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, “ let us charge and die! ”
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.
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, “ let us charge and die! ”
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.
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