Merlin's Ring H. Warner Munn A Del Rey Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1974 by H. Warner Munn Introduction Copyright © 1974 by Lin Carter All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Ballantine Books of Canada, Ltd., Toronto, Canada. ISBN 0-345-28382-1 Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition: June 1974 Sixth Printing: January 1979 Cover art by Gervasio Gallardo To your Corenice; your Gwalchmai; By whatever other names you may know them; In whatever Land of Dream. About Merlin’s Ring and H. Warner Munn: Through the Ages The Ballantine Adult Fantasy Series has been in business for several years now, and among the many different varieties of the fantasy that have appeared under the Sign of the Unicorn’s Head one surprising omission stands out. I refer, of course, to the Arthurian fantasy. This is due to mere chance, not to any antipathy for the subject. Most of the fine books centered on the Arthurian legend are in print—The Once and Future King, The Crystal Cave, The Sword in the Stone —to mention only a few. Quite recently, however, an odd coincidence has occurred. Two different writers have written two very different books and submitted them to Ballantine Books; both happen to be Arthurian fantasies, and both happen to be superbly imaginative and thoroughly entertaining works of fantastic fiction. So at last we are able to complete the fantasy spectrum by including Arthuriana among all the other varieties of fantasy thus far published under this colophon. The first of these books you will already have seen, if you are the sort of reader who haunts the paperback stands and regularly picks up the new releases in the Series. I refer, of course, to that spectacular romance, Excalibur, (August 1973) a new novel by a new writer named Sanders Anne Laubenthal. The second of these two books is the novel you are about to read, Merlin’s Ring, by H. Warner Munn. While Miss Laubenthal is new to the ranks of fantasy writers, Mr. Munn is an old hand at the craft. He was one of the original Weird Tales writers, and his first story, “The Werewolf of Ponkert,” appeared in the issue for July 1925, during the second year of that magazine’s existence. During the next fifteen years, Mr. Munn published about a dozen stories, including novels and serials, in that greatest of all pulp magazines, and his last tale appeared in 1940. In those days Weird Tales was dominated by the circle of writers who centered on H. P. Lovecraft Munn was one of this group and knew Lovecraft well. They exchanged not only letters, but visits as well; Lovecraft came“ up to Munn’s home in Athol, Massachusetts, and Munn made the trip down to Lovecraft’s home in Providence. Something in one of Lovecraft’s letters started Munn off as a writer. In the letter column of Weird Tales, Lovecraft asked why no one had thought of writing a werewolf yarn from the werewolf’s point of view. His remark intrigued Munn, whose thoughts led him eventually to write that first story, ”The Werewolf of Ponkert.“ Since he was, in a way, indebted to Lovecraft for a story idea, it must have pleased him to have been able to return the favor a while later. Munn had been mulling over ideas for a completion or a sequel to Poe’s unfinished novel, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. Munn himself didn’t get far with the notion, but his mention of it in their correspondence started Lovecraft thinking, and he was in time inspired to write one of his most memorable stories, At the Mountains of Madness, which remains the most celebrated novella of Antarctic horrors since the Poe fragment Realizing that Lovecraft’s story had turned out a lot better than his own try, Munn amiably abandoned the attempt A while later, having moved to New York, Munn was in-; troduced to some of the writers of Lovecraft’s set. “Through him I met Tallman, Kirk, Long, Loveman, Bodenheim, and some others of the junior literati… and corresponded with Seabury Quinn and other writers. It was a stimulating atmosphere,” Munn recalls. Writing for Weird Tales was an enthusiasm of his youth, and one he eventually put aside to face the serious problem of making a living. Munn says, “After I married, I drifted out of writing… under the stress of building a house and supporting a family during the Depression and the pre-war years, and gave it up, even as a hobby, during the war.” Some years later he moved his family out to Tacoma, Washington, where he still resides. Now in his early seventies, H. Warner Munn is one of the few living survivors of the early days of Weird Tales. Besides him, only E. Hoffman Price, Edmond Hamilton, Donald Wandrei, and a few others are still alive, and of these, only Munn is still writing steadily in the field. For he returned to writing a decade ago, perhaps stimulated by the revival of interest in some of his early work. Don Grant, the -Providence bookseller and publisher, reissued in 1958 in a limited, signed edition a book called The Werewolf of Ponkert. The book contained not only the title story but also its sequel, “The Werewolf’s Daughter,” which was a three-part serial in the magazine, beginning with the issue for October 1928. In a brief foreword, the publisher mentioned that Munn considered his finest story to be “King of the World’s Edge.” This novel, which: ran as a four-part serial in Weird Tales beginning with the issue for September 1939, was revived hi paperback by Ace Books in 1966, and was followed a year later by a new sequel called The Ship from Atlantis. Ever since then, H. Warner Munn has been working on a lengthy and intricate narrative about twice the size of an ordinary novel. I mean Merlin’s Ring, of course. This new book is the culmination of a long and interesting career. In one way or another, H. Warner Munn has been involved with the figure of Gwalchmai for over thirty-five years, and with the mysterious and enigmatic girl from Atlantis, Corenice. The strands of his plot are intricately woven. Three generations after the last of the Roman legions withdrew from the isle of Britain, Ventidius Varro, a centurion under the leadership of the man whom legend remembers as King Arthur, led a fleet from the doomed land, which lay helpless before the menace of the Saxons. Guided by Merlin, the sage and prophet, their ships ventured farther into the dim regions of the unknown west than any ships had gone before. They found an uninhabited realm there at the World’s Edge, and, yet farther south, a strange and barbaric civilization called Miapan. There Varro became King—“King of the World’s Edge”—and, anxious that this untouched new continent should provide a haven for a Rome beleaguered by its enemies, he dispatched his son, Gwalchmai, to cross the seas and bear news of the great discovery to whatever emperor then ruled beside the Tiber. Thus the young Roman-British prince embarked on the strangest journey ever undertaken by a human being upon this globe, a journey that was to cover centuries of time and would lead him into the most curious adventures known to the annals of heroic deeds. In that mysterious region known to explorers as the Sargasso Sea, the youth found a weird metal ship surviving from the lost age of High Atlantis, on which there still lived an Atlantean sorceress, an ageless and beautiful creature called Corenice, who inhabits an eternal and deathless body of impervious metal. The love that kindles between these strangers from the far corners of the earth will transcend the ages and lead them through bizarre and miraculous events, whose like the chronicles of marvel have seldom recorded. The story of Merlin’s Ring is a colossal achievement of sheer imagination. From the moment the wandering spirit of the sorceress from Atlantis occupies the body of a Viking maid and liberates Gwalchmai from his frozen tomb within an iceberg, wherein he has lain in suspended animation for centuries, the tale expands to include shamans and witches and magical and supernatural forces. The vast canvas of this novel pictures a panoply of figures from history and myth and legend as background to a love story that survives the ages and traverses entire continents. Joan of Arc is but the most familiar of these, and the period of the Crusades form but a segment of a much larger history. Seldom have I encountered a more ambitious narrative in my exploration of fantasy, and seldom has a gripping human drama of such strength and vigor invested a story of such sweep and scope and vaulting imaginative power. I am amazed at the realistic detail, at the tremendous cast of characters, and at the surge of centuries spanned by a single tale. Prose epics of this magnitude are most often the work of a writer in the first enthusiasm of his creative power. But with the publication of Merlin’s Ring a literary career that began nearly half a century ago reaches its culmination; and now it can be seen that the career of H. Warner Munn is that of a writer slowly and meticulously developing and testing his powers, in anticipation of a masterpiece. For in all of fantasy few stories of this magnitude and scope have been so vividly