BERSKR AND THE DAY OF RAGE
BERSKR AND THE DAY OF RAGE
Episode 1
PART 1
Berskr crouched, ape-shouldered and thick bodied, legs coiled, mane long and knotted like that of the horse. He was hidden in a thick tangle of river grass, and The Great One, what the Aonim had named the sun, beat upon his back, filling him with strength.
Around his feet flowed the crystal waters of the river Kaine, its surface calm, save for the trout breaking water upstream. And on either side, the vast steppe he called home, grew outward as shuddering crags and earthen waves, as far as the eye could see, each far ridge hiding another Aonim village.
Across from Berskr, a lone rider walked the bank. He rode atop a white Novian mare, checking his surroundings, and scanning the rock ledges. He wore the white linens of the desert, and at his hip was a short sword made of bronze. His horse being Novian, was of fine stock, built for the heat and racing across dunes, but not the steppe where it now tread.
He was a Didro scout, and as such, Berskr’s first instinct was to launch himself across the river, topple him from his horse and put upon his throat.
Instead, he waited.
He must capture him alive and attempt to learn what he could of the attack. The attack the rider surely portended, for the Didro always sent scouts before they attacked, and a week ago the last rain had come.
The Didro were slavers and mongers. They hailed from the great city Krath, ruled over by a son of the giants, named Kron. Many at Krath were not human but were known as Elyo, often having six fingers and six toes, and an overly large brow, such that they looked both half ape and half man. Mongoloid hybrids. The bastard children of the giants and the daughters of men.
Every year, after the last rains fell, the Didro crossed from their desert lands, through the Savannah to the Steppe, where Berskr called home. The lands of the Aonim, here, they raided the villages and captured who they could as slaves, stealing the women and children that they may sell them into bondage at Krath.
The scout slipped out of sight. He rounded the bend following the river, and Berskr moved from his place in the tall reeds.
Berskr waded through the clear water, crossed to the other side, and ran up the stony hill, covered in bracken, which overlooked the water’s lazy path. At the top, he followed a game trail, worn deep into the rich earth from centuries of use, and ran along the ridgeline which cut straight away to the next bend.
In this way, he could cut the scout off. Where the banks narrowed, and the water broiled, the rider would be caught between rushing water and the gray rock face of the gap.
Berskr made good time, and took his place on the stone ledge, just high enough that he could remain out of sight when the rider passed below.
He waited, but still the rider did not come. It was when Berskr had all but given up on the ambush, that a horse snorted some way off, and then came the steady clatter of its hooves on river stone.
Berskr melted backwards into the shadows of the stony overhang and remained perfectly still. He watched the rider through his peripheral, for to look directly at one’s prey was the surest way to alert it, being true with man as it was with animals.
He waited until the rider passed beneath him, so that the stony ledge hid his movements, and he slipped swiftly to the edge, his leathered feet noiseless on the rock.
With the rider directly below, Berskr dropped from above. From twenty feet, he struck man and horse with such force, that both toppled into the water - a chaotic, writhing mass of flesh.
The roiling water swallowed them.
Berskr having gotten a solid grip on the man, held fast as they plunged beneath the surface.
They thrashed wildly for the water whipped them about, and one of the horse’s hooves, for the horse had kicked out violently in the maelstrom, caught Berskr squarely in the thigh, making his whole leg go numb.
In the next instant, the scout went limp and Berskr was pulled swiftly downward by his dead weight. Through the water’s angry surface, the sunlight looked distant, and as he was pulled deeper, the water grew cold and dark.
His chest burned without breath, yet he gripped his prize.
At last, his feet touched the rocky bottom, and filled him with sudden hope. He gathered the scout’s body up into his arms, crouched, and pushed off the bottom, thews working as pistons.
Having dragged his prize to the bank, he sat for his breath. The scout was dead, a long bloody gash on the side of his head, so deep he could see the white of his skull, done by horse or stone.
Berskr swore.
He could learn nothing he didn’t already know from a dead man. He shoved the body back into the water. It floated away downstream, from whence it had come.
That night, Berskr told the other men and the village elder of the Didro scout.
Each village was led by an elder, and in this way the Aonim ruled over themselves, only coming together to make war, or pass judgement, and bound together not by laws or lines on maps, for they had not even the concept of a state, but by that sacred bond of a shared tradition, the bond of blood.
He told them first of the river, and how he had tried to capture the scout alive at the gap, and lastly, how he had failed, and the man had died.
"Let us go to the Trokan,” Fike said, “we can ask them for help.” The Trokan being their sister village, many miles upstream.
“They will never do it,” Jakal said, “they will say, you come to us, help us protect our village, why should we leave ours undefended?”
“We can build ramparts,” Lech said, “it would give us a chance, to thin their numbers. We could place archers -”
“- With what time?” Jakal said, cutting him off, “the first rains will come in but half a moon, maybe sooner.”
“What would you have then?” said Fike, voice raised, “advise us to run?” He spat into the dirt.
