Berserker (Omnibus) by Robert Holdstock
The girl’s touch on his hand was gentle, and he let the rage subside, stared at her.
She said, ‘Then there is another way, that will in no way affect the Wuutinathi, save to make it flee your body into the body of another. It is also the most difficult way to release yourself, but if you succeed then you will indeed remain within the framework of your own time. It does, however, require your death in a very special way …’
Swiftaxe nodded almost imperceptibly and as he stared at her he felt his mind drawn into hers; her eyes became deep pools of the water of knowledge in which he basked and bathed, and the churning of blood in her was the thunder of a voice that spoke to him of what he must do to retain his hold upon this time in the land of the Belgae, even after his death and rebirth in the very body he inhabited …
Timeless, bathing in the sensuous aura of her body, the words filtered into his mind, burned there …
Your body must be marked with the symbols of rebirth, and you must mark your opponent’s body with the symbol of the Wuutinathi, and then block it!
Signs and symbols whirled before his mind’s eye, and some he recognised while others caused an uneasy stirring in that deeper part of him that still remembered the millenia before the advent of iron and bronze.
With a blade, inscribed with the Runes of Passing, you must strike your opponent a blow that deeply wounds, but does not kill. The Wuutinathi will pass between you, drawn by the symbol on your opponent’s body, but because the symbol is blocked it will be trapped in the blade … as the blade corrodes, so will the spirit within it …
And then I shall be released for good, for ever, completely …?
No. In order to chase the shadows of the Wuutinathi from your body completely you must be purified by death and rebirth in the way you know so well: you must accept a mortal blow. If the Wuutinathi has left you then you will survive that blow, protected by the symbols of rebirth on your body. You will be reborn as you are now, in this time. If the Wuutinathi remains within you, however, then you will again be at the mercy of the Storm God, and will be reborn in another time.
The mind contact broke.
The girl stared at Swiftaxe a moment, then said, ‘The power in you is enormous; though it will be a mighty duel, you are surely marked by the gods as he who shall win …’
Swiftaxe felt momentarily unnerved as he drew out of the girl’s mind; he stared at her and found her eyes wide and compassionate, gazing at him, a look about her that told of deeper hungers, perhaps unaccustomed hungers. As she grew familiar with her illusory body perhaps she began to respond to its physical needs. Swiftaxe wanted to reach out and take her, but something held him back …
She said, ‘Your opponent must be selected carefully, for part of the duel must be a duel of emotion; the link between you must be more than the edge of a blade and the free flow of blood … it must go deeper … come close to me and I shall explore your mind so that we can determine who your opponent must be.’
Before Swiftaxe could speak, the girl had leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, and her darting tongue had entered his mouth taking her warmth and her softness into his body.
Encompassed by her sexual aura he responded almost mechanically, tearing the gown from her, reaching round her haunches to the warm and sensual clefts in her. She wriggled with pleasure, undoing the belt that girded him, and tugging the coarse trousers down from his hips so that his member stuck up straight and bare. Her touch indicated her lack of familiarity, and with all his strength he picked her up bodily and held her above his shaft, easing her gently down so that he pierced her with as little pain as possible.
She screamed as they came together, her face contorting with the agony of the breaching, but then she was breathing softly, and quietly singing her pleasure as they rocked backwards and forwards, and she drank his mind as well as his seed.
At last she said, ‘There is only one who is right … it must be your brother, Bedivyg. When you go back through the gate you know what you must do. First you must mark your blade with the spell that will trap the god. But not yet, not yet …’
She finished whispering but remained locked upon him, legs stretched around his waist, her body held tightly and securely against the ridged and scarred muscles of his chest.
CHAPTER 12
Swiftaxe passed back through the gate, and left the warm and sunny valley abruptly behind. His head swirled as he made the transition, but there was none of the sudden and intense disorientation that he had known on passing the gate for the first time. He was back inside the circle of stone, pleasantly surprised at the warm wind that blew against his skin. The sky was bright, though overcast, with fast-moving clouds promising – at the moment – neither fine nor miserable weather.
