The Berserker looked into the distance and saw a woman standing near the poles of severed heads, waving a fire brand in wide circles; her hair, long and grey, streamed in a wind which blew from the straits; her thin, ragged robe billowed about her frail body, and strands of fire licked into the night and were lost, as souls rising from the field of battle.
Swiftaxe looked upwards at the shrivelling heads on their trophy poles, and remembered what he had to do.
With his cloak wrapped about him, making no sudden or aggressive moves, he walked along the ridge, away from the woman who still screamed her fury near the dead Romans. All around him people ran and cried, their voices always incanting spells or prayers, or crying to the gods to come down to the land. Firebrands whirled and spun in the darkness, often the only sign that someone ran hysterically across the hill. He smelt smoke, and charred food, and sometimes the acrid smell of blood which brought a moment’s anxiety to the human, Caylen Swiftaxe, when he felt the bear stir restlessly in his mind.
Heads had fallen, and not just those of the unfortunate Roman assault group. There had been sacrifices, and ritual disembowellings, so that the signs and omens could be read.
Wherever he looked Swiftaxe could see the tall, lean effigies of Llug and Cernunnos, carved in wood, each wrapped round with the hair from a woman’s head. The trophies, eyes closed, were calm and at peace in their death, for their sacrifice had been for the good of the people.
He left the hysteria and chanting behind, and came, as dawn approached, into the shallow valley that led down to the meagre roundhouse settlement. A mist rose from the ground, a shallow fog, not dense, not obscuring, only enough to coat the ground and rock pinnacles with a shroud of white as they greeted the new day.
As he approached the group of houses a cock crowed, suddenly, loudly, startling Swiftaxe.
He darted quickly into hiding behind a damp stack of hay that was covered with sheets of beaten hide. After a while he decided that no one was stirring and he came out from concealment, walked swiftly towards the nearest house.
The thick curtain across the low doorway was drawn back, suddenly and unexpectedly, and a tall girl stepped out into the dawn, shaking the tangles and curls from her long, yellow hair. She saw the Berserker and stopped, staring at him, but made no sound.
He appraised the girl quickly; she looked sensible, and was obviously more curious of him than frightened by him. After all, he was not in the uniform of the Legions, and only his strangely horned helmet marked him out apart from other Celts.
‘I seek the druid Gryddan. I seek help from him.’
‘We all need help,’ said the girl bitterly. She wiped her hands on the folds of her long dress, then smoothed her hair over one shoulder while she watched the stranger. Swiftaxe, reading this overt sign of interest in him with ease, felt a tightening in his stomach. Finally she called, ‘Gryddan. A man for you.’
The curtain parted again and an old druid stepped out into the dawn. His robe was white and short, coming to just below the knee; it was also filthy dirty. His feet were covered with skin sandals, and he wore a copper torque about his neck. His hair was cropped short, and stiffened in the warrior fashion. His grey eyes watched Swiftaxe curiously, intensely.
‘Who are you?’
‘A man who seeks the key to a gateway through stones.’
The druid laughed. ‘In a few hours, when those barbarians ford the river, there will be no more key, no more gate. All will be lost.’
‘I need the key,’ said Swiftaxe again. ‘I have scoured lands and times for it, and now I have come so close to obtaining it I do not intend to give up. You must grant me this.’
‘Such secrets,’ said the old man, ‘are not for the common mind. It has taken me a lifetime to memorise all the spells that have been handed down to us, all the keys, all the calling words, all the rune-codes. The secrets will die with me, unless Cernunnos comes to our help and blows the wind against the Romans.’
Despairing, Swiftaxe stepped forward, and his voice was angry and anxious both. ‘But I need those words, some of them … I beg you, Gryddan, confide them in me. I swear the secret shall also die with me, for when I have used it, when I have passed through the gate, I suspect I shall have to die to complete my mission.’
The druid shook his head, his eyes drifting beyond Swiftaxe to the distant slopes of the mainland, where through the veil of mist the dark smoke from the scattered camps could be seen, an omen of destruction rising slowly into the sky.