“If it saves us, why not, we can rebuild. We hide out in the land. We take the women and animals into the mountains. I care not for mud huts.”
At last, the elder, withered hand raised, said, “We will not run, for what will you do with the old or the very small? We cannot make such a journey. No, we shall send Fike to the Trokan.”
“And if they do not come?” Jakal interjected. “What then?”
“Then we fight, boy, and pray to The Great One,” the old man said.
Like that it had been settled, with a final word from the elder, and the men filtered out, a great mumbling among them.
Berskr waited for Skullbre by the door. He was their priest. Berskr took him by the shoulder and said, “This is no plan, you must show him. It is not good that all should die for the sake of the old. This is not about the children, for they are strong and young.”
“It is a plan though, just not a good one,” the shaman replied, his gapped teeth, and scraggled white beard making him appear as a corpse. One long dead.
“Then tell me the way to become the wolf,” Berskr said. “It is but our only chance.”
“You know not what you ask for,” the shaman replied, shaking his head. “It is too much power for one man.”
“My father did it. It is the only way, you know this,” Berskr said.
“I swore never to do another spirit binding, it is bad medicine,” Skullbre said.
“Then we shall all die,” Berskr said. “For the Trokan will never help, and we have too few men,” Berskr paused to let his words sink in. “But you know what we could have, one man that fights as fifty.”
Skullbre stopped at this, and said, “your father would not want this for you. He would curse me from the grave. The binding caused him much grief.”
“But I am not my father,” Berskr said.
Skullbre’s shoulders slumped, and his eyes grew sad, for he knew that Berskr spoke the truth. That their plight was useless. “Come then, I shall help you,” Skullbre said.
Berskr followed the old man through the dark, winding around the mud huts, until they reached the haman’s den. Inside, the old man crossed to a wooden chest and rummaged within. At last, he handed Berskr an obsidian knife, its handle white bone, and transmitted his instructions.
“That is all?” Berskr asked, for he had expected more.
“Remember, when you eat the beast’s heart, you must not eat anything else before you are bound, or the spirit will leave you,” Skullbre said. “And do not be too ambitious with which wolf you choose. Yes, you want it for its strength and spirit, but we cannot bind you to it… if it kills you,” Skullbre said, and then a smile danced his lips. “Or who knows, maybe it will kill you, and its pack will bind your spirit to it, and It will be known as the man warrior, the one that fights with fear.”
At this Berskr laughed and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Skullbre said, and he warned, for he knew Berskr since he was but a pup, “Just a wolf, nothing else do you understand. Other spirits take not kindly to men.”
That night Berskr departed, straight away, telling no one of where he went, not even his wives. Skullbre, at his behest, took a message to Numa and Shale, telling them why Berskr was gone, and not to fear for he would return home.
On the first day, Berskr cut the tracks of a wolf pack and spent the next two following them. They headed to the lowlands, the place where the flats kissed the steppe, having come down from a long winter to hunt before it grew too hot.
Berskr trailed them like this for a long time, neither eating nor sleeping, but running, and yet never once caught sight of them. They moved too fast, driven by the urge to hunt new lands and to prowl new ground. Several times Berskr despaired that he may lose them, for at times their trail vanished, into a creek, or over a rocky flat, but each time he found their trail some ways off and continued to follow.
On the fourth day, Berskr killed a small antelope, taking it unawares from a tree. He sliced its throat with the obsidian knife. That night, he gorged himself over a fire built by bow. He had not eaten since he left, and with the meal, his strength returned. The antelope's flesh was tender, and good to taste, being young, and full of fat which melted on his tongue. When he had finished, Berskr wiped its juices from his mouth with the back of his hand and stared into the fire.
For the spirit binding to work, he was allowed only the tools man had in the beginning, the very beginning, no horse, no blade of metal, and no armor, save for his gauntlet. Skullbre had said that was ok, for the spikes were of boar’s tusk. It ran the length of his forearm, eight white spikes set in stiff leather, with which he could rip the flesh of his foes. The Great One had not given him claws, nor long teeth, so he had made his own.
On the fifth day, he lost the tracks in a dry lakebed, for the earth was baked clay, and the spring wind had wiped out any sign of their trail. Dragonflies the size of his head flit lazily above, as if waiting for the water to return. He found this amusing.
Berskr searched the edges of the bed and used the rest of the day to walk around it. He hoped to find the place they exited, where the earth was softer, and could hold a print, but he found nothing.
It was just before nightfall, when a great wind came down from the steppe, so great that it moved the dirt, and stung his skin. Berskr hid between two boulders, set at an angle so they provided some cover. He sheltered here, protecting his eyes by burying his face deep in the crook of his arm. There would be no more tracks with a wind so great.
After the storm had passed, he built a fire, not to warm him, but that he may stare into it for answers. He stared for a long time, watching its orange flames lap hungrily at the wood. He must try again tomorrow, and pray he cut their tracks, for he did not have much time. Already the Didro rode, he was sure of it, somewhere out on the Savannah, they made their way to him and his.
