Berserker (Omnibus) (61 page)

The town that lay within the earthworks was densely laid out and inviting even through the rain.

Swiftaxe, carrying the exhausted Edwynna in his arms, followed the Belgic
warrior who had led the patrol into a wide-roofed, and densely populated, round house. Women and children scurried to the sides of the vast room, but the men, seated around the blazing fire and telling stories of their exploits to while away the time, looked up and frowned as they saw the shape of the Berserker.

Swiftaxe was unbothered for the moment. His mind reeled with pleasure at the hot, sweaty stench in the room, the pungent odour of well-cooked meat, the sharp smell of burning logs, mixing with the human odour of flatulence and satisfaction. Swiftaxe was instantly at home.

One man among the suspicious group of warriors rose to his feet. He was a tall man, broad of shoulder and dressed in loose cloth trousers and a thick leather belt; his torso and feet were bare. His yellow hair hung loose and unstiffened, but his moustaches were smeared with oils so that they stuck out beyond each cheek like the horns of a young stag.

‘Who have you brought here, Carannas? Are we to entertain them, or execute them?’

‘Travellers, my Lord Vertingoris.’ The man called Carannas smiled as he spoke, looking the three of them up and down for the first time in clear light. ‘They claim to have ridden from the north and are on a peaceful mission.’

Vertingoris stroked his moustaches thoughtfully. ‘Hungry? Tired?’ He addressed himself to the Berserker.

Swiftaxe nodded perfunctorily. Edwynna roused herself in his arms and looked about her. ‘The girl is exhausted,’ said Swiftaxe. ‘May she dry and rest somewhere?’

Vertingoris called sharply to one of the women who ran across the great house and tried to take Edwynna into her arms. The girl waved her off and stood, walked with her, then, to a private cubicle at the side of the room, to dry her hair and scrape the dirt from her body.

Vertingoris waved Swiftaxe and the druid to the fire. The other warriors shuffled around to make room; Swiftaxe noticed that several swords had appeared from nowhere and now rested near to their owners. These men looked strong and vital, and the gleam of their blades told of conscientious warriors. The walls of the house were decked with shields and spears, and the trophies of war. Weapons, bent and broken, were slung from the enormous beams of the rafters, and through the haze of smoke, in the flickering fire and torch light, they seemed to twist and writhe as once they had twisted in the grip of some great warrior, now dead. This was the house of a great warlord, and carried memories of great wars.

And yet there was something about the fighting men who sat in this house that was not in tune with the memories of greatness that were strewn around – something that made the warriors seem uncomfortable in these surroundings. It was, within each one of them, some kind of desperation … in the way they
stared, the way they talked, the way, even, that they dressed for war in this dark, storm-ridden night, when war was a long way off. Theirs was the desperation of a people who were defeated, Swiftaxe realised at last; they had been defeated in war, but were too proud to acknowledge the fact, even to themselves.

‘If you had been Romans,’ said the Chieftain, Vertingoris, breaking the heavy, contemplative silence, ‘we’d have carved you up. No Roman Legion has ever taken this fortress. Huh? Did you know that?’

Gryddan said, ‘This land is in the new Roman Province.’

Vertingoris roared angrily. ‘Not
this
land, druid. Not the land on which you sit. Not the land within these walls. And I would challenge any Roman to lay a claim to the hills that we can see from our defences. We kill every patrol or platoon of the invader that we see. They have not the courage to come and attack us in force. We are sons of the Belgae, exiles from Gaul. Though we are exiles, the Romans remember us from five generations ago, and dare not repeat that campaign.’

‘They drove you out of Gaul?’

‘By weight of numbers,’ said Vertingoris sulkily. ‘My grandfather was a warrior – young then, of course. His father and his grandfather were warriors, and each in turn became the Chieftain of the tribe. They were forced to abandon their homelands by the strength of numbers pitted against them. We shall return, though.’ His eyes grew alive with excitement, and he leaned forward to poke with his sword at the blazing log fire. ‘Already we lay plans for the return to Gaul. We shall return in triumph and sweep the Romans before us like dead leaves.’

Carannas, who had taken his place round the fire, laughed at this. ‘If there are any of us left,’ he said. He seemed angry, and his gaze, when it lingered on Swiftaxe, was openly hostile. The Berserker sensed the resentment in this warrior, and mentally made ready for provocation and trouble.

