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

by Robert Holdstock

  ‘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.’

  ‘And the giant,’ said Niall. ‘You think he may be able to help?’

  ‘He may know a better spell,’ said Aundru. ‘It is the best I can offer.’

  Niall thought about what he had learned, and inside him, in his soul and in his heart and in his mind, a spirit – the spirit of the Bear – grew restless for blood. He felt the approach of a rage and knew that should he lose control of his body his snow sword might reap a terrible crop of heads among these wise old people.

  He rose quickly and held out his left hand. ‘I know your price.’ And he brought his sword up ready to cut the little finger from the hand.

  Aundru stopped him. ‘From such tokens,’ he said, ‘we generate our kind, boys and men grown from the flesh seeds of those who seek our council, boys and men – and occasionally women – who become Druids among us, aware of all the knowledge that we have retained after the destruction of our tribes. But such a token will not be needed from you, not until the spirit is gone from you, not until this alien god has left your soul.’

  Sheathing his sword Niall Swiftaxe turned and left the chamber, running quickly down the hill until he reached the peatlands at its base.

  When he traversed the foothills that stretched away from the mountain he turned and stared up towards the cave and the henge. He could see nothing but broken rock and grassy outcrops against the hostile slopes; only lower down could he see the bleak and empty caves, and there he imagined he saw a movement, and lifted his hand in farewell thinking that it might have been Iurstil.

  When he collected his horse and weapons from the nearby settlement he told them of what had occurred, and from that time on the mountain was known as Slieve na Teim Clochcrochaim, or Slieve Crocha, the mountain of the vanished henge.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Aware that he was being followed by several riders, Niall Swiftaxe rode inland from the mountain, towards the mist-shrouded plains and bogs of the lowlands. The rage was growing within him.

  His eyes saw red; his hair stood sharp and painfully out from his scalp; his gums ached and bled as his teeth pushed outwards, longwards, transforming his face into the scowling visage of a bear; his muscles ached with tension as he raced his horse across the rolling hills, through wooded glades and between low gorges, cut through the bed rock of the land by the tribes and their magicians who had once lived here.

  His voice changed from the agonised cry of the human boy to the desperate blood cry of the Bear-spirit. He became possessed and stopped his rapid canter. He jumped from the saddle and scrambled up rocks and across weathered tumuli to stand and regard the discreetly following band of men.

  He drew his snow sword, and his darkened, snarling visage twisted into an insane and animal grin. He dropped to a crouch, watching, sensing that his appetite for death would soon be quenched.

  The four riders drew nearer, passed from view below a ridge so that Niall – the Bear that was now in possession – found himself staring at an empty land, a land of twisted trees and gouging grey rocks. The wind was a momentary and melancholy drone as dusk approached and the late summer warmth vanished before an autumnal cool.

  He rose to his feet, puzzled, angry at the sudden loss of his prey. The whoie landscape distorted red, and the Bear opened his jaws and emitted a howl of protest and frustration, its clenched fist tightening on the bronze hilt of the snow sword.

  The cry of anger drifted away into the distance; the wind swallowed it, answered with its mournful breezing voice …

  And at that moment, behind him, someone screamed!

  He saw only the flash of an iron blade as the man leapt from a rock, and noticed the distorted features of a warrior about to kill; then the berserk rage took him, the power of the Bear consumed him fully: rising power, from foot to leg, leg to groin, groin to heart and heart to swordarm and head. His voice was the voice of the Bear, his arms its powerful, black-furred arms; his sword became its claws, his ecstasy at impending blood was the ecstasy of the strange god Odin, manifesting through its animal shape …

  The human, drowned in the animal transformation, knew only that the warrior was naked. The next moment streaks of red formed a sickening and oozing cloak across the tanned flesh of the other man, and then the whirling, mindless madness forced him deeper into his own mind, as the Berserker took its fill of death.