He paced, pulling at his beard, and the night pressed inward. A black lonely void. The world, wide open, stretched off in every direction, and the firmament sparkled with a million stars. The army of night, which The Great One conquered every morn.
As the moon broke from its place at the edge of the earth, and climbed the sky, a wolf howled, and another answered.
Berskr’s heart jumped and he stomped out his fire. He would find his wolves.
The moon lit his path, and the going was easy. He ran off into the night each foot finding its place on solid ground. The howls guided him, growing louder, until he knew he was close. His heart beat rhythmic to the step of his stride, and the spring wind warm on his skin.
Day broke and the howls stopped, he had been close, but never caught sight. Berskr walked then, letting his legs return, and on instinct, climbed a hill spotted with thorn bush. He paid no attention as the tiny thorns tore at his legs, nor the sharp rocks that threatened to cut his feet.
Upon cresting the hill, in the early light, he found his wolves.
Below, they struggled in pitched battle with an immense lion. The lion, mane black as night, stood as a giant over his bloodied kill, and around him, the wolves circled, but only four of them, for six others already lay dead.
Berskr crouched that he might not be spotted.
The wolves worked together, lunging at the great lion in turns, one attacking as the other retreated.
One stumbled in its retreat. The lion charged, lightning quick, it tackled it with a roll, kicking up great plumes of dust, which when swept away by a faint wind, revealed him victorious, and the wolf, neck broken, hung lifeless from iron jaws.
Enraged by the death of their comrade, the last three attacked at once, and the lion whirled, a flurry of claws and teeth, as he tried to fend them off. The first, caught by the lion’s heavy paw, had his side opened wide by razor claws.
Another leapt upon the lion’s back, causing the great beast to shake and roll wildly, until free of his attacker. The wolf still dazed from the lion’s roll, tried to dart away, but the lion was upon him, and broke his back with a single blow. The lion turned his attention to the other, leaving this wolf to drag himself away by his forepaws, his back legs paralyzed.
His confederate fled the scene at a full sprint.
But the lion followed.
With long stretched strides, he covered the ground in three bounding leaps, and tore the throat from the last of the pack.
Victorious, the lion trotted back to his kill, hide red with both the blood of his own and the wolves. He dragged the carcass of the striped horse to the tree line, paying no attention to the wounded wolf dragging itself away.
Berskr slumped backwards then, for all had been lost. The lion had killed his wolves and he would not find another pack in so short a time.
The lion, struggling with its kill, disappeared at the edge of the trees, where the brush was high, and it could remain hidden from any others wishing to steal his prize.
Berskr moved not from his spot. Instead, he stayed his place until the cool of night descended upon him. Yet still he sat, refusing to accept that it was over. His hill was the very edge of the steppe, the last of the steep cliffs, and before him was the long savannah with its rolling plains.
The lion, no doubt, lounged in the tree line before him picking over his trophy. Already, the bodies of the wolves were picked at by vultures. The paralyzed wolf snarled somewhere in the night, still hanging on to life, even as the grotesque birds made passes at his living flesh.
The soft white light of the moon cast them all as dancing shadows. And as it journeyed upward, through its third gate, it bathed the savannah below in pale light, and on the horizon, some miles off, silhouetted, was the shape of men and horses.
The Didro. Had they come? Could he believe his eyes?
Berskr pushed himself to his knees, and squinted, straining against the night, that his eyes may not lie to him, but the silhouettes were gone.
Did it matter? Whether real or mirage would not the Didro come? If not now, then in a week or a month.
He must return to the village. He may still be of use to them. He must turn himself over to fate. Yet, the idea pained him, for they would be defeated.
“Other spirits do not take kindly to men,” the voice was Skullbre’s, and his words bounced Berskr’s skull, preempting the idea that formed there, the one he had not dared to acknowledge. The reason he had sat rooted to this place.
He could bind himself to the great beast below. The Lion.
“But we cannot bind you to it if it kills you,” came the words of Skullbre.
Was it not the same should he die here or at the village, would not his friends be dead, and his women and children taken into bondage? But if it worked, could he not save them all?
He tightened the leather straps on his gauntlet, and from his hip, he drew the obsidian blade, the bone handle coarse and familiar beneath his touch.
Would Skullbre go through with it?
He slipped quietly down the side of the hill, like a ghost in the moonlight.
He must try.
Lion slept. Maw clamped shut about a giant femur torn from the striped horse. His tawny hide drawn tight over rippling muscles; it quivered with every breath. His mane caked red from the blood of his battle. Full from his kill, and proud, for he was king of the land. Lion slept unaware.
Berskr had not yet decided if he would tell Skullbre of the lion. Was there any reason to hear the old wizard’s nags? Was not one binding like another?
