An interesting postscript to this epoch of Howard’s life occurred in May of 1936, a month before his untimely death. In a letter, again to H. P. Lovecraft, he sums up the years between 1930 and 1933 with his usual self- deprecation: “Attempts to make a living by writing historical fiction proved a flop.”
Perhaps Robert E. Howard did not make a living from historical fiction, but he made something better: a legacy … one as enduring and colorful as the myths and tales of his beloved Middle Ages.
I THE WORD OF WAR
“War is in the wind – the ravens are gathering.”
Conn the thrall let fall a huge armload of logs before the cavernous fire-place and faced about to meet the gaze of his sombre master. Conn was tall and massively yet rangily built, with broad sloping shoulders, a mighty, hairy chest, and long heavily muscled arms. His features were in keeping with his bodily aspect – a strong stubborn jaw, low slanting forehead topped by a shock of tawny tousled hair which added to the wildness of his appearance, as did his cold blue eyes. Garments he wore none, except a loin cloth; his own wolfish ruggedness was protection enough against the weather, ordinarily. For he was a slave in an age when even the masters lived lives ferociously hard and hardening.
Now Conn faced his master, and flexing his mighty arms absently, asked: “What was it that the farers in the longship shouted to us this morning, when we were out in the fishing boat?”
“You heard them, did you not, fool?” harshly asked Wolfgar Snorri’s son. “Can you not understand human speech? As the dragon-ship swept past the point, the Vikings shouted to me that there was a gathering of eagles on the east coast of that cursed Ireland – Brian Boru is moving against King Sitric of Dublin, and the word has gone to all the sea-farers to gather for the slaughter. This time the sea-kings will crush that doddering old fool and his naked kerns, once and for all. It shall be as it was in the days of Thorgils the Conqueror. Too long have the kings of Dublin borne the insolence of the western Gaels.”
Conn nodded, slowly. “It was in my mind that that was the word the sea-wolves shouted, but I wished to hear it from your lips, because I am slow of comprehension sometimes.”
Wolfgar Snorri’s son scowled. Like the slave, the Norseman was a typical figure of his age – tall, massive, with fierce intolerant eyes and a heavy golden beard. A son of those fierce Vikings who conquered and settled in the Orkneys, he was a slayer and a plunderer, who lived like a petty king in his own steading and recognized no authority save his own. Even as he sat in the comparative safety of his own skalli-hall, he wore a pliant shirt of scale mail and was girt with a broad metal-buckled belt from which hung a long straight sword in a leather scabbard.
The thrall’s eyes strayed covetously to the blade; he said: “There will be a noble splintering of spears when the Ard-righ of Erin meets the sea-kings. I should be among his weapon-men.”
Wolfgar snorted in high disdain. “Your life would soon be parted from your body. The Vikings will take the heads of the Dalcassians to adorn their serpent-prows. As for you – why, you fool, Brian Boru would hang you to an oak limb were you to venture into his kingdom.”
“He was wrathful when I broke the truce with Melaghlin and slew a man of Meath, it is true,” admitted the big Gael frankly. “But though I was forced to flee from the land of my birth, I have no reason to love the Viking-folk. Thorwald Raven took me when I was weak from hunger and wounds – for the life of an outlaw is hard – and put this collar on my neck.” The thrall touched a heavy copper ring which encircled his corded throat. “Then he sold me to you – ”
“And cheated me,” snarled the Norseman. “Why I have not cut the blood-eagle on your stubborn back long ago, I cannot understand.”
“I’ve done the work of three men,” answered the thrall boldly. “I have not been backward when the swords were singing. I have stood at your back and mowed down carles like wheat when you warred with your neighbors. And in return you have given me – crusts from your board, a bare earth floor to sleep upon, and deep scars in my back because I would not call you master or fight for you against my own people.”
“Well, dog,” growled the Norseman, angrily tugging at his golden beard, “do you want to be petted like a Saxon girl?”
“I want to be free,” answered the thrall calmly. “I was not born into slavery – that’s why you’ve never broken me. No man ever broke a kern born in the western hills. We are brothers to the eagle.
“Well, I’ve borne your abuse and waited because each time I was minded to take your throat between my fingers and crush out your black heart, the thought came to me that the time was not yet. If I escaped from you I would still be an outlaw. But now that the Gaels are gathering to war upon the foreigners, I see my way clearly enough. King Brian will need all the weapon-men he can muster; it is not likely he will hang me when I come to strike a blow for the clan. The time has come; I will kill you and take that sword – which was once the sword of King Murkertagh – and I will fare forth. I will go in your strongest fishing boat; it is no short voyage from Orkneyar to Erin and the sea is wild with the storms of spring, but better drown in a good effort than die under the lash of a pirate.”
Wolfgar, during this speech, which the thrall had spoken as calmly as though discussing the crops or the weather, had sat gaping in dumbfounded amazement. Now he exclaimed: “You addle-witted fool! Are you yet to be taught I am not a man with whom to jest?”
“Here is no jest,” answered Conn and Wolfgar suddenly read the fixed intent in the thrall’s cold eyes.
“You Irish dog!” roared the Norseman, leaping in frantic haste from his bench. His sword flashed from its scabbard but in the same instant Conn, quick as a leaping tiger, snatched up a log of fire-wood and struck with all the ferocious power of his iron muscles. The crude weapon crushed Wolfgar Snorri’s son’s head like an egg-shell and the master of the steading fell like a slaughtered ox in a pool of his own blood.
Swiftly Conn bent and caught up the sword which had fallen from the nerveless hand; he tore off the belt that encircled the dead man’s waist and buckled it about his own body. A quick glance about showed him the vast hall was empty; no one had seen the deed. Conn caught up a bear-skin at random, to serve as a cloak, and fled the skalli.
The big thrall knew his limitations; he realized that if anyone stopped him and questioned him concerning his possession of his master’s sword and the blood on his hands, he could not reply with subtlety enough to allay suspicion. His only safety lay in swift flight, before the body was discovered.
Luck, so long a stranger to the giant Gael, at last favored him. No one saw him emerge from the skalli and run swiftly between the store-houses and stables, heading for the shore of the small bay on which the steading was situated. There was peace between the wolves of the Orkneys; vigilance was relaxed as the carles and their masters busied themselves at their various occupations.
Conn was beyond the cluster of log-built houses before someone spied and hailed him, in swift suspicion at his haste. When he did not stop, the carle who had hailed him shouted for his fellows and pursuit began, though they did not yet know the reason for his flight.
But his start was long; bent low in fear of arrows, he raced down the slight slope to the beach where lay the fishing boats. A single carle gaped at him stupidly as with swift strokes he stove in all but one.
“Aside, Hrut!” gasped the Gael, casting free the painter of the remaining boat and preparing to shove off. The pursuers were nearing fast.
“But you cannot put to sea now,” protested the slow-witted carle. “A storm is brewing – and why do they shout at you – ? – ”
He dropped like a log under the impact of Conn’s left fist against his temple. Working with frantic haste the