realized. The epic of the immortal adventurer who survives through the ages has given us many classics—Phra the Phoenician, Valdar the Oft-Born, and My First Two Thousand Years are examples that spring first to mind. To these milestones of fantastic literature, it is our privilege to add one more masterpiece, Merlin’s Ring. —LIN CARTER Editorial Consultant, The Ballantine Adult Fantasy Series Hollis, Long Island, New York PART I Merlin’s Ring 1 The Man in the Ice Five days out from Streymoy, in the Faroes, having been borne far into unknown seas by a violent westerly, the little fishing boat came to a new land and a fair day. When the wind and driving rain had stopped and the sun had come out to warm them, the crew of four were grateful to the gods. They had at no time experienced undue fear. They were all good sailors. Still, they had been glad to finger the small gold piece each Norse sailor carried, for it is an unlucky thing to go empty handed into Ran’s Hall when one has been drowned. Their greatest inconvenience had been the lack of wanfl food. Cheese and hard biscuit are nourishing but not tasty, and raw cod is a poor second. Now they were running out of water, though it had been nursed along sparingly and they had caught some rain. There was floating ice, but it was new ice and still brackish, the salt not yet having leached out of’it. In search of a better source they turned north where an ice-blink against the scattered clouds told them that land lay beneath it. The owner of the knorr was Skeggi Harvadsson, whom men called Hairymouth, though not to his face. There was also Thyra, his daughter, and Biarki, to whom she was pledged. Biarki was son of Onn, son of Ketil, the Strong. His ancestry was a curse to him, and Biarki took no pride in it, for he could not forget it and his means did not permit him to live as he would. Although he was Skeggi’s partner and owned half the boat and enjoyed the promise, yet to come, that Thyra would be his, he resented his lot as a fisherman and longed to go a-Viking. Only in this manner, he thought, could he attain fortune and honor. Besides these three, there was Flann, the thrall from Erin, who was wont to raise his eyes above his station. He also had a grievance. Although Skeggi and Thyra regarded him as a valued member of their family, he still wore the iron collar. It was his only mark of servitude. Although it was no thicker than a wire and scarcely marked by the others, upon Flann it lay as a yoke. He had been taken as a boy, at the sacking of Lindis-farne, his parents unfortunately visiting that holy island at the time. He had been traded from one master to another, suffering many a beating, but he still remained firm in the faith and was always willing to enter into argument with those he considered as heathen. He could read and write and one of his sorrows was the lack of books. Because he had a fine voice and could chant to music he was liked by most people. Still, he was a contentious man and some felt that he spoke when he should remain silent. Biarki hated him for his quick tongue. Now he sneered as Biarki looked down into the calm sea, stirred only by waves scarcely more than ripples and commented, “Ran’s Bath runs deep, but Thor has quieted the winds for us and will guide us safely home.” Flann muttered, “The old gods are dead. Have you not heard?” “Now, by Thor’s hammer!” Biarki’s moods turned easily into rage. He stood menacingly over the thrall. “How much shall a man take from this son of a black robe? Skeggi, I will pay the were-gild now and slay him! He is never quiet and I can stand no more. Here is his worth!” He threw down a copper coin and seized his dagger. Flann did not move or change his mocking expression, but Thyra stood up in the rocking boat and gripped Biarki’s arm. Her face was pale. Skeggi raised his hand from the tiller. “If he deserves death for an honest opinion! which I do not grant, then he shall have it on that day from me. He is my thrall, Biarki, not yours, and blood spilt from my household must be paid for with blood, not money. Put away your dagger, unless you are prepared to see mine.” Biarki glared. His face reddened almost to purple above his matted, salt-rimed beard. There had been times, men said, that his family had brought forth baresarks and Biarki was perilously near that uncaring mania at the moment. Still, the feeling of Thyra’s small hands upon his arm was calming and his fury passed. He grunted and sat down. Thyra remained standing, leaning against the short mast, looking out over the sea. Only occasionally now a gentle puff of air bellied out the drooping sail, but it always drove the boat hi the same direction— in the way they wished to go. At that moment, as though it were a good omen, a raven dropped out of the sky and circled the boat thrice, inspecting them wisely before landing upon the masthead to take rest. It cocked its head from side to side and opened its beak soundlessly, eyeing them as though it would speak. Biarki took heart. “See, Odin’s messenger! He comes to lead us to land. That is more than your god would do, thrall!” Skeggi also turned sternly upon Flann. “This time you are wrong. The old gods still rule, for Ragnarok has not yet befallen. Your White Christ, of whom you continually prate, may be strong in the southland, but here he has no strength. If you pray for help, pray as we do to Odin, that we may be saved all together and not all lost to Aegir’s net because of you. Nay”—when Flann would have spoken —“be silent! I shall hear no more. Now, by Odin, what-ails the girl?” Thyra, still leaning against the mast, had suddenly become rigid and with right arm raised was pointing toward the north. Both Biarki and Flann, forgetting their differences, sprang up, but her body had stiffened like iron and she could not be moved from the hold she had upon the mast. Her eyes were glassy and fixed and her voice was no longer familiar to the three men who had known her through most of her life. It had a strange timbre and the words were accented in an unfamiliar way. “Row!” she said. “Row hard! Row fast, if you would save a life! Row and do not stop and I will show you the way to go!” Under the peremptory command, there was a softness, but it was not Thyra’s. It was an undercurrent of sound, like a scarcely perceptible second voice. It held within it a sensation, a breathing, of little golden bells very far away. Biarki looked at her in horror. “She is possessed! What does she see?” Flann passed his hand before her eyes. She did not blink. “She is surely fey,” he agreed. “Whatever she sees, she leads us to it I do not feel that it is toward evil.” Skeggi nodded. “I have the same thought that a good thing will come out of this. Perhaps Thor’s winds sent us to this purpose. Let us go as she guides.” So, like one who walks in her sleep, Thyra went aft, taking the tiller, and the three men unshipped the oars. The breeze strengthened, carrying them on a little toward the east. The oil was very clear and about midday they could see upon the horizon a plume of black smoke, high and huge, rising straight for a great distance before it streamed out in a fiercer wind that they could not feel. Under this somber banner lay snow-covered peaks, and as they approached a low coastline became visible. Flocks of inquisitive birds came out to meet the voyagers—gulls, guillemots, and puffins rising from their breeding places on the small islands and coastal cliffs. Preying upon them as they fed, eagles and falcons swooped down to steal then- catch or to strike the fishers. In the water bobbed the round heads of seals, also feeding or playing, and Skeggi knew from unmistakable signs that here were great schools of cod and haddock. A whale spouted in the distance, and once a basking shark, awakened by the approaching boat, submerged hurriedly and the knorr tossed hi the miniature maelstrom that it caused. The men shared a biscuit apiece and drifted while rest-big, studying the coast Thyra refused food and waited impatiently, holding the course for the land, toward which the breeze steadily wafted them. As they approached closer, it was evident that here were no firths into which they might run for shelter against a sudden storm. The coast seemed uniformly even, with good beaches of black lava sand, cut frequently by streams of fresh water. Beyond, they could see grass and heather on the low parts of the hills, although so far north the perpetual snow line was seldom above twenty-five hundred feet Skeggi’s keen eyes, never strained by reading, could pick out the forms of trees on the nearer slopes and the coastal plains. There were not many, although the grasses waved thick and tall wherever the lava had broken down into soil. Over everything a light powder of black ash was falling, upon the land, the water, and the boat This gritty substance was being precipitated from the cloud they had thought to be smoke, but which they could now see was rising from an active volcano far inland. As the cloud came drifting toward them, the underside of it was lit by ruddy flashes, and the sound of the constant explosions came rolling