With a jolt, and a drying sensation in his mouth, he realised that he stood upon the vast burial mound of some giant. He could see the overgrown kerb of stones that told, in their strange runes, of the giant’s fearsome deeds during the thousand years of his life. Down below, perhaps a mile into the valley, he could see the winding, moonlit thread of the river, narrow this far inland, and too shallow for even a long ship to have navigated. The river wound out in a great curve, and in the confines of that curve Harald sensed the scattered tumuli of a race whose exploits he was well familiar with. Again his mouth dried and he found himself sinking slowly to his knees, staring in considerable panic across the dark land that he would never, ordinarily, have dared enter.
There lay the burial ground of the Tuatha De Danann, the magic warriors of the Celtish past whose energy and spirit had spread wide, after their entry into the earth, and entered even the spirits of the Norsemen. It was long ago, of course, centuries before Odin had lost his eye, eons before the first long ship had rowed, with its deep chanting and wave-cutting swish, out into the great ocean, above the snakes of the deep, and onwards to the lands of lesser peoples.
Even as he realised where he was, the nature of the land into which he had blundered, he heard the distant drum of hoof on turf and, peering hard into the night, saw a band of riders appear as if from nowhere.
Blue-hazed they were, and their hair shone silver in the night, streaming behind them as they galloped across the mortal world in a brief venture from their dead lands beneath the great earthen mounds that contained their crumbling bones.
Naked but for richly decorated helmets, each sprouting a wide and gleaming pair of horns, the warriors rode to the river and in the moonlit night stopped to let their steeds drink the crystal waters.
As he watched they waded through the river and rode hard up the opposite ridge. When they reached the top of the rise they didn’t stop but entered the woodlands there, and for a while their shapes were flickering silver movements among the thick-trunked trees. At last they seemed to ride upon the foliage itself, upwards into the starry sky, until their silver was drowned against the silver of the full moon. Their final cry of triumph and adventure was carried by the wind away from the great cemetery and inland to the silent villages of the Celtic folk.
Nor was this the only manifestation of the ghost warriors. All during the night, as Harald felt the cold creep through even the double layer of clothing he wore, small bands of Tuatha emerged from the deep earth around their final resting places. Whooping and yelling they rode or ran across the land of their children’s children’s children, chasing the moonshadows of ancient foes, or acting out, with the all-too-audible clash of bronze sword against bronze sword, the great fights of their lifetime. Then elven folk and the lumbering trolls lived among them, in the rocks and woods, before they withdrew to nestle high in the snow mountains of Harald’s own land, emerging but rarely, and only when the gods released the lock that kept the over- and under-worlds apart from the mortal world of humans.
Towards dawn, when the night reached its darkest and the dew began to form, frosty and bitter on Harald’s clothes and hair, a wide, winged shape swooped above his head, turned and hovered for a moment, watching through fire-bright eyes, before slowly beating its way into the distance.
The shape had long since vanished when, on a second huge mound across a shallow valley, a woman’s shape became visible against that same enigmatic blue glow. A robed form with arms uplifted – Harald recognised immediately the sorceress Deirdre, and if he stopped to wonder how he had recognised her at such a vast distance, his puzzlement was briefer than a heart’s beat. He was soon scrambling down from the mound and racing across the wind-swept country, tripping across the sparse vegetation and dodging through scattered tree stumps until he found himself near to the great stone bordered tumulus where he had seen her. There he stopped for a moment.
The sun was beginning to emerge and the veil of night sped away, the sky becoming a lighter grey against which the stars found greater and greater trouble showing themselves.
The mound rose above him, grass-covered, with half the ring of carved stones hidden behind earthslip. But those that showed were decorated with the lines and circles of the ancient wizards, and Harald feared their effect should he pass them and enter the dark and narrow passage that he could see leading into the tomb.
And yet Deirdre was in that tomb, he was sure!
