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.
But none made a move to revenge the dead Belgae.
Vertingoris said, ‘In truth I have never entertained a ghost before. A very solid, and very powerful ghost, I must say.’
Swiftaxe laughed. ‘I am a ghost inasmuch as I am less than the man I could be. I intend to change that in the circle of ancient stones.’
Happier now, the Chieftain leaned back on his haunches. ‘Less than the man you could be, and yet look at you. Ten like you behind me and I could sweep the Legions from these lands …’
‘And from th
e whole island, and from Gaul,’ said Swiftaxe grinning. ‘I am not that much of a warrior. With my axe I am a demon incarnate … you have seen that. But an arrow in my eye will still hit at the life in me.’
Vertingoris sighed and drained his beaker of wine. ‘Ghost or not, you are welcome in this fortress, and welcome to stay as long as you will. The circle of stones lies two days from here, and you must pass a garrison to reach it. We shall accompany you if you wish …’
‘Not necessary,’ said Swiftaxe quickly. He was still shaken and shocked by the speed with which the bear had possessed his limbs and made him the awful force of violence that he sought to destroy. His mind was filled with the urgency of reaching the stones, and of breaking this curse! He disliked any thought of drawing attention to himself by riding with a large band of men.
Vertingoris nodded. ‘Feel under no obligation to make haste with your departure.’
‘I am grateful. We all are. But we shall leave at dawn.’
CHAPTER 10
As good as his word, Swiftaxe roused the deeply sleeping forms of Gryddan and Edwynna as a pale, grey light outside the small window of their cubicle told of the rising of the sun, behind the clouds and foul elements.
It was trickling with rain as Swiftaxe, his cloak wrapped tightly about him, led the horses from the stabling pens and walked them quietly among the still sleepy chickens that wandered the fort at will. Dogs barked, straining at leather leashes to chase at the Berserker’s heel; horses kicked and whickered in the high eaves of their night places, close to the houses of the warriors they proudly carried. Women walked about inside the palisade, between water-troughs and coops, their hair still mussed from the night, their faces sleepy and dazed.
As Swiftaxe mounted his horse the distant sound of iron on iron told of the forge opening up for its day’s work, repairing tools and honing blades.
Edwynna yawned mightily, then grinned as Gryddan helped her on to her mount. She was fresher, now, and the colour was back in her cheeks. She carried a large pack of food, Vertingoris’ gift to them.
The Chieftain was still asleep. Long into the dark hours Swiftaxe had heard him telling story after story of his hunting days, his words getting more and more slurred as the imported Roman wine – taken with great bravado from the garrison, of course – addled his thoughts and senses.
The gate was opened for them by grey-eyed, exhausted men, who carried just thin spears and broad, wicker shields. They waved good-bye to the guests, and Edwynna waved back. But Swiftaxe himself rode hard across the ramparts, to the shallower slopes leading down to the river and the protection of the woodlands.
For the rest of the day they followed the shallow waters, sometimes riding along the bank, other times splashing through the icy flow itself. They ate frequently, almost without sense, so unused were they to having food. By the morning of the second day, after breakfasting, the pouch was empty. Edwynna looked mournful, but they were full, and feeling strong, and the stone circle should be within their sight before this day was out.
They crept past the Roman garrison, a small fort built of wood and mounted behind some shallow earthworks. It seemed undermanned, most of the garrison probably out on patrol. Without incident the three of them passed beyond the fort and to the east, and soon they came to the rolling downs and bleak landscape that Swiftaxe remembered from a time, in another age, when he had ridden this way.
It was dusk when the Berserker rode through a dense thicket of gnarled trees growing from rocky, crumbling ground, and rode out on to the gentle, wind-swept downs on which his destination had been built. On the ridges and higher ground on all sides he could see the barrows and humps of ancient graves, the guardians of the stones, perhaps. Distantly, deeper in the gathering darkness than the riders, a cluster of lights told of a settlement gathering in its skirts for the night.
The trees behind him rustled and creaked in the wind; the druid grunted as he guided his horse out of the woodland and on to the plain, and his exhalation of pleasure culminated in an incoherent invocation to one of his gods, a thanks for a difficult journey almost accomplished. When Edwynna, breathing hard and stroking the heaving neck of her mount, was also alongside, Swiftaxe pointed the way across the hills.
‘Not far,’ he said. ‘These horizon tombs are familiar to me. We shall see the circle of stones when we ride over the ridge ahead of us.’
He kicked his horse and the animal galloped forward.
In just a few minutes they gazed down at the shadowy ruins of an amazing structure.
