‘Be quiet!’ shouted Arthur, but he made no move to get up. Grania listened impassively. Niall was amused.
‘I’ll not be quiet,’ cried Owain. ‘No man, not even you my lord, takes my sister and makes a woman of her, only to cast her aside.’
‘Owain, be silent!’ shrieked Reagan, and her own sword was in her hand, but Owain knocked the blade from her in a swift motion, and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her forward. He glared at Grania.
‘It’s true, you Erish cow. Arthur has lain with Reagan and will take her as his queen. Ride while you may, into the forest, away to your distant islands.’
Grania was white faced with fury. She rose stiffly to her feet, brushed down her armour, and glancing for a frozen moment at Arthur – who shook his head almost imperceptibly – she took up her sword and girded the belt around her waist.
The fire burned loud, and Niall edged back from the flame, as did everyone who sat around it, save for Owain and Reagan.
As if the sudden threat had changed her attitudes, even Reagan now stood firm, facing the war queen. She reached down and picked up her sword, glanced once at Niall, then back at the angry woman opposite her. Owain’s youthful face was alive, in the light of the fire, with excitement and arrogant pride.
Grania said, ‘Arthur denies your claim, girl. Retract this false boast and I shall spare you.’
‘She retracts nothing,’ said Owain, ‘because it is true. You can’t deny it, my lord …’ this last was an almost impassioned plea at Arthur.
The Bull Chief said, ‘I choose with whom I sleep, and when. I would choose none whilst Grania is my queen.’
Reagan looked uncomfortable, but Owain was surprised.
‘But two nights ago … you slept with my sister … I sent her …’
Arthur cut him off. ‘She slept with my prize warrior, Niall Swiftaxe of Connacht. That is enough that she should feel proud. She came to me first, but I put honour before my sex.’
For a second Owain looked as if he would cry, then he backed away from his sister, his sword raising and pointing slowly towards her.
Reagan panicked, for perhaps she knew from experience that her brother could better her with the iron blade. ‘Arthur lies. He took me, he and no other.’
Owain shook his head, looked about him, then shrieked with anger. He cast his sword into the ground and turned to walk stiffly into the darkness.
Grania approached the fire. ‘You lie,’ she told the girl.
‘Do I?’
Grania jumped across the fire, landing heavily in front of Reagan and striking at her with all her force. Reagan caught the blow on her blade and calmly deflected it, knocking the war queen away with the power of the deflection and backing around towards Niall.
Combat was joined for long minutes. They circled around the fire, and there was no sound from the camp but the clash and clang of blades. First one way, then the other, round and round the fire, with the dark faced host of Arthur’s army watching in silence. This fight was so pointless that none could share in the excitement. When there were Saxons to be killed, why waste life on silly issues like this? But though half a thousand men thought it, none spoke it.
Blades rang shrill and the sweat and blood of effort broke from the two women’s bodies as they tried to hack through each other’s defence.
Grania stumbled, and Reagan swung down at her, taking advantage of the other woman’s misfortune, and thus the young girl fell for the oldest trick in the warrior’s repertoire.
Before she could even get the power into her swing, Grania’s blade had found her heart, and with an agonising roar the war queen ripped the beating organ from between the girl’s ribs.
Reagan made no sound, uttered no cry nor tear as she fell across the fire.
Flame leapt to her hair and spread across her body; where the crimson flood still pumped from her savaged breast, the flames sizzled and hissed. Soon there was just the awful stench of roasted meat, and the blackened body of the girl was indistinguishable from the wood and animal bones that had been burned beneath her.
During the night Owain returned and made the camp fire into his sister’s funeral pyre. If he wept at all, by the morning, when the camp uprooted and rode through the tree-hanging mists and icy dew, there was no sign of grief about him.
Less than a hundred miles away a Saxon camp was similarly being dismantled, prior to the army of men moving towards the safe settlements of the east. Before midday an exhausted rider would reach them and tell them of the advancing army of Britons, and they would turn about, to the north of the great plain, and move west to meet with Arthur.
