by their king who fought on foot with a sword in the forefront of the fray.
But on the other flank the Danes of Dublin under the redoubtable Dubhgall had held against the first blasting charge of the western tribes, though their lines reeled at the shock, and now the wild men in their wolf-skins were falling like garnered grain before the Danish axes.
In the center the battle raged most fiercely; the wedge-shaped shield-wall of the foreign Vikings held and against its iron ranks the Dalcassians hurled their half-naked bodies in vain. A ghastly heap ringed that grim wall and Broder and Sigurd began a slow but steady advance, the inexorable onstride of the Vikings, hacking deeper and deeper into the loose formation of the Gaels.
On the walls of Dublin Castle, King Sitric, watching the fight with Kormlada and his wife, exclaimed: “Well do the sea-kings reap the field!” Kormlada’s beautiful eyes were blazing, her white hands clenched in cruel exultation.
“Fall, Brian!” she cried fiercely. “Fall, Murrogh! And, fall, too, Broder! Let the keen ravens feed!”
But at the foremost point of the Gaelic advance, the line held. There, like the convex center of a curving axe- blade, fought Murrogh and his chiefs. The great prince was already streaming blood from gashes on his limbs, but his heavy swords flamed in double strokes that dealt death like a harvest and the chiefs at his side mowed down the corn of battle. Fiercely Murrogh sought to reach Sigurd through the press but the chance of battle had thus far held them apart. Murrogh saw the tall Jarl looming across the waves of spears and heads, striking blows like thunder-strokes, and the sight drove the Gaelic prince to madness. But he could not reach the Viking lord, strive as he would.
“The warriors are forced back,” gasped Dunlang, seeking to shake the sweat from his eyes. The young chief was untouched; spears and axes alike splintered on the Roman helmet or glanced from the ancient cuirass, but he was unused to fighting in armor and felt weighted, hampered, prisoned – like a chained wolf.
Murrogh spared a single swift glance; on either side of the clump of chiefs the gallaglachs were being forced back, slowly, savagely, selling each foot of ground with blood, but unable to halt the irresistible advance of the mailed Northmen. The Vikings were falling too, all along the battle-line, but they closed their ranks and forced their way forward, legs hard-braced, bodies straining, spears driving without cease or pause; through a red surf of dead and dying they ploughed on.
“Turlogh!” gasped Murrogh, dashing the blood and sweat from his eyes. “Haste – break from the fray and go to Malachi! Bid him charge, in God’s name!”
But the frenzy of slaughter was on Black Turlogh; froth was on his lips and his eyes were those of a madman.
“The Devil eat Malachi!” he snarled, splitting a Dane’s skull with a stroke like the slash of a tiger’s paw. “Here is the sword-feast before us!”
“Conn!” exclaimed Murrogh, gripping the big kern’s shoulder and dragging him back from the sword-strokes. “Haste to Malachi – we cannot long abide this press!”
Reluctantly Conn drew away from the fray, clearing his way with mighty strokes. Across the reeling sea of blades and rocking helmets he saw the towering forms of Jarl Sigurd, Broder, Anrad, Hrafn the Red – the billowing black folds of the raven banner floating above them as their whistling swords hewed down men like wheat before the reaper.
Free of the press the kern ran swiftly along the battle-line until he came to the higher ground of Cabra where the Meathmen thronged, tense and trembling like hunting dogs as they gripped their weapons and looked eagerly at their king. Malachi stood apart, watching the fray with moody eyes, his lion-like head bowed, his fingers twined in his golden beard.
“King Melaghlin,” said Conn bluntly, “my prince, Murrogh, urges you to charge home, for the press grows great and the men of the Gael are hard beset.”
The great O’Neill lifted his head and stared absently at the kern. Conn little guessed the chaotic struggle which was taking place in Malachi’s soul – the red visions which thronged his brain – riches, power, the rule of all Ireland, balanced against the black shame of treachery. He gazed out across the field where the banner of his nephew O’Kelly heaved among the spears. And Malachi shuddered with a sudden sickness, but shook his head.
“Nay,” said he, “it is not time – I will charge – when the time comes.”
