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The black owl appeared.
Huge, malevolent and horrific, it dropped from the flame-lit sky. At its awful screech Syagrius’ war-horse
reared. Not even its training could hold the beast steady in the face of such eldritch terror. The horse threw its
rider and bolted. The consul fell heavily.
The black owl rushed down on him with another ear-splitting scream. Its wings were black brooms, thirty feet
from tip to tip, that drove the summer air in gusts. Its eyes flamed yellow. Its beak was stretched wide for
cracking bones while its feet flexed like twin arrays of metal hooks. Other war-horses scattered in blind fear
before it.
Cormac’s sword was in his hand without his conscious thought. He slashed at the monster—and felt
gooseflesh when his sword passed through its body to no effect. It glared, gathered sinewy legs beneath it,
and made a hopping spring at the Gael. He went down beneath it...
WHEN DEATH BIRDS FLY
The Cormac mac Art Series
THE MISTS OF DOOM by Andrew J. Offutt
THE TOWER OF DEATH by Andrew J. Offutt & Keith Taylor
WHEN DEATH BIRDS FLY by Andrew J. Offutt & Keith Taylor
TIGERS OF THE SEA by Robert E. Howard
THE SWORD OF THE GAEL by Andrew J. Offutt
THE UNDYING WIZARD by Andrew J. Offutt
THE SIGN OF THE MOONBOW by Andrew J. Offutt & Keith Taylor
War of the Gods on Earth Series by Andrew J. Offutt
THE IRON LORDS
SHADOW OUT OF HELL
THE LADY OF THE SNOWMIST
WHEN DEATH BIRDS FLY
“For these are the birds of death:
the Owl, a predator of the night, and
the Raven, presider over battlefields:”
The name of Lucanor Magus strikes fear into the souls
of all who sail the rough seas between Galicia and
Britannia, for the spells of this Mage and Sorcerer are as
evil as his heart—and he means to rule these shores by
whatever means he can. But he reckons without
Cormac mac Art, he of the black hair and light eyes who
has struck his own kind of fear throughout his native
Eirrin and as far beyond as seafarers wander and
tell tales of courage.
Cormac is a warrior, more than a match for
any other with sword or axe, but he is more than that.
The blood of the High Kings of ancient days runs in his
veins; the sorceries of such as Lucanor cannot
overcome him though they come from the very
bowels of Hell!
ROBERT E. HOWARD’S
OTHER GREAT HERO
CORMAC MAC ART
All characters in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblence to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
WHEN DEATH BIRDS FLY
An Ace Fantasy Book / published by arrangement with
the authors.
PRINTING HISTORY
First Ace printing / November 1980
Third printing / March 1984
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1980 by Andrew J. Offutt and Kieth Taylor
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10016
ISBN: 0-441-88088-6
Ace Fantasy Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Table of Contents
Prologue: The Black Owl
1.
The Raven
2.
When Wizards Duel
3.
When Dead Men Attack
4.
No Crown of Laurel
5.
When Kings Plot War
6.
Prince of Corsairs
7.
When Sea-wolves Plot
8.
Demon on a Black Horse
9.
“The Ravens Are Flying!”
10.
When Villains Plot Murder
11.
When Vengeance Reigns
12.
Omens
13.
Shadow from Hell
14.
Broken Owl
15.
Cathula
16.
The Reivers Reived
17.
Raven Uncaged
18.
The Lord of Death
19.
The Battle of Soissons
20.
An Instinct for Survival
21.
Fleecing Nantes
22.
The Soul of Lucanor
23.
The Soul of Sigebert
24.
The Dark Huntsman
When Death Birds Fly
ANDREW J. OFFUTT
AND
KIETH TAYLOR
“The Roman empire is beheaded; in the one City, the whole world dies... All things are doomed to die... every
work of man is destroyed by age... but who would have believed that Rome would crumble, at once the
mother and tomb of her children. She who enslaved... is herself a slave.”
—St. Jerome, A.D. 415
“Gaul was lost to the Empire. If the ruling class of Auvergne held out against Euric the Visigoth... it was for
the sake of the new-won independence rather than from loyalty to Rome. Further north, Syagrius, son of
Aegidius, animated by the same spirit, became a de facto ‘king’ of Gaul between the Somme and the Loire.”
—Larousse Encyclopedia of Ancient and Medieval History
Prologue:
The Black Owl
“For these are the birds of death; the Owl, a predator of the night, and the Raven, presider over battlefields.”
—Alexandros of Chios
Sorcerous evil swooped above Nantes on broad black wings. Hate and Evil slept fitfully in the nighted city
below. Those two dark forces called to each other as land to restless sea. Black wings slanted downward,
riding the wind. The warm summer’s night seemed to shiver around the ragged edges of swooping night-wings
spreading broader than a man’s height.
Sigebert of Metz, more lately called Sigebert One-ear, stirred in his bed and muttered. Much strong wine
without water had gone down his throat earlier this evening, more than one cup drugged by his physician, a
man tight-lipped against his patient’s cursing. The wine brought Sigebert no peace, him most men would have
said deserved no peace.
