Berserker SF Gateway Omnibus: The Shadow of the Wolf, The Bull Chief, The Horned Warrior

by Robert Holdstock

  He grinned.

  ‘We’ve rested long enough,’ he said. ‘I think the time has come to abandon this fort, at least for the moment, and ride eastwards until we find my queen. The augurs tell me she is on her way.’ When Bryn sounded surprised, Arthur looked guilty. ‘Not a very Christian thing to do, I know, but the augurs are very helpful at times. Come on you dogs, we go to war. Up you get and rouse the camp, otherwise they’ll sleep all day in this freezing mist. Where’s the house keeper?’ He bawled for the woman who should have struck new life to the fire before dawn. She came scuttling in, her arms filled with wood, a huge cauldron swinging from her grasp.

  Even before the sun was fully up the tents of the army had been dismantled and packed into carts and across horses. Women bustled about, grey woolen dresses smeared with dirt and ash, making sure that provisions were properly packed, and canteens for water and mead adequately filled. Warriors pulled on thin leather armour, slinging the thicker shirts of bone and iron links across their saddles. They led off in small groups, out through the palisade and then slipping and sliding down the steep walls of the hill on which the fort had been built.

  Riders departed in several directions to fetch the warrior bands that had been distributed among the various local settlements; most of these would not join Arthur until they reached the deep ford across the Saefern, and by then, by the time they reached the no-man’s-land between the two opposed peoples, the force of men behind this Bull Chief would be in the order of a thousand.

  Not a vast host compared to the several thousand against them, but men with the strength of great conviction, and the defence of their homeland closest to their hearts. Each man who rode with Arthur was worth any ten horned-pagans.

  One particular man was worth a hundred.

  Niall rode behind his warlord and felt a certain sadness at leaving the small but pleasant fort behind. When they returned the full damage done by the skirmish would have been repaired by the local folk, but by then the unpredictable Arthur might have decided to make his stronghold elsewhere.

  He had once boasted of forging a path straight through the Saxon ranks, almost due east, and taking the fabled city of Camulodonum, but this was no doubt mere fancy. To the south, however, there was a mighty fortress. Its beacon could be seen from Dinas Powys, as the original builders – the Siluresians in the north, the Dobunni in the south – had intended. The enclosure area of the great fortress was ten times the size of the small stronghold in Wales. The warlord who occupied Din Dobun, the great fortress on the Yeo river, was a man called Mark, an old man, now, who had fought with Ambrosius, and had been a true friend to that great man. Mark could be subdued and brought round to Arthur’s way of thinking.

  All that, all those dreams, were for the future.

  For the moment, it was a gathering of forces, including the re-uniting of Arthur with his Erish queen, and then a mighty strike at Cerdic, who was camped, so it was believed, to the north of the plain and city of Sorviodunon. The name meant nothing to Niall, save that mention of the plain brought back a memory of the central boglands of his own country, and he again longed to return there.

  He rode with true born Celts, even though they were not ashamed of the Roman in them, but he could not cope with a people who paid no homage to the gods, though they told folk stories of the days when those same gods had walked the hills of Wales as tall and as proud as they walked the mountains of Eriu. He had been so glad to quit the land of his blood. Now he missed it, his soul drawn to it by the intangible bonds between a man and the soil that has nurtured him in life.

  As they rode, Niall felt the misery of the spirit that worked his arms in battle; the Bear, perhaps even Swiftaxe, or the ghostly memories that were Swiftaxe, all the haunting presences in his skull sensed that soon they would be cast away, into a never ending darkness. One more orgy of killing, one more blood fury, and then it would be south, and east, into the Saxon owned lands, to find the ring of henges. Arthur had even agreed to come with him, to show him the way.

  Niall smiled with satisfaction as he rode, slouched in the saddle, unaware of the cold that pierced his thin green shirt and soft cotton breeches.

  They were a straggling line of horsemen, numbering some two hundred. Dull leather and faded cotton were all they wore for the moment; shields, some round, some a strange elongated shape (which Arthur had said was Roman style) hung easily from the leather straps across the horses’ withers. Weapons were carried on small carts, each warrior riding with only his sword and dirk. Javelins and bows were rarely used by these men of Wales in field battle.