out to sea like a distant cannonade. Beneath the cloud, and only slightly obscured by it under the full glare of the sun, they saw from whence the iceblink came. It was a mighty field of ice stretching easterly along the coast and far inland, sending down its glaciers into the sea and calving its floes there as the ground shook to the repeated concussions of the eruption. They could not know that it covered an area of over four thousand square miles, for as yet it had no name. Someday this land they had blunderingly found would be called Iceland because of this glacier, which would itself bear the name of the VamajokulL Toward this menace Thyra unerringly steered, holding a course as steadily as though she sought a well-known destination. To aid the fitful wind, the weary men took up their oars again with the thought of landing sooner at some inlet where they could fill the small keg with fresh water. At the nearer edge of the vast ice field they could see a long gentle slope, interrupted by several small hills and intersected by considerable streams. Here they would have turned in to an excellent beach. Thyra refused it and continued coasting, until they reached a spot where the outliers of the field came close down to the water, hardly leaving room for passage ‘between them and the sea. Here, a tongue of ice ended in a cliff face, a hundred feet in height, where a firth had once run deeply into the land. The lava edges of the walls that formed this inlet could still be seen, once jagged but rounded by time and the action of the slowly moving glacier. Thyra scanned them keenly, as though the seared scars were well-known landmarks. When she was satisfied, she steered directly for the dan-gerous ice front. The boat grounded upon a tiny scrap of beach. A stream met them, flowing out of a cavern melted into the glacier. It was murky with glacial flour, ground and re-ground from the rocks crumbled beneath the tremendous moving weight The water was plainly unfit to drink. The men looked at Thyra in surprise that she should seek such a landing. Her father said, “After Ragnarok, and when Asgard is no more, surely the gods will come to dwell in this land. They may imprison Loki hi those fires, forever. How pleasant would be those flowering meadows to the tread of Freya’s soft feet! I believe Balder, the beautiful, has smiled upon this place hi spring. But, where we stand now, daughter, is fit only for the frost-giants. That rumble in the sky is not the chariot of Thor, coming to welcome us. It is doom to men! We shall be buried beneath the ice. Let us leave at once.” Thyra cast him one glance as though he were a stranger. There was an imperiousness and a disdain hi it he had never seen. She struck aside the hand with which he had sought to restrain her, turned without a word, and darted into the depths of the tunnel hi the ice. With a hoarse cry of anguish, Flann, first to realize what she had done, sprang from the boat and plunged out of sight behind her, splashing through the shallow but rapid stream. The others, disregarding the danger, followed the reckless pair and the cavern re-echoed with their shouts to return. Hampered by the current, Flann could not catch Thyra with the distance she had attained. As they went deeper beneath the glacier, the sunlight through the clear ice, striped with successive layers of ash from previous eruptions, fell upon them hi deepening shades, from turquoise through amethyst into indigo. Beneath their feet the ground trembled. A hand against the ice wall on either side detected the almost continuous vibration of the distant earth shocks. Large cracks appeared hi the ice with a sound of thunder, but only tiny crumblings brought particles down upon them, harmless as yet. It was almost hi darkness that Flann came upon Thyra near the end of the tunnel, flattened against a smooth ex-panse with her body pressed against the ice and her arms outspread as though she would embrace it. Her eyes were closed and her cheek lay hard against the wall. As Flann reached her, he put out his hand. He did not touch her, for it was plain to see from her ecstatic expression that she was not aware of him or conscious of any danger. She pressed harder against the ice as though she would melt her way into it She was much beyond herself and anything whick Flann had ever known. He sank to his knees beside her, bowed his head, and began to pray. Above him, he heard her soft whisper and wept because he knew it was not for him. “Oh, my darling, my only one! I have come back as I promised I would!” Facing the ice wall, he saw that it was almost parchment thin. Behind it, with eyes now accustomed to the dim light, he could see an egg-shaped chamber. Within it, encysted there for a length of time which he could not guess, there lay a man, clad in leather, with a short sword and a flint hatchet at his side. His eyes were closed, his head rested upon his arm as though he were asleep and the expression on his face was one of peaceful waiting and pleasant dreams. He had not lain down in fear. It was at this moment that the others came upon them. Biarki struck Flann aside, hurling him down in the icy water, and Skeggi leaped over him and seized his daughter to drag her away. With a strength he had never known she possessed, she maintained her place against the wall. Flann rose dripping, his face contorted in fury, and he was about to leap upon Biarki, but at that moment a crack appeared above them and a torrent of water cascaded down. The sheet of thin window ice fell in fragments and the strangely dressed man was visible to all of them. The egg-shaped chamber began to change its form to a flatter oval. Its inhabitant would have soon been crushed had not Thyra now crept into the ever-narrowing slit, taken a firm grip on his deerskin shirt, and tugged him out His rigid body slid easily over the wet ice and into the shallow stream. None too soon, for as he struck the water the chamber collapsed and disappeared as though it had never been. More ice fell from the tunnel roof. The three men forgot their differences at the instant and obvious peril. As Thyra had her hands wound tightly into the stranger’s garment and refused to let go, they perforce were obliged to carry him along if they would save her. It was not a difficult return. The water supported the man’s weight and the current of the stream aided them in their mad flight to safety. Above, beneath, and all around them, the ice river groaned and rumbled. Behind them, forcing them on, without an instant of pause, the tunnel walls narrowed and pinched together. ‘A wave of water struck and hurled them out, but not to safety, for although they lay struggling upon the beach, ice blocks fell from the face of the glacier and smashed nearby. Splinters struck and stung like hail, but miraculously no one was injured more than suffering bruises and small cuts. Thyra still wore her strange, determined expression. She did not need to give an order. At her commanding look, Biarki and Flann picked up her find and not until then did she loose her bloodless hands from the death grip she had maintained. They hurried him down the black beach into the boat. Thyra’s eyes closed. The color and the strength drained out of her face. Her father caught her up as she staggered and would have fallen. He threw her into Flann’s waiting arms and slammed his burly frame against the knorr’s grounded prow. It slid out among the clashing ice cakes. Ash and pumice lay as a crust upon the water and ankle deep inside the-boat. The waves came in like oil, without breaking, although they were large and increasing in size. Through and over the rollers, into a safer distance from shore, the gasping men strained at the heavy oars. The glacier itself was all in motion, heaving and sinking with the violent disturbance of the tortured land. “Loki must be here now!” panted Biarki. “Sigyn is late bringing back the bowl. See how he writhes!” Flann cast him a disgusted look, which Biarki did not see. Flann did not believe for a moment that the bound god was suffering from snake venom that dripped upon his face when his wife did not catch it to protect him. He did not believe in Loki, either, but he knew that this was no time to say so. He continued rowing. It was well that they had not lingered. Soon the whole front of the glacier fell away, burying the beach and closing in the tunnel completely. No great bergs were to be seen, but enougk ice fell into the water so that the boat rocked dangerously when the waves struck out at them. As the sea became littered with grinding floes, they did not continue on in their original direction, but turned back toward the western shore.