He was glad that the rainy chill of the previous days had gone. The smell of grass was on the wind, and something else …
He searched the land beyond the stones, staring hard between them, as far as the hummocky horizon with its burden of graves. He saw no sign of movement, no sign of life.
Where was Gryddan? And the girl?
And what was that faint, and faintly disturbing, smell … like blood …?
His stomach tensed, his heart beat fast; he felt the thundering of blood in his skull, and the cold prickle of fear on his skin. Easily, and slowly, he reached for his axe.
The wind blew gusty and warm, whipping his hair about his face and he brushed it back in irritation, searching every nook, every gap in the towering, dark-faced stones. For a moment his attention lingered on the tall megaliths which, hours before, had been transformed into the bizarre creatures that still, he supposed, inhabited them; beyond those drab and scarred faces lay the Originals, resting after thousands of years of life. Watching him?
He felt no discomfort at the thought.
Something was wedged in the narrow gap between two of these grey stones; wispy fabric blew from it, and Swiftaxe stepped towards it, intrigued to know what it was. He saw blood, and stopped. Instantly, then, he recognised what the object was.
Edwynna’s severed head, stuck in the niche, watching him with glazed, half-closed eyes!
He screamed out of anger and with sadness, whirled about, sensing his loss of control to the blood-thirsty spirit within him. Odin, the bear that so delighted in these sudden shocks, padded forward and laughed as it stared from Swiftaxe’s eyes, and worked the muscles of his face into the mask of a beast. The Berserker’s cry of anger changed to a throaty growl of pleasure, and with the enhancing of his animal senses he noticed the stink of men, and the heavy aroma of anticipation.
There were men hiding behind the stones, waiting to attack.
‘Gryddan!’ he called, desperately, the human in him finding voice through the whirling mania of the god. He was afraid for the druid who had so helped him.
His answer was a gusting wind, and the twang of a bow that launched an arrow into his chest. He staggered backwards with the force of it, seeing the quivering shaft of the weapon, and feeling the agonising pain as the metal head rammed deep into his flesh. It had struck him through the leather of his shoulder belt, and when he pulled the arrow from his muscle it snagged and snapped, leaving the blade stuck in his clothing. He felt the warm trickle of blood, and the infuriating throbbing of the wound, but instinctively he knew he had only been nicked.
Angry, almost insensate in his desire to kill those men who hid so cowardly from him, he ran towards the stones.
They came out of hiding and, screaming, attacked him.
Perhaps twenty Romans, young to a man, and with the fear of death in their eyes. They descended upon the Berserker and discovered the short road to their gods. Most of them wore no more than leather armour over cotton tunics, and though the beaten iron of their helms protected their heads, their limbs and entrails could not survive against the scything axe, and the manic figure of the Berserker who fought them.
They circled him, and they soon formed a circle of dead, and when the Berserker grew weak, and there were
still spears and arrows thudding into his body, an enormous wind began to blow, gusting against the Romans even though they stood on all sides of him. In the centre of this bizarre storm Swiftaxe was a screeching animal figure, darting from man to man, quickly to open him with the warm edge of his red blade, then back to find another. Each man felt blood and dust blown into his eye, and above the shrieking of the wind the Berserker cried a name.
‘Aithlenn!’
And he cried it with love, for the human within the Berserker recognised the assistance of the Hag so long after she had died, so far from her place in the shadow world.
A legionary came at him, then, and rammed his sword hard at the Berserker, hoping to catch him unawares. The bizarre wind that so confounded the Romans seemed not to affect this armoured man, who glared so intensely from behind his iron cheek-guards.
As Swiftaxe avoided the blow and made to strike back, so he recognised his brother, and pulled the blow so that the axe blade merely grazed the other man’s flesh.
‘Bedivyg! Help me!’ cried the Berserker.