Swiftaxe said, ‘I have this ring – I was told how to use it; I was also told to show it to you, and that you would then help me …’ he held out the jade ring to the druid. To his surprise Gryddan backed away, eyes widening. He suddenly screamed, ‘Hide it! Hide it!’ His gaze lifted to Swiftaxe and the Berserker had never seen such horror in the man’s face.
Then the druid ran back into his small house and drew the curtain across the door again.
Swiftaxe flung back his cloak and unslung his axe; he kept his Roman sword concealed. He shook his head as he walked forward, feeling cold inside, feeling cruel determination taking control of his body. ‘I am sorry for the old man,’ he said grimly, glancing at the girl, ‘but I must have that secret, and I shall spill his blood to get it.’
But the girl reached out and touched his arm, stopped him. Her eyes, pale green in her pale oval face, implored him to have compassion.
‘Give him time.’
‘There is no time! The Romans will come today. By duskfall all this will be gone, all of you will be feeding worms.’
The girl grimaced and blanched, and Swiftaxe regretted his words. But before he could speak his apology she had shaken her head. ‘All the omens have told us that tomorrow is the day of their attack. The flights of birds, the casting of the stones, and the reading of the dead. They have all said the same thing. Give him just the day to consider what you have asked. I have known him help strangers in the past.’
Swiftaxe hesitated just a second before he shrugged and slung his axe back at his waist. He looked despairingly at the curtains, thinking that the answer to his great curse lay so weak and vulnerable beyond the dark cloth. He was so close, and if the omens had been wrong, then he could find himself as far from his release as ever.
‘A day,’ he said. ‘So short a time compared to the length of my suffering. A day. Why do I begrudge it so?’
He turned to look at the girl again and saw her eyes flickering about his body; she was trying to remain discreet, but surveying his build and looks. There was something in her eyes that Swiftaxe recognised, and after a moment he remembered the look in the eyes of Boudicca’s daughter, the animal look, tempered with innocence to form something deeply erotic.
‘Do you have a man?’ asked the Berserker, and the girl fell solemn, aware that her interest had shown. She flushed and smiled, then grew sad. ‘My husband of two weeks was killed in a river duel two years ago. I have lived with Gryddan since then, looking after him in return for his protection. This is why I live in this tiny cluster of buildings and not over the rise in the big settlement.’
‘There is something unnaturally calm about you, about everything here … tomorrow the Romans will come and destroy you. Why are you not fleeing, hiding? Why are you so complacent?’
‘Some of us are not. The omens have told me that I shall not be killed. Now I think I understand why …’ she meant, he realised, that she thought he would protect her.
On the ridge behind them a group of horsemen rode quickly past, yelping and waving their swords as they went to join the small band of warriors at the straits. As the mist lifted so the gatherings of druids and black-robed women could be seen. They were clustered along the high ground and their arms were still raised, the women running through the ranks and crying in their own particular way, the druids calmly chanting their spells and calling for the gods. It would continue until the final moment. It had probably been continuing since the Romans had first appeared on the hills across the d
ivide.
In the afternoon it rained. Gryddan walked up the ridge carrying a wooden carving of Cernunnos, and with the statue held above his head in both hands, his voice wailed for hours, and the skin on Swiftaxe’s neck prickled at the words and spells and prayers that he heard. He began to realise the total and absolute desperation of these people; death came closer by the hour, and their cries for help went unanswered. They must have begun to feel that the gods had rejected them after their thousand years of service to them.
The girl, who was called Edwynna, cooked small, round cakes of flour and prepared a stew pot of salted meats, mostly rabbit. Swiftaxe watched her, and listened to the rain on the thatch and on the muddy ground outside. Above the rain Gryddan’s voice cried on and on.
‘He asks about you as well,’ said Edwynna, and Swiftaxe turned his head to hear the words of the druid better. He could make scant sense of the words, however, and turned back to watch the pretty girl at work.
