Iurstil sensed Niall’s hesitation as he fought against the supernatural beckoning of the standing stones. He grinned at the boy, waved him calm as he saw the young man’s sword arm raised, the short, snow-forged blade gleaming in the bright daylight, the fear of the unknown as bright as light in his fierce green eyes.
‘This is a simple gate to a simple cave; no horrors lie beyond it.’
‘What lies beyond it, then?’ asked Niall, suspicious, remembering in some dark corner of his mind a similar gate in the high mountains of a land to which, as Niall the Mad Bear, he had never been.
‘Old men, an old woman,’ said Iurstil. ‘Old remnants of an ancient tradition.’
‘Tell me before I pass through,’ demanded Niall, and Iurstil sighed.
‘Beyond the gate – which is a simple trick to hide us from the hawk eyes of men on the plains below – live in sorry poverty the last of the Pai Iair, an ancient sect of Druids of whom you shall learn more beyond the gate. We are here to help, not to hinder. This is why the sect was created in the early years of the iron swords of the distant lakelands, across two shallow channels to the east.’
His tone was calm, his manner reassuring, and as Iurstil bowed his head and turned three times round in the shadow of the henge before stepping through, so Niall found his legs moving him forward. He copied the action of Iurstil, turning thrice round in the direction of the sun, before stepping across the threshold. There was a chill on his skin, and a tingling at the roots of his swept-back hair – still standing out stiff and noble from his crown after his last greasing, some days before – with a cluster of spears worn in place of a war helmet.
He sheathed his sword as he stepped on to the mountainside beyond the henge. He found there to be no difference in warmth or wind, in slope or colour of the view he had had a moment before, save that a small cave mouth now greeted his gaze, where before there had been just decorated rock.
‘Enter before me,’ said Iurstil. ‘As a minor practitioner of the magic arts I am not permitted inside the hall, though I shall hear you and converse with you if you feel the need.’
‘Who’s inside?’ asked the Mad Bear, uneasy at the thought of entering alone.
‘Old men, an old woman,’ repeated Iurstil, then dropping his voice to a whisper designed to be heard only by Niall, ‘All a little eccentric, though undisputed masters of their craft. Go on, now, go in.’
Niall stooped and entered the cave, crawling for a few seconds along the narrow, musty-smelling passageway until at last he passed between two spiral decorated stones placed artificially across the mouth of the passage and found himself in a wide, low-ceilinged chamber, sweet-smelling and pleasant to observe. The floor was deep in fur rugs; the walls were hung with exotic tapestries, showing pictures of the gods that Niall still worshipped, despite his state of mind, and despite the brown-robed pagans from Rome.
Seated in a half circle, watching him, were nine withered specimens of humanity, identical in their purple robing, in their long, straight white hair, in the rich tapestry of wrinkles on their faces, in their wise and thoughtful gazes, in their placid postures and easy breathing. Yet each as different from the others in subtle, sometimes indefinable ways; just as Niall was different from Iurstil. One was larger built than the others, and one far thinner; one kept his head cocked to the left, and one to the right; one was a woman (which was difficult, because of her great age, to really notice), and one was darker of skin; one wore a small and rather silly sword, a decorative ornament really, and one wore neck and wrist torques fashioned out of gold cable; one was covered with sea-shells, which he kept holding out to the others and smiling at them.
Niall was suddenly too shocked by their bizarre appearance to be at all afraid.
The first of the old men rose and beckoned to Niall to sit at the centre of the circle they half formed. ‘We shall know of you in good time,’ he said. ‘First you shall know of us.’ This Druid carried on his belt a tiny abacus, and his fingers clutched at this as he spoke, the first sign of nervousness that Niall had seen. He sat down, cross-legged, on the thick rugs and watched the magic men before him, saying nothing, listening for the slightest heartbeat of treachery.
‘I am Aundru, son of Palessi of the Ligian Eogonacht, which were previously the tribes of Ailill mac Demerthe; my ancestry is of these lands, and I am the last of my kind, the Pai Iairian order of Druids in these provinces. My pocket abacus is my link with the Universe of numbers, and until I die I shall seek an answer to all questions in that Universe; but my magic skills are traditional, as are all our skills.