A terrifying thought occurred to him. What if she were a ghost, a queen of the Tuatha De Danann, resurrected and roaming abroad when she was needed to lead the kingless Celts against the forces of the northmen.
Would he enter the tomb and discover only her bones? Would he have to wait until the gods again favoured her with the breath of life before she might wander abroad and perhaps advise him on some spell or incantation with which to rid himself of Odin’s terrible curse?
He stared into the darkness, noticing where souterrains had been recently built and substantially filled in. Many of his own kind regarded this ancient land with contempt and these tombs had been ransacked for elfin treasure several times in the previous years by arrogant jarls who had always, without exception, fallen in battle with dis-honour. There would always be those who spat in the face of the past, who were contemptuous of a warrior heritage that was not their own, and who would discover that the dead were fierce in their revenge and uncompromising in their dispatch of those who had abused them.
Harald had learned, when he had first been here, a year or more before, that a people could be subdued and conquered, but the land remembered all people, memory lived on in the rocks and boulders and high earth tombs, and the sword of revenge could reach through time itself to cut down those who tried to spoil the ancient lands of long dead races.
With great respect, therefore, he advanced to the entrance of the earthen crypt and peered into its maw. Beneath the decorated lintel, the waving lines of the entrance stone seemed to ripple and shift as he looked at them, flowing as some bizarre water current through the greyness of the rock.
He drew his blade, but felt immediately uncomfortable and slipped it back into its sheath. He called down the passage, peering into the darkness, noticing that the stone walls were leaning together as if the weight of the earth above them was crushing the tunnel year by year.
He was answered by a warm wind that sighed from the tomb and warmed him to his very spirit. The warmth was inviting and he ducked his head and began to creep along the cold passage, hardly daring to touch the dank walls for fear that his fingers should brush an ancient rune and condemn him to a second darkness.
Creeping gradually forward, he soon noticed the blue glow ahead of him, and this strengthened his resolve. A few moments later he emerged into the tiny burial chamber itself and stood upright, staring at the woman who reclined there in the narrow crypt.
In the strange, blue light she looked very different from the sweaty, screaming naked warrior she had been on the beach. Clad in a flimsy, flowing white robe, which glittered blue in the light that spilled from no visible source, her body was a firm and luscious shape, spread slightly so that her secret places were in shadow and at the same time visible to Harald’s hungry eyes. Her full breasts rose as she breathed, and quivered as she restrained some growing ecstasy while she stared at the warrior above her.
In the strangely warm tomb Harald felt himself begin to sweat, the moisture trickling down inside his rough cloth clothes and making him want desperately to scratch. But he stood motionless, keeping his hands still and allowing only his eyes to rove, though they lingered often on the inviting apex of Deirdre’s plump thighs where the blue light glittered on the moisture of her own excitement. Her green eyes watched his steadily, and a half smile touched her lips as if she sensed his awareness of her willing sexuality. Harald fought to remain calm, for this was no place to manifest the fury of his kind.
Three small crypts branched from the central chamber, and from the high, flagstoned roof weap
ons of many shapes and designs hung within reach. Perhaps she kept them there and selected her blade according to the whim of the moment, or the magic that was inscribed upon the base of the blades.
Now however, the weapon she used was the softness of her eyes, and the fullness of her lips. And Harald found that weapon to be a blade he could not deflect.
‘Well Berserker,’ she said softly, her voice gentle and yet erotic, sounding full and sensuous in the confines of the rocky chamber. ‘We shall not be disturbed by the lust of war here. No Celt would dare enter the region of these tombs, and the arrogant Vikings who looted these chambers a few years ago now push up yew trees where they were struck down, begging for mercy. We are quite alone, and even the gods who control us will respect our privacy.’
‘You sense my curse,’ said Harald. ‘You recognise the spell.’
She nodded, slowly. ‘Your One-Eyed god works your muscles like a Saxon puppet. I’ve seen your kind before, the Berserker warrior-furies, but about you there is something different. For they seem to enjoy their curse, but you fight it.’