Edwynna was very conscious of his scrutiny, but applied her concentration to the task of cooking. Swiftaxe saw the flush that appeared on her cheeks, and noticed her repeating tasks, and making silly mistakes. She was very aware of him, and tried to hide the fact by letting her long, yellow hair tumble forward across her face as she bent across the working surface on the floor of the house.
He grew warm and comfortable in the small house, and with food and a little wine in his belly, his flesh began to tingle, and his head filled with the soft aroma of flowers, the natural scents that the girl, Edwynna, wore.
Almost at the same moment they tried to speak, and laughed as they both stopped simultaneously. Then the girl’s gaze became serious, and longing. She stood up from the fireside cooking bench and wiped her hands on her dress, and Swiftaxe noticed how she pulled the fabric tight so he might see the shape of her hips and breasts beneath the cotton.
Without a word he stood and crossed the small room to embrace her in his arms. She gasped with the strength of his grip and he relaxed, and when he stood back from her she ran shaking fingers across the bulging muscles of his arms and chest and shoulders, and the blush in her face grew deep, and her breathing grew heavy, the pain in her eyes something between fond memory and earnest desire.
‘It has been so long,’ she said quietly. ‘I had forgotten how good it is to need the body of a man.’
Swiftaxe, tempted to say that he too had been without love for too long, said nothing, merely picked Edwynna up, as easily as he might pick up a feather pillow, and carried her to her small bed in one of the side cubicles of the house. He pulled furs from the bed and spread them on the floor, still holding the girl in his left arm. She clasped him round the neck and kissed and nibbled his ear, but when he turned his face to her she pushed her lips to his with great strength, opening her mouth immediately in that universal symbol of invitation.
He laid her down on the blankets and unfastened the clasps of her robe, drew the fabric down across her body with one hand while his other followed, gently stroking the naked flesh beneath. Her breasts were wide-nippled and small, each no bigger than the span of his hand. Her hips were wide, her thighs full. She parted her legs, holding her arms above her head and closing her eyes as Swiftaxe caressed and kissed every inch of her.
When he stripped off his heavy trousers she gasped, partly shock, partly surprise.
‘It’s the way I was born,’ he said.
‘You’ll kill me. By the Paps of Brid, you’ll kill me.’ She sat up, terrified and yet excited, and reached for his shaft, trying to close her fingers around it and failing.
Swiftaxe pushed her back down on to the furs. ‘I’ve not killed anyone yet,’ he said.
And though when he came into her she screamed in genuine agony, her hands nonetheless reached round to his haunches and, with nails digging into his flesh, pulled him harder and deeper into her body, allowing no cessation of movement to ease the pain, which quickly became – as she said over and over – the most pleasurable pain she had ever known.
Gryddan came in from the rain as they sat, still naked, and played a game, using their fingers as swords and trying to score points on each other’s navels. Swiftaxe was ahead by a narrow margin.
The druid, coming through the curtain so suddenly, startled Edwynna who reached for her robe and concealed herself. Gwyddan glanced at them for a brief moment, then grunted and placed the dripping icon of Cernunnos in a piece of cloth. He walked to his cubicle and pottered about for a few minutes.
Swiftaxe dressed and watched the old man darkly. At length the druid reappeared and stared at the Berserker thoughtfully.
‘The ring,’ he said, ‘is a Hag’s ring, and filled me with a moment’s fear for I saw the Hag that gave it to you, and her features were unpleasant. I have a great fear of the Otherworld, and the tricks it can play on mortals such as myself. It had treated the Hag most unpleasantly, allowing decay to continue though her spirit was passed on.’
‘I knew her when she was an old woman, and we were good friends,’ said Swiftaxe, keeping his voice calm, though his heart raced; he sensed the druid was going to help him. But still the old man hesitated.
Remembering what Aithlenn had told him, Swiftaxe covered the jade of the ring and said, ‘To the jade, Aithlenn, your spirit to the crystal!’