The beast’s body was heavily scarred from many battles, and his frame larger than any he had ever seen. The animal was not just an animal, but a monster, the ruler of the vast plain.
The King.
How many men could he fight, bound to a creature such as this? If a wolf warrior was as good as fifty, surely one hundred could not stop him.
He crept down the gulch next to the tree line, out of Lion’s sight. In this way, he moved parallel to him, just on the other side of the draw.
He crawled silently, on a ghost’s hands and feet, making no noise and breaking no brush. Berskr kept the wind always at his face, grateful that it had died down to merely a breeze.
Berskr and Lion had much in common, for they were both proud, and dangerous, quick witted, their eyes set forward. Berskr crept up the side of the draw, pulling himself silently through the trees to the place where Lion slumbered.
The trees grew thick here and the brush slowed him, for it was dry and not easy to move soundlessly. He crept forward, picking his way through, and then - the breeze no longer cooled his face.
Berskr froze, and his mind screamed. A hot sweat beaded, covering him. Everything in his body demanding to flee.
He calmed his mind, steadied his shaking hand, and took courage. His nerves burned with electricity and his legs twitched with the spirit of war. But there was not yet reason to fear, for the wind had merely stopped altogether.
Then he felt it again, cooling first his neck, the slow spring breeze crawled up beneath the hair of his head, and he knew he was caught.
He charged headlong into the dark with a mighty yell, and Lion crashed through the underbrush to meet him, having been alerted by his scent.
Man and beast leapt at each other beneath ivory shadows cast from moon and trees. While Berskr was big for a man, Lion was nearly twice his size.
They met halfway, flesh against flesh, locked in combat.
Lion's claws craned for his flesh, and Berskr grappled the king’s great paws, iron tight around the lion’s limbs, but Lion was as strong as a bull, andlithe like a snake.
Berskr wavered beneath the beast’s weight, sliding backwards in the dead leaves and dry brush, the lion's breath blowing hot and rank.
Berskr’s legs bulged, back arched, and he crashed backwards into the brush, at last overpowered.
Lion leapt atop, and clawed at the man trapped beneath him, his powerful jaws snapping up air, unable to close around the man’s head.
A great paw cuffed Berskr in the head, and his world grew narrow, and a second ripped across his chest, so that a moment later, he felt a great heat in his bosom as if hot coals had been heaped upon him.
The pain in his head, his shoulders, his flayed chest, flared, feeding the fire of rage, of life, of survival, as coals stoked until red hot, and only then did Berskr strike back with furious action. In his eyes was nothing but red. Not the night, not the lion, nor the moon or the stars, just red.
He ripped his tusked forearm across the lion’s face, batting the head backwards, drawing blood, and taking with it one of the beast's eyes. With the other hand, he buried the obsidian blade deep into Lion’s mane.
The lion recoiled in pain at his missing eye, and then hit back harder, with a blood fury, that sent claws tearing flesh from shoulder.
Berskr stabbed furiously now.
Both, in a race to kill the other.
Finally, the soft, warm, copper rain of Lion’s blood fell upon his face, and each time he drew back his hand it came away hot, matted with hair and gore. At last, blood weak, the great beast collapsed atop him, and with one last violent shudder, lay still.
Berskr heaved the brute’s body off him with what remained of his strength, and carried by the spirit of war, for it had not yet left him, he lifted his face to the heavens, and gave a deep, guttural cry of victory.
By moonlight, he worked, and from Lion, he took both his heart and sprinkled it in bile, as was the way. Like this, he fed, and received the lion’s power. His spirit. In the way Skullbre had taught him, and the bile gave the meat a salty, acidic taste made all the better for the ordeal it took to obtain it.
Having finished, he took from the mighty paws, Lion’s claws, and set them in a pouch to build another gauntlet. It was then that the spirit of war left him, his knees went weak, and all the pain returned at once, lighting his whole body on fire.
Berskr staggered forward and collapsed.
Upon seeing the lion, Lech had known Berskr to be dead, for there was blood everywhere, on the trees, the brush, and soaked into the ground. The brush was broken as if a mighty funnel had touched down from the sky. Lech did not believe man could kill such a beast.
He slid off his horse and crossed to his friend’s body and lifted his head. He put his face close to the bloody mouth and felt just the slightest sign of life upon his cheek.
It could not be? He lived!
Lech tried to wake him, but Berskr did not stir, for he was nearly dead.
It took an hour to clean his wounds and when he was done, he built a fire. He set his bronze blade in the fire, waiting until it glowed. Berskr began to stir.
Berskr woke to a sword, red hot, hovering above him, and the face of Lech staring back. Then the sword plunged him back into darkness, stealing the last of his breath from his lips, and he dreamt of the underworld, great pools of sulfur, iron thrones. The giants of Asmodeus, who guarded the gates, refused to let him go.
It was but a two day’s ride from the village to the edge of the steppe, and Berskr spent the first passed out across Lech’s saddle. They camped that night by the waters of the river Kaine, when Berskr woke with a start.
