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

by Robert Holdstock

  Caylen grinned broadly. ‘Much happier. It is your strange dress that scared me.’

  ‘The people of whom I am a part, now, have been in these lands for the best part of a generation. In our search for your people, to make friends with them, we had never believed that you had not actually seen us a few times. But then …’ his eyes took in the high hills and the dense forests that seemed to contain this wide bend of the river like some natural cage. ‘But then, you are well hidden from all strange eyes.’

  ‘And have been so for many generations,’ said Caylen with a smile and a wink. ‘Llug’s Wall protects us, held in place by the three Cave Hags.’

  ‘Now of these Cave Hags I have heard much,’ said the blond stranger with genuine interest. The false note in his voice passed the boy’s awareness without registering. The man patted Caylen on the leg. ‘I am much in need of seeing them, for it is said that they are earthly forms of the Mother herself, of Scaladd the war-like, and Vana the fertile, and Brigedd the wise one. Where I come from the witches and hags of the rocks have all been slain or passed on to the wind by invaders.’

  A wind, now, chilled the boy’s body, blowing sudden and cold about the knoll; the trees waved in that breeze, rustled and agonised him to silence. The great black crow that was the Queen of the Dead flapped hard and shrieked noisy and angry, but the boy thought no more than that a shadow had passed across the sun. And besides, he was looking enviously at the strange man’s sword. Ugly though it was, the boy felt drawn to its metal. It would be good to be the only one in the village with such a strange weapon.

  Greed destroys integrity; desire can drown lesser compassions. He reached to the sword and touched its strange and strangely lifeless hilt. The man watched him, then drew the blade from its scabbard and let the boy hold it. ‘The sword is precious to me,’ said the man. ‘But not so precious that it cannot be replaced. It has killed men, who died bravely. It is a strong sword.’ He leaned close to the boy. ‘It is yours, Caylen, for a small favour. Direct me to the three Cave Hags so I may ease my particular misery. I wish only to consult them. I am a man in great need of help.’

  The sun appeared again, but the cold wind remained. The man’s breastplate gleamed, symbols of wolves and cat-like creatures, of eagles and hawks … and runes, square-edged and ugly. The man gleamed in armour from head to foot, and his leather smelled sharp, the sharpness of some strange polish and not the hide itself.

  ‘The sword is mine?’ Caylen waved it, bright and straight and sharp in the air. ‘An axe is my weapon,’ he said. ‘I am Swiftaxe, who will be Swiftaxe the Terrible, Swiftaxe the Bear …’ A cloud passed across his face and he frowned. ‘A bear,’ he repeated, and shivered, some inner secret thought making him frightened for a moment. ‘But a man needs a sword as well,’ he said loudly, suddenly. ‘An axe and a sword I shall have then, and I am not yet fourteen summers. I shall be a proud warrior at Lugnasid. I shall pass through the smoke in triumph!’

  And he pointed the sword to the far hills, to where craggy slopes and toppled trees marked the passageway across the mountain; dimly, difficult to see with distance and the sun’s glare, there were scattered caves.

  Caylen told his friend where the Hags lived.

  The man uttered a yell of triumph and scrambled to his feet; it frightened Caylen, and he rolled out of the man’s grasp, panicking, as the armoured warrior reached for him. He stood quickly, and watched in horror as across the knoll a great army of men began to march forward, towards the grinning figure of the man who had tricked the boy.

  ‘Archers … shoot him, quick!’

  The command, given abruptly, staggered Caylen for a moment. He failed to comprehend for an instant that he was about to be killed. Then an arrow streaked past his face, drawing blood, drawing fury … red fury!

  A great bear, that had lived in his mind for all his life, roared with anger and with pain, reared up, claws gleaming as it reached forward, through Caylen’s arms, to strike the treacherous man before it. It wanted blood, the taste of blood, the mindless spilling of it …

  But the boy was in control, and knew that he was lost, and so was his village unless he could warn the Hags of his terrible mistake.

  Even as he turned to run he struck at the armoured man before him, who screamed shrilly as his own blade impacted with his wrist and sliced cleanly through flesh and bone.