‘ It was late afternoon, but being summer the sun was yet high. In this direction they coasted for about two hours, seeing only bare shores. They ran out from under the falling ash and as though the distant mountain knew they had escaped its greatest danger, the violence of its eruption diminished. Thyra’s eyelids fluttered and opened. She looked around in bewilderment and for a brief time she seemed herself again. But before anyone could speak and ask how she felt, the look came upon her again and made her face unrecognizable to them, though more beautiful than before. She gave a happy wordless cry, crawled to the man they had rescued, clasped him tightly in her arms, and dropped her head upon his breast Her eyes closed once more. This time she slept. The mystery daunted them and they did not dare to touch her. So the two lay, until the knorr was beached—the living and he whom they thought dead, for if he breathed they could not see any sign of it and he gave no other indication of life. They ran the boat up into an inlet and drew it up on the rough shore. The water was quiet there, only stirred by a swift stream that tumbled over a rocky height. A salmon leaped, feeding, and they marked its probable lurking place, but shelter was the first necessity. Beyond lay hills and farther yet a mountain hid the volcano, which still rumbled fitfully directly north of the inlet. They could see its glow, but the ground was mostly quiet. The sun beat down between the cliffs on either side, but there was a wolf wind blowing and though they were sheltered from it, the warmth of rocks was no comfort to them. Their clothes were too wet Skeggi gently disengaged the clasp of his sleeping daughter and laid her down upon some grass, between two rocks, and covered her with a robe. It was all that b,e could do. They lifted out the strange man and now had time to examine him more closely. He wore leggings of deerskin, from ankle to thigh., His tunic, or shirt, had sleeves that were fringed with thrums, as were the leggings. Over the shirt he wore a sleeveless vest of heavy leather, beaded with dyed porcupine quills. When the vest was joined together in front, by its leather points, the two halves pictured an eagle with broad-spread wings. Its beak was opened as though in challenge. His lean waist was cinctured by a strong belt studded with odd silver and bronze coins, which seemed very old and worn. The dates were undecipherable. From this belt hung his short, heavy sword, by his right hand, and another narrower belt crossed above, from which, on his left hip, a little flint-throwing ax was suspended in a loose loop. He had a breech-clout of white fawnskin and a pendant-beaded strip of the same material hung down to his knees before and behind. This too was fringed and all seemed the product of much loving labor. Plainly, this man had once been held in great affection or highly respected. On his feet were beaded moccasins, not much worn. He had no headgear, nor did he need any. A beaded band circled his forehead and his long brown hair hung down behind, clubbed into a single braid, held together at the end by a beaded ring. His skin was a deep, reddish brown and seemed a natural color, darker than a sun in these latitudes would tinge it. Biarki’s eyes narrowed, noticing this. “Doubtless, by his swart skin, he is a man of Surt. He lay there waiting to ride out of Muspelheim, with his dark Lord, and fling fire upon the world to destroy it. We were fools to take him out of the ice. We would do well to cut off his head before he comes to life and it is too late.” Skeggi laughed. “It is you who are simple. The man is dead.” His partner grunted. “It may be so and it may not be so. Look, his legs and arms are flexible. His head moves from side to side.” He stirred it roughly with his foot against the man’s cheek. “His face is soft. It should be hard as stone! Let me kill him, for he is not dead.” He took the sword from its scabbard. It was good steel and still held a fine edge. At the hard looks that were cast at him by both Skeggi and Flann, he pretended to be in jest and tossed the sword idly from hand to hand. “At least, when we are sure that he is dead, I will keep his sword. Look, there are runes upon it!” Flann stepped forward quickly and took the sword as one well accustomed to its use. When Biarki reached for it, growling, Flann did not resist, but the point seemed always to be the only part the other could grasp. The thrall examined it closely. “I am well aware that you hold me of no more account than to cut bait, Biarki. One day you may learn that I have other talents as well. If you could read books as I can and had talked to monks, instead of murdering them, you would be wiser. “I studied at the Holy Island under the Blessed Aldwith and I tell you now that these marks are not runes—as you would know if you could cut runes yourself. “This is an inscription writ by a Roman smith upon a Roman sword, for a Roman soldier. I say also, for your further education, Biarki, that against it your ax and buckler would avail you nothing. In its time, it was the most deadly hand weapon on earth! It reads ‘SIXTH LEGION, VICTRDC.’ “I know no more than you how this man came to be here, but I should beware of taunting him as you do me, should you ever face him in battle. Your ignorance and stupidity may yet be your bane! “If he was a legionary, the Sidhe must have protected him, for in this reign of Harald Fairhair, in dread of whom you fled Norway, we Christians number the year of our Lord to be that of 873. “Now I know from my reading, at which you sneer, that mighty Rome came to nothing in the year of 516. No Roman soldiers ever went on foray after that, so unless he be of Methuselah’s kin, which meseemeth not, then he has somehow lain frozen here for some three hundred years!” There is no telling what might have gone awry in Biarki’s unpredictable mood. His slow flush betokened a hideous fury. Although Flann was watching him narrowly, sword at guard, Biarki’s strength would have surely brought the thrall great scathe. Skeggi eyed them both. He obviously had no intention of interfering, whatever befell. The moment was long and tense. It was, therefore, the more startling to all of the men when a scornful, imperious voice suddenly spoke. Thyra was standing, but it was not truly Thyra—not as they had known her before today. The strange voice that had directed them still had bell notes in it, but of clanging iron rather than tinkling gold. “Will you let this girl’s body freeze while you worthless creatures argue? If she dies, he dies with her and he shall not die, if it must mean the lives of all of you. I will warm the bodies of both in your blood before that shall be! “At once! I require food for this girl. I need shelter for me and mine and a fire so that my man may live again. Bring wood, gather rocks, cut long poles, and dig a pit! I will tell then what else you shall do. See to it without delay!” Skeggi puffed out his cheeks and jutted his beard at his daughter. Before he could speak, she snatched the sword from Flann’s nerveless hand and took a menacing step toward him. Skeggi went—the others with him—like a lamb. Once they had climbed the slope of sharp lava detritus, following upward along the stream, they came out upon a grassy meadow. Here was growing a kind of wild oats and a flight of ptarmigan took the air before them, frightened out of their feeding ground. They saw the tracks of a fox. Flann motioned the others to move slowly as they neared a quiet pool; he leaned down and passed his hand cautiously under a large trout, whose fins were gently moving only enough to maintain its position against the lazy current. With a quick flirt he threw it up on the bank, barely disturbing the surface. Altogether he caught three more by tickling before others that he could see took fright and darted away into deeper water. He strung his catch on a willow branch and went on, carrying the fish. The meadow was full of wild flowers, small and delicate, with bright bloom. Wild crowberries and bilberries were plentiful. They picked some as they walked, but did not delay. The days were long, but there was still a night to come and it would be cold. On the slope of the nearest hill, from whence came the stream winding down from the distant glacier into the meadow, there were more willows and jumper bushes. There was also a small grove of dwarf birches, none taller than twelve feet. Crossing the meadow toward the trees, they raised more ptarmigan and Skeggi flung a stick into the thick of them and knocked down a brace. He tied them to his belt. They skirted a bog and saw that the water oozing into their deep footprints was brown with peat. Biarki looked about. It seemed a good land and empty. He mentally estimated its riches. There was stone for walls and paddocks. Sheep would do well here. There was excellent pasturage for cows and horses. What with fish free for the taking, the flocks of wild fowl constantly wheeling overhead, meat and eggs would be no problem. Eider ducks were nesting. He had seen seal and liked seal meat well. Perhaps there would be deer in the highlands, though as yet he had seen no sign of any. He would not build a house. Let the others do that! He pursed his lips, considering. His thoughts always moved slowly, not like that quick-witted, insulting thrall. After the house was finished, he would kill Flann. It would be easy to find an excuse. There was never any difficulty in becoming angry enough to want to kill him. Skeggi would be harder to get out of the