Berskr’s throat too dry for words, Lech lifted the water skin to his lips. He offered Berskr jerky, but he refused violently, and Lech retracted, not wanting to open his wounds.
“You found me,” he rasped.
“Skullbre sent me. He grew worried,” Lech said, “He said you were after a wolf.”
At this Berskr’s face showed worry.
“And he will not know that I killed a lion,” Berskr said. “Not until I complete the binding.”
“But Skullbre would never bind you if he knew,”
“And that is why he must not know,” Berskr said, coughing.
Lech sat back on his haunches, and said, “It’s not good to lie to the old wizard, he is wiser than us all.”
“It is the only way,” Berskr said, his breath running out, “Promise me.” And with that Berskr was again taken in dreams of the underworld.
***
The sun hung low the following day when Lech rode to Skullbre’s lodge, Berskr still draped over the saddle. He had been taken with fever and could not stop shaking. Lech offloaded his shivering body and carried him inside.
"Was it a wolf?” Skullbre asked.
Lech nodded and looked away.
“Good, take him in there,” Skullbre said, motioning to the Place of the Sun.
Lech carried him past the beaded curtain to the great room. The Place of the Sun was larger than the front of the den, it’s mud floor finely polished and inlaid with a beautiful mosaic of colored stone, laid out in a perfect circle, and in the very center a singular wooden pole grew out of the floor and into the high conical ceiling above.
“Stop,” Skullbre said, “and strip him naked.”
Lech laid him down on the platform, in front of the Rising Sun, it was painted on the wall, a massive red sun with twelve black, jagged rays fanning out in every direction. The symbol of The Great One. The sun conquered the armies of night and gave life to everything it touched.
“And he has eaten nothing else?” Skullbre asked when he was stripped completely naked.
“He refused to eat,” Lech said.
“We must hurry then, for the spirit is still with him and we must bind it to him,” Skullbre said.
Skullbre took from a leather bag at his hip, fistfuls of a white chalk, a fine powder, and threw it in heaps over the still body of Berskr, until he was all but covered in it.
To Berskr’s lips, Skullbre lifted a bowl, brimming with a blue syrup made of the purple lotus and the poison of the red bean. He patted Berskr awake and made him drink.
Skullbre then took a pipe, and lighting it, began blowing great breaths of smoke over Berskr’s body, pausing on each pass, to chant at the image of the rising sun.
This dragged on late into the night, until Berskr began to shake, vomiting.
Gently, Skullbre tipped Berskr’s head, and transferred him to his left side, that he might not drown in it.
Berskr would strike out violently, gasping in pain, for he knew not where he was, for he relived the Lion’s life.
Skullbre continued the chants, and blew smoke over Berskr’s body, in greater and greater breaths. At last, Berskr foamed at the mouth, his whole-body vibrating.
“Tell me what you see?” Skullbre asked, his tone guttural, his voice ancient.
“A man,” came the reply, gargled and distant.
“IT IS YOU!” Skullbre exclaimed, “KILL HIM NOW!”
Berskr lashed out violently in a deep animal grunt and a snarl upon his lips.
Skullbre let out a last lungful of smoke across the great man’s chest, drawing from him a deep and primal roar.
At this, Lech cowered in fear, slipping backwards, for never had he heard a sound like that escape from the lips of a man.
Berskr shook violently one last time, and then lay still.
“It is done,” Skullbre said.
It was morning when Berskr woke, and he met Skullbre’s gaze with clear eyes. Lech was long gone.
“It is done?” Berskr asked, his voice hoarse.
“It is done,” Skullbre said, “but did you tell Lech to lie?”
Berskr pushed himself up to his elbows, the first time he had been truly conscious in three days.
“What mean you?” Berskr asked.
“You did not kill a wolf,” Skullbre said, “I know spirits and that was not a wolf!”
“It killed the wolves. The ones I hunted,” Berskr said, “A lion.”
“A lion!” Skullbre exclaimed, “You fool!”
“Do you know why we bind men to the wolf?” Skullbre asked, his eyes narrowing. “Man, and wolf are same! We hunt in packs. We hunt with our brothers. A wolf does nary wolf kill!”
“And the lion?” Berskr asked, voice crackling.
“The lion is king. He fights alone and when he comes upon you, he will not stop. He knows not who you fight for, only that he must fight, only that he must kill for he alone is mighty! By his strength does he live! Not the strength of a pack. Do you understand my words? Do you catch my meaning?” Skullbre asked.
Berskr nodded.
“I pray you have not cursed us all,” Skullbre said.
In his own den, Numa tended his wounds, and behind them Shale worked, taking care of the children.
He had six pups between them, four with Numa and two with Shale, and when the sound of their laughter reached him, he grinned stupidly, for the sound brought joy to his heart.
“Will you be ready?” Numa asked, dabbing his shoulder. She used a rank poultice, that smelled of pine and lemon, but fermented.