‘Help yourself to this!’ screamed the Roman, picking up a fallen spear and thrusting it between Swiftaxe’s ribs so that the Berserker screamed in pain and had to throw himself backwards to avoid a deep wound.
The three surviving legionaries closed in on Swiftaxe and grasped his limbs, holding him steady, though he threshed, while Bedivyg closed in and raised his sword to cut through the sinews of his brother’s neck. He grinned.
‘You’ve been asking for this. Hold him steady! I owe him at least the severance of his arrogant head in a single blow.’
The wind was blinding the men who held him, but Bedivyg was not a Roman by birth, and the ghostly promise, once made by Aithlenn, was ineffectual against him.
The blade swept down.
A voice screamed something in an alien tongue, and the sword turned to flame, and the flame licked away into the cold air. Bedivyg’s eyes widened and he screamed with shock, throwing the hilt to the ground and backing away. The men’s grip on Swiftaxe was released and the Berserker turned quickly to see the three soldiers swept back against the tall stones by the gale that attacked them.
As they were pinioned against the grey face of the rock so they began to scream in genuine terror, and watching them Swiftaxe could almost see the invisible flame that consumed them; their clothes ignited and smoked, and their flesh blackened until beneath their helmets their hair caught fire and burned. Soon they had been reduced to ashes that were cast out of the ring of stones by the wild wind, scattered across the downs among the remains of a prouder people.
There was a cry from the top of one of the standing stones and, still confused by the sudden supernatural intervention, Swiftaxe turned again to see Gryddan, the druid, tumbling to the earth, an enormous pilum probing two feet through his body.
Bedivyg, who had killed the druid as a last defiant gesture, was racing to his horse. A moment before he mounted he stopped and turned and his gaze met Swiftaxe’s, and something …
Then the Roman darted to a corpse and pulled the sword from its hand. Jumping into the saddle of his horse he screamed and kicked the beast, and began to ride hard to the south.
Swiftaxe caught and bridled one of the Roman horses. He spent a moment soothing the animal, then swung on to its back and cast a last sad glance at the crumpled form of Grydden, and the headless corpse of the girl sprawled where it had fallen, in the dark shadow of one of the smaller stones.
Then he went in pursuit of Bedivyg, giving no further thought to the old man or the girl, though inside he could not deny the presence of an intense emotion, a sadness at the loss of their lives.
Soon, as he rode, he began to think of Aithlenn, and as he jumped a narrow stream which wound in across the downs from a greater river, he stopped his mad pursuit of his brother and for a moment let his thoughts dwell on the Hag of the Cave who had been so instrumental in his coming to within a life, a single birth, of his destiny.
He removed the ring from his finger and kissed the jade.
He whispered goodbye to the ghost of the woman he had loved as a mother.
He cast the ring into the stream.
The sound of wind died away, circled above him and vanished into the clouds. For a moment he watched the heavens, stirred by the way the rolling grey clouds suddenly bubbled with activity as if some enormous form had passed through them; and then all was peaceful again, and Aithlenn was at last gone to the place she deserved, the land of sun, where there were no shadows to remind the dead of their dark lives on earth.
He sensed what was to come.
As Bedivyg had fled the circle of stones, Swiftaxe had sensed what was in his mind … that thought so alien to the Briton as a Roman, that remnant, that memory of his childhood life that had surfaced to push aside the Roman in him, and return him, once again, to the life of the Celt that he truly was.
As Bedivyg had ridden from the scene of the massacre he had no longer been Roman. The realisation had frightened him, because in that same moment of awareness he had sensed what would now be expected of him.
He had known what he would have to do to save his honour.
And there had been nothing he could do, or would – as a Briton reborn – have wished to do.
Thus, as Swiftaxe followed his brother, he was in no great hurry; he knew that he did not risk losing the man, for the man was merely riding to the place of their meeting.