way. Perhaps there would be an accident. He might fall off a cliff— be lost out of the boat, somewhere that the girl could not see whatever happened. Then all this land would be his! Thyra would be his too. He had never been quite sure of her, for it was not her promise that he held, but her father’s. Oh, Loki take the lot of them! The stranger! He had forgotten the stranger. Well, if he was not dead, he would be. Biarki’s face reddened and his little pig eyes narrowed. The stranger would die as soon as it could be arranged. Perhaps even tonight he would clip off that head as he had proposed. He could say that it was not a man he slew, but a troll who sprang upon him and attacked him. They could never prove different, for he would throw the head into the sea. “Biarki! Stir your clumsy feet! Are you stuck in the bog? Did you come to watch us work? Get your ugly carcass up here!” That was Skeggi. Flann only laughed. Biarki, the land-owner, came out of Ms reverie with a jolt. He climbed the hill where the others already had a good pile of poles cut and stacked. He bent and picked up an armful. He straightened up and faced down the slope again. It was then, to the far west, beyond a headland where might lie a bay, that he saw the low smokes and knew that the land was not as empty as he had thought He cast down his eyes hastily and said nothing. He hoped the others had not noticed. Apparently they had been too busy to look so attentively at the scenery, for they did not mention the smoke. Down in the meadow, Biarki could not see the traces of man and breathed easier. It was still possible to fulfill his plan. It would only be necessary to complete it a little quicker. He might also have to build his own house. 2 if they went on to the west, they would «ome to the smoke he had seen from the heights. Wherever there were people, there would be ale. Wherever there was ale, there were those who drank it and drinking, companions made friends easily. They thought alike. They did favors for one another. It was quite possible that a good friend might help in the elimination of an enemy. Biarki slept better that night than he had the night before. 3 The Cell T>ei When the pale darkness brightened, once more into morning, they rose early. Already they were accustomed to the sound of the waterfall, but they heard the squawking fowl going out to fish and knew that it was time to break camp. They ate sparely, without building up the fire to do so. The boat was quickly run out on rollers of driftwood and discovered to be sound. The sea was most quiet, a rare thing for that coast if they had known, and although it was a gray day with threatening masses of dark clouds, there was no heavy wind to move them. Such breezes as filled the sail blew westward, which pleased Biarki, and the others were well suited, for they had no desire to go back toward the glacier and the still falling ash that misted it. They rowed out of the inlet and some distance out to sea before they caught a fair wind. Once they raised the sail, oars came inboard and they went on westerly, following the forbidding coast a mile or so out, for there were white streaks of foam that told of jagged concealed volcanic upthrusts of rock nearer the shore. There was a good view, at this distance, of the black snow-capped mountains, some of which were steaming in spurts and plumes of white vapor, and others were spouting smoke—all due to the inner fires bubbling under this tumbled land. Yet it was beautiful in its tortured grandeur. Skeggi said, “This must be the place that Gardar, the Swede, found some ten years ago when he went a-Viking in the Hebrides. He was blown off course, as we were, and he landed somewhere on the coast of an uninhabited country he called Snowland. Perhaps it was near here.” “There was talk in the Orkneys, when I was last there,” said Biarki, “of a man from Norway who heard of it and went out to settle. He was called Floki, the Raven, because he loosed three ravens from his ship to find him land. One went home to Norway, one returned to the ship, but the third went straight on westward. He followed it and found land. “I would call him Floki, the Fool! They say he liked the country so well that he forgot to cut hay for his beasts and when the winter came the cattle starved and he was like to do so himself—he and all his folk. “At last he came home a poor man and called the place Iceland, lest others go there and fare as he did. But from what we have seen, I would think it well to stay here and take land, for we could make ourselves wealthy.” “It might have been Floki’s raven that visited us. He seemed used to men,” said Flann. Gwalchmai and Corenice-Thyra only looked at each other and smiled and said nothing at all. A little later the coast swung toward the north and became rougher. Inlets and firths widened into bays. Here they shared a biscuit all around and here Biarki gave up his hopes of ale. What he had thought to be smoke, from the viewpoint of the mountain meadow, could now be seen as steaming fumaroles. Ever and again a fountain of boiling water rose and fell among these, coughed, bubbled, and hissed and rose again. All around there were good green fields that would make fine pastures. The land was not forested, but it was wooded. Once a walrus broached the surface, a ton of excellent meat, as all were aware. Some miles farther on, a pod of whales hastened by toward the Arctic Ocean to enjoy the short summer season. They set out hand lines and caught cod to cook later. On a black strand they saw where a careless whale had found its end, for broad ribcages upthrust out of the crumbled lava beach, like the bones of a wrecked dragon-ship. The sight of so much food made Gwalchmai ravenously hungry. He could not eat much at a time, but he was munching steadily—a mouthful of biscuit, seasoned with a scrap of kelp or seaweed; a slice of raw fish; a little crab picked off a floating log. Never satisfied, always nibbling; gaining strength while Corenice gazed upon him fondly, watching him eat. Before them loomed a headland, bold, fantastically contorted and torn. It looked stern and menacing, but it shielded a bay that was broad and calm. This steamed with hot spring overflows and there were more smokes back from the broad beach. These smokes came from low houses of stone, shaped like beehives and rounded over with turf. Near them were people, and not far in from the point of the headland, just in front of the explorer’s oncoming boat, was a man fishing from a walrus-skin kayak. He raised his head and peered at the knorr standing in to harbor, under sail. The sun was in his eyes and at first he could not make out clearly what he was seeing. When he was sure, he quickly wound in his line and hailed the shore. The alarm had already been given. A man was beating with a mallet upon a long bone hung between two posts. At the not unmusical sound, which carried clearly to the visitors across the water, other folk came out of the houses and thronged the beach. They did not appear to be armed. Men and women alike wore long robes. A few of these were cloth, but most were made of fox skins. Here and there could be seen a person of more commanding presence than the others, though all were mainly a rather short, dark people. Many of the men had white beards. One, carrying a long staff, came down close to the water’s edge and called out to them, “If ye be friendly disposed, brothers, come without fear. If not, then depart in peace.” Skeggi had already taken in the sail and the knorr was holding its distance, under oars. He looked at the man, narrowly. He was not sure if the shout had been to welcome them in or to warn them away, but when it was repeated in Norse, his face cleared. He had already made out that the staff had a crook in the upper end and could be nothing but a bishop’s crozier. Flann was already satisfied of this, for the language first used had been Erse, and he recognized the phrasing. “Celi Deil The Children of God! We are among friends.” Skeggi smiled. He had known many such in the Faroes and found them all to be good men—harmless, devout, though somewhat narrow and rigid in their principles. They were definitely a strong-minded group, acknowledging no other master than the Christian God. Secretly, Skeggi had some leanings in that direction, having observed the effect of their teachings upon other men, but old beliefs die hard and his loyalty was to his old gods. Flann understood them even better. The Celi Dei, or Culdees as they were commonly called, lived a life of austerity, disciplining their bodies to increase the glory of the soul. To know the will of God was their joy, to do it was their life. They lived apart from large groups of mankind, not to win their own personal salvation, for they were already convinced of that; their motive was to testify by their own example the blessedness of a simple way of living. However, the roistering, blustering, fighting Norse had another way of life. Although the Culdees possessed no treasure, the Viking raiders could never believe it. Time and again the Culdees’ settlements were sacked and their people killed or taken into slavery, as Flann had been. So the Culdees fought in the only way they could and still remain God’s Men: they left every place that the Norsemen penetrated and sought another safer home. They had been pushed out of Ireland and Scotland, north into the Orkneys, the Shetlands, and the Faroes. For three quarters of a century this little group had dwelt peacefully, as far away as they thought man could go—in the land that they supposed was the most distant on earth and that the Greeks knew as Thule. No wonder that, recognizing the lines of the knorr as Norse, they stood in dread upon this black strand, their backs against the ocean, which stretched westward to limitless expanse, offering no other haven. They had been discovered. This might mean invasion, slavery, and further persecution. Yet so kind of heart they were that their Bishop now invited the wayfarers to land in good cheer, offering them rest, comfort, and peace—providing only that they came in good will. Biarki grunted hi contempt. “Good will toward the West-men?