‘Enough!’ said the old man suddenly. ‘It is apparent that the ring was a gift, and that you did not steal it. If you have such magic on your fingers, and the knowledge of one spell, then you might as well have the knowledge of two. I shall tell you the calling words for the gate.’
As he turned away a moment, Swiftaxe kissed the jade and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
Gryddan had placed bronze torques about his wrists and neck and had daubed grey ash in streaks down his face and across his forehead. Swiftaxe didn’t ask what this was for, but suspected it was to protect him from any concealed demon that might come in to steal the spell as it was voiced.
Then he sat next to Swiftaxe and closed his eyes.
For a long while he was silent, thinking hard, recollecting the correct words for the particular gateway in the south. At last he remembered it, and without opening his eyes he began to speak.
Dark rock deep rooted,
Dark-faced guardians of dark times, deep rooted in dust and memory
Dark ages decayed in deep-rooted earth
Sharp-faced facets of earth jewels, crumbling decay of time
Proud standing, grey stone,
Wind speaking shadows of the Dark
As the wind blows rain against your skin
As the snow builds walls against your flesh
As the sun cracks your edges, warms your shadows
Open to the speaker
To the stones, spirits of the Ancients, to the rocks.
Over and over he said the calling words, and Swiftaxe repeated them, memorising them until he could speak them without conscious effort.
When this was done the druid removed the torques from wrist and neck and rubbed his eyes. ‘The gates have not been used for generations,’ he said. ‘Certainly I would never dare use one. There are tales, passed down for so many generations, now, that they have lost much of their detail, and much of their original meaning, but they speak of what lies beyond the gate. They are frightening tales, speaking of beings and structures that can turn a man’s mind if he behold them. Some tales speak of star-fire burning the earth and leaving hideous creatures as the result of the scourging. Beyond the gate of stones is a world so different from ours that you could not survive the regarding of it.’ He smiled, then. ‘These are the stories, the vague memories carried through the ages by the men of magic and memory, men such as myself. They may be nothing more than stories. But I suspect there is some basis of truth to them.’
‘I am more afraid of the consequences of not passing through the gate, then I am of contemplating some hideous malformation on the other side,’ said Swiftaxe evenly.
Gryddan smiled and nodded. ‘Aye. You seem a man who holds
no fear of anything. But in the gate, as you traverse it, I believe you will know fear more raw, more potent, than any living man has ever known.’
‘You are wrong,’ said the Berserker. ‘I have already known such fear. There can be nothing worse than what has already happened to me. I would say, even, that I myself represent to most men more fear than anything that lies beyond the gate.’
Gryddan was silent, though his eyes showed the discomfort he felt as Swiftaxe said this last. They slept, then, and as the night reached its turning hour, the three of them rose and dressed. Gryddan placed a guarding spell on their house, but he knew it would not protect the round-house from fire. It would at least cause the remains to be absorbed into the earth, hiding them forever from the inquisitive eyes of those who might come after.
They walked through the darkness to the end of the narrow valley, and rose up on to the ridge where the blazing lights of torches on both sides of the watery straits told of the gathering of opposed armies.
Here they waited, Gryddan adding his voice to the rising voices of the men of magic who covered the slopes of the island like black and white clad sheep. Bands of riders thundered past on snorting, sweating steeds; the cries of these men were altogether different, having to do with blood and death, and the expectation of their triumph over the Romans. Elsewhere, women beat sombre goat-skin drums; they beat them with shaped bones, and sometimes the rattle of these bones added a haunting and ghostly reminder of the carnage that was to come.
As the sky brightened with the first edge of dawn, so Swiftaxe saw the first movements of the Roman forces across the water. A heavy mist swirled about the choppy straits but it was an insubstantial and tenuous fog that cleared in patches to allow the watchers from the island to see the great activity on the beaches.
Rafts and horses were being tugged down to the water’s edge. As the tide dropped and the mud flats came closer to the surface so cavalry rode into the water to acclimatise their horses to the unnerving feel of the mud and slush through which they would wade.
Berserker (Omnibus) Page 45