‘This,’ he pointed to the wrinkled old woman whose sparkling brown eyes watched Niall with great warmth, ‘is Dian ni Di, of the tribe of the Epsomi in the country of Cymri, and she can listen to the voices of the gods as they drift around the world on the currents and waves of the air.
‘This,’ he indicated the darker skinned Druid, who licked his lips as if tasting flesh, ‘is Mrogaan, known as the Bluffer of the gods. He is of the Cenel nOengusa and can trace his ancestry back to a prince of the Fir Bolg who learned the magic ways from the severed head of Cathbad, the great Druid of Uliad. He can foretell the future using the shells of the eastern seas.
‘This,’ the Druid with his head cocked to the left, ‘is Davad, son of Twyldu, of the Neuteriona tribe of Albion. He listens only with his right ear, whilst with his left he listens to the voices of the stars.
‘This,’ the thinnest of the Druids, ‘is Ceivin, from the islands between Uliad and Albion called Mann; he once rode upon a magic sphinx, and his greatest ability is the casting of spells in Latin numbers.
‘This,’ the Druid with his head cocked to the right, ‘is Rohaan, of the Pictish Celts, north of Albion; he gains his strength from a potion made from barley and tree fungus growing wild in the Glens of Feediech.
‘This is Gaurix, a Gaul,’ Aundru indicated the Druid with the golden cabled torques about his body. ‘He is the oldest of us, remembering even the great conqueror of the Gaulish provinces, Julius Caesar. His tribe, the Annetix, were saved from slaughter by Gaurix’s magic, but for a hundred years he was required to fulfil the terms of his spell by laying a line of golden cable around the belly of the world along which the spirits of the gods can flow.
‘This last,’ the Druid with the sword, who placed an ill-fitting horned helmet on his head as he became the focus of Niall’s attention, ‘is Allaunix, also of Gaul. He has seen into the Rock of Far Seeing and observed your previous life, and he has travelled through the Crystal of Far Travel and experienced the wrath of the warriors known as Norsemen, who will soon arise in their northern Holds and pirate the souls of the provinces of Ireland. He, of all of us, understands who you are and what you are.’
Aundru sat down, then, gathering his robe about his body and adding his own stare to the stares of the others, a fixed contemplation of the beardless youth before them. Perhaps they were confused by his lack of years and yet his obvious warrior’s bearing and temperament. Whatever it was about him that puzzled those eight, with the exception of Allaunix, Niall felt distinctly withered beneath their scrutiny and wished that the comforting old Druid Iurstil were here.
‘I am Niall mac Amalgaid, also known as Niall the Mad Bear, also known as Snow Destroyer because of my sword which was fashioned from the ice of winter, also known as Nightmare Dreamer, also known as Father Slayer. I am an outcast from my tuath, among the Ui Fiachrach. There is a spirit inside me which is called Swiftaxe and Berserker, and which is shaped like a bear, and I fear this demon and wish to escape it. I don’t know how it has come there.’
Ceivin spoke first. ‘Do you manifest as a bear?’
Niall nodded, ‘When the fury is with me, when I spill blood uncontrollably, my face distorts into the mask of a bear, yes.’
‘He looks like a bear now,’ said Dian ni Di, shivering. ‘Perhaps he’s about to throw a fit of fury.’
‘No,’ said Niall loudly. ‘I am quite calm now.’ There was not even a r
umble of dissension from within his skull.
‘The bear,’ observed Rohaan, slowly and slightly slurred, ‘is a handsome animal. Full of music.’
‘Too much potion,’ murmured Gaurix quietly.
‘One day, by the grace of the gods, you’ll strangle yourself on your own gold cable.’ Rohaan smiled broadly, then said to Niall, ‘It sounds like a god-possession to me.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said the Druid, Davad; he spoke very quickly, almost too quickly for Niall to catch the words. Others of the Pai Iairian Druids spoke too, and it became impossible to understand the gist of any argument.
Niall settled back on his heels and folded his arms, watching the eccentric exhibition with silent despair. These wise men were to help him? He began to lose hope.
Aundru spluttered for a moment, then shouted loudly, ‘Please! One at a time. This case needs very careful analysis if we’re to pin down the trouble and get the correct spell to alleviate it.’