* Good will toward thralls? Sooner would I take what we need with our axes than anything they would give with open hands!” Flann shot him a look of hate, but Skeggi said, “You will keep this peace they offer, hothead, or you will answer to me! We are in their land, not ours, and you will do well to remember it!” Raising his voice, he called out, “We accept your hospitality, Gaffer. We come only hi peace.” Then the oars struck the water and in a few strokes the keel grated on the shingle. The sides of the boat were seized by willing hands and it was dragged high upon the beach. Now that their dismay was over, the Culdees surrounded the strangers with smiling faces. As Skeggi had first thought, then* appearance marked many as of a distant Pictish descent, although some were tall and fair and a few had red hah- and blue eyes. All looked on Gwalchmai. with curiosity, admiring his strength and stature, but wondering at his strange clothing and reddish-brown skin. They did not know his mother had been a girl of Aztlan. The information would have meant nothing to them, but they recognized him as something beyond their ken. The Culdees crowded in, clapping the newcomers on the shoulders and shaking hands. The Bishop came forward and bestowed the kiss of peace upon Skeggi’s hairy cheeks. Women and children timidly gathered around Gwalchmai and Corenice, fingering the fabric of Thyra’s gown and admiring his flamboyant beadwork embroidery. It was plain to see that they had long been separated from knowledge of what women were wearing in Europe. No one offered to kiss Biarki. His frown caused the men to keep their distance. The burning glances he directed upon the prettiest of the girls made it plain what was hi his dark thoughts. Flann bent down and picked up a small child who had *The Norse term for Irishmen. fallen and was crying because of a hurt knee. He nuzzled his nose into the boy’s soft neck and crooned to him, blowing warmly down his collar, which tickled and made the child laugh. He hugged and kissed Flann, who set him gently down and gave him into the hands of his smiling mother. Children always liked Flann. Corenice glanced tenderly at the man from Erin. She knew that, deep down, where Thyra lay in dream, this action had not gone unnoticed by her. The little group was now urged toward the beehive huts, which were quite low, being partly dug into the ground for warmth, made of stone, chinked with moss and well roofed with turf. Most of them had long entrances, roofed over against the prevailing winter winds, and the rooms were quite comfortable, surprisingly large and commodious. The Bishop’s house, to which they were invited, consisted of two buildings connected by a narrow passageway. In the larger of the two, Maire Ethne, his wife, a buxom little woman, made them welcome. She was a busy, cheerful person, who bustled about preparing a stew that bubbled over a central fire. There was no chimney, the smoke finding its way out by itself through a hole in the conical peak of the roof. The glowing peat beneath the kettle cast off a pleasant warmth and the dim light it gave was increased by several open grease lamps. These were carved from soapstone in a design unchanged since Roman times and still in use among the Esquimos. The Culdees burned seal or whale oil and used wicks made of white-headed cotton grass, which grew profusely everywhere. The single lamp that was different was a small brass one, evidently an article of pride and value, for it was kept burnished and gave a brighter light. Upon enquiry, the Bishop explained that it was a family heirloom and was fed with a finer oil, pressed from the breasts of the great auk—that unfortunate effort of Nature to create a penguin out of a puffin. Altogether, these various burning fuels combined with the fragrant stew to create an aroma that made the visitors feel fault with hunger. Flann was sent to bring in the remaining biscuit and cheese as their contribution. This was a great treat to their hosts, since no cereals could grow in the short summers and they had not tasted bread of any kind for years. The low table of driftwood planks was hastily set with Wooden bowls and spoons, intricately carved with loving care during the long dark winters. The voyagers were about to fall too when they noticed that the Bishop and his wife had bowed their heads in prayer. They watched, in uneasy embarrassment, not quite knowing what to do. When the short blessing had been asked upon the meat, Flann, Bishop Malachi, and Maire Ethne made the sign of the cross over their bowls and began to eat. Biarki defiantly made the sign of the hammer over his and after a moment’s hesitation Skeggi did the same, in deference to Thor. Corenice spilled a little water on the floor in honor of the Spirit of the Wave. It was not evident that the Bishop had noticed the actions of the others, but he beamed when Gwalchmai likewise made the sign of the cross, for he supposed the Aztlanian was also a Christian. He could not know that whatever leanings he had in that direction, Gwalchmai had absorbed them from the questionable books of Merlin Am-brosius, the Druid Mage. There was little talk during the meal. Biarki hinted for strong drink, then for ale or beer, but this austere community had neither. There was no cereal or fruit for its manufacture. After eating, the cups were filled with a light but unfermented wine made of crowberries, and with that Biarki, to his disgust, was obliged to make do. He made a mental reservation that if plans he was vaguely formulating should turn out successfully, many changes would take place. When the company was replete, a further blessing was said and another prayer and then Bishop Malachi settled back comfortably for talk, while the table was being cleared. When his wife came back, she sat down with them and began sewing upon a foxskin cap. Neither pressed their guests with questions, but when they were told of the Norse fishers’ journey before the storm, it confirmed their suspicion that this was indeed Iceland. The wonderful rescue of Gwalchmai was not mentioned, nor his identity. Skeggi, as spokesman for the party, said nothing of that which had befallen his daughter, for he did not understand it himself. Neither could he make himself yet fully believe in this strange changeling whom he had fathered. The bishop was too polite to probe into mysteries he could sense, for he was a good judge of men, and instead brought the conversation around to himself and his flock. Thus the Norse learned that this happy, contented people had lived upon the island for seventy-five years, having established a community and an economy that suited them well. They had come there in curraghs of oak-tanned hides, made of three layers in such a way that air chambers were sealed in. Such boats were still in use. The curraghs carried a mast, with a triangular lug-sail also made of hides, and were fitted for oars as well. Even when loaded, the craft drew but a few inches and when empty was easily carried up on the land and stowed away. The original colony had been increased by several other shiploads of the Children of Ood during that time. They had sought a peaceful refuge and found it here, some in curraghs and others in ships of wood large enough to bold sixty people. Some had brought sheep and a carefully tended flock was now increasing, though somewhat harassed by foxes. Wool was as yet in short supply. They had no cattle and no horses —and they had thrown away such weapons they had come with, for they trusted in the protection of God. Biarki grunted, thinking his own black thoughts, but said nothing of such folly. The Bishop went on, undisturbed. As other visitors came, less kindly minded, the Culdees had withdrawn before them to the little islands, hidden their skin boats in places made ready for them, and kept their larger ships upon the other side of Iceland proper. So it was that neither Gardar, the Swede, nor the Viking Floki had ever been aware of the people and had thought the land to be uninhabited. However, the Celts knew that