For an instant king and kern looked into each others’ eyes and the eyes of Malachi dropped. And Conn turned without a word and sped down the slope. And as he went he saw that the advance of Lennox and the men of Desmond had been checked. Mailmora, raging like a wild man, had cut down Prince Meathla O’Faelan with his own hand, a chance spear thrust had wounded the Great Steward, and now the Leinstermen held fast against the onset of the Munster and Scottish clans. But where the chiefs of the Dalcassians fought, the battle was at a locked stand-still; like a jutting cliff that breaks the sea, the prince of Thomond broke the advance of the Norsemen.
In the titanic upheaval of slaughter, Conn came again to Murrogh and said: “Melaghlin says he will charge when the time comes.”
“Hell to his soul,” snarled Black Turlogh. “We are betrayed!”
Murrogh’s blue eyes flamed.
“Then in the name of God,” he roared like a west wind, “
The gasping struggling bloody men heard his shout and were electrified. The blind passion of the Gael surged up in their souls bred of desperate despair; the lines stiffened like iron and a great yell shook the field that made King Sitric, on his castle wall, whiten and grip the parapet. He had heard that yell before.
And now as Murrogh leaped forward, shouting, the strange, slumbering soul of the Gael woke to red fury, as it wakes in men who have no hope. Like inspired madmen the Gaels hurled their last charge, and like a blast from Hell they smote the shield-wall which reeled to the blow.
And now no human power could stay the onslaught of Murrogh and his chiefs, fired to superhuman fury by desperation and battle-madness. They no longer hoped to live or even to win, but only to glut their fury as they died, and in their despair they were like wounded tigers. As a storm smites the fleets, Murrogh smote the close- locked ranks and his double strokes hacked a bloody way, cleaving iron and bone alike; severing limbs, splitting skulls, cleaving breasts and shoulder-bones. Close at his heels flamed the axe of Black Turlogh, the swords of Dunlang, young Turlogh and Conn; under that torrent of steel the iron line crumpled and gave and through the breach the frenzied Gaels ploughed hacking. The shield-wall formation melted away.
And at this moment the wild men of Connacht who still lived again hurled a desperate charge against the Dublin Danes. O’Hyne and Dubhgall fell together and the Dublin men were battered backward, disputing every foot.
And now the whole field melted into a mingled mass of men without rank or formation. Among the serried press Murrogh came at last upon Jarl Sigurd who stood among a torn heap of Dalcassian dead.
Behind the Jarl stood grim old Rane Asgrimm’s son, holding the raven banner, and Murrogh rushed upon him and slew him with a single stroke. Sigurd turned and his sword rent Murrogh’s tunic and gashed his chest, but the Gaelic prince smote so fiercely on the Norseman’s shield, Jarl Sigurd reeled. For an instant he could but defend himself against the rain of blows Murrogh showered with either hand upon him, and only the strength of his helmet saved him.
Thorleif Hordi had picked up the banner but scarce had he lifted it when Black Turlogh, eyes glaring, broke through and split his skull to the teeth. Sigurd, seeing his banner fall once more, struck Murrogh with such desperate power that his sword bit through the prince’s steel cap and gashed the scalp. Blood jetted down Murrogh’s face and he reeled, but before Sigurd could strike again, Black Turlogh’s axe licked out like a flash of lightning. The Jarl’s warding shield fell shattered from his arm, and Sigurd gave back for an instant, daunted by the whistling play of that deathly axe. And a rush of kerns and Vikings alike swept the chiefs apart.
“Thorstein!” shouted Sigurd. “Take up the banner!”
“Touch it not,” exclaimed Asmund. “It is cursed; who bears it, dies!”
And even as he spoke, Dunlang’s sword crushed his skull.
“Hrafn!” exclaimed Sigurd desperately. “Bear thou the banner!”
“Bear your own curse!” answered Hrafn with a wild laugh, hewing desperately right and left. “This is the end of us all!”
“Cowards!” roared the Jarl, snatching up the banner himself and striving to gather it under his cloak as Murrogh, face bloody and eyes blazing, rushed at him through the press. Sigurd flung up his sword but it was too late. The sword in Murrogh’s right hand splintered on his helmet, bursting the straps that held it and ripping it from