  Swords clashed, bodies streamed blood and sweat. The strange warrior realised his mistake almost as soon as he fell to battle with Niall, but he was committed, now, and he fought bravely, dancing through Niall’s aimless slashing, trying to fight his rising fear as the terrifying, Badb-like screeching of his adversary carried the Berserker invincibly towards victory.

  Though the madman’s body was streaked by cuts and gouges, the warrior could not reduce the strength of this spinning, jumping, yelling phenomenon, and in time – in short time – he missed an important stroke, and the madman cut him down with a single slash that cut through his neck and sent his head rolling and spouting across the dry grass.

  The Berserker didn’t stop; still screaming, still laughing and exulting in the stench of death, he slashed and hacked at the corpse, severing – hands from wrists, wrists from elbows, arms from shoulders, legs from groin, heart from chest.

  Only when the messy defilement was complete did the Berserker back away, staring at its work, and slowly sinking to a crouch, trembling, abruptly laughing as it returned to normal.

  The mask of the Bear faded, the darkness of Niall’s hair lightened, his mouth felt normal again. The Bear drew back and the human, Niall Swiftaxe, emerged to take possession of his body once again. He rose, staring at the gore, and turned green at the sight. Fighting back his abhorrence, struggling to control his stomach, he closed his eyes and turned away.

  A horse pawed the turf a few yards distantly. Niall stopped, tensed ready for further fighting. Three riders were there, placidly and thoughtfully watching him.

  The three young warriors on horseback said nothing, and Niall Swiftaxe said nothing by return. He was aware that he had killed one of their number, and something about them, about their appearance, suggested to him that these were dangerous men to tangle with. He isolated the reason for his uneasyness almost at once. They were warrior riders who bore no tribal markings on their faces, no blues or reds or greens in tight spiral patterns that would have marked them from a tribe, either here, near the two western provinces, or from the Ui Neill hegemony in the north or east which were two violent kingdoms that often raided settlements in this area of the westlands.

  Men without tribal markings were men without those certain and tangible prides that made warfare such an art. They might be – lacking those prides – as unpredictable in their actions as was Niall Swiftaxe the Mad Bear, for a very different reason.

  The three riders were naked and that, though not unusual, was at least unusual in that they had ridden naked during the hours of following him. They all wore bronze bands around their heads over which, at the back, long, unclayed yellow hair hung in flowing tresses. It looked womanly, and Niall swept his hand back across the stiffened spikes of his own hair, proud of the masculinity of it. They also wore iron and gilded bronze circlets around their arms and legs. Each man carried a sword scabbard from his left shoulder, tied securely with golden chain around his torso. A small, leather shield, rimmed with sharpened iron, hung from each horse’s flank, the position that boasted they fought without shields.

  None of them held his sword in his hand. The ivory hilts were securely tucked into their sheaths, and Niall relaxed just slightly, knowing well how quickly some warriors could draw and throw from a resting position.r />
  ‘A fine fight,’ said one of the three. He was scarred more than the rest, and had decorated his bronze headband with deeply incised pictures of warriors in combat. He wore no moustache or beard and his face was angular and strong. ‘I am Conan Croilaid, the strong heart, of the Leinster Ui Felmeda, a tribe too dedicated to peace and fishing for my blood taste.’

  ‘An exciting combat,’ commented the second. He seemed the youngest, hard of face, soft of beard, his moustaches greased to stiffen them and darken them. His green eyes stared dispassionately at Niall Swiftaxe and Niall noticed that this young man had been struck in the right breast by the fiercesome javelin of the Belgae and its recurved hooks had torn large chunks of flesh from him at its removal. This was the only wound he bore, and yet it was enough, for the gae bolga is only used during single combat, and only in desperation. ‘I am Donal mac Aedan of the Eoganacht of Glennamain, far to the south. I killed my foster brother in fair combat, save for a single breach of trust …’ he touched the gouged flesh of his breast. ‘I refused to honour him when I killed him, so now I ride as fiana.’