  The column walked easily on, through shaded valleys and along the banks of fresh and icy streams. They stopped for water and rest, and then rode at a gallop to surmount a small ridge, where the entire force of men clustered and shifted with excitement as they saw the wide and straight flow of the Saefern in the distance.

  Through woods, then, the noise of talking and the whinnying of horses causing birds and animals to scatter in flight; the wheels of the carts creaked and complained and the heaps of iron-tipped weapons rattled and clashed as they were dragged by unhappy horses across the bumpy ground.

  At length they emerged on to some low downs, the forests behind them, the river to the fore; low ridges broke the straight horizon, and on each side too there were drumlins and forested knolls that made it difficult to see for many miles.

  Someone cried a warning, and the host of men turned around to see what the danger was.

  On a ridge, some two miles distant and to the north, two riders were motionlessly watching them.

  ‘Bring the hawk!’ called Arthur, and a small warrior, his dark hair tied back in a single plait, urged his horse noisily forward. Staring up at the almost indiscernable figures the man watched them, narrow eyed, for just a second.

  ‘Saxons,’ he said. ‘They look weary. They have probably ridden from the shallow ford at the Leden tributary. The flanks of their mounts are moist with sweat. One wears a helmet of leather, the other the helmet of a leader. They both sit uneasily in the saddle.’

  Bryn the Merciless guffawed at that. ‘A Saxon would prefer to ride belly down across the saddle!’

  ‘Not all of them,’ said Arthur, remembering the crack horsemen that Cerdic had sent against them at Cerdicesora.

  The two riders slipped into the trees and were gone. Arthur stood in his stirrups, making Niall’s eyes widen for he had not noticed these strange and new horse-gearings before. He had rejected them from his own trappings as he hadn’t understood their purpose.

  Arthur nominated six men to catch the Saxon observers and dispatch them. The six thundered away, heads low, shields beating against the saddle. They had vanished in a few minutes, riding along the river to the deep ford. It was unlikely that they would catch even inexperienced Saxon riders, but it was worth a try.

  They crossed the river in late afternoon, and only twenty horses foundered in the deepness. It took an hour to ride down river on both sides and drag the unfortunate beasts from the water, drying them down and calming them before leading them back to the ford for a second attempt.

  Since part of the crossing had involved swimming, most of the men were soaked and were glad of a chance to pitch camp and dry themselves off. The Saefern was deep along most of its length and to call this point a ford was mere acquiescence to the fact that it was fractionally less deep there than at anywhere else along its winding length.

  The tents were erected in a rough semicircle and cooking fires kindled in hollows in the dry earth. The smell of meat soon rose deliciously into the dusk air, and the babble of conversation became excited and happy. Swords were attended to, the noise of the grindstones loud and searing; spears were checked for firmness of blade, and straightness of shaft. Each man carried his own wooden platter, and those who had forgotten to bring the simple requisites of eating, ate from the boss of their shields, to the utter disgust of most of those who watched them.

  Niall sat alone, staring at Reagan
who was tying a thick band of leather around the left foreleg of her dark haired mare. Owain rose from the fire, throwing the remnants of his meal on to the flame, and came across to Niall, dropping to a crouch before him. There was anger in his eyes, a bitter twist to his lips.

  ‘Who lay with Reagan last night?’ he said softly, tensely. Niall frowned and said nothing.

  Instantly Owain’s sword was unsheathed and its point fixed firmly and unwaveringly before Niall’s throat. Niall felt anger surging up in him, but he restrained himself.

  ‘I asked you,’ said Owain, ‘who had knowledge of my sister last night?’

  ‘Ask her,’ said Niall. ‘She ought to know.’

  The boy was obviously furious; his skin burned red and hot, and the sweat broke from him as it breaks from a man who is to die at any second and who has been awaiting it.