this isolation could not continue and it must come about one day that they would be discovered by those who had driven diem for so many weary years and hundreds of sea miles. Now there was no other place to go, unless they submitted to slavery or death by returning to their southern homelands. At this, Gwalchmai started, remembering Ms own warm homeland of Alata. It would seem a paradise to these people, who lacked so many things and who were in such dread-ful danger. But at this time he said nothing and, catching the eye of Corenice, he saw that she concurred with his opinion. The heat and the warm food began to take its toll among the weary wayfarers. Soon one, then another, began to yawn. The Bishop, noticing this, broke off his discourse. “Enough, brothers,” he said. “Let us pray and sleep. There will be time for talk tomorrow. Woman of tke house, will you put away your sewing now, for I see you have done little upon it in all this time. Our guests would rest now.” The robes were brougkt in from the boat and spread down upon heaps of heather in the farther chamber. It was not large, but there was room for everyone. After all necessary things were done, the Bishop took down one of his holy books from a short shelf and prayers were said. Flann, as thrall, was delegated to smoor the fire. Well accustomed to the task, he ‘quickly covered the coals with dry peat, damp peat, and ashes, following these layers with a good coating of wet peat on top. The banking would last through the short night Then, under the warm cloud of smoke and steam that layered the upper part of the room, adding to the streamers of soot that hung there, he lay down on his pallet near the fire where he could tend it if he must. He blew out the remaining grease lamp and was soon asleep, although thoughts of Thyra disturbed him in his dreams. In the following days, it was a marvel to the voyagers to see how lightsome of spirit these people were. It was not an occasional gaiety, but a steady outpouring of happiness that extended to all. They were a hardworking folk, for to prepare for the winter no time could-be wasted. The men fished every day; the women laid by the berries in great store, drying them in the sun; the young boys danced and played, but gathered eggs, cotton grass, and salt from the evaporating pans. Birds were snared, their flesh likewise to be dried and salted, and seal meat and oil were put away. All the time, through the long days now perceptibly growing shorter, they laughed and sang. Biarki laid their high spirits to the taking of strong drink and at one time or another he visited all the houses, hinting and peering about He could never believe that their laughter was due to sheer joy of life and the feeling of brotherhood that permeated the entire settlement His temper grew uglier as his frustration increased. He took to swaggering through the village with buckler on his arm and battle ax loose in his hand, swinging it to and fro as though he was instantly ready to strike out with it. His scowl brought soberness to aU he met and nothing Skeggi could say deterred him in this growing habit. He watched the women as they worked and one day followed one of the girls on her way to tend the sheep. When he found that they could not be seen from the village, he approached and drew her down into a hollow. As they struggled, a group of children seeking eggs came up, singing, and Biarki let her go with no worse to befall her than torn clothing. She said nothing, for she was in fear of her life, but because of her manifest terror whenever she saw Biarki, Bishop Malachi suspected what had happened and afterwards no child watched the sheep alone. The others took a hand with their hosts and shared the work. They were well liked and the Culdees considered them, except for their alien faith, as valuable members of the community and would have been glad to have them stay. There came a day when Biarki was more restless than usual. He had disdained any kind of labor and he was bored. At the same time he was angry, for Flann had newly become a free man. Skeggi had long considered making him so, for he felt that in all but name Flann was not a thrall. His willingness to obey orders, though his status irked him., was cause for admiration, and it seemed to Skeggi that Flann should be in a position to bear arms legally now that Biarki’s temper had become so strained. Also, it seemed to him that if the Irishman was able to mingle among them all as equals, this might in some way, which his own slow mind could not comprehend, bring back his girl to her senses. Skeggi had always known that the two of them looked upon each other kindly, until this stranger man had come between them and become responsible for this weird change in her. At times he had regretted pledging her to Biarki and never more than now. So thinking, he called Flann to him and snapped the iron thrall collar in twain between his strong fingers. “Never call any man master again,” he said. “Nay, master,” said Flann, in deep gratitude. “No man but you!” And so the matter ended. Now, for some little while, it seemed that this action had brought about a change in Thyra. She smiled upon Flann and appeared to pay a little attention to him as for a few days he also went about the village with ax and buckler. He did not strut as did Biarki and no one shrank out of his way. When he found that Biarki avoided him or spoke to him politely as was fitting between equals, he gave over wearing his weapon and spent much of his spare time reading the Bishop’s books. But Biarki was biding his time and planning with his slow mind what he meant to do. In accordance with this plan, he invited Skeggi to go on a journey to see the interior of the island and view some of the wonders said to exist there. Skeggi was nothing loath, for work had palled upon him and he too had heard tales. They started early, for the days were much shorter now. The first night they slept upon ground warmed by a nearby hot spring. The next day, moving north, they came upon a region of rising ground where meadows changed into a high lava plateau. Eider ducks had nested here hi quantity and they saw foxes that had preyed upon the young and were still lurking about, hunting laggard strays. They took one of these foxes, kept the skin, and cooked and ate some of the rank meat without muck relish. Waterfalls abounded here, some of great size and turbulence, and a few of the streams ran warm from other hot springs, for much of this plateau had been laid down not too long before, as earth’s clock counts time, and the fires beneath still flamed. Here Skeggi ran down two of the auks, which, being wingless, were easy to capture. Mindful of the oil their bodies contained and which was so highly prized by their friend the Bishop, he wrung their necks, tied their feet together, and went on, carrying them slung about his neck. Lichens and mosses covered this young lava like a carpet of greenish-gray dust The low hills looked like slag heaps and between them lay pools that steamed in the chill air. Near one of these, a deep pond of clear water in a white silica basin all of fifty feet across, the two men sat down to eat and talk. They looked out, from their height, across a beautiful valley, and Biarki said, “I have been thinking, partner, that all we see here could be ours, if you would but play the man.” Skeggi said then, “Speak clearly. What would you have me do?” Biarki, thinking Skeggi could be easily persuaded, replied, “Look you, now. First, we shall kill that troll who came out of the ice and holds your daughter under his spell. Then, when she is free, we shall be three axes together against these little people”—for Biarki stood head and shoulders above all but a few, and so looked down upon them—“and I doubt not that Flann, of the quick tongue, will be gladder to give orders than he was to take them. So we may make them all thralls and we shall be as jarls and own the whole land.” But he did not go on to say that after this was done, Flann’s life would be short and perhaps Skeggi’s as well. Yet this thought came to Skeggi, and he said, “And if I will not, what then? For I am inclined- toward these people.” Then it was as though a red mist rose before Biarki’s eyes and the sky and earth came together as a melting flame and the pool was filled with blood and his face was as the face of a trolL Skeggi saw his anger. He loosened his ax in his belt and moved a little way off, but he was hampered by the birds and he could not go far. He was trying to rise when Biarki leapt to his feet in his fury, shouting, “Then, Skeggi Hairymouth, I call you nid-dering and no man!” And with a single sweep of his ax he split open Skeggi’s head and laid his partner dead at his feet. His rage passed, and when Biarki knew what he had done, he was afraid. Even hi this far land, he knew he was under Odin’s eye, and he did not believe that the Norns had planned to cut the thread of Skeggi’s life at this time. This was clearly a blood debt that would be held against him, and he did not wish to pay it, now or ever. He walked over to the pool and looked into