  Fiana! Now Niall understood who had followed him, and what they were. Young warriors, tired of the conventional tribal customs, who joined solitary bands and rode between the camps of the warlords and Kings of Ireland, selling their lives and swords for satisfactory prices. It was their custom, he knew, to ride naked at all times, for in this way they were blessed by the triple Goddess who so admired the naked male physique, and this added bite to their swords, strength to their arms, and power to their sex. They were always welcomed by the queens and matrons of the settlements they visited, for their prowess in all spheres of combat was no legend.

  The third fiana said, ‘An unusual and exciting fighting style.’ This warrior was the keenest looking of the three, and his body was little scarred, telling of his speed and agility, for in combat in these lands, at this time, a warrior needed the combined qualities of speed of attack, and agility at avoiding the multiplicity of thrown weapons, javelins, swords, dirks, sling-stones, arrows, shields, and even the heads of the fallen which could often inflict a severe bite if the scald-crow was in good humour as she hovered above the field of battle. ‘I am Fergus, banished son of Lugaid, ruler of the Cenel Loegaire who now hold Tara hill and rule many of the eastern tribes.’

  Niall contemplated their names and origins for a moment, then squatted down to wipe the blood from his sword, never letting his eyes leave the grim, watching faces of the three fiana. He said, after a moment, ‘I am Niall Swiftaxe mac Amalgaid.’ He decided against giving the rest of his familiar and acquired names. ‘My sword is forged of snow, and is stronger than iron.’ Uneasy glances between the other three. ‘I killed your man because he attacked me.’

  Conan said, ‘If you are afraid we shall be demanding retribution, put your mind at rest. Froech knew that if you were good enough to join our band his own life would be forfeit. He was the oldest and weakest of us.’

  Niall looked at the dismembered corpse. ‘This was a test?’

  Donal said, ‘A year ago we watched you in battle against the raiding party from the eastern Ui Neill. A demon possesses your sword arm, there is no doubt of that. I have never seen such incredible skill. We decided, then, that we could do with your strength among us.’

  ‘You’ve been a long time asking,’ said Niall. ‘Were you that unsure of me?’

  ‘Vengeance claimed our time,’ murmured Fergus darkly. His beard was no more than an untidy stubble and he scratched this thoughtfully. ‘We have been chasing a woman warrior called Grania, she who led the raid on your home. I have followed her for two years to avenge the killing of one of our band. In the confusion of the battle, when she ran with the rest of her army, we let her get away. Now she has rejoined her own mercenary band and we think it is time to recruit better warriors than we ourselves.’

  Niall sheathed his sword, unbuckled the belt from his waist and slung it across his shoulder. He grinned. ‘We still number the same, and four is a small number.’

  ‘But our combined strength is greater,’ said Donal. ‘You’ll join us then?’

  ‘I will, though I have a quest of my own which must be attended to or all your lives are in jeopardy.’

  It sounded like a veiled threat and the three fiana didn’t appreciate that. Fergus went so far as to draw his sword and rest it lightly across his horse’s neck. He was an angry man, this one. Niall said quickly, ‘You saw the way I fought; like a beast possessed – you said that yourselves.’

  ‘We saw it,’ said Fergus tensely. ‘What of it?’

  ‘That is what I am,’ said Niall. ‘Uncontrollable, possessed. When possessed I kill all in sword range, friend or foe.’

  ‘That’s comforting,’ said Conan brightly.

  ‘If you still wish me to ride with you I shall, but in combat beware my raging sword. The possession takes me quickly and passes quickly, and then I am normal.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Donal. ‘We shall stand two mountains away from you in battle. We can throw that far.’

  ‘I understand him,’ said Conan quickly, turning to the others. ‘If he has no control over the possession then we have no right to hold his violence against him. He is still valuable.’ He looked back at Niall. ‘I for one would welcome you among us.’

  ‘I too,’ said Donal, reaching up and removing his bronze headgear. He smiled. ‘I am naturally sarcastic.’

  ‘I welcome you too,’ said Fergus, sheathing his sword again. ‘But your quest. You mentioned a quest. Is it to break the spell?’