A recent sword cut had caught and torn one corner of his sensuous mouth, plowed messily along his cheek,
and shorn off the ear on that side of his head. The raw pain of it came into his dreams even through the fiery
fumes of drugs and drunkenness. Even so, in Sigebert the hate was stronger than the pain. Through his
villainous brain burned visions of a sinewy, tigerish Gael of Eirrin and a huge ax-wielding Dane.
“Death for them,” he mumbled, and he panted. “By Death itself—death, death for them! Death slow and awful!
Death!”
Sigebert awoke to the drumbeat of his pain.
His skin was cold with fevered, nightmare-induced sweat. The coverings of his bed pressed suffocatingly on
his limbs and athletic form. Was difficult for him to be certain whether he slept or woke, and in truth Sigebert
hardly cared. He lay gasping and sweating, hating.
Of a sudden he went rigidly still. Eyes invaded his chamber. Eyes—yellow as topaz, lambent, blazing—were
fixed on him from the foot of his bed. Something—not someone—was there, staring.
Am I awake? Surely this too is dream...
His horror-stricken gaze could discern no more than a blocky and indistinct shape that was like a short thick
log, or a man’s head and limbless torso. Black as the heart of midnight it was, indistinct in the darkness of
Sigebert’s draped nightchamber. Yet it gave a strong, foul impression of deformity and, distortion; or perhaps
that was in Sigebert One-ear’s mind, weighted by pain and alcohol.
In his terror he thought that some goblin or hellish fiend had come for his soul, which was admittedly
damned.
The thing moved. Grotesquely, it seemed to shrug and expand. Vast wings flexed and their tips reached nigh
from wall to wall. Their spread was more broad than the height of a tall man. Black feathers ruffled.
The thing spoke... or did it speak? Sigebert heard words... or did he feel them?
Do not cry out, Sigebert of Metz. An you do, I shall be gone, the which will be to your detriment. I bring news
of your enemies.
Night-spirit, Sigebert thought wildly. Some demon in the form of a gigantic bird...
“Who are you?” he said, and heard his own voice croak.
I am the soul of Lucanor Magus the Physician. Far—
Something surged in Sigebert. Relief, preternaturally sent? Blinking and with sudden hope he said,
“Physician?”
Aye. And mage, Sigebert of Metz, and mage!
“You—have you come to help me in my agony?”
Sigebert received an impression of mirth, which angered him even while it despoiled his shaky foundation of
hope. Against your enemies, he was told. Is not your hatred for them as much a part of your agony as your
physical hurts?
This time Sigebert was unable to speak, and the bird continued, voicelessly.
Far to the south, in a village of the seafaring Basques, my fleshly body sleeps. All of me that is significant
has winged hither, to aid you to destroy those you hate whom I also hate—yea, and for greater reasons than
yours! Yet it is known to me aforetime that you will not heed my advice... this time. On the morrow, in day’s
bright light, you will believe this was merely a dream, gendered by your hate and pain. You will ignore it.
Sigebert’s thoughts moved in slow, murky channels. Already he had gone from fear to disbelief to fear to hope
to shattered hope and wonderment—and curiosity. Half drugged and but partly wakeful, he yet put a shrewd
question.
“You know this? Then why trouble to come to me, physician, mage... creature?”
For reasons that you will learn from your folly, and heed me when again I come to you. You know those
enemies I refer to; you well know them and their inhuman prowess and luck! They are Cormac mac Art and
Wulfhere the Skull-splitter of the Danes—those bloody devils of the sea!
At those names Sigebert came wide awake, and hatred pulsed in him more strongly than the pain that rode
his heartbeat. “Ah.”
They live, and thrive. They have taken refuge in the Suevic kingdom, ruled by Veremund the Tall, that
whispery voice went on, that was not a voice. He now employs them. Even now they prepare to leave
Hispania, those bloody pirates. They undertake a mission to the land of the Danes for this same Veremund.
Once I served him. I, Lucanor Magus, served him, and served him well. Now he has exiled me and, could he
lay hands on me, would have me die slowly. They are to thank for this—Cormac mac Art and Wulfhere the
Dane of their ship Raven. May they be accursed and accursed to world’s end and Chaos to come, and the
Black Gods of R’lyeh devour them!
Sigebert One-ear laughed hoarsely. “I know not your gods, mage. But I share your wish!”
Then attend. Three days from this, these pirates leave the port of Brigantium in Galicia, and will sail east. For
a short time they will lie to in a sheltered bay below the Pyrenees. Though they know it not, I await them in
that same region. I shall incite my... hosts to slaughter them, for these Basques are a folk who love outsiders
not at all.
An I am successful in this, you will not set eyes on me again, Sigebert One-ear, for I shall have no need of
you. Should the Basques fail me, these pirate scum will doubtless run by night up the western coast of Gaul.
Past Burdigala, past the Saxon settlements—and past your own city of Nantes. Beyond that lies Armorica,
called Lesser Britain. There they two have friends and can find a measure of safety. An you are vigilant, you
may entrap them ere they reach that haven. In your hands will it lie then, agent of Kings!
