Berserker (Omnibus) (35 page)

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.

‘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 their 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.

‘The strength of his look outreaches the strength of his muscle,’ commented Donal.

‘Enough,’ said Niall Swiftaxe, grinning. ‘I’m beginning to like it. Let’s ride east.’

They tore thin shreds of dried meat and chewed these as they climbed into their saddles. Niall slung his snow sword across his shoulder and used a strip torn from his kirtle to bind it tight to his body. He kept his ankle-high leather boots, noticing that all three warriors wore shoes themselves. The rest of his clothes he cast away, save for the Bull amulet that hung around his neck.

His weapons too he kept, hung on his saddle: the small, round shield, leather over beaten alder wood, rimmed by iron, sharpened to a fine cutting edge; his heavy shield, for javelin combat, wood and leather, interwoven with strips of iron and bronze, covered at the front with smooth polished bosses and carved in the fashion of all Connacht heavy shields, a traditional pattern of spirals and animals’ heads; his heavy iron sword, with its wooden, gilded hilt and bronze adornments, the tiny carving of a head surmounting the end of the grip – this sword had been three times fired by the men who had inhabited the settlement near Slieve Aaron, and its blade, as they had promised when they had given it to him, seemed to change with the changing light; his snow sword, his major weapon, hanging from his shoulder; a dozen thin throwing javelins, slung across his back and tightly bound in leather slings; and his single, broad-bladed stabbing spear, with its thick and richly carved oakwood haft, trimmed with strips of wolf leather and tipped with a bronze caulc that was as sharp as the spear point itself.

As he tied these weapons to their various stations, all the time following the other fiana out of the glade and through the dark woodlands, Fergus dropped back and rode beside him, watching him.