He had cast off his cloak, and the baggy cloth trousers that had kept him warm for so many days, and now he rode his grey-flanked stallion near-naked. His helmet gleamed, the stubby horns that had once contained the anima of Cernunnos shining in the daylight, catching the shifting patterns of the rolling clouds. His axe dangled from his waist and he kept one hand against its shaft to stop it slapping against the flesh of his horse. His short, Roman sword stuck cross-wise in his belt. His high fur boots were matted with mud and grass, and torn so much that they were functional only to protect his sensitive feet from gorse and thorn. His hair hung lank from beneath the helmet. His body tensed and bristled as he thought of the consummation of life and death that was to come.
Slowly, easily, he rode on to a ridge and stared down at the river that wound through the land below.
And knew he had come to the place of his final reckoning with Bedivyg.
In the centre of the river was the branch of a tree, rammed hard into the mud and silt at the river bottom so that it stood above the flow, high and strong and proud, like the Briton that had hewn it from its trunk and implanted it there.
A Roman helmet was impaled upon the branch, and hanging from the horns of wood that probed from the tree limb were the other parts of a Roman uniform; a singlet, and a short mail shirt; a leather belt and the red cotton undergarment that so amused the women of the Celtic tribes.
Swiftaxe rode right to the bank of the river and stared at the rushing waters, cleaving around the thick branch and its burden of shame, and for a while he didn’t see Bedivyg, so intent was he on the garments in the river, and the enormous challenge that they represented.
For warriors of the Coritani, mortally offended by one of their countrymen, this was the way of challenge; it was as certain a statement of Bedivyg’s intention to kill his brother as any word, or gesture, or deed.
Swiftaxe climbed down from his horse and walked around to the animal’s muzzle to stroke and pat the beast, his thanks for its service.
The animal was sweating and restless, perhaps sensing the blood that would be spilled, perhaps reacting to the scars and scabs and running wounds on Swiftaxe’s body, marks that he was almost unaware of since they were superficial, and had been inflicted during his mania.
He saw his brother.
Bedivyg was crouched beyond the river, his sword cradled in his hand, his eyes fixed on Swiftaxe. He was naked, and very white, but the muscle and sinew of his body was taut and strong; his hair was tied back with the supple stem of an ivy branch. His eyes were narrowed and h
ard, and the set of his jaw told of fear, and of his own inner certainty that he would win the duel that was about to occur.
Without saying a word, Swiftaxe stripped the bridling and saddle from the horse and once more stroked its damp muzzle. Then he chased it away and the beast kicked and snorted and gave an equine thanks for its freedom before vanishing across the rise and into the land of downs and forest and wild roaming creatures.
Turning back to the river Swiftaxe was pleased to see the same expression upon his brother’s face; the freeing of the beast told Bedivyg exactly what Swiftaxe expected from the duel, and yet the man across the river was not sufficiently smug or insensitive to smirk about it; and then again, perhaps he felt that Swiftaxe was tricking him, provoking a false sense of security within him that would take the fine edge from his sword strike.
The river gushed noisily about the branch of wood, and a group of moorhens, emitting their shrill cries, swam uncomfortably down river, past the two men who faced each other across the icy stream. Above them the grey clouds had thickened, promising rain and a storm before too long. The wind grew chill, rustling the Roman uniform that hung from the branch, whipping the green foliage of the forestlands around into noisy frenzy.
And yet it was very still, very peaceful, very natural. The noise around them was the natural noise of the world. Their only spectators were the trees and downs, the clouds and the noisy ducks and moorhens that inhabited this land of earth and stone and wood.
Once, Swiftaxe remembered, he and Bedivyg had faced each other across the sandy, bloody stage of a Roman arena, and the noise in their ears had been the bloody cries of a massive and bored populace, a crowd of civilised men and women who had wanted nothing more than blood, more blood, and the stench of agonising death.
Around them now, the chill, rustling cries of nature seemed to demand no more than honour, no more than death out of love. And both men were aware of this.
