They left the Roman city then and returned to the king’s dun, ambling on a lovely day that was well-warmed by a smiling sun and cheered by Hispanic birds. Attracted by the clamor, they found a score or so of the king’s troopers at practice. Their target was a massive slab of seasoned oak, indeed a log split in two with its flat surface facing the throwers. Buried three feet in the ground and braced with great stones, the revealed target was tall as a man, and broader. Eyes, genitals, and internal organs had been crudely drawn on it.
At it the Sueves were hurling the Frankish assault-ax, of the sort that gave that fierce and treacherous tribe its name. The missiles hissed through the air, short-hafted, single-edged, and deadly sharp. Wicked weapons they were, though their main use was in hurled volleys immediately before a foot charge with swords or second axes.
Watching, noting the skill of these, Suevi as well as their spirit and the manner of their training, Cormac held his gaze on them. He had become aware of himself being watched. That slim, richly-clad figure on the far side of the compound was past mistaking. Did Eurica stare at him in invitation, or malice, or foolish-innocent curiosity? She hadn’t the wit to veil it, whichever. At least I need not suspect her of cunning, he thought, and affected not to notice her. Thus he missed Wulfhere’s departure.
The Dane returned… carrying his horrid three-quarter-moon ax with its prodigiously heavy head. Oh, anyone could lift it; it was only Wulfhere could swing it for more than a few minutes. Only he could throw it at all. Swing it he did; when Wulfhere Splitter of skulls hurled himself into battle, bloodstained, beard like blood and fire bristling and those terrible blue eyes blazing, his great ax clotted with blood and brains, few dared face him.
The two reivers were a good twenty feet behind the line of Suevic francisca-hurlers, who were essaying thirty-foot throws and had not seen their observers. Some axes struck, bit, and dropped; a few slammed into the wood’s painted targets and stood there amid the sound of cheers. Too many struck with the sound of wood against wood, or the chringing of steel against wood but not edge-first. These bounded away to either side of the target and littered the ground until all men had thrown, after which axes were collected for the next round. Trainers harangued in loud voices and praised not so loudly.
Wulfhere gauged, squinting, noting even the wind despite his ax’s weight. He muttered and cocked his head and moved his fingers in laborious calculations. And he backed a half-pace.
“Cormac,” he muttered as warning, and with a mighty heave and a grunt, he hurled that ghastly doer of death that was definitely not designed for throwing.
The ax flashed through the air, lofting high to arc well over the heads of the Suevic warriors. The seven-pound chunk of sharpened steel glinted and winked in the sun as it flew, turning slowly, and turning again…
With a frightful slamming crash like unto Loki bursting his chains, the Danish ax smashed into the target. At its mighty impact, a couple of feet above the ground, another ax fell. Obviously it had not been well imbedded; Wulfhere’s ax clung and its haft stood forth like the ridgepole of a barn. The heavy timber slab vibrated from top to bottom and a brace-stone moved.
Bedlam came swooping down onto the practice field.
Amid the commotion Wulfhere muttered, “Shit. See how low I struck! Either I misgauged or I’m growing weak with my years.”
Cormac said nothing. He was as impressed as the Galicians. Some embarrassment and laughter followed, for them; a young weapon-man ran, topknot bobbing, to pull the ax free of the target-and had to lay hold of the haft with both hands while setting a foot against the slabbish target. His comrades laughed, called comments and suggestions and turning, invited the huge man from the far north to join them.
A grinning Wulfhere did. He reached their line as the well-muscled lad, having at last succeeded in wrenching loose the prodigious ax, brought it back to him.
“Thanks, youngster,” Wulfhere looked about at the others and grinned. “Mayhap ye should ha’ left it for these big-mouths to try their strength also!”
The Suevic troopers laughed in the good humoured appreciation of weapon-men for a superb one, and excitedly babbled that he should join them now, and later at a beast fight at which some rowdy local wenches were meeting them. A grinning Wulfhere observed that they seemed to be planning his kind of afternoon.
Cormac shook his head. We’re here to see to the building of ships and the training of crew, and what does that man-mountain do?-starts in to make ax-throwers of them! It was pleasant, though, to know that Wulfhere would not lack entertainment. He’d a way of finding drastic remedies for his own boredom. Once over in Britain he’d forced a bishop to marry a thieving smith to a heifer, and burned the church when he found the ceremony too tame.
The Gael turned smiling to enter the king’s hall.
Acting on sudden thought, Cormac turned, knowing he’d find the heaven-blue eyes of Eurica king-sister watching the rugged wolfishness of his walk. He bowed to her as might a court-raised fop.
Then he turned again and passed through the dark oblong gape that was the hall’s entry, seen from the sunlit outside. Wondering why she was watching, what she thought of him or might be planning, he strolled inside.
He stood in King Veremund’s eating hall while his eyes accustomed themselves to the shade. The great hall formed two levels. The lower, with its long trench for fire and its double row of pillars, was public: the scene of feasts, weddings, and all noble gatherings. Above, upheld by the pillars of carven wood, a timbered gallery ran around three sides of the hail. Doors led off it to bedchambers. That one of those had been assigned to his and Wulfhere’s use was a measure of the impression they had made here. True, the king’s companions had quarters elsewhere, and lovers-and some of them of course had wives. But when they nighted in the great hall, they slept on benches.
Two pirates from oversea had been granted con siderable honour, Cormac thought, as he ascended to their chamber.
Here was neither Rome nor Eirrin. The room was a rude wooden box with a door. Woven hangings softened the walls and two dyed sheepskin rugs lay amid the rushes on the floor. The great bed was piled with fur covers. It was most tempting, and Cormac wanted to fling himself down with sighs of content. No; with ingrained suspicion he first hurled off some of the covers and ran exploring hands over the rest. Beds could hide a number of nasty surprises, such as poisoned daggers fixed upright to the frame. Cormac checked. A king had no need of such subtleties, but others might; whether they worked or no, they could sow distrust betwixt the king and his outland guests. Was foregone and certain, aye and inevitable that there would be factions to contend with. In all the history of the world, Cormac knew, there had never existed a kingdom that lacked them.
Here, at least, were no bed-hidden traps.
Thoughts of Eurica slipped from his mind. He sprawled, with sinewy fingers unterlocked behind his black-shocked head, for a nap. His brain was aroused, he discovered, and without trying he cogitated on the menace to the tower-and to ships approaching this coast-and how best to attack the problem.
The door opened softly, and Cormac bethought him of his nearby sword.
The figure that entered presented no menace. She was clad as he had foretold. Her thick brown hair was brushed till it shone, all coiled on her head bedecked with combs of enamelled white bronze. Fit for a provincial Roman lady was her long gown, in colour a dark rich red-brown like her hair. Broidered gold stiffened its hem and a golden belt cinctured it. From her shoulders swept an enveloping sky-blue mantle or paludamentum, its shimmering line the hue of fresh cream. The change in her was enough to take a man’s breath.