  There was no time to spit on the severed hand, no time to take the full revenge he wanted, the man’s head, his life. Caylen ran.

  Behind him the army, clad in mail and leather and loaded with metal equipment, rattled and yelled as they chased him, and arrows buzzed like wasps about his weaving, scampering form, still clutching the sword.

  Aithlenn knew of the betrayal almost as it happened.

  From her cave, in the limestone hills, she could see the far distant knoll, and the gleaming, winking light of armoured men. She knew Caylen was there. His thoughts, his fears, seemed almost to speak to her across the valley, and the silent, peaceful village that sprawled along the river.

  Sadly the old woman packed away the small embroidered cloth on which, for simple pleasure, she had been working. It had taken her many years of painstaking work, and thought, and design to get the embroidery so close to a finished state. Now it would be buried in the earth and not found until a time when the missing pattern would not be known, and thus the work would fail to mean anything. She tightened her ragged black robe, and swept back her greying hair. In the black crystal mirror at the back of her cave she glanced at her reflection for a second, seeing the human form, using the magic oracle for simple purposes of vanity.

  She was the oldest of the three, and yet the most striking, her high cheeks and lean face retaining something of the serenity she had known as a girl, something of the haughtiness. Though lined, and deep-eyed, her face was vibrant and sharp, alive like her mind, like the magic she could wield when the Goddess directed her.

  She was, in fact, Brigedd the Wise; but alone, without the others, she was just Aithlenn, the Hag of the first cave.

  With preparations for the end of things made, with the mirror glowing one last time, she walked to the low-mouthed cave and called to the others.

  They ran, lightly, complaining, across the dusty track-way from their own homes; flighty Grayn, the auburn in her hair still bright, though streaked, the green of her eyes alive, like gems. She wore shorter robes, her thin, sagging legs browned by sun; mud stained her. She was Vana, the earth goddess, but alone, without the others, she was just the Hag of the second cave.

  Third to gather by the cave mouth was dark-eyed, white-haired Badaba. She too knew of the treachery, for she had spoken with the Queen of the Dead across the valley. Between them, those two, they had hovered above all the battles that had been fought on the verdant land below and around the valley, terrible battles, with lives and blood rising on the wind like steam from the iron griddle as water douses the hot bars. Badaba was the earthly form of Scaladd, the war goddess, who was sister (and had been lover) of the Queen of the Dead. They loved souls, they loved flesh. This peace that had reigned for so long was not to their liking, but Badaba was old, now, her raven hair whitened, her skeletal features almost corpse-like; the teeth in her mouth, that she so loved to glisten red with blood, were blackened, and made her breath foul.

  ‘It is the end of things,’ said Aithlenn to the others. ‘A boy has betrayed us.’

  ‘I shall kill him!’ said Badaba bitterly, parting her lips in a vile grin. ‘I shall bite off his head. I shall chew his legs and arms. I shall suck in his entrails while he watches, still alive.’

  Grayn shook her head in despair. ‘We were taught to love all the peoples of the land. Without people the land is dead. Without weakness, people too are dead. You are always so vile, Badaba, so lacking in compassion.’

  Aithlenn laughed. ‘No more shall we argue these things. Come quickly, into the cave.’

  They grouped in the dim light about the glowing crystal. Joining hands in
a circle they closed their eyes and sang softly to the Mother, the triple goddess who watched over all the peoples of the land.

  The light from the mirror reached out to encompass them. Badaba, glancing from half-opened eyes, saw golden hair and compassionate eyes watching them; hands reached from beyond the mystic veil to caress them, and comfort them. A finger touched Badaba’s eyelids, closed them. A voice whispered, ‘I shall allow you that glimpse of me, my daughter. You have served me well.’

  Tears rolled from Grayn’s tight clenched eyes. She was bitterly sad at leaving the earth.

  Aithlenn sang:

  Oh goddess, hear our cry,

  Fear we all acknowledge,

  The dung falls from our bodies

  As if we face a mighty iron-bladed host.