But for the moment they were content to be leisurely about their movements and the leisureliness lost them a slave.
He was chained, among the other slaves, to a huge wooden pole. He was bearded and fierce of eye. His back bore the marks of torture, his chest and arms the scars of ancient wounds. Whilst the other slaves were content to whine and accept their fates and their deaths, this slave never uttered one word or sound. He watched every fur-clad Saxon pig that strode past him, and he waited for his moment.
On this morning the slaves were whipped into a standing position, and orders were barked at them. Few understood what was being said, but the whip and the powerful strokes of the flat of a warrior’s sword, this made them understand. They were to collect wood for kindling because where they were going there was very little in the way of forest. All the slaves of one pen were released from their confining chains and pushed towards the dead wood glade nearby. There they set about gathering up armfuls of dry branches and twigs.
Only two Saxons watched them lazily.
The opportunity came when a single trumpet blared to summon all to camp. The Saxon guards looked towards the restless army, and then up into the sky where a flight of birds heading south were being shot at by expert archers. Small black bodies tumbled to the earth, and there was some excitement caused by the thought of these delicacies.
The dark-eyed slave gently placed his kindling upon the ground and picked up a heavy, solid branch. Creeping up behind the nearest guard he swung the branch and caved in the man’s skull. As the other guard turned, raising his sword, the slave picked up the dead man’s own weapon and gently tossed it at the other. Point first it went in through the guard’s throat, choking his life and his scream.
The slaves scattered.
The slave who had done the killing waited only long enough to carve the guards’ heads from their bodies and stuff the severed members into the mouths of these slack-jawed trophies. Perched on pieces of wood, the heads would soon impart their insult to the Saxon warlord who restlessly waited to move on.
Then the slave stripped the mail shirt and fur jerkin from one body and drew them on over his rags. With the same man’s sword, and both men’s dirks, he ran around the camp to find a lone horseman, one of the rear guard.
Within minutes he was mounted and riding to the west. Whether a hundred men or a thousand followed him he did not care.
There was a vengeance to enact, a woman whom he had chased for far too many years.
He didn’t know it, but that woman was only a day’s ride from him, and approaching.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They followed an overgrown Roman road to the east, and soon were close to the place where Arthur’s scouts had seen a Saxon camp. The army of Britons dispersed from the open land and moved through woodlands, silently, swiftly, until they found a suitable site to set their tents for the last night.
It was still light, a cold afternoon making the wearing of cloaks a necessity; dense white cloud moved slowly across the heavens, and there was the threat of rain. The trees rustled nervously as if they sensed the coming battle.
While Arthur and Kei rode with a small party of men towards a distant ridge to view the Saxons, Niall supervised the erecting of the tents. He was hungry, and the beast within him yearned for food and for battle. He was restless, like the horses that were tied to trees all arou
nd the camp; they whinnied and stamped, as if tired of this constant marching and camping. They wanted the scream of death in their ears and the stench of blood in their flaring nostrils; they were not alone in desiring this. Every man and woman in the camp was quiet and expectant too.
Arthur could be seen on the great knoll, some miles distant; Niall climbed a tree to watch him, and from his vantage point he could see the rising smoke of the Saxon camp beyond. The land around, visible from his high position, was rolling and flat, dense clusters of golden-leaved trees scattered about the rich green downs. Hills and winding streams made it a treacherous country, and in many places he could see the ruins of small communities, the houses gutted, the trackways to them overgrown and unused.
This was the hinterland, the no-man’s-land between the two peoples who struggled for possession of Albion. Here, in this deserted place, a step would be taken tomorrow to determine who would finally win.
Arthur and his riders vanished again, down the hill towards the enemy camp. They were two or three hours ride away, and Niall found himself wishing he had gone with them, for the quiet camp below was a sour place.