Swiftaxe stripped naked and walked into the river, wincing but not hesitating as the ice cold water made his whole body ache. Waist deep, standing by the branch, he hung his belt across the horn of the tree from which his brother’s belt hung; his cuirass he slung above the leather shirt of the Roman uniform, his axe he slung from the twig whose flimsy length bore the weight of Bedivyg’s mail.
She said, ‘Then there is another way, that will in no way affect the Wuutinathi, save to make it flee your body into the body of another. It is also the most difficult way to release yourself, but if you succeed then you will indeed remain within the framework of your own time. It does, however, require your death in a very special way …’
Swiftaxe nodded almost imperceptibly and as he stared at her he felt his mind drawn into hers; her eyes became deep pools of the water of knowledge in which he basked and bathed, and the churning of blood in her was the thunder of a voice that spoke to him of what he must do to retain his hold upon this time in the land of the Belgae, even after his death and rebirth in the very body he inhabited …
Timeless, bathing in the sensuous aura of her body, the words filtered into his mind, burned there …
Your body must be marked with the symbols of rebirth, and you must mark your opponent’s body with the symbol of the Wuutinathi, and then block it!
Signs and symbols whirled before his mind’s eye, and some he recognised while others caused an uneasy stirring in that deeper part of him that still remembered the millenia before the advent of iron and bronze.
With a blade, inscribed with the Runes of Passing, you must strike your opponent a blow that deeply wounds, but does not kill. The Wuutinathi will pass between you, drawn by the symbol on your opponent’s body, but because the symbol is blocked it will be trapped in the blade … as the blade corrodes, so will the spirit within it …
And then I shall be released for good, for ever, completely …?
No. In order to chase the shadows of the Wuutinathi from your body completely you must be purified by death and rebirth in the way you know so well: you must accept a mortal blow. If the Wuutinathi has left you then you will survive that blow, protected by the symbols of rebirth on your body. You will be reborn as you are now, in this time. If the Wuutinathi remains within you, however, then you will again be at the mercy of the Storm God, and will be reborn in another time.
The mind contact broke.
The girl stared at Swiftaxe a moment, then said, ‘The power in you is enormous; though it will be a mighty duel, you are surely marked by the gods as he who shall win …’
Swiftaxe felt momentarily unnerved as he drew out of the girl’s mind; he stared at her and found her eyes wide and compassionate, gazing at him, a look about her that told of deeper hungers, perhaps unaccustomed hungers. As she grew familiar with her illusory body perhaps she began to respond to its physical needs. Swiftaxe wanted to reach out and take her, but something held him back …
She said, ‘Your opponent must be selected carefully, for part of the duel must be a duel of emotion; the link between you must be more than the edge of a blade and the free flow of blood … it must go deeper … come close to me and I shall explore your mind so that we can determine who your opponent must be.’
Before Swiftaxe could speak, the girl had leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, and her darting tongue had entered his mouth taking her warmth and her softness into his body.
Encompassed by her sexual aura he responded almost mechanically, tearing the gown from her, reaching round her haunches to the warm and sensual clefts in her. She wriggled with pleasure, undoing the belt that girded him, and tugging the coarse trousers down from his hips so that his member stuck up straight and bare. Her touch indicated her lack of familiarity, and with all his strength he picked her up bodily and held her above his shaft, easing her gently down so that he pierced her with as little pain as possible.
She screamed as they came together, her face contorting with the agony of the breaching, but then she was breathing softly, and quietly singing her pleasure as they rocked backwards and forwards, and she drank his mind as well as his seed.
At last she said, ‘There is only one who is right … it must be your brother, Bedivyg. When you go back through the gate you know what you must do. First you must mark your blade with the spell that will trap the god. But not yet, not yet …’
She finished whispering but remained locked upon him, legs stretched around his waist, her body held tightly and securely against the ridged and scarred muscles of his chest.
