The blade swept down.
A voice screamed something in an alien tongue, and the sword turned to flame, and the flame licked away into the cold air. Bedivyg’s eyes widened and he screamed with shock, throwing the hilt to the ground and backing away. The men’s grip on Swiftaxe was released and the Berserker turned quickly to see the three soldiers swept back against the tall stones by the gale that attacked them.
As they were pinioned against the grey face of the rock so they began to scream in genuine terror, and watching them Swiftaxe could almost see the invisible flame that consumed them; their clothes ignited and smoked, and their flesh blackened until beneath their helmets their hair caught fire and burned. Soon they had been reduced to ashes that were cast out of the ring of stones by the wild wind, scattered across the downs among the remains of a prouder people.
There was a cry from the top of one of the standing stones and, still confused by the sudden supernatural intervention, Swiftaxe turned again to see Gryddan, the druid, tumbling to the earth, an enormous pilum probing two feet through his body.
Bedivyg, who had killed the druid as a last defiant gesture, was racing to his horse. A moment before he mounted he stopped and turned and his gaze met Swiftaxe’s, and something …
Then the Roman darted to a corpse and pulled the sword from its hand. Jumping into the saddle of his horse he screamed and kicked the beast, and began to ride hard to the south.
Swiftaxe caught and bridled one of the Roman horses. He spent a moment soothing the animal, then swung on to its back and cast a last sad glance at the crumpled form of Grydden, and the headless corpse of the girl sprawled where it had fallen, in the dark shadow of one of the smaller stones.
Then he went in pursuit of Bedivyg, giving no further thought to the old
man or the girl, though inside he could not deny the presence of an intense emotion, a sadness at the loss of their lives.
Soon, as he rode, he began to think of Aithlenn, and as he jumped a narrow stream which wound in across the downs from a greater river, he stopped his mad pursuit of his brother and for a moment let his thoughts dwell on the Hag of the Cave who had been so instrumental in his coming to within a life, a single birth, of his destiny.
He removed the ring from his finger and kissed the jade.
He whispered goodbye to the ghost of the woman he had loved as a mother.
He cast the ring into the stream.
The sound of wind died away, circled above him and vanished into the clouds. For a moment he watched the heavens, stirred by the way the rolling grey clouds suddenly bubbled with activity as if some enormous form had passed through them; and then all was peaceful again, and Aithlenn was at last gone to the place she deserved, the land of sun, where there were no shadows to remind the dead of their dark lives on earth.
He sensed what was to come.
As Bedivyg had fled the circle of stones, Swiftaxe had sensed what was in his mind … that thought so alien to the Briton as a Roman, that remnant, that memory of his childhood life that had surfaced to push aside the Roman in him, and return him, once again, to the life of the Celt that he truly was.
As Bedivyg had ridden from the scene of the massacre he had no longer been Roman. The realisation had frightened him, because in that same moment of awareness he had sensed what would now be expected of him.
He had known what he would have to do to save his honour.
And there had been nothing he could do, or would – as a Briton reborn – have wished to do.
Thus, as Swiftaxe followed his brother, he was in no great hurry; he knew that he did not risk losing the man, for the man was merely riding to the place of their meeting.
He had cast off his cloak, and the baggy cloth trousers that had kept him warm for so many days, and now he rode his grey-flanked stallion near-naked. His helmet gleamed, the stubby horns that had once contained the anima of Cernunnos shining in the daylight, catching the shifting patterns of the rolling clouds. His axe dangled from his waist and he kept one hand against its shaft to stop it slapping against the flesh of his horse. His short, Roman sword stuck cross-wise in his belt. His high fur boots were matted with mud and grass, and torn so much that they were functional only to protect
his sensitive feet from gorse and thorn. His hair hung lank from beneath the helmet. His body tensed and bristled as he thought of the consummation of life and death that was to come.
Slowly, easily, he rode on to a ridge and stared down at the river that wound through the land below.
And knew he had come to the place of his final reckoning with Bedivyg.
In the centre of the river was the branch of a tree, rammed hard into the mud and silt at the river bottom so that it stood above the flow, high and strong and proud, like the Briton that had hewn it from its trunk and implanted it there.