  ‘I sent her to Arthur’s house for Arthur’s pleasure. Reagan is our gift to him for letting us ride in his troop. She had agreed to it, and that is that. But she will not confirm that Arthur took her. Who lay with her? Was it you?’

  ‘When she came to the house,’ said Niall, ‘she lay with Arthur. I was asleep and the noise of them woke me. I fell asleep again, and she was gone early in the morning.’

  All of which was true, if only half the truth.

  Owain’s sword lowered, but his gaze remained fixed on the Erisman. ‘If I thought that it was you who had known her body, and not my great warlord, I should kill you. She is for no man but Arthur. If he denies her, then she is for no man. I resent you even feasting your eyes upon her.’

  ‘Arthur has a queen,’ Niall reminded him softly.

  ‘Reagan will be his queen,’ said the boy. He fingered his bull amulet, as Niall remembered fingering it, in times of stress. Niall felt a great surge of rage as he saw that which he had earned in his father’s house caressed by a youth who had not even been born on Erish soil.

  Owain rose and walked swiftly away, without finishing what had begun as a threat to any woman who touched Arthur, now that he had decided that Reagan was to be the great man’s consort.

  Later, when Niall was slouched forward, relaxing, his head on his knees, he heard a man approaching and tensed, ready for action.

  A sword thudded sibilantly into the ground before him and he jerked upright. The great blade shone in the moonlight and in the glowing embers of the fire; the hilt was like a cross, throwing its spell over the Erisman, each jewel, each delicate curve of the carved bronze guard, helping to weave a spell of paralysis in the seated warrior.

  Arthur crouched down behind his sword, a knee on either side of it, taking his weight on the hilt so that he leaned close to Niall; his fierce eyes softened, the thin lips stretched in a smile.

  ‘How is it,’ he asked, ‘that you sit so quiet so long; where are these great rages we had been led to fear so much?’

  Niall shrugged. ‘In battle it is the same. But I must admit that the spirits of fury seem remarkably quiet in me. I sense a draining of the violent strength I was born with.’

  Arthur laughed softly. ‘And I feel a great surge of strength. Since you have joined us, Erisman, I have felt power rising in my body; it seems to grip my every fibre, to rise from leg to belly and to heart and mind. I sense that there will be great years ahead, years of battle and triumph; I sense that there is nothing I cannot do. It will be good to have you fighting at my side, and more so when you are freed of this Odin.’

  ‘That will be soon,’ said Niall. ‘After this battle we shall ride, you and I, to the stone henge.’

  Arthur nodded. ‘The place lies not far from where we will fight Cerdic for once and for all.’ His face lifted to the dark skies so that the bright moon highlighted the crags of his jaw and the fierce glitter of his eyes; his teeth were white, bright white as he smiled in anticipation of triumph. ‘Nothing can stop me. Since you have come to my cause, Niall,’ his gaze met the Connachtman’s, ‘I have sensed such a growing power that it frightens me to contemplate where it will end. But there is nothing that can stop me, now. This war is as good as won.’

  He rose to his feet and pulled the broad sword from the ground, slipping it into its slings with ease, despite the weapon’s enormous weight. ‘Come to the fire, Niall. It’s too cold over here. Our tent is up, and that young wench lusts for you again. I can smell it on her.’

  ‘Her brother will kill me if I touch her again … or will try to.’

  Arthur grinned. ‘She has a mind of her own. Owain has not realised that you cannot control another person’s destiny … especially not a woman’s.’ He laughed, then grew serious for a moment. ‘But spare the boy, Niall; even if he provokes you, spare him. He fills me with gladness and hope, in the same way that you do. I need you both.’

  Niall walked to the fire, and the wide circle of ground that was fully lit by torches. He ate, and joined in the low key banter of the men about the fire; most were asleep in their tents, by now, but both Owain and Reagan were awake. Niall made sure he sat no nearer to the girl than to her brother. Every time he looked at Reagan she ran her tongue along her lips in what Niall knew to be the most unsubtle of invitations. In his own country a woman would merely have stared at him, allowing him to read her desires from the fires that burned in her eyes. In this country women were unbothered by teasing. If she hadn’t known that it would cause trouble, Reagan would probably have called over to him. Niall was glad of her silence.