CHAPTER 12
Swiftaxe passed back through the gate, and left the warm and sunny valley abruptly behind. His head swirled as he made the transition, but there was none of the sudden and intense disorientation that he had known on passing the gate for the first time. He was back inside the circle of stone, pleasantly surprised at the warm wind that blew against his skin. The sky was bright, though overcast, with fast-moving clouds promising – at the moment – neither fine nor miserable weather.
He was glad that the rainy chill of the previous days had gone. The smell of grass was on the wind, and something else …
He searched the land beyond the stones, staring hard between them, as far as the hummocky horizon with its burden of graves. He saw no sign of movement, no sign of life.
Where was Gryddan? And the girl?
And what was that faint, and faintly disturbing, smell … like blood …?
His stomach tensed, his heart beat fast; he felt the thundering of blood in his skull, and the cold prickle of fear on his skin. Easily, and slowly, he reached for his axe.
The wind blew gusty and warm, whipping his hair about his face and he brushed it back in irritation, searching every nook, every gap in the towering, dark-faced stones. For a moment his attention lingered on the tall megaliths which, hours before, had been transformed into the bizarre creatures that still, he supposed, inhabited them; beyond those drab and scarred faces lay the Originals, resting after thousands of years of life. Watching him?
He felt no discomfort at the thought.
Something was wedged in the narrow gap between two of these grey stones; wispy fabric blew from it, and Swiftaxe stepped towards it, intrigued to know what it was. He saw blood, and stopped. Instantly, then, he recognised what the object was.
Edwynna’s severed head, stuck in the niche, watching him with glazed, half-closed eyes!
He screamed out of anger and with sadness, whirled about, sensing his loss of control to the blood-thirsty spirit within him. Odin, the bear that so delighted in these sudden shocks, padded forward and laughed as it stared from Swiftaxe’s eyes, and worked the muscles of his face into the mask of a beast. The Berserker’s cry of anger changed to a throaty growl of pleasure, and with the enhancing of his animal senses he noticed the stink of men, and the heavy aroma of anticipation.
There were men hiding behind the stones, waiting to attack.
‘Gryddan!’ he called, desperately, the human in him finding voice through the whirling mania of the god. He was afraid for the druid who had so helped him.
His answer was a gusting wind, and the twang of a bow that launched an arrow into his chest. He staggered backwards with the force of it, seeing the quivering shaft of the weapon, and feeling the agonising pain as the metal head rammed deep into his flesh. It had struck him through the leather of his shoulder belt, and when he pulled the arrow from his muscle it snagged and snapped, leaving the blade stuck in his clothing. He felt the warm trickle of blood, and the infuriating throbbing of the wound, but instinctively he knew he had only been nicked.
Angry, almost insensate in his desire to kill those men who hid so cowardly from him, he ran towards the stones.
They came out of hiding and, screaming, attacked him.
Perhaps twenty Romans, young to a man, and with the fear of death in their eyes. They descended upon the Berserker and discovered the short road to their gods. Most of them wore no more than leather armour over cotton tunics, and though the beaten iron of their helms protected their heads, their limbs and entrails could not survive against the scything axe, and the manic figure of the Berserker who fought them.
They circled him, and they soon formed a circle of dead, and when the Berserker grew weak, and there were
‘Aithlenn!’
And he cried it with love, for the human within the Berserker recognised the assistance of the Hag so long after she had died, so far from her place in the shadow world.
A legionary came at him, then, and rammed his sword hard at the Berserker, hoping to catch him unawares. The bizarre wind that so confounded the Romans seemed not to affect this armoured man, who glared so intensely from behind his iron cheek-guards.
As Swiftaxe avoided the blow and made to strike back, so he recognised his brother, and pulled the blow so that the axe blade merely grazed the other man’s flesh.
‘Bedivyg! Help me!’ cried the Berserker.
‘Help yourself to this!’ screamed the Roman, picking up a fallen spear and thrusting it between Swiftaxe’s ribs so that the Berserker screamed in pain and had to throw himself backwards to avoid a deep wound.
