My people have no quarrel with the Red-beards,” he growled.

“Who knows against whom you plot or where your next raid falls?” she retorted; then her mood changed and a vagrant gleam rose in her eyes.

“You shall wrestle with me,” she said, “nor go from this spot unless you overcome me.”

He snorted disgustedly and turned away, but she caught his girdle and detained him with surprising strength.

“Do you fear me, my black slayer?” she taunted him. “Are Picts so cowed by the emperor that they fear to wrestle with a woman of the Red People?”

“Release me, wench,” he snarled, “before I lose patience and hurt you.”

“Hurt me if you can!” she retorted, suddenly flinging her full weight against his chest and backheeling him at the same instant. Caught off guard by the unexpected movement, the warrior went down ingloriously, half-smothered by a flurry of white arms and legs. Cursing luridly he strove to thrust her aside, but she was like a big she-cat, and with strong and cunning wrestling tricks she more than held her own for an instant. But the superior strength of the warrior was not to be denied and, casting her angrily aside, her antagonist rose. But she, springing to her knees, caught his sword-belt and almost dragged him down again, and, irritated beyond control, the Pict jerked her savagely to her feet by her red locks and gave her a terrific cuff with his open hand that felled her senseless at his feet. Swearing in disgust and wrath, he turned away, brushing the dust from his garments; then glanced at the motionless form of the girl and hesitated. Then with an oath he knelt beside her and lifted her head, flinging the contents of his canteen in her face. She started, shook her head, and looked up, clear-eyed and fully conscious. He instantly released her and let her head bump none too gently against the frosty ground as he rose to his feet and replaced his canteen.

She sat up cross-legged and looked up at him.

“Well, you have conquered me,” she said calmly. “What will you do with me now?”

“I should rip the skin from your loins with my swordbelt,” he snapped. “It is no small shame to a warrior to be forced into striving with a woman—and no small shame to the woman who thrusts herself into a man’s game.”

“I am no common woman,” she answered. “I am one with the winds and the frosts and the gray seas of this wild land.”

(Fragment)

Index