Berserker (Omnibus) (34 page)

‘
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.’

‘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.

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.