They looked at the death’s-head apparition at the mast.

He writhed, snarling.

He did not bleed.

“I will tell ye what I read on the walls of the castle of Kull,” Bas the Druid said, and the gazes of his companions returned to him, leaving the wizard’s dreadful aspect and plight with more than willingness.

“Those pictures did speak, then!” Wulfhere glanced at his longtime weapon-companion and fellow reaver, for Cormac had stared at those thrice-ancient walls as though preternaturally held fast by them. It was then the Gael’s remembering had come upon him. From time to time, confused and fearful until Bas had made explanation, Cormac mac Art remembered events of long, long, incredibly long before his birth.

Before his birth this time, the huge Dane mused, for how could he disbelieve the endless cycle of return, of death and rebirth, in which the sons of Eirrin held belief? Were, not they living evidence of that theory alien to the adherents of Odin/Woden and Thor/Thunor?

Aye, and Wulfhere Hausakluifr gave listen to the servant of Behl and Crom of Eirrin. With a great sigh that expanded his chest a prodigious number of inches, the Dane slid a horny fingernail up into his beard. Listening, pondering, Wulfhere scratched at the crust left by sea-breeze and salt spray.

“I read the pictures on the walls,” the druid said, “and certain markings. Runes. Some of what I learned I will tell you of, later. But this-this I shall enjoy speaking in his presence, that he will know we know the means of destroying him. For it’s only vengeful and hate-filled I am toward you, Thulsa Doom, who exist only in vengefulness and hate. The wall told of how ye may be slain again, Skullface, and permanently.”

The death’s-head mage snarled like a predatory beast. The teeth of that faceless, skinless skull clashed and ground in frustration and overweening hatred.