Sigebert strained to pierce the darkness with his stare. It seemed to him that the creature crowding his
bedchamber with its presence was an immense, malefic owl. God’s Death! The musty stench of its feathers
was choking him!
Yes, an owl. He could distinguish the bizarre shape of its evilly wise head, the blazing eyes and hooked
beak. Though he saw them not, he sensed too the taloned feet, ready to drive inwardcurving claws with
merciless power through live flesh. An owl; a black owl! The bird of Athena. Silent-winged predator of night.
Terror of those more timid night-creatures it fed upon. Emblem of death and occult wisdom from ancient days.
And vaster than an eagle, this one!
So. A wizard’s soul gone out from the body in tangible form.
In the dim Frankish forests, Sigebert’s people knew of such things, for despite his Latin education and
manners, Sigebert One-ear of Metz was a German: a Frank. His own people called this sort of sorcerous
messenger Sendings, or fylgja. He could not doubt that this owl was real; Lucanor’s fylgja.
Lucanor.
The name was strange to him. Greek, was it not? No matter; the names of Cormac mac Art and Wulfhere
Skull-splitter were very, very familiar indeed. Pirates. Too recently, whilst they sought to dispose of their
sword-won gains ashore, Sigebert had acted in his official capacity as representative of the king. He sought
to take them into deserved custody. Was then that a sword in the hand of one of their men had butchered his
face.
“Be sure that I will act,” he promised, who had been called the Favoured, for his good looks, since he was
first able to walk. No more.
Laughter?
I am sure that you will not! In the light of day you will believe that none of this occurred, and put it from your
mind. You are not the Count of Nantes, nor will you go to him with a tale so doubtful. The more fool you!
Sigebert gritted his teeth and his nostrils flared in an angry breath. He’d like to meet this Lucanor as a man,
and see how sneery he was then!
His visitor saw. Despite its haughty tone, the thing that was Lucanor knew well that it might need this Frank
for an ally. As chief customs assessor of Nantes, Sigebert held some power, and was well informed of all
goings and comings within the city. More, he hated the huge Danish pirate and his dark henchman even as
Lucanor did. Yet Lucanor’s physical body lay far indeed from northward Nantes. It had not been possible for
him to travel so far, swiftly enow to give Sigebert this warning in the flesh. Nor would he place himself
physically in the power of this clever villain until he had shown the Frank his value.
Besides, his spirit double, his Sending or fylgja as the barbarians called it, must return to his body ere dawn,
for the sun’s direct light could destroy it. They were no friends, Sendings and sunlight.
You will remember, the black owl said, or whispered, or thought harshly. You will not believe, Sigebert
One-ear, Frank, of Metz and now of Nantes... but you will remember, and in my time I will come to you
again.
With a horripilating rustle the great fell bird hopped to the window and was gone on spectral wings. Sigebert
felt the air stir. The thing’s shadow was an evil splotch that flowed over buildings and dark streets of Nantes.
Watchdogs and alley curs across the city cringed and whimpered softly at its passing. None dared bark.
1
The Raven
“The temporary rescue of Italy entailed the permanent ruin of Gaul. A vast horde of Vandals, Suebi and
Alanas, escaping from the central European domination of the Huns, crossed the ill-defended Rhine, and
fanned out across the interior provinces, threatening to invade Britain. Italy was powerless to help, and the
British proclaimed a native emperor... He crossed to Gaul, and expelled the invaders; but they withdrew the
wrong way, not back across the Rhine, but across the Pyrenees into Spain. There most of them stayed. The
(Suevi)... descendants still inhabit northwestern Spain; the Vandals passed on, to leave their name in
Andalusia, ultimately to found a stable kingdom in what had been Roman Africa.”
—John Morris, The Age of Arthur
That same purple night of summer lay on another coast far to the south and west; on Brigantium in the
Suevic kingdom. Here in northern Hispania the night was graciously warm and all but cloudless. The
spacious harbour with its triple bays sighed and surged with the tide.
In a richly tapestried chamber, five men conferred ’neath the beams of a low ceiling. At the head of the
smooth-topped oaken table sat Veremund the Tall, king of this land. Though his long legs were stretched out
he was not the tallest of this extraordinary gathering. At his right hand sat his kinsman and advisor,
tawny-moustached Irnic Break-ax in his tunic of blue with its crossed sets of yellow stripes; Zarabdas the
mage, once a priest of Bel in Syria and now among the Suevic king’s most valued servants, was at his left.
His dusky skin, forked jet-black beard and expressive dark eyes, no less than his eastern robes among the
fair, Germanic Suevi, gave him an air of strangeness and alien mystery that Zarabdas was not ashamed to
exploit. No charlatan, this dark mage among people whose hair ranged in hue from nigh white to a medium
brown, and seldom that dark. His powers and learning were real. So too were the theatrical instincts he had
cultivated, along with his impressive robes.
“Wisdom alone,” Zarabdas had told his king, “will not gain one a hearing.”
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