  A storm has come across the land,

  Once-great warriors dull their swords

  The children’s screams are the cries of the tormented

  It is a dark time in the fort of Bragdanobus.

  Hear us, goddess, by the three strengths of the Coritani,

  Strong arm, strong loin, strong life,

  Hear us by the warriors who carry gilt-edged swords in their name,

  Bryon, and Ochar and Ychoraba,

  Sons all of your womb, the sons of the earth.

  Oh goddess, your daughters fly to you.

  The music of the forest is loud in our ears,

  The sound of the wind in the branches of a great oak,

  Grey cloud hides our eyes, the river mourns us.

  We are earth, we are stone, we are wind and rain

  White-breasted birds, relentless seas,

  Our bodies die

  Our cries shall never fade.

  They broke the circle, then. Grayn mopped the tears from her face with her short robe. Aithlenn led the way to the cave mouth again and they crouched in the hill, watching the great army of gleaming men flooding, like quicksilver, across the dales. The sun glinted on weapons and helmets, and there was red and brown on the bodies of the men, red cotton and brown leather, but it looked, from this distance, like the red of blood and the brown of earth.

  The boy Caylen, so fast, so fleet, was already beginning to climb the hill to the caves. Aithlenn could hear his panting, and his frantic scrambling.

  ‘To your shapes,’ said Aithlenn quickly. ‘We part ways forever. Here we greet wind and rain and earth and sun. Here we shake off the earth of our bodies, and join the blood of the earth. Go my sisters, swiftly.’

  Badaba, snapping at the air with blackened teeth, wrapped her dark cowl about her head and vanished into its ragged folds. A moment later the cowl collapsed to the ground and something flapped and struggled beneath it.

  When Aithlenn lifted the robe, a small, black-feathered carrion bird screeched with fury and flew high into the air, circling the caves once before winging away to the south. Aithlenn waved a sad and fond farewell to her sister of war.

  Grayn cried bitter tears and flung her arms around Aithlenn. Aithlenn eased the grip and used her fingers to gather the other woman’s tears. She smeared her lips and face with the salty fluid, then kissed her fingers and tasted her earth sister, felt a moment of intense grief. She closed her eyes, felt Grayn discarding her robe next to her.

  There was a sudden warm wind, as if someone had run past. When Aithlenn opened her eyes she could see nothing but a hare, racing fast down the hill, towards the dark forests below.

  Aithlenn looked at the boy, quite near now, his face red, his breath ragged, the dampness of his blond hair making it shine. He clutched a Roman sword in one hand, and Aithlenn understood how the betrayal had been engineered. She felt a terrible sense of regret that she, the wise one, had been so unwise as to keep knowledge of the invaders from the people she guarded. Now the people would suffer. And yet, if it was not time for Llug’s Wall to come down, then the goddess would have told them, and instructed them in what magic they should use to save themselves.

  It was hard being the hand of a goddess. If the hand was struck off then, like the tail of a lizard, the goddess would grow another one, in another body, elsewhere. But the hand, like the discarded tail of the lizard, was dead nonetheless.

  When Aithlenn died, the spell – the wall of Llug – would be demolished. The ways of the gods were bitter and unfair at times, but there would be a point to it. Aithlenn consoled herself with that thought.

  She drew back into the cave and spoke the word, ‘Aragaragador’. The mirror dissolved in fire, leaving no warmth, no smell, no trace. Her window into the world of the gods was gone, her oracle, her link with immortality was now just a cold and ragged area of the cave wall.

  Aithlenn, hearing the boy coming close, drew back against the cave wall and called a shadow to cover her. ‘Night’s darkness bathe me; make me as the light of a blind man’s world.’

  Invisible she watched as Caylen streaked into the cave, panting and struggling for breath. He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his hair falling across his face. The evil sword in his hand gleamed. He looked up, looked round. His eyes rested on the place where Aithlenn stood, disguised, and he smiled.

  He smiled!

  He had seen her!

  Her whole body prickled with discomfort as she dissolved the shadow spell and stepped towards him. How had he penetrated that veil? How had he seen through the spell? She shook her head in despair. She would never know, although she had know of his bizarre ability for many months, ever since the first time he had come to the caves of the Hags.