She had been his first wife and was quite beautiful. In times of love, her brown eyes pooled black, and in times of anger, they seemed to spark. She had a high brow, and dark, beautiful hair black like a raven’s wing.
“I have survived worse than the Didro,” Berskr said. “I will be ready.”
The fire crackled, and the flames lapped at the wood, hypnotizing him. Berskr gasped as Numa poked an open wound, and she hushed him, saying something about ‘Berskr the mighty’ and a little cut.
“How is he?” Shale asked, resting her hands on Numa’s shoulders.
“Not good enough to fight, no matter what he thinks,” Numa said.
“I will do what I have to,” Berskr replied.
“No,” Shale said, “You will do what you want to,” she said, cuffing him playfully in the back of the head.
Shale was his brother’s widow, and now his wife. She was his to care for, as was custom. When one’s brother fell it was the brother’s duty to marry his widow and defend her as one of his own.
Shale ushered each of the pups one at a time, to sit with their father. The children spoke to him of mud forts, and reed grass, snakes they had killed, and great hunts they had returned from, most often having captured naught but the mighty frog.
Cleo was his youngest. She had blonde, tussled hair, already dreaded and big blue eyes that seemed, always, to stare. She cried at the sight of his wounds, throwing small arms about his neck, in a way that said, ‘I won’t let you go.’
“Shhh, my girl,” Berskr soothed, “I will be fine.”
The girl stepped back, wide eyes saying, ‘I believe you.’
He gently wiped her tears, his hand eclipsing her tiny head.
“Go to bed, you have frogs to catch in the morning.” Berskr said.
Cleo threw her arms about his neck one more time, hugging him tight, before bouncing off.
“She still doesn’t speak?” Berskr asked when she had gone.
Numa nodded, “She perceives much, but The Great One has her tongue.”
At this Berskr smiled, and Shale having put the pups to bed, joined them by the fire.
They talked of what had occurred, and at last, Numa finished wrapping his wounds. They retired then to the great bed of animal furs, its backing board a basket weave of bones.
Numa and Shale curled up in his sides, on either side of him, giving him their warmth, but Berskr did not sleep, for he lay thinking of things that may come. Of the Didro and the lion.
For a week, Berskr slept, and ate, and his strength returned quickly, but his wounds healed slowly.
Each day he dragged himself to the river Kaine and laid in its icy waters for as long as he could stand, retreating to the shore when he could bear the cold no longer, and laid beneath the sun and its rays. He repeated this, from sun-up to sun-down, each day stealing back more of his vigor.
Sun, water, earth, these were the things that healed, but the most important was time, and this he feared he lacked the most. He gorged himself on raw eggs and fresh venison, and slowly, the color returned to his skin.
On the eighth day, Calix, his eldest son met him by the clear waters. Berskr motioned for him to sit.
“Father, let me go with you to fight the Didro?” the boy asked.
Berskr smiled, and said, “you are but still a pup, what would you do?”
“I would fight,” the boy said, matter-of-factly, “Lech has taught me many things.”
“Of that I am sure,” Berskr said. “You have your whole life to fight, now is the time to learn. Lech is a good warrior, heed his lessons.”
“I am,” the boy said solemnly.
“Besides, if I fall it is up to you to take care of the family,” Berskr said, and the boy’s face took on new concern. “This does not please you?”
“It scares me” the boy said.
“But it must be done, right?” Berskr asked.
“Yes,” Calix said.
“That is what it is to be a man,” Berskr said.
They stayed silent for a long while after that, both staring at the village below.
After a while the boy asked, “What is the world like?”
“What do you mean?” Berskr asked.
“Beyond... out there,” Calix said, pointing. “I think often of leaving here, of grand adventures, of exploring like you.”
“It is good for man to explore,” Berskr said.
“But what is out there?”
“To the North, past the mountains, are the Jomon, the people who made my sword. They are a snake cult, but honorable people. And to the west are the great cities, with even greater wickedness, walled fortresses ruled by giants. Some say they are fallen from the heavens sent to teach man all manner of knowledge, but I feel it is wicked. To the east, lies vast jungles, filled with monsters left behind from before the second expansion. And to the south are great oceans, and the cannibal hordes.”
“And what is beyond the oceans?” the boy asked.
“The edge of the earth,” Berskr said. “Others say it is round.”
“But what do you think?” the boy asked.
“The same as here, mongers and whores, witches, and kings. Is not man the same wherever he goes? Is not good, good - and evil, evil? Are not the strong, powerful – and the weak, cunning? There is much difference in the world boy, but it is all the same.”
“Someday, I shall explore it all,” the boy said solemnly.
“I’m sure you will,” Berskr said, his great hand roughing the boy's head. The Great One sank lower in the sky, painting the mountains beyond in brilliant orange flame.
It was then, that the village below burst into a flurry of action. Men ran to and fro. They armed themselves and saddled horses. The women scurried, scooping up little children, and shooing the larger ones before them.