A Roman helmet was impaled upon the branch, and hanging from the horns of wood that probed from the tree limb were the other parts of a Roman uniform; a singlet, and a short mail shirt; a leather belt and the red cotton undergarment that so amused the women of the Celtic tribes.
Swiftaxe rode right to the bank of the river and stared at the rushing waters, cleaving around the thick branch and its burden of shame, and for a while he didn’t see Bedivyg, so intent was he on the garments in the river, and the enormous challenge that they represented.
For warriors of the Coritani, mortally offended by one of their countrymen, this was the way of challenge; it was as certain a statement of Bedivyg’s intention to kill his brother as any word, or gesture, or deed.
Swiftaxe climbed down from his horse and walked around to the animal’s muzzle to stroke and pat the beast, his thanks for its service.
The animal was sweating and restless, perhaps sensing the blood that would be spilled, perhaps reacting to the scars and scabs and running wounds on Swiftaxe’s body, marks that he was almost unaware of since they were superficial, and had been inflicted during his mania.
He saw his brother.
Bedivyg was crouched beyond the river, his sword cradled in his hand, his eyes fixed on Swiftaxe. He was naked, and very white, but the muscle and sinew of his body was taut and strong; his hair was tied back with the supple stem of an ivy branch. His eyes were narrowed and hard, and the set of his jaw told of fear, and of his own inner certainty that he would win the duel that was about to occur.
Without saying a word, Swiftaxe stripped the bridling and saddle from the horse and once more stroked its damp muzzle. Then he chased it away and the beast kicked and snorted and gave an equine thanks for its freedom before vanishing across the rise and into the land of downs and forest and wild roaming creatures.
Turning back to the river Swiftaxe was pleased to see the same expression upon his brother’s face; the freeing of the beast told Bedivyg exactly what Swiftaxe expected from the duel, and yet the man across the river was not
sufficiently smug or insensitive to smirk about it; and then again, perhaps he felt that Swiftaxe was tricking him, provoking a false sense of security within him that would take the fine edge from his sword strike.
The river gushed noisily about the branch of wood, and a group of moorhens, emitting their shrill cries, swam uncomfortably down river, past the two men who faced each other across the icy stream. Above them the grey clouds had thickened, promising rain and a storm before too long. The wind grew chill, rustling the Roman uniform that hung from the branch, whipping the green foliage of the forestlands around into noisy frenzy.
And yet it was very still, very peaceful, very natural. The noise around them was the natural noise of the world. Their only spectators were the trees and downs, the clouds and the noisy ducks and moorhens that inhabited this land of earth and stone and wood.
Once, Swiftaxe remembered, he and Bedivyg had faced each other across the sandy, bloody stage of a Roman arena, and the noise in their ears had been the bloody cries of a massive and bored populace, a crowd of civilised men and women who had wanted nothing more than blood, more blood, and the stench of agonising death.
Around them now, the chill, rustling cries of nature seemed to demand no more than honour, no more than death out of love. And both men were aware of this.
Swiftaxe stripped naked and walked into the river, wincing but not hesitating as the ice cold water made his whole body ache. Waist deep, standing by the branch, he hung his belt across the horn of the tree from which his brother’s belt hung; his cuirass he slung above the leather shirt of the Roman uniform, his axe he slung from the twig whose flimsy length bore the weight of Bedivyg’s mail.
He removed his horned helmet from his head and placed it beside the Roman helmet, inserting one of the stubby horns into the gap between helm and cheek piece of the other to help the flimsy support of the branch.
From the belt he drew the Roman sword which all those years ago he had won from the Roman who had made him betray Aithlenn and the other Hags. He put the point against his breast and gently carved through his skin, fashioning the symbols of rebirth that the girl in the Valley had taught him. He winced with pain, but stuck with the agonising task, moving the sword smoothly and firmly in the circular pattern; the shallow scratches bled and he washed his flesh in the cold water until at last the marks were raw but partly healed. Turning, he flung the blade up on to his side of the bank, then turned back to face his brother.
Bedivyg rose to his feet and drove his own sword into the ground.
He walked into the river, holding the dark flesh of his member and making a face as the cold waters bit at his most delicate parts; but as soon as he was
accustomed to the iciness he swept the river past him with his hands while wading deeper into the stream.
