Berserker (Omnibus) (60 page)

And was afraid of the thought!

A man in mortal fear of his life, the Centurion knew, was remarkably easy to manipulate.

He straightened in his chair, waving the decurion from the tent. ‘I am told you assisted your brother to escape.’

Bedivyg shook his head violently. ‘Not so,’ he said thickly. Andronicus noticed for the first time the blood on his lips, and the swelling of his flesh. He wondered who had hit him, his brother or the soldiers who believed him to be a traitor.

‘I am told that when the Berserker went wild you ran to the straits to escape.’

‘Not so,’ repeated Bedivyg, wincing with the effort of talking. ‘I recognised his invulnerability in the woods – he was hewing men down as if they were saplings. I hoped to entice him down to the water and duel with him there. He would have respected the custom of our tribe that the first into the water faces the land. Thus his back would have been exposed to our archers.’

Andronicus was much impressed by that story; he didn’t believe a word of it, but admired the way it neatly bridged the gap between the two cultures to become startlingly plausible.

‘A nice story,’ he said, staring Bedivyg straight in the eye. The Briton frowned. ‘Had it worked it would have been one of the most commendable actions of this campaign. Since it failed we have only your word, the word of a man who has forsaken his tribe for the legions and culture of Rome. Are you, do you think, the sort of man whose word is easy to accept?’

‘I speak truthfully,’ said Bedivyg. ‘At first I was reluctant to censure my brother for his retention of the old ways. I freely admit that. But I am a Roman, and proud of it, and the Horned Warrior is no longer any brother of mine. This I swear by the sword of Mars. You
must
believe me.’

‘I want the Horned Warrior, this Berserker … I want him dead. He is too dangerous by far, and from what you told me earlier, legionary, he is a source of inspiration to this bitch queen, Boudicca.’ Andronicus gazed thoughtfully at the Briton. ‘There will be trouble from that woman, and I don’t want the Horned Warrior among the ranks of her rabble, and I imagine that General Paulinus feels the same.’

Bedivyg stepped forward, his face a mask of desperation. ‘Centurion, give me the chance to bring his head to you. Let me live long enough to prove that I did not help him escape, let me prove it by slaughtering him with my own sword.’

Andronicus pretended to think for a while, inwardly smirking at the stupidity of this Briton. If he had his way he would have kicked all natives out of the Legions; they were too unpredictable, too dangerous. It was a bad policy to recruit from the British tribes so early in the ocupation.

At last he said, ‘You, of all the Legion, have a chance of killing him, for you have his love as a weapon to use against him. When he hesitates you can strike. I agree. You shall be dispatched to hunt him down, and you will go with a squad of twenty men. The men will have two instructions: to let you kill your brother, and if you fail in the attempt then they will try and kill him
themselves. Secondly, that if you hesitate in the killing blow they will strike you dead immediately, and then slaughter the Horned Warrior.’

‘I agree,’ said Bedivyg gratefully. ‘Don’t worry, Centurion. I know my brother’s weaknesses. His days are numbered – the time it takes me to catch up with him.’

‘Talking of which,’ said Andronicus smirking, ‘where exactly has he gone? Did he tell you?’

Bedivyg shook his head. ‘We
fought
in the water, not talked,’ he said, avoiding the trap neatly. ‘But a few years ago, when we were taken from our village, I overheard him speaking with a Hag. His quest for some strange release from an equally strange curse will take him to a ring of stones in the lands of the Belgae. I know of this circle of stones. There were men at Venta who had been on the punitive expeditions to Sorviodunon, and who talked of the ring of henges that stands on a hill near the fortress.’

‘Excellent,’ said Andronicus. ‘You leave at once. Optione, detach twenty men from the third century to ride with our friend here. Instruct them as I have spoken.’

Bedivyg grinned and saluted, then backed from the tent, the relief on his face was almost tangible.

Rain and darkness had been their companions for seven days and seven nights. Edwynna was in much distress, and the old druid, Gryddan, though he kept silent was not faring well beneath this onslaught of the elements.

Swiftaxe had rapidly come to regret bringing this bizarre couple of Deceangli with him on this final journey – he refused to think of the journey as anything
but
final – for they had not only slowed him up, but made demands upon his energy and time to acquire food that he, the Berserker, would have easily done without.