He dropped out of his tree, sat by the fire for a while and listened to the soft songs of a minstrel, seated in the shadows, singing a lullaby for the dead. Niall ate meat from the spit; the flesh was still rare and it made his face darken with the imagination of blood from a different source.
The women of the camp watched him, afraid; many were already in the furs of the resting warrior élite; and a few moved away as he sat there. Even if he had wanted to enjoy them he would not have been able to; the women of the camp were too scared of him, now. The stories that circulated that he was uncontrollable, and any great passion could drive him berserk and death-dealing, these stories made them shy away from him. He was not unduly worried.
He rose and went to his tent, against the tent of the war-chief, shared by all Arthur’s officers. A cross of the One God, the Christian god, stood outside. An angry monk knelt beside it. Niall had seen this man, running along the cracked stone road between ranks, his cross clutched across his breast as a woman carries a baby. His prayers and incantations had become an irritant to the Erisman, but many of the warriors enjoyed his strange invocations – and even joined in.
The priest stared emptily at Niall as the young soldier walked past him; he said no word. Niall said, ‘Have you a Christian prayer for me?’
The priest paled visibly and made the sign of the cross above his eyes, then lifted a hand, palm side ways, and crossed the air before Niall.
‘I feel no different,’ said the Berserker, smiling. ‘What does it do for me? Make me immune to sword blows?’
‘The Great God will call you to him if you die,’ said the monk. ‘There is a place in his kingdom for all the animals of the world, as well as for the civilised men.’
Niall grinned, ignoring the monk’s jibe. It was unusual, he thought, for the priest to be holding his vigil outside the tent; on the night before battle he should be inside, praying over the war armour of the Bull Chief, blessing sword and shield and breast-covering.
Niall ducked his head and went into the torch-lit dimness inside the tent.
In a corner of the small place, where Arthur’s furs were heaped and inviting, two shapes were huddled, and one – a man – was murmuring softly. As Niall entered the place so this figure rose suddenly and turned. He seemed afraid, and Niall recognised the beard and robes of a Druidic augur. He was old, and his face was pale and lined; his eyes regarded Niall steadily, but there was a bewildered expression about him. The other figure reached up and pulled the old man’s sleeve.
Niall saw it was Grania, seated cross legged and clad in a flowing white shift. ‘He’s like us,’ Niall heard her say. ‘He is a countryman of mine, and his gods are the brethren of yours, different only in name.’
The Druid relaxed, and returned to a crouched position, Grania beckoned Niall over and Niall went to her.
‘The augur’s reading of the signs are highly favourable for Arthur,’ she said. Niall looked down at the eviscerated bird that lay on a bronze and inscribed tray.
‘Have you consulted them for yourself?’ asked the young Erisman. The woman smiled.
‘Perhaps. Would you like the Druid to read the intestines on your behalf?’
Niall stared at the old man, who met his gaze evenly and then grew disturbed. He probably sensed the supernatural side to the warrior’s nature, and it upset him.
Niall said, ‘My destiny is clearly known by too many already. No, clean up your bird. All that matters is that Arthur is successful. Those who fall around him are merely fragments of a line of power that will continue as long as the Bull Chief is there. We individuals matter very little.’
The Druid picked up his tray and left the tent. Niall sat on the deep-piled furs and relaxed.
Grania watched him, a smile on her face, a twinkle in her eyes. She looked very good in her flowing robe; through it, highlighted by the flickering torch behind her, Niall could make out her body. He remembered Cnocba, and stirred; and shifted to hide the fact, unwilling to make the first advance.
‘What did the augur tell you? Are you to die?’
Grania smiled. ‘What he said is for me alone to know. A sword from the past moves close. A dagger points at me. This he said, and this I shall tell you. But whether I live or die, well …’ her gaze drifted for a moment, as she thought of something, a memory or fact to which Niall was not privy. ‘To be truthful, I have a great fear of knowing the way that fate twists and turns, and I never asked him. I grew too scared, and changed the question to cover Arthur.’
Niall nodded thoughtfully. ‘I like Arthur. He is a strong man, and a good leader.’