Waist deep he faced Swiftaxe, and the two brothers came into each other’s arms and stood there for long minutes, hugging and trying desperately to control the tears of grief and joy they would rather have shed.
Without a word, without needing to say a word, they drew apart. Bedivyg’s eyes were red and tear-stained and he splashed river water into his face. Swiftaxe reached out his arm and Bedivyg took it, the grip of friendship.
‘I regret bitterly that it has come to this,’ said the Berserker.
‘I too,’ said Bedivyg, and frowned, staring down at the waters and shaking his head. ‘In an instant, in those stones, I became myself again. Why did I kill that druid? I don’t know …’ he was confused and upset. Swiftaxe squeezed the muscles of his arm, an affectionate if painful gesture.
‘You were bitter,’ he said. ‘The mask of the Roman had slipped away, and you were momentarily bitter.’
‘And cold,’ said his brother, nodding. ‘Like now. Bitterly cold. And yet now I am warm inside. Though I must kill you, I feel love for you Caylen. By Taran, by all the gods, I am glad that I can kill you as a Coritani, and not as a Roman.’
‘I too,’ said Swiftaxe. ‘It would have distressed me greatly to have fought a mask.’
‘You’d have fought me gladly enough in the arena if your bizarre fit had not died away.’
They grinned at the memory of their time as gladiators.
‘We faced each other then,’ said Swiftaxe, ‘and knew that it was right to avoid contest. But even then, even in the days following our freedom, I wondered who would have won.’
Bedivyg agreed. ‘I wondered that too. I felt instinctively that I would have killed you, but that was part of the training. I was always faster than you, brother. But you were always stronger. I was always more cunning, but you were always more relentlessly furious. We are well matched and it will be a long fight. It will be the hidden weaknesses that will determine this contest.’
Swiftaxe said, ‘Perhaps the contest can be short and to your immediate liking.’
The grip on his arm released as Bedivyg drew back. ‘What does that mean?’ He seemed angry, puzzled, confused. ‘What do you offer? A bargain? A token? Are you a Coritanian or are you a man without honour?’
Cutting through his brother’s rising anger, Swiftaxe, feeling the cold of the river draining his strength, tried to explain. ‘I am a Briton, but I am a man cursed as you well know. Only you can help me Bedivyg, and that help I ask most earnestly.’
‘I shall help you to die, furiously and bloodily. Your death will be swift, my
brother, and honourable. But if you talk of quitting, I shall kill you for the dog that you will have become in my eyes.’
Swiftaxe backed away, feeling too cold, too despairing to think carefully or rationally. He said, ‘Bedivyg, I must carve a sign upon your body, and once that is done I shall open my breast to your sword for a killing blow to the heart. This is how it must be for my freedom, Bedivyg. Though I shall die here, I shall be reborn in a time when I may face my life in peace. If you love me, if you have even a fragment of compassion for me, grant me this way of death so I may at least ride the wild wind with my ancestors.’
Bedivyg turned, furious, and ran from the river; water, running from his white and goosefleshed body, saturated the thick body hair on his legs and buttocks.
He stood on the bank wiping the liquid from his skin and he shouted, ‘I shall kill you in the way of all Coritani. I have my own honour to think of, Caylen. I have to reinstate myself as a Briton, and I cannot tolerate any suggestion of an easy slaughter. You must fight with all your strength, and will, and determination … and then, when I kill you, I shall consume your genitals and take your strength, and your spirit, with me … I shall take them back to the valley of our home.’
He walked back to stand with his feet in the river and looked imploringly at his brother. ‘Caylen, please! You must understand that I need your death to find my own honour. You are a man of total honour, and your death will not in the slightest diminish that.’ He seemed almost in tears, his face slack and boyish, his eyes full of an earnest imploration to his brother to acknowledge his dilemma. ‘Never have you betrayed your people … our people … always you fought for their honour. I … I failed. I was weak. I took the easy way. Perhaps it was your druid friend that made this known to me as he saved your own life. Perhaps he worked a spell. I don’t know, but I do know that I must rid myself of the marks of my weakness. Caylen, help me find honour, by fighting with vengeance, so that whether I live or die, I shall be a Briton again, in spirit as well as birthright.’