Berskr pushed himself to his feet, groaning with the effort.
“The Didro have come?” the boy asked.
“We must hurry,” Berskr said.
The going was slow, for Berskr’s chest had not fully knit, and his shredded calf, still flamed. By the time they made it below, the village had gone silent.
A nesting fowl paused its scratching just long enough to cluck at them as they passed. The men had left, ridden out to meet the Didro, and the women had locked themselves inside their mud dens.
“Saddle my horse, boy, I will ride to catch up,” Berskr said.
The boy charged off silently.
Inside his den, Berskr grabbed his great iron sword. The weapon gifted his father by a knight of the Jomon. The blade was a rare thing indeed, for most of the Aonim lacked even bronze, and what little bronze they could afford was often only enough for the head of hatchet or a spear.
The sword’s pommel was the head of a serpent, the Jomon’s sacred symbol, and its cross-guard was inlaid with rubies. The sword, being of great beauty, had thus slain more of those who desired it than it had in defense of its master.
He turned to find Numa and Shale staring at him, his children wide eyed, stood behind them.
“You can’t go,” Numa said, as she rushed to him.
“Get back. I have no choice in the matter,” Berskr commanded. “Stay ready to flee, should I fail.”
“Will it come to that?” Shale asked.
“It may,” Berskr said. He pulled Numa close then, so the children could not overhear, taking her by the arm, and whispered to her, “Should the Didro break us, and you cannot flee, you must put the children to the sword, and then do yourselves.”
Numa nodded, for this was not the first time the Didro had raided.
“You know the evils that wait if you are captured,” Berskr said.
“I know,” Numa said.
“Promise me. I must hear you say it,” said Berskr.
“I promise,” Numa said.
With that Berskr looked to the children and said, “You must obey your mothers, for if you do not, I will know.” And with that he departed through the fur skins that hung in the doorway.
Outside, Calix stood next to two horses, already saddled.
“What is this?” Berskr asked, but he already knew.
“Father, let me go,” the boy said.
“Come then,” Berskr said, throwing himself atop the Roan. “But only to watch the battle. Should it turn, you must leave, and warn the village, lead them up the Old Rock trail, and hide them in the Cave of Many Tears.
“I will,” said the boy, his eyes shining with bright purpose.
At the edge of the village, Skullbre waited for them, holding a large leather bag for their medicine.
Berskr stopped his horse.
“I had hoped you wouldn’t go,” Skullbre said.
Berskr snorted and said, “You know me better than that old man.”
The priest dipped his hand in the bag, and withdrew it dripping red. He placed a red handprint on each quarter of Berskr’s stallion, and with each print, he spoke protection over the horse as he had for the others.
At the head of the horse, Skullbre took two red fingers and pulled them dripping across the horse's eyes. He then repeated these steps on Calix’s horse. The boy’s chest swelled ever fuller with pride.
Skullbre returned to Berskr, gripping his hand firm, and said, “Remember, no one else can be around.”
Berskr nodded, “I know, old friend.” He kicked his horse to a run, and the boy followed.
The Didro, in a vain attempt to avoid detection, had travelled by low points, where the hills would hide them. Never sky-lining themselves along ridges. They had kept to the valleys, the bottoms of gulches, and followed the deepest ravines. They worked their way through the terrain as if water.
But the Aonim had known they would come.
Lech had placed scouts that they may have warning when the Didro were upon them.
He had picked the Aonim place of attack, and picked it well, for it was at the bottom of a natural bowl with high rock walls climbing to the skies. They called it Rykl’s Wheel, for it was a crossroads of sort. The bowl sat in the center, with five shallow canyons branching from it, as spokes of a wheel.
When Berskr and the boy neared the wheel, they heard the faint sounds of raging battle.
Berskr reached out a hand and pointed to the High-Top trail that snaked its way upward, and said, “follow this to the top, and if we should be beat, or if we retreat... Ride back to the village and warn the women. Lead everyone the way I told you.”
The boy nodded and sent his horse scrambling up the steep incline.
The battle was all but lost when Berskr arrived. Lech and his remaining men had formed a tight circle, back-to-back, and eleven strong, spears held outward like the spines of a Grimshell. The others lay nearby, torn asunder by the crimson blades of the Didro.
Lech had not had enough men to hold the bowl, and although it appeared a good plan, it was only a good plan had he another twenty men.
At the top of the canyon wall, Berskr caught a glimpse of the boy.
“Good boy,” Berskr muttered.
Before him, the Didro pushed inward on Lech and his circle of men. They hacked at the spears and charged the circle with horses that they might break it, but still it held.
Berskr drew his iron sword, and gasped at its weight, pain tearing at his chest.
He cut one of his rawhide reins short, and with it, bound the sword to his hand, drawing the final knot with his teeth.
Though he could hardly walk, he could still ride well enough.
He charged then, covering the ground between the canyon’s opening and the Didro in three long strides. He plunged the roan head long into the warrior horde.