‘He respects and likes you too. Your bizarre power excites him, drains into him. Every hour he is stronger; every moment he is less than a man, more of …’ she broke off, embarrassed, but then decided to finish what she was saying, ‘More of a god in his own right. It’s frightening.’
‘I’ve noticed that too. And I agree it’s frightening, but it’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Not for the Saxons, it isn’t,’ laughed Grania. She lay back on the furs, her breasts rising heavily beneath the whiteness of her woollen robe; she stared at the sloping roof of the tent. ‘By the old gods, I am looking forward to this fight.’ She turned her head to stare at Niall.
‘I feel a certain excitement too,’ he said. ‘I enjoy war very much.’
‘And love?’ she grinned, then pushed herself up on to her elbows, to stare at the young man. ‘Are you as innocent as that time when I tricked you?’
‘Hardly.’
‘And yet you seem … nervous. Are you nervous of me?’
‘A little,’ said Niall. Grania’s face was alive in the light of the torch; her eyes were so intense, and her lips moist and inviting.
‘Do you still want me, Niall? Or did the way I treated you cure you of your raging lust? Am I still attractive to you?’
The Mad Bear nodded, slowly.
Grania licked her lips provocatively, stared at Niall full in the eye, her whole expression one of intense interest. ‘Perhaps I should let you bind me in leather thongs again. Perhaps my helplessness was more arousing to you than my body. Shall we play games, Niall? Shall we play lovers?’
‘If Arthur returned he would kill me.’
Grania shrugged. ‘If you’re afraid of that then it doesn’t say much for your ability on the furs.’
Niall cursed loudly, and Grania smiled. ‘It’s good to hear the old curses again. This language of the Britons is a great strain on the vocal muscles. Do you love like an Erisman? Or as a Briton, like a pig, like a dog that enjoys its bitch on all fours?’
‘Like an Erisman,’ said Niall, and then he could bear the talk no longer. He stood and stripped off his jacket and cloth trousers, and faced Grania clad only in his bulging breech-clout, and the thin strips of skin that bound his thighs and arms and stopped the muscle bursting
during the strain of war.
Grania sat up and reached out for his hips, drew him towards her seated form. For a moment she looked up at him, then her fingers deftly fetched away his supporting leather, freeing his staff to her gentle touch. He closed his eyes as he felt her warm lips on him, and the way her teeth were tantalising points of sharpness on his tender skin.
He took her by the hair and pulled her face away from his manhood, stooped to kiss her full and warmly moist mouth.
‘Let’s waste no more time,’ he said. ‘I can wait no longer.’
Grania moaned beneath his second kiss, then pushed him away, rose and undid the ribbons of her robe so that the white cloth fell away from her nude body, and Niall could gaze upon her again.
Round and full, her skin tanned with sun and wind, and glistening, now, with the sweat of her desire; the torchlight made her body wonderfully erotic, made her full breasts seem fuller, the darkness between her legs a tantalising territory that beckoned him.
She ran her hands down her hips, then lay back on the furs, parted her thighs and called to him.
He lay across her, and this time her hands were there, easing him gently into the cavity in her, then reached round to pull him tight against her as she bucked beneath him, and began to cry with the roughness of his pounding.
Almost immediately a war trumpet sounded, loud and mournful, a frightening blast of sound that brought the camp of the Britons running to arms.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Niall, all passion gone in the instant of that blast of bronze trumpet. Outside, men cried and shouted, and carts rattled and creaked as they were hauled into place for the loading of the war machinery.
The torch inside the tent flickered and flared, lighting up the angry face of Grania as she lay in the coldness of unrealised love, beneath the cooling body of Niall Swiftaxe.
‘Off me, then. We’ll get no business done now.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ repeated Niall as he withdrew from her and rolled to lay on his back on the furs.
Berserker SF Gateway Omnibus: The Shadow of the Wolf, The Bull Chief, The Horned Warrior Page 35