The three surviving legionaries closed in on Swiftaxe and grasped his limbs, holding him steady, though he threshed, while Bedivyg closed in and raised his sword to cut through the sinews of his brother’s neck. He grinned.
‘You’ve been asking for this. Hold him steady! I owe him at least the severance of his arrogant head in a single blow.’
The wind was blinding the men who held him, but Bedivyg was not a Roman by birth, and the ghostly promise, once made by Aithlenn, was ineffectual against him.
The blade swept down.
A voice screamed something in an alien tongue, and the sword turned to flame, and the flame licked away into the cold air. Bedivyg’s eyes widened and he screamed with shock, throwing the hilt to the ground and backing away. The men’s grip on Swiftaxe was released and the Berserker turned quickly to see the three soldiers swept back against the tall stones by the gale that attacked them.
As they were pinioned against the grey face of the rock so they began to scream in genuine terror, and watching them Swiftaxe could almost see the invisible flame that consumed them; their clothes ignited and smoked, and their flesh blackened until beneath their helmets their hair caught fire and burned. Soon they had been reduced to ashes that were cast out of the ring of stones by the wild wind, scattered across the downs among the remains of a prouder people.
There was a cry from the top of one of the standing stones and, still confused by the sudden supernatural intervention, Swiftaxe turned again to see Gryddan, the druid, tumbling to the earth, an enormous pilum probing two feet through his body.
Bedivyg, who had killed the druid as a last defiant gesture, was racing to his horse. A moment before he mounted he stopped and turned and his gaze met Swiftaxe’s, and something …
Then the Roman darted to a corpse and pulled the sword from its hand. Jumping into the saddle of his horse he screamed and kicked the beast, and began to ride hard to the south.
Swiftaxe caught and bridled one of the Roman horses. He spent a moment soothing the animal, then swung on to its back and cast a last sad glance at the crumpled form of Grydden, and the headless corpse of the girl sprawled where it had fallen, in the dark shadow of one of the smaller stones.
Then he went in pursuit of Bedivyg, giving no further thought to the old man or the girl, though inside he could not deny the presence of an intense emotion, a sadness at the loss of their lives.
Soon, as he rode, he began to think of Aithlenn, and as he jumped a narrow stream which wound in across the downs from a greater river, he stopped his mad pursuit of his brother and for a moment let his thoughts dwell on the Hag of the Cave who had been so instrumental in his coming to within a life, a single birth, of his destiny.
He removed the ring from his finger and kissed the jade.
He whispered goodbye to the ghost of the woman he had loved as a mother.
He cast the ring into the stream.
The sound of wind died away, circled above him and vanished into the clouds. For a moment he watched the heavens, stirred by the way the rolling grey clouds suddenly bubbled with activity as if some enormous form had passed through them; and then all was peaceful again, and Aithlenn was at last gone to the place she deserved, the land of sun, where there were no shadows to remind the dead of their dark lives on earth.
He sensed what was to come.
As Bedivyg had fled the circle of stones, Swiftaxe had sensed what was in his mind … that thought so alien to the Briton as a Roman, that remnant, that memory of his childhood life that had surfaced to push aside the Roman in him, and return him, once again, to the life of the Celt that he truly was.
As Bedivyg had ridden from the scene of the massacre he had no longer been Roman. The realisation had frightened him, because in that same moment of awareness he had sensed what would now be expected of him.
He had known what he would have to do to save his honour.
And there had been nothing he could do, or would – as a Briton reborn – have wished to do.
Thus, as Swiftaxe followed his brother, he was in no great hurry; he knew that he did not risk losing the man, for the man was merely riding to the place of their meeting.