Vertingoris shouted at his warrior. ‘There are thousands of us, and we shall all unite before this generation is done.’

Another warrior, younger, drawn of face and bearing, and dull in the eye, spoke up here. ‘You dream, Vertingoris. You dream of what can never be. We are too scattered, and too many of us are under the Roman thumb.’

‘And too many of us,’ said Carannas bitterly, ‘have fled across the sea to the green lands of Eriu.’

‘Aye,’ said a third, shaking his head. ‘Freedom lies west, not east.’

‘What women I have for warriors!’ cried Vertingoris, looking in embarrassment at Swiftaxe. He shook his head. ‘Give me one hundred men with hearts of three-forged iron and I would drive the Legions out of this island, and then out of Gaul. It would take only spirit and strength, and favour from the gods.’

None there were who were inclined to comment. Swiftaxe stared at the group of warriors and recognised the games they played within their own minds. Dressed for war, arrogant men with proud hearts, who gave way so easily to their desperation. He felt very sad for them.

He was passed a joint of meat that had been cooking as they talked. It was crisped and blackened in the fire, but the meat inside was not overcooked, but was red and warm and Swiftaxe tore at it with his teeth, delighting in the hot juice and rich taste. Gryddan ate more selectively, and the men of this Belgic fortress watched them, perhaps wondering who their visitors were and why they were here.

At length Vertingoris, already further under the influence of the wine he was drinking than were any others of his men, leaned across to Swiftaxe and said, ‘Why are you in our territory? Do you seek sanctuary? You would be very welcome to settle here. Your strength will pay far more than the cost of keeping this withered chicken.’

Gryddan scowled, but tactfully remained silent.

‘We do not seek sanctuary, nor do we seek to settle,’ said Swiftaxe.

‘You are passing to the south, then, to the sea, to fetch a boat across to southern Gaul.’

‘No.’

Vertingoris straightened, his moustache quivering, his brow deeply creased as he frowned. His long hair fell back down his neck and he ran a hand through it as he peered intensely at Swiftaxe. Then he picked up his sword and brushed the ash of the fire from its tip; he licked two fingers and polished the point of the blade, leaning forward as he silently worked, then raising his eyes to stare at the Berserker. ‘I’m getting suspicious,’ he said softly. ‘Why
are
you here? What do you seek?’

Swiftaxe said, ‘The ring of stones, near the fortress of Sorviodunon. That ruined place is my destination. It is in your lands.’

Vertingoris exchanged uneasy glances with several of his warriors, and Swiftaxe noticed Carannas frown angrily. The Chieftain’s gaze again flickered over the Berserker, perhaps reappraising him; his eyes lingered longest on the horned helmet that was cradled in Swiftaxe’s lap.

‘The ring of stones? You seek that desperate, haunted place? Why?’

Swiftaxe grinned, stared into his clay beaker of sour wine. ‘I was there before,’ he said. ‘I have unfinished business.’

Vertingoris straightened, stared hard at the fire, debating – it was quite obvious – whether or not to believe Swiftaxe. He said, at length, ‘The stones are in ruins. Some of the druids of the local settlements say there are ghosts there. They have forbidden any of their tribes to visit the place. They say the ghosts hold secrets of things that men were not meant to know. Treasure, perhaps … yes, treasure. Perhaps there is a gold hoard there, hidden beneath
the stones. Is that why you are going? Are you planning to dig for the gold hoards of the great Chieftains that once ruled there?’

Swiftaxe said, ‘No. I dig not for gold, but for life.’

‘Are you dead?’ Vertingoris laughed at his joke. His warriors joined in.

The Berserker said, ‘Yes, yes I am. I am the ghost of a man, and until I reach the stones I cannot find life in order that I may die properly.’

He grinned at the shocked silence that followed these words, and at the circle of pale faces that regarded him. Slowly he came to realise his mistake. The anger in the air, the hostility, became almost tangible. He had flouted some code of manners, insulted these men in some subtle way, perhaps by referring lightly to a taboo subject … one’s own death.