  Niall nodded, walked towards them and the three riders dismounted. They grasped hands briefly and Niall said, ‘I must call up a giant from the Swamp of the Three Sisters. But to find the calling spell I must consult the standing stone at Cnocba.’

  Donal laughed. ‘Is that all? Why, there are a mere twenty thousand men between you and it, amassing on the borders, guarding the fords on the Boann river, and stretching as far west as the Ford of Drowned Queen on the Sinann river. They are ready for battle against the nearer tribes of the Connacht. Once through those, which shouldn’t take long, not with four of us, we can easily fight through the settlement on the mound of Cnocba to consult the standing stone that they have moved on to its summit!’

  ‘As bad as that, eh?’ said Niall worriedly.

  Fergus laughed. ‘Which isn’t to say we won’t try it.’

  Niall didn’t understand.

  Conan said, ‘Our quarry, the violent war queen, Grania … she is the holder of that small settlement; she and her full breasted warrior minions – a handsome sight, Niall, and we’ll do some plundering there before we take their heads – they are overwintering on the mound, so it is in that direction that we are headed. Our missions are not incompatible.’

  They walked to surround the scattered pieces of the body of Froech and Fergus reached down to take up the head by its red-stained ginger hair; he shook the blood from its neck, and gently closed the staring eyes; the mouth fell slackly open and each of the three fiana touched fingers to lips, then touched those fingers to the dead lips of their comrade. Finally the head was held towards Niall.

  Niall stared at it, but made no move to accept it.

  Fergus grew angry. ‘Take it!’

  ‘Why?’

  There was a moment of silence, then an angry cry from Conan who stepped forward in front of Niall and might have struck him but for Fergus pulling him back. ‘You must honour him. It was you who slew him.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Niall, realising how quickly he had forgotten the death customs of the tribes. For all their rejecting of tribal ways, he noted as he took the head, these men still respected the tradition of honour.

  He dropped to his knees and gouged up the earth with his sword, formed a raised mound on which he placed the head, facing to the west.

  This done they mounted up and rode three times around the monument, Niall as well, then drawing their swords and pointing them at the silent features of t
heir dead brother they rode away, east, down the hill and towards a suitable glade in the forest in which they could tend to Niall’s wounds and spend the night.

  In the morning Niall woke and found the glade covered in a dense mist. He felt stiff and cold and rose before the others to try to massage some comfort back into his body. He had slept in the same fashion as the three fiana, scraping the earth from bare rock and lying on his back on this hard mattress. The contours of the rock were etched into his flesh, several painful ridges that he could not reach no matter how he twisted about and stretched his arms.

  Conan, Fergus and Donal sat up abruptly, stretched and sprang to their feet, refreshed and cheerful. They laughed to see Niall’s bodily agony.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Conan as he walked to the edge of the glade and relieved himself with expansive sighs.

  Fergus was slipping on the arm and leg bands that they wore. He noticed Niall watching him and straightened.

  ‘When we raid the settlement at Cnocba, and take our pleasures from the women of the war queen, you’ll find bracelets and necklaces enough to cover your whole body. In the meantime, we require that our members ride naked. It attracts the pleasant attentions of the goddesses, and strengthens our spirits beyond all measure.’

  Niall nodded, and though he felt cold, and the mist had dampened his hair and wetted his skin, he shrugged off his jerkin, and the thick, cloth kirtle that had been his only clothing for a year. In the last four seasons he had grown to full manhood, the hair on his body darkening to a noticeable spread, and the sinews and muscles of his limbs consolidating and strengthening into their final manifestation before old age withered them. He was a lean man, tall, deep of chest, slim of hip, and not grossly overburdened with muscle as was Conan.

  He found himself under the playful scrutiny of his colleagues.

  ‘A finely built man,’ said Conan.

  ‘His manhood would impress even the goddess Maeve,’ said Fergus, and they laughed. He had been alluding to the legendary failure of a warrior called Fergus to fully pleasure the Goddess-queen of the Connachta, a much told tale.