He had cast off his cloak, and the baggy cloth trousers that had kept him warm for so many days, and now he rode his grey-flanked stallion near-naked. His helmet gleamed, the stubby horns that had once contained the anima of Cernunnos shining in the daylight, catching the shifting patterns of the rolling clouds. His axe dangled from his waist and he kept one hand against its shaft to stop it slapping against the flesh of his horse. His short, Roman sword stuck cross-wise in his belt. His high fur boots were matted with mud and grass, and torn so much that they were functional only to protect his sensitive feet from gorse and thorn. His hair hung lank from beneath the helmet. His body tensed and bristled as he thought of the consummation of life and death that was to come.
Slowly, easily, he rode on to a ridge and stared down at the river that wound through the land below.
And knew he had come to the place of his final reckoning with Bedivyg.
In the centre of the river was the branch of a tree, rammed hard into the mud and silt at the river bottom so that it stood above the flow, high and strong and proud, like the Briton that had hewn it from its trunk and implanted it there.
A Roman helmet was impaled upon the branch, and hanging from the horns of wood that probed from the tree limb were the other parts of a Roman uniform; a singlet, and a short mail shirt; a leather belt and the red cotton undergarment that so amused the women of the Celtic tribes.
Swiftaxe rode right to the bank of the river and stared at the rushing waters, cleaving around the thick branch and its burden of shame, and for a while he didn’t see Bedivyg, so intent was he on the garments in the river, and the enormous challenge that they represented.
For warriors of the Coritani, mortally offended by one of their countrymen, this was the way of challenge; it was as certain a statement of Bedivyg’s intention to kill his brother as any word, or gesture, or deed.
Swiftaxe climbed down from his horse and walked around to the animal’s muzzle to stroke and pat the beast, his thanks for its service.
The animal was sweating and restless, perhaps sensing the blood that would be spilled, perhaps reacting to the scars and scabs and running wounds on Swiftaxe’s body, marks that he was almost unaware of since they were superficial, and had been inflicted during his mania.
He saw his brother.
Bedivyg was crouched beyond the river, his sword cradled in his hand, his eyes fixed on Swiftaxe. He was naked, and very white, but the muscle and sinew of his body was taut and strong; his hair was tied back with the supple stem of an ivy branch. His eyes were narrowed and h
Without saying a word, Swiftaxe stripped the bridling and saddle from the horse and once more stroked its damp muzzle. Then he chased it away and the beast kicked and snorted and gave an equine thanks for its freedom before vanishing across the rise and into the land of downs and forest and wild roaming creatures.
Turning back to the river Swiftaxe was pleased to see the same expression upon his brother’s face; the freeing of the beast told Bedivyg exactly what Swiftaxe expected from the duel, and yet the man across the river was not sufficiently smug or insensitive to smirk about it; and then again, perhaps he felt that Swiftaxe was tricking him, provoking a false sense of security within him that would take the fine edge from his sword strike.
The river gushed noisily about the branch of wood, and a group of moorhens, emitting their shrill cries, swam uncomfortably down river, past the two men who faced each other across the icy stream. Above them the grey clouds had thickened, promising rain and a storm before too long. The wind grew chill, rustling the Roman uniform that hung from the branch, whipping the green foliage of the forestlands around into noisy frenzy.
And yet it was very still, very peaceful, very natural. The noise around them was the natural noise of the world. Their only spectators were the trees and downs, the clouds and the noisy ducks and moorhens that inhabited this land of earth and stone and wood.
Once, Swiftaxe remembered, he and Bedivyg had faced each other across the sandy, bloody stage of a Roman arena, and the noise in their ears had been the bloody cries of a massive and bored populace, a crowd of civilised men and women who had wanted nothing more than blood, more blood, and the stench of agonising death.
Around them now, the chill, rustling cries of nature seemed to demand no more than honour, no more than death out of love. And both men were aware of this.
Swiftaxe stripped naked and walked into the river, wincing but not hesitating as the ice cold water made his whole body ache. Waist deep, standing by the branch, he hung his belt across the horn of the tree from which his brother’s belt hung; his cuirass he slung above the leather shirt of the Roman uniform, his axe he slung from the twig whose flimsy length bore the weight of Bedivyg’s mail.