A Roman army marched for about one fifth of the entire day, marching in the early daylight and spending the rest of the time setting up camp and refreshing themselves. In this way, because they could march fast, they covered as much ground as a migrating British army moving for
all
the daylight hours. A simple strategy that was accomplished without complaint. If a troop of men was following Swiftaxe, then he knew they were only as far behind him as they had been when he had left the straits, and more than likely were closing the gap fast.

The three Celts had riden on stolen horses for hours and hours, stopping frequently, resting for agonising periods of time. Roman horsemen, riding according to a similar strategy as those who marched, would be fresh, active and strong, and would not have lost time.

But how difficult it was to realise that time spent resting was time on your side!

They had come through the lands of the Dobunni without incident, though ridge riders had dogged their passage for many miles, and edgy Roman patrols had passed along trackways as the three riders had concealed themselves in the woodlands.

Though Rome bragged of this land as being part of their province, the truth was that the chieftains of the various tribes left the superior forces of the Romans alone, and the Legions and cohorts and centuries of men that passed through passed swiftly through and stopped neither to talk nor to battle. On every hill top they implanted a standard of their Legion. Within moment of their vanishing, the standards were burned to cinders.

It was an uneasy and confusing situation. The Legions of the invader had certainly conquered key fortresses and enclosures, and eliminated key
opposition, but they had moved on, then, and the tiny garrisons they had left behind remained as isolated pockets of soldiers not venturing much beyond their palisaded confines.

The tribes of the Britons regarded them with contempt, and would have laughed to have been told that they were ‘conquered’.

At length Swiftaxe wearily rode upon a ridge and, through the driving rain and misty greenery of the countryside, announced that they were about to enter the tribal lands of the Belgae.

‘How do you know?’ asked the druid, and Swiftaxe pointed out the signs, the crossed spears in a distant river, the curiously knotted lengths of cloth that had been tied about the branches of hill-top trees. Gryddan noticed these things as they were pointed out and agreed that they were indeed passing into a more hostile country, almost certainly that of the men of the Belgae.

Edwynna was white-faced and saturated. She rode her horse more by instinct than skill, and it was apparent that the days of slow progress had brought her close to such total exhaustion that she might never recover.

So now, at last, Swiftaxe reached for her and tugged her bodily from the blanket over her horse’s back. He sat her in front of his own body and wrapped his cloak about her, tying leather slings about her so that she became a part of his body. Her horse he tied to the tail of his own, and thus, more cumbersome than ever, the Berserker, still calm for the longest period of quiet he had known, led the way into the valleys of the hostile Belgae.

In the distance, towering high above the land, was a hill fort of enormous proportions, and the ridgeway lay close by.

The sour taste in Swiftaxe’s mouth was the sour anticipation of mayhem if those warriors came out for the kill.

At dusk they were much closer to the earthen fortress than they would have liked. On the ridge, pelted by freezing rain, they realised that they would have to ride down through the trees to the lower lands and find shelter for this most desperate of nights.

Swiftaxe, without consulting Gryddan, turned his horse and began the treacherous walk through woodland and rough bracken growth. The druid dismounted and led his horse on foot.

It was pitch black and as cold as death when they gathered in the shelter of some rocks and trees, near to a rushing stream. Against the grey clouds, made light where the moon blazed full behind them, they could see the sombre outlines of the great fortress, its multiple ramparts steep and forbidding, and not a flicker of light from its palisade to suggest an invitation to ride to its gates.

The rain drove against them, and they shuffled about in the scant shelter until they found a dry place. The wind screamed at them, and the trees, that
were ostensibly their guardians, waved and creaked in the storm, and shook the gathering rain from their leaves on to the huddled three-some beneath.

‘This will be a long night,’ said Edwynna, speaking for the first time in three days. She huddled closer to Swiftaxe, reaching cold hands to his lukewarm flesh. She was shaking and the Berserker stroked her wet hair to try and soothe her.

‘A long night and a cold one,’ he said, and Edwynna snuggled still tighter. He wrapped his cloak about their bodies, tucking the material in around them to try and exclude every draught.