it. It was very deep. The water was boiling and bubbles rose and burst upon its surface, giving off little puffs of steam. Steam whistled and piped from little cracks around it in the rocky rim. If a body would not stay hidden in the depths, surely the flesh would soon be boiled from the bones and dissipated into a scum, and the skeleton would sink of its own weight, never to be seen again. Biarki laid hold of the body and dragged it to the water’s edge. He did not like to lose the good ax, but it would help to weigh the body down. He rolled the body over and the water seetked about it. There was not muck blood on the rocks. A few cups of water were enough to wash it away. When he had finished, the body had already sunk out of sight in the clear depths. He saw the auks and with a shudder of disgust at this reminder of the vanished man he threw them into the pool too. They were large and heavy with fat and almost immediately a film of oil began to spread over its surface. It shimmered in the sunlight and the bubbles no longer burst througk it The steam was held within the water as the oil quickly covered the pool. Then, as Biarki watched, he saw a strange and terrible thing that almost unhinged his mind. A moment longer the pool was quiet, then suddenly a round dome of water grew in its center, upon which Skeggi’s body rode and tossed. It shot upward in a monstrous pillar of whitely boiling water and steam and as it rose it roared and hissed. As it rose, so with it rose Skeggi, up, up, and up—two hundred feet and more, into the air—and as he rose he beckoned to Biarki, with waving arms from which the flesh was already falling, as though be besought Biarki to follow him into the clouds. For this pool, so placid in its seeming, was the monstrous Geysir—Gusher—from which all others in the world derive their names! Biarki fled screaming from this ghastly sight. Now, as he ran, adding to his horror, a great gyrfalcon stooped down upon him out of the heavens, like a falling star, and fixed its talons in his shoulder, beating him heavily about the face with its wing elbows. He tore it loose, strong as it was, and threw it to the ground, but it sprang into the air on its broad pinions, shrieked and rose, seeking altitude, and then Biarki again heard the whistle of air in its stiff feathers as it dived to strike and tear again. This time, he was prepared. He flung up his buckler to protect his face, struck it sidelong down, cut a wing from its three-foot body and ran on, leaving it dying there. He was in too much fear to make certain that it was dead. As it happened, the falcon was still living when a raven, always the hungry scavenger, dropped down to see. As the raven hopped closer, the falcon’s eyes filmed over and its beak closed. Curiously enough, the raven did not stop to feed. Instead, it seemed to forget that it was hungry. It flapped awkwardly up again and at a low altitude followed the staggering man as he ran on across the lava beds, heading back south toward the village of the Culdees. During this time, Flann had been delighted to find that Gwalchmai had suddenly lost interest in Thyra. He could not understand it, but when Thyra sought his company, forsaking the stranger with whom she had become so close, he did not question her or his good fortune. Thyra linked arms with him and they walked and talked as they had in gay moods before. That was enough for Flann. Once in a while she pressed his arm close against her body and they walked on without speaking. Occasionally she looked up at him as though she were seeing him newly, and was pleased at what she saw. It was almost as though she was comparing him mentally with Gwalchmai and had decided that she liked Flann the better of the two. She raised her face up to him and Flann was sure that she wanted to be kissed. He was about to try when she looked up into the sky and the spell was broken. The expression so familiar to him lately came again upon her face. She stiffened and pressed backward out of his arms. A raven had just flown overhead. To Thyra, it was as though a beloved sister had come home and they had embraced in greeting. Corenice was back. She had been worried, though dimly, when her father left with Biarki, for what Corenice knew, Thyra also knew, and Corenice had felt the other’s anxiety. So, to relieve the minds of both, for pain one felt also hurt the other, Corenice had gone questing—in the body of the gyrfalcon. Thyra instantly learned what Corenice had discovered. She could not cry, for Corenice dominated her body, but there were tears just the same. Corenice had learned to admire and respect Skeggi for his courage and integrity. Chiefly she felt anger, as she had at the geyser. This was a frightful deed, which called for justice and immediate punishment So it was that Gwalchmai and Flann were informed of the murder. Immediately arming themselves, although Flann could take the word he received only on trust, the little party moved north to meet BiarM—the two girls in the one body and the two men who loved them both. Biarki meanwhile had covered much ground, being hagridden with fear. He was weary, but when he saw the three avengers coming -from the village and marked with what determination they strode in his direction, he was aware that they knew what he had done. He had planned a story that would explain Skeggi’s absence, but he cast it out of his mind. Somehow he felt sure that it would be useless. The raven, Odin’s messenger, had seen and told all. His doom was upon him and that it would befall and was not to be avoided seemed only just. At this end to all his hopes and plans, he went mad. The tendency to go berserk, which had always cursed the men of his family, now descended upon him. The familiar red tinge colored all his little world again. The yellow of lichen and the green of the grass became submerged In scarlet. He ripped away the shirt from his body. He felt suffocated from lack of air and must bare himself to the wind. He bit the edge of his buckler until his teeth splintered and his mouth bled. He howled like a wolf and rushed, foaming, in great bounds and leaps, against his enemies under a bloody and setting sun. He swung his battle ax first against Flann, for it was he who had been hated longest. Flann was less tired, but escaped only by sucking in his belly; the ax swung on in a figure eight and struck him a glancing blow in the back that laid him flat With scarcely a glance at him gasping on the ground, Biarki turned upon the others. Merlin’s ring grew hot as fire upon Gwalchmai’s finger and he knew he was in as great a danger as he had ever been. His own buckler was up and he received Biarki’s blow full upon it. The shock numbed his arm. His guard fell. He heard the girl scream. He did not know if it was Thyra or Corenice. His drawn sword licked out beneath the drooping shield hi the old legionary trick that his father had taught him. It drew blood, for he felt it strike upon bone, but Biarki seemed impervious to wounds. It was only with the utmost effort that Gwalchmai was able to protect himself against the ram of ax blows. Again and again the short Roman sword struck into Biarki, who roared with pain but did not appear to weaken. Then Gwalchmai’s buckler fell. The next blow took the sword from his grip and it slithered across the ground. As he also fell, Gwalchmai knew well that it was Corenice who threw herself upon him. Biarki swung up his ax in triumph. Gwalchmai’s hand went up to push her aside or to fend off the blow. A gush of white brilliance shot from the stone in the ring, straight into Biarki’s eyes, blinding him with its flare. At that insant, Flann seized the sword. “Biarki! Die!” he yelled and the giant turned upon him. A little of Biarki’s mania had worn away. He approached Flann, panting, swinging his ax in circles, his blood spattering the ground. Still, his strength was enormous and they could hear the whistling sound of the weapon through the air. It was clear that Flann was no novice with the sword. He handled it well and despite its lack of length, he dealt Biarki two blows that would have dropped a lesser man— one in the biceps of the left arm, which caused Biarki to fling away his buckler, and another deep gash in the same side along the ox-like ribs. Biarki bellowed and seized Flann in an iron grip. Flann could not reach him with the sword point, but drew the edge along his side until Biarki lurched back. Flann’s face was dark with agony. He did not fall, but stood almost unconscious, struggling for breath, with the point of the sword touching the ground, balancing upon it. Biarki reached for him again, bleeding profusely, but Gwalchmai had recovered now. He slipped between the two, carrying Biarki’s discarded buckler, and brought it up under the madman’s jaw with the sound of an ax blow. Like an echo there came a second crack as that stout neck broke. Then Biarki fell like a tree that has faced its last storm and the others collapsed, almost as far gone as he, while Thyra-Corenice hugged and kissed and prayed over both her valiant men—but in thankfulness to different gods. 4 Out Oars for