Berskr’s sword flashed as the roan plowed through the nearest horse. He slashed downward, heaving straight through the first two men, and halving them shoulder to stomach.
This first attack broke their ranks, and immediately the edge of the Didro horde turned.
Berskr wheeled the Roan back, but a Didro pikeman, seizing the moment, thrust upward into the stallion, and gutted it. Berskr’s roan tumbled with him still atop it.
He rolled free of the horse, coming to his feet as the others charged. He swung the Jomon sword in great sweeping arcs that chewed through their ranks.
A red-hot pain shot through his leg, and a Didro sword sliced his shoulder. Berskr spun away, using the motion of his body to whip the sword wide, and with bone crushing force, he slew his attacker.
Another advanced, and another fell. Two reached him, and there two fell. Then three. And then four. But for each that he cut down, another clambered forward.
He fed the iron blade its fill of blood and hacked at the charging horde.
Limbs and heads shorn clean of their bodies.
Red did run the sand, yet iron did not break beneath bronze.
Berskr dragged himself against a solitary rock formation. He used it as a turtle does its shell.
The Didro pressed inward, and he glimpsed his friends break free of the circle. They killed the few Didro that had remained focused upon them.
Berskr’s grip on the sword faltered, but the rawhide lashing held it firm, and he fought harder, that he might draw the whole of the Didro to him, and away from the retreat.
The Didro’s attacks grew frenzied, and upon seeing him bleed, they found new spirit, finding him mortal.
A silver dagger pierced his side, and he stumbled. The pain overwhelmed him, his breath heavy and ragged, soon to be gone completely.
It was then that the blue sky above, turned red, and the whole world was cut off from him, and beyond, behind a great sanguine veil, everything draped in crimson, and his limbs were no longer his own, for they belonged to another, a great animating force that gripped him, a blood rage that filled his veins, his whole being shaking beneath the power of another.
The lion upon him.
As the Didro divided to hurl themselves at Berskr, Lech’s men charged forward against the remainder, and having beat them back, Lech led them in retreat to the nearest canyon exit.
Here, Lech ordered them to return to the village, to sound the alarm and start moving who they could to safety.
“We should return and help Berskr,” Fregan said.
“No,” Lech said, “He attacked with such fury, to buy us time. But even so, he knew the battle was lost.”
“We can end it here,” Fregan said angrily.
“If we go back, the only thing we end is the village,” Lech said. “Take the men back and lead the women to safety.”
“And what of you?” Fregan said.
“I must go back,” Lech said, “For Berskr is my brother, and he will not die alone. Go now, we will buy you more time.”
With that Lech returned to the battle, stopping briefly at the edge of the canyon to make sure Fregan did not follow.
When at last he turned, he found Berskr had fought his way to a large boulder, and now atop it, fought with bestial ferocity, like that of a cornered animal. Fifty Didro corpses piled around the rock formation, so that they inhibited further attack. The last of the Didro warriors lost their footing as they stumbled over the dead.
Yet, still, the Didro threw themselves at the barbarian on the rock, but none could pull him from it. His blade too quick, it reaped them like the wheat.
At last, the remainder, ten of them, turned and fled up the canyon, and Berskr leapt from his place atop the rock to hack away at the already fallen. He seemed dazed. Confused. Caught in a war fury that would not loose its grip.
Lech ran to him.
Berskr drew back the iron sword, and its rubied cross-guard glittered.
His eyes crazed. They showed no sign of recognition.
Lech reached out a hand and said, “Bersk—” but the iron blade was already sunk deep in his stomach.
The Lion twisted the great sword within his foe, and then taking hold with two hands, ripped it out the side of him.
Lech fell.
It was morning when Berskr woke, and he lunged upward with a great gasp, already fighting. But there was no one to fight. Only the slain, who laid around him.
His head pounded, and he felt a great weakness, as if all his strength had been drained from him.
He slumped back against the rock.
Berskr picked idly at the lashing which still bound the great sword to his hand. He remembered not what had happened, only the sudden plunging of the world into inky red, a red as dark as night. The rawhide knot was impossibly tight. It had shrunken tighter when the blood had dried. At last, he gave up. His head lolled against the great boulder behind him.
The sun hung high when a voice awoke him.
“You live?” the voice said, “and you killed them all.”
Berskr lifted a hand to block out the sun, which haloed the figure’s face. He squinted. It was Fregan.
“But Lech is dead...” Fregan continued.
Upon hearing this Berskr pushed himself to his feet. He stumbled forward. Fregan pointed, and Berskr followed his direction to the body of his friend.
Lech lay dead. His face contorted in grim shock. His body mangled. He lay at an odd angle, nearly in two, just above the waist.
Berskr’s stomach knotted, and he puked as if seeing his first kill, for no Didro had ever landed such a blow.
“What’s wrong?” Fregan asked.
“I fear I have done a great evil,” Berskr said.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2…