Mrogaan banged two intricately coloured shells together and then blew a note from one of them.
‘For an ancient sect of Druids,’ said Rohaan loudly, ‘some of your techniques of spellbinding would benefit from a touch of criticism.’
‘I’d suggest the touch of death,’ said Mrogaan, with a laugh.
‘Crawl back in your shell,’ said Dian ni Di.
‘Your obscure spells are nothing to be proud of,’ rankled Ceivin.
‘My spells can be read on many levels,’ said Dian ni Di bitterly, ‘yours can be counted on the fingers of one hand.’
‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ said Aundru loudly. ‘All our spells have distinctions of their own.’
‘Agreed,’ said Gaurix. ‘And they’re all very powerful. Mine especially, but then I’m older than you.’
‘Agreed,’ said Davad pointedly, ‘and it isn’t necessary for us all to involve ourselves with this simple problem. One of us to bind the spell; one of us to cast it will do. Won’t it?’
‘No!’
The shout, from the quietist of the Druids, Allaunix, made Niall jump and draw the attentions of the others. ‘I wish it were that simple.’
Allaunix rose to his feet, shifting the short sword that hung at his waist so that it didn’t threaten to cut him irretrievably, and walked to the centre of the hall, between Niall and the other Druids. He pushed back the rugs there, and Niall found himself staring into a depthless black rock, translucent and mysterious, featureless and yet engrossing in the way it seemed to reflect times without number, universes without distance …
‘The Rock of Far Seeing,’ said Allaunix. ‘When Dian ni Di read the waves of the gods to determine your quest, I looked into this rock and I saw what you are and what you have become.’
‘Tell me then,’ said Niall, puzzled and yet pleased that these old men obviously knew all about him already. ‘But more importantly, help me!’
In the depthless rock, shapes and figures moved. A bizarre landscape flowed before his eyes, unfamiliar mountains, men and women in strange garb – always, wherever the Rock of Far Seeing chose to look, there was the glint of sun on metal blades. This place of snow and wild winds, of yellow-haired men and magnificent long ships, this land was a warrior’s land, and across it rode a figure that was familiar to him …
‘Who is it?’ he said softly, staring at the youth on horse-back, with the flowing shoulder-length hair and deeply tanned face, a face that broke into an easy smile as he rode with his companion through the straight trees of the forest. ‘I know him …’
‘The face is your face,’ said Allaunix, and Niall the Mad Bear knew it to be true.
‘But who is he? Not me – I was never in this strange land.’
‘His name is Swiftaxe – Harald Swiftaxe, and he is the start of it all. He is a young Norseman, not yet born, but nevertheless living on in your body. When he died, at a time still several centuries in the future, his soul passed into the unborn child of your mother, and thus he became you, and you became him. You are him; you are Harald Swiftaxe, Berserker, Norseman … and you are Niall the Mad Bear, Erisman, Celtic warrior.’
‘By whose spell,’ asked Niall quietly, breaking from the silence that followed his total confusion. ‘By whose spell has this been done?’
Allaunix made two hand passes across the Rock of Far Seeing and the image of a creature, half man and half bull appeared, and as Niall watched the image (which watched him back and abruptly laughed) so the bull-man changed to a cloaked rider, wide-brimmed hat lifting to show a single, blazing eye and a malicious grin, stretched wide across the skeletal face.
‘He is called Odin,’ said Allaunix, ‘and he is one of the sons of the gods, worshipped even now in the quiet and peaceful northlands, beyond Albion. He approaches Albion, borne there by the Angles and Saxons who are sweeping across the country in their war of conquest. The signs, our readings of the blood of sacrifices, tell us that he will never reach these lands of Erin. But he is a powerful low god and possesses many skills that have told us much about his ancestry, and the inheritance of magic that he has acquired.’
‘How has this … Odin … how has he possessed me?’ asked Niall, feeling the blood rise to his face, and savage laughter of the Bear in his skull.
‘Swiftaxe, the Norseman, offended Odin’s bear warriors, the Berserkers that will one day strike great fear into all manner of men. The soul of Odin was placed within the youth as punishment; the possession took the form of a bear that can possess his body at a moment, and drive the body of the young warrior into a frenzy of destructive activity.’