  ‘Hello Caylen.’

  ‘Aithlenn …’ he began, and then emotion overwhelmed him. He ran to her, flung his arms around her and wept bitterly against her empty breasts. The sword clattered to the rock floor. ‘I’ve destroyed you,’ he sobbed. ‘I didn’t mean to … I didn’t mean to … oh Aithlenn, I’m so ashamed … what can I do? What have I done?’

  ‘Quiet,’ she said, and stroked his dank hair. The tears welled in her own eyes. ‘You have done nothing that would not have been done eventually.’

  ‘They’re the invaders … but I thought they were our own people …’

  Aithlenn soothed him and quietened his despair. ‘They are called Romans,’ she said, ‘and they are nobody’s people. But among them fight men who were once of these lands, and who have taken the oaths of allegiance to other gods, and other warlords. You could not have known.’

  There was a sound outside the cave and both Aithlenn the Hag and Caylen span round, suddenly terrified.

  Another boy appeared at the cave mouth, looking wary and frightened. ‘Caylen?’ he called into the darkness.

  ‘Bedivyg!’ said Caylen loudly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Caylen’s brother walked forward, still wary of the witch, and peered into the dark cave. ‘There are strange men swarming across the hills. I saw you running and wondered what you had done. Will they find us?’

  Aithlenn the Hag said, ‘All is done, young brothers. All is ended. I sense that these men will allow little mercy for your village. But there is no reason why you shouldn’t escape and take with you a little of what has been. Come here, Bedivyg, for a moment.’

  The Hag took both boys in her arms and hugged them. Bedivyg’s nostrils wrinkled at the woman’s unwashed smell, but Caylen relaxed against the witch, and drank strength and security from her motherly grasp. The witch said, ‘Are you boys or warriors?’

  ‘Warriors,’ said both of them, together.

  ‘On whom do warriors depend? On their mothers and fathers? Or their right arms and the blades they grip?’

  Bedivyg said, ‘On their swords.’

  Caylen said, ‘On my axe.’ His face dropped, his eyes widened in horror. ‘My axe! By the Woods, I’ve left my axe in the village. I must fetch it.’

  Bedivyg held him back, escaping from the grasp of the Hag. ‘I’ve brought it for you,’ he said, and slipped outside the cave for a moment. He came back in with Caylen’s precious axe, forged by his father as his initiation gift for passing t
hrough the smoke at Beltine. With the axe, at Lugnasid, Caylen would have finally said farewell to his parental security and begun adventuring until full manhood blossomed within him. Now it seemed he would not pass through the smoke at all, but would have to prove himself in a more traditional and bloody way.

  The axe was long and wide in the blade, a single blade, curved outwards and honed as sharp as the edge of an icicle. To balance it, it had a long, pointed spear blade, and the whole alderwood shaft was tied around with thick leather, nailed to the wood, and stained with the seven colours of the forest, to preserve the wood as long as the axe was used.

  Caylen took the weapon, still too big for him to use really effectively, and cradled it in his arms.

  Aithlenn said, ‘Bedivyg, leave the cave for a moment. There are things I must say and show your brother.’

  The boy crept out into the daylight. His voice had an edge of panic as he called back, ‘The soldiers are coming through the woods at the base of the hill. They’ll soon be here.’

  Aithlenn chilled at the words, turned Caylen towards her and looked him straight in the eye. ‘My sisters are gone,’ she said. ‘They shape-changed and went beyond the hill. There is no shape into which I may change, but when I die I will become a breeze that follows you, Caylen, that cools your brow when you are hot, and warns you of danger when you are unsuspecting. You must not grieve for me as I know you will want to. You must grieve only briefly for your parents, but I know you have little love for them, despite their love for you. This axe has become your father, remember that. If you wield it with love, then your father’s spirit will ride the winds in peace. Watch that wind, Caylen, hear the breeze, speak to me in the ripples on the surface of a pond. But grieve not.’

  ‘Are you to die?’ The boy was distraught, but manfully holding back the tears he would rather have let flow.