‘I am chilled to my spirit,’ said the girl thickly. ‘I believe I cannot last much longer. I have never been so cold in all my life.’

Swiftaxe looked through the darkness to where Gryddan was crouched, curled like a baby, but watching them. ‘Do something,’ said the Horned Warrior. ‘Please.’

Gryddan stared at him for a second, then glanced through the waving branches of a tree to where the fortress was a black demon in the night, shadowing them, towering them as if watching for them to break from cover.

Abruptly the old man rose to his feet and walked out into the full blast of the driving rain. Swiftaxe lost sight of him, though his voice carried through the wind, loud and shrill.

‘Fire to the tree!’ cried Gryddan. ‘Taran, God of the Dark Sky, send fire and warmth to the tree, light to the branches, flame to the leaves!’

A great streak of lightning broke the sky, illuminated the country in eerie blue for a moment, allowing Swiftaxe a sight of the druid, his arms outstretched, his frail figure effectively naked against the freezing rain.

The lightning played about the man for a second and Edwynna, also watching, screamed – like Swiftaxe her first thought was that Taran’s answer was to destroy this insolent mortal, but a moment later the great bolt of sky flame drew back and played around the branches of an alder tree, inflaming it so that it burned brilliant yellow, and the rain and the wind were powerless to extinguish its fierce warmth.

Gryddan scuttled back to the overhang, beaming with pleasure.

‘We shall be warmed sufficiently,’ he said, ‘by the time they come.’

‘Who?’ said Swiftaxe, then realised that the flaming tree was not just a fire for the wild things of the woods, but was a beacon to the angry men of the fort.

Gryddan said, ‘It is, if you face it true, our only chance to survive this wretched weather.’

‘But if the men of the fort come for us, what makes you think we will survive them?’

Now the druid laughed. ‘Why, Swiftaxe … you do, of course. I’ve seen what you can do. I doubt that a night band of Belgic warriors could survive the first minute of their own hostility.’

Edwynna cried out at that moment. It was a few minutes, only, since the tree had begun to burn, but by following her outstretched hand Swiftaxe could see what she had seen; horse riders were gathering on the earth ramparts highest up the walls of the fort; their black shapes were indistinct against the dark grey clouds, and soon the men moved in front of the palisade and became invisible, black against black. But they were working their way down the steep slopes, and soon Swiftaxe heard the snorting of the beasts, and the rough cries of the riders urging their unwilling mounts faster through the treacherous conditions.

They came abruptly out of the night and the rain, emerging from darkness into the circle of eerie light thrown by the blazing tree. Fifteen riders, on drenched horses, each man wrapped in a dark woollen cloak, and wearing a broad-rimmed bronze helmet on his head. They wore no beards, but had long, stiffened moustaches curling down to their chins. Their swords were drawn, bright iron swords, longer in the blade than either Roman or Coritanian swords.

One man rode around the burning tree, then kicked his horse towards the overhang, regarding the three strangers who crouched there.

Swiftaxe was tense, waiting for the first sign of violence before he leapt to the attack. Though he held no weapon visible, beneath his warming cloak were his axe and sword, unslung and ready to bite flesh at a second’s notice.

But the man who stared at him made no move to attack, or call an assault.

‘Have you horses?’ he asked, his accent thick, his words sitting uncomfortable upon the ear.

Edwynna, perhaps more in distress than even her reason knew, said immediately, ‘Yes. Please let us shelter in your fort.’

Swiftaxe silenced her abruptly, and his hold upon the shaft of his axe grew tighter, ready to swing the blade out from concealment. As he moved slightly so his cloak slipped open and the bright light of the blazing tree made the wide axe-blade gleam provocatively.

The man on horseback stared at the weapon, then at Swiftaxe’s face, trying to assess the warrior worth of this stranger. Then he laughed, and Swiftaxe, with a great wave of relief, realised that his unspoken challenge had been tactfully avoided. ‘Are you Britons? I see you are. No Briton need fear us, unless he has conspired with the Roman dogs. If you are true Britons, then no matter from what tribe you hail, our fort will welcome you. If you try trickery, your heads will crisp in that same flame that the Taran has wrought from the skies. Follow us. Be in no immediate fear.’