Niall nodded thoughtfully. ‘And the Bear does the same to me. It has resulted in the death of my father, something I would not have wished for all the world.’
Allaunix agreed. ‘You are now the Berserker. Your actions in war are not your own, but are actions at the whim, at the beckoning of this minor god, Odin, who is still with you. You are cursed, Niall, cursed by the god for whom Swiftaxe fought with bravado and pride, before he fell foul of the Berserkers.’
Niall the Mad Bear, Niall Swiftaxe, leaned back where he sat and regarded the impassive faces of the Pai Iairia – men and woman, all of them would surely have the cure to this insane possession. He said, ‘I understand what has possessed me, but I fail to comprehend how it has come from an unborn Norseman to me.’
Allaunix coughed uncomfortably, and blanked the Rock of Far Seeing.
‘In my travels through the Crystal of Far Travel I have discovered that this sect of Druids, the last of our kind since the forest of the Carnutes was burned two centuries ago, has vanished before the turn of the century to come. In only one location in the known world does the knowledge we possess still reside, and that is in the high mountains of the north, which was Swiftaxe’s homeland. Swiftaxe asked for help, there, and the Sorcerer who guarded the secrets of eons was unable to help beyond the prescribing of a foul and crude spell-break, for by Swiftaxe’s time all refined spells were so cryptically coded in the marks of different ages that none could understand them. Swiftaxe was told that to survive a mortal wound would release him from the curse. To fail in this would condemn him to rebirth in another age.’
‘And he failed,’ said Niall.
‘He did,’ agreed Allaunix. ‘And was reborn in you.’
‘So I am not Niall mac Amalgaid at all, but a Norseman called Swiftaxe.’
‘You are both,’ said Allaunix. ‘The name has changed, but you are the same man. And a man with the same quest. To rid yourself of the curse will merely shake out the possessing demon, the Bear in your head, and the unpredictable and lethal fits that take you. Swiftaxe will remain. Mac Amalgaid will remain. They are the same man.’
Niall Swiftaxe shook his head wearily. ‘That is unimportant. Are there more refined spells that can break me of the curse? By your faces I can tell there are not.’
Allaunix shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Niall. Crude though it is, to survive such a blow, a mortal blow, administered in armed combat is the only
way to rid yourself of Odin. Until such a time you are Berserker, and will kill and maim all that you love and respect, and all that you hate and revile, and everything else that comes into range of your sword arm, for that is what Odin is – a vile and unpredictable assailant of our human kind.’
Niall closed his eyes and fought back the panic, and the anger within him.
‘There must be an easier way!’
‘If there were,’ said Aundru, and he laughed, ‘if there were we of all men would know it.’
‘The knowledge we possess spans several thousand years,’ said Dian ni Di. ‘But in total it is a mere fragment of all the knowledge there has been.’
‘To find a more refined and less paradoxical spell,’ said Gaurix, ‘you would have to find an older being, one nearer to the roots of our magical heritage.’
‘Where would I find such a one?’ asked Niall, and all the Druids laughed. And yet, even as he spoke, Niall was remembering something, a fragment from his previous life … a mention of the Dark Ones, very ancient creatures who were to be found … somewhere … he couldn’t remember where, even though it had been told to him. Before he could mention the Dark Ones, however, Aundru jumped excitedly to his feet.
‘It may be that we can help you,’ he said loudly, his eyes narrowing as he strained to remember something. ‘It had not occurred to me before, but …’ he stared at Niall. ‘In the boglands known as the Swamp of the Three Sisters, deep in the earth where he fell after being spellstruck by a Danann sorcerer, there lies a Fomorian warrior-magician of great ability. Like all his race he is a giant, of course, but I have learned from my father, who learned it from the speaking rock at Cnocba, in the east, that the giant may be called to the surface by calling a spell across the bog.’
‘What words?’ demanded Niall. Fomorian giant or not, anyone whose ability in magic ranged that far back in time was a chance for him to find release.
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Aundru. ‘You might learn them from the speaking rock. You must make a spancel loop of alder and lay it on the rock, and then kiss the rock where the loop’s shadow touches at the moment of midday.’
Berserker (Omnibus) Page 26