It defied the powers of reason to try and imagine how these giant stones had been erected into a ring of henges. Magic was the only answer that made any sense. But even Gryddan exhaled in awe as the three of them approached the silent megaliths, and were affected by the power and the mystery of the place.
Black in the dusk light, with an inner ring of smaller stones visible through the narrow channels in the henges, and a towering henge visible within the very centre of the structure, the building looked like no temple or monument that existed anywhere else in the tribal lands of the Britons.
‘A gateway,’ breathed the druid. ‘The biggest I have seen. I do not know if my simple calling spell will be enough for you, Swiftaxe. This place is … it’s so big!’
They dismounted and walked to the outer stones, touching the cold surfaces, feeling the graininess of the rock, and scraping with their knives at the grey mould that grew there. They walked around the vast circle, almost afraid to glance into the inner rings, to where many stones lay fallen and half-buried in the grass.
The southern edge of the outer ring was collapsed, the great lintels having tumbled to the inside, and the standing stones now leaning heavily forward if not fully demolished. Gryddan thought he saw signs of some attempt to drag the stones out. ‘To break the gateway,’ he said. ‘But I doubt that they succeeded. And look. I doubt if they survived, whoever they were.’
A skull, half-buried in the grass, near to a fallen megalith, watched them from an older time.
Edwynna laughed suddenly, and ran to a stone in the middle of the circle. She jumped on to it and raised her arms, twirling round so that her cloak flew.
Immediately a biting wind swirled between the stones and caught her hair and her cloak, made her scream with the sudden cold shock. She jumped from the stone and cowered, staring upwards into the heavens. ‘Someone pushed me,’ she said. ‘Something pushed me … a great hand, on my chest … it pushed me off …’
Gryddan growled at her. ‘That was me,’ he said. ‘Respect the stones. They will not respect you, otherwise.’ He glanced pointedly at the skull.
‘I can waste no more time,’ said Swiftaxe. ‘The last time I was here a man tricked me and frustrated my chances of calling up the creatures that live here.’
‘There is no one to trick you now, Swiftaxe. Edwynna! Leave the circle.’ The old man looked at the Berserker carefully. ‘Be in no great hurry, my friend. We shall be outside the ring of stones, and will be here when you return.’
Swiftaxe smiled and unbuckled his cloak, passing it to the old man, who accepted it across his arm.
The Horned Warrior looked up into the cloudy skies, then removed his stub-horned helmet from his dank hair, placed it on the ground. He unhooked his great axe and swung it down so the blade buried itself deeply in the turf.
Edwynna’s lithe form vanished through the narrow space between two rocks, and Swiftaxe was alone once more, in the gateway to those who in other times were called the Dark Ones.
He went to the middle of the circle and dropped to his haunches, fingers touching the dewy turf, eyes alive for movement, ears listening above the noise of wind for sounds that might tell of treachery.
As it grew darker so he decided it was time.
Aloud, nervously, he spoke the words that Gryddan had taught him. They rolled easily from his tongue, over and over as he repeated them. As he spoke so the bear in his head made itself known for the first time in ages, crawling forw
ard, red-eyed and white-toothed, roaring its indignation.
The powerful human forced it back, and laughed to think that soon he would be free of this northern ghost!
He went on saying the words:
‘Dark rock, deep rooted,
Dark-faced guardians of dark times, deep rooted in dust and memory …’
The stones became just dark-grey shapes across a dark-grey sky, as the veil of night covered the land more finally, and the storm-laden clouds built up overhead ready to let loose their fury on the hills and woodlands below.
‘Proud standing, grey stone,
Wind speaking shadows of the Dark …’
Quite suddenly, when his concentration had wandered just a little, it began. His heart stammered with shock as he felt the presence all around him of powerful entities, watching him.
Again he spoke the words of the calling spell, and his eyes darted from towering rock to towering rock, scanning the narrow gaps between them for a sign of those who regarded him.
As he twisted about on his haunches, his eyes came to rest on the fallen stone, and his stomach turned over with what he saw.
The stone was moving!
Eyes wide, skin freezing, voice now silent, Swiftaxe watched the circle of standing stones. The great, enigmatic blocks of dark rock were slowly changing shape. Huge eyes watched him from the dark faces of the stones; mouths parted to breathe the cold air and perhaps taste the moisture that hung heavy on the wind. The stones began to sway as the creatures emerged from them, and Swiftaxe saw bulky legs and thickly ridged arms, bodies that were scale-covered and others that were fur-covered. Jewels sparkled, blues and greens, and from the enormous head of one of these rock-beasts grew twisting, branched antlers that at once reminded Swiftaxe of the god Cernunnos, but which were unlike the antlers of any stag he had ever seen.
Berserker (Omnibus) Page 48