  Arthur retired to his tent, and Owain glared at his sister for not following. She shook her head at him and Niall heard his barely suppressed anger.

  A few minutes later there came a terrible din from the forest around them, and Arthur came running.

  The noise was the sound of shield being beaten by sword; the warning sound of the guards that said that riders were converging on the camp.

  Every man drew his sword in an instant, and cast away the scabbard. A few found time to put helmets across their heads, and even to buckle on the thick, iron-studded body leathers that served them as armour. Naked of leg and crotch they bulked big and strange in just their top armour, but this was no time for worrying about looks.

  A minute or so later there came a second sound, the shrill pipe-whistling that said the alarm was false, that it was friends that approached. The camp relaxed, all save Niall who remained standing, growling deep in his throat as his own excitement refused to ebb.

  Into the camp rode seven men. Or rather, six men and their beautiful, grinning female leader. Arthur yelled his delight and ran to yank her down from her horse. She laughed and hugged him, and her companions climbed down from the saddle, stripped off their leather tunics and massaged their groins with infinite pleasure as they hobbled towards the fire.

  Niall subsided and sheathed his sword. He remained standing and staring at the re-united warlord and war queen, and when, after a moment, they separated and the woman looked towards the fire, Niall’s strongest beliefs were proven true.

  Older, more scarred, but every bit as full and beautiful as when he had nearly known her at Cnocba, he stared at the violent war queen, Grania.

  She recognised him at once and froze; a fleeting panic passed across her face, and immediately was replaced by a look of interest. Arthur noticed this and seemed to understand immediately that it was Grania who had taken the amulet from Niall. That they had known each other before did not, of course, anger him. But he brought her across to the fire and faced her to the Erisman, a look of intrigue and devilment making boyish his normally hard features.

  ‘You know each other,’ he said loudly, and there was a ripple of interest among the watching men.

  ‘He wields his sword in an interesting way,’ said Grania.

  ‘She wields persuasion better than I wield a sword,’ said Niall, and Grania smiled.

  ‘To kill me will cost you dearly. There’s not a man here who will not stand between us.’

  Niall said, ‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I had thought you slain by Fergus. He came after you
…’

  ‘Did he? I never saw him. I ran fast that night, and killed a hundred men to get fresh horses for my escape.’

  ‘Then perhaps he is still fumbling around Meath, searching under stones for you.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  She unbuckled her sword and sat down by the fire, warming herself, and accepting a bowl of hot broth from the remnants of the food in the burned copper cauldron. She and Arthur talked softly and laughed often, and Niall sat near them, glad that there was no hostility between himself and the woman, but remembering the urgency of that moment, so long ago. It was as if he was as inexperienced now as then, and he found his eyes drawn to her body, and his mind to the remembrance of how she had looked naked. Clad, now, in leather leggings and a tightly drawn leather jerkin, overlaid with mail links, it was difficult to see the sensuous form that lay beneath the garments.

  But he remembered. And the memory hurt him.

  Hurt in a different way was young Owain. He watched Grania with a solemn and angry face, and Niall knew that there would be trouble. Reagan talked urgently to her brother, her voice lost below the noisy crackle of wood on the fire, and the general hubbub of conversation among those who remained awake into the night.

  It was soon apparent that Reagan and Owain were arguing, and that Owain was getting loud and indiscreet. Perhaps unused to the heady brew that they had brought with them, a meld of mead and the fermented barley liquid that burned so much as it was swallowed, Owain’s boorishness and aggressiveness became dangerous.

  Soon Grania and Arthur were watching the antics of the two youths, and quite suddenly Owain was aware of that attention.

  He jumped to his feet and dragged Reagan up with him. She slapped him hard across the face, and pulled away. He tensed, his arm raised to strike her with his drawn sword, but he stopped himself in time, then looked angrily at Grania.

  ‘You have been replaced!’ he yelled, and pointed his sword at the Erish war queen. Reagan begged him to be silent, but he brushed her away. ‘My sister is Arthur’s consort now!’