Carannas suddenly shouted out in fury, and jumped to his feet, his sword in his hand, his eyes filled with red hatred. ‘This man mocks us. He insults us with his crude joke. He shows us contempt of an intolerable kind. He is not a man who should be eating our meat at our fire. His head should be dripping from the rafters of this house! I shall see to it myself.’

Before Vertingoris could say a word, before anyone in the circle of warriors could react, or cry peace, Carannas had swept through the flaming embers of the fire and dealt a huge blow to Swiftaxe’s head.

The bear reared up – delighted, after so long trapped in the Traveller’s mind, without the taste of blood – delighted to have this chance to kill again …

‘No!’ cried Swiftaxe, and kicked out at Carannas, knocking him backwards, causing the blow to sweep through the air before his face, only the point touched his flesh –

It was enough – the pain, and the warm flow of blood from the wound, were the cause of such sudden ecstasy within the possessing spirit of the demon god, Odin, and it screamed through Swiftaxe’s mouth, screamed its pleasure, moved forward to take control!

Swiftaxe jumped to his feet, his eyes wide and wild, his face twisted and deformed into the horrifying mask of the bear. He reached up to the great rafter above his head as Carannas came back at him.

‘Chain me!’ he screamed. He looked desperately at the panic-stricken druid, ‘In Cernunnos’ name, chain me!’

Redness before his eyes, the stink of fear in his nostrils, the sweat of death and destruction on his skin. Kill! Kill everything! Destroy all this terrified human life –

His hands were the trembling claws of the bear – his teeth were its fangs, bared and longing for the taste of blood –

Redness – swirling vision of death and destruction – his cry the animal cry of a predator about to feast on the helpless life of the woods.

Gryddan screamed a spell, speaking words that were not of the language of the Britons. Two lengths of cauldron chain detached themselves from the
walls of the roundhouse and wrapped around Swiftaxe’s hand as it gripped the rafter, tied and secured him in this one position. Though the Berserker, now helplessly in the control of the furious, mindless spirit of violence, fought to break itself free from the chains, the links, like the spell, held firm.

Carannas laughed, and swept back at the maniacal figure threshing below the rafter. His sword swept down and struck a shallow wound across Swiftaxe’s arm. The warrior screamed, raised his axe and struck back.

Like lightning!

Carannas could not have known what had happened. One moment his arm was raised ready to deal a second blow to the screeching figure of the stranger, then next he was dragged forward by the weight of his own guts, tumbling in a slick and congealed mass from his abruptly opened belly. From his throat to his crotch the Berserker’s blade had split him through, and even in the moment of his agony the blade had come back …

Like the scything of a summer wind …

It sheered off his head with all the ease of a dagger passing through soft cheese. Helmet fell from head, and hair splayed out across blood-flecked lips as the ball-shaped object bounced across the roundhouse and rolled to a stop beneath the eaves.

The chains that bound the berserk warrior to the rafters held; the wood of the roof beam shook and trembled but did not give way. The warriors of Vertingoris’ house watched in astonishment until the fit of anger died from the Horned Warrior and he slumped heavily beneath his trapped arm, foam and spittle draining from his mouth and running down his torso.

Gryddan reached up above the huge frame of his colleague and deftly unravelled the chains. Swiftaxe fell to his knees, his head slumped forward on his chest. The druid squatted by him and wiped the white juice of madness from his lips.

At last Swiftaxe lifted his head, breathing hard, and stared at the old man through red-rimmed eyes. ‘How many …?’

Gryddan instantly understood the man’s anxiety. ‘Just the one who was aggressive.’

‘Thank you,’ said the Berserker, and climbed unsteadily to his feet.

He walked to the fire and, disregarding the circle of standing men, all of whom held their swords before them, tense and apprehensive, he sat down, and reached for a crisped piece of meat from the central iron griddle. It burned his fingers and he tossed it between his hands until it was cool enough to hold, and then he bit it, bit deeply, savouring the more acceptable taste of animal juice.

Vertingoris sat down beside him, and soon all the other warriors relaxed and squatted back in their original positions.

‘This is what I am,’ said Swiftaxe as he chewed. The tension in him was
marked out in the ridged muscles of his shoulders, and the closeness of his axe to his hand. He was not convinced that the friends of the dead Carannas (whose body had been dragged away by four women) would let him get away with what had been, in truth, a fully honourable duel.