‘I wish to rid myself of it,’ said Harald, and on impulse he knelt before her, surprising her so that she sat up from the deep cow-skin bed on which she lay. The blue light spilled across her face, softening her frown to a look of pity. Circles and spirals on the walls, the magic words of great wizards, seemed to move in the blue shadows.
‘Don’t kneel before me, warrior. I’m cursed as deeply as you, and also seek deliverance.’ She smiled. ‘And my deliverance, I sense, is close at hand.’
‘Help me,’ implored Harald. ‘You have great power; I have heard of it and have seen it at work. You can turn blades to water and make the very sea suck a man to his death. How do I rid myself of this demon in my skull?’
She was immediately angry. Fire flashed in her eyes, but she calmed after a moment. ‘Are you here thinking only of yourself, then?’
Harald drew back and again let his gaze wander across her body. He felt the hot flush spread across his face and met her eyes, which at first mocked him, then invited him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I have a strong desire for …’ he found the words catching in his throat, almost embarrassed to speak of what his body wished.
‘Is this the bold and fierce Berserker?’ Deirdre laughed, reclining again. ‘He rapes women and cuts their throats, but when given the chance to love a sorceress he blushes like a youth and trembles like an autumn leaf.’
‘I …’
‘You what …?’ she prompted.
‘I’ve heard tales … stories …’
‘Ah, I see.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘You’ve heard that my kisses burn like fire, and that to enter my body is to enter the domain of wild beasts and to be consumed by the pit that you plunder.’
Harald agreed that those were indeed the stories he had heard.
‘So you have come here hoping for me to help release you, but without having to pay for that privilege. Is that right?’
Harald was puzzled. ‘Do I need to pay for your help? I have nothing worth trading …’
She sat up straight and her lips parted, her eyes dropping to where his desire stirred beneath the cloth breeks he wore. Then she started at him, urgently. ‘You have much to trade. You can trade me your body for just one hour; your manhood for just one hour; your strength and passion for just one hour; your lips on mine for just a single hour. That is the trade. That is the price of my help.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Harald, watching the lissom woman as she rose to her haunches and leaned towards him. He fought against drawing back, but the sudden fear in his eyes made her straighten and mock him with her smile.
‘What don’t you understand, my young Berserker?’
‘Why your price is such … such an easily obtainable commodity. Why me? Half the army you lead are greater men than me.’
Deirdre laughed, shook her head so that her long red hair waved about her shoulders.
‘I have waited for a special man for longer than I care to remember. My army – those men whom I led yesterday at their own request, and who have now dispensed with me – would not touch me for all the gold in the Slieve mountains. Don’t you know, young man? Haven’t you heard? My lips burn where they touch a mortal man, my womb consumes those who dare to penetrate it …’ She laughed.
‘And are they just stories?’
Harald stared at her and desired her with greater and greater urgency. How could any woman so full and voluptuous be anything but soft and draining on the consummatory bed?
‘That is my curse,’ she said softly. ‘No, not stories. Every word of it is true. Any mortal man who touches me, except in combat, is fated to die, any man who receives my kiss – any mortal man – will feel the kiss burn through him until he dies as if his body were alight.’
‘Then how can I kiss you?’ said the Berserker, finding his body growing tense as she neared him again. Suddenly, before he could react, before he could avoid her, her hands were behind his neck and her full lips were pressed against his. Her mouth opened and her tongue flickered between his teeth, prising his jaws apart, touching his tongue with the darting tip of hers, filling his mouth with her warm moistness. At the same time her body pressed against him, and even through his thick layers of clothing he could feel the firm mounds of her breasts, and the hard tips of them, pressing against his chest.
She drew away, and there was mischief in her eyes as she looked at him and laughed. He touched his lips, feeling the blood in his face pulsing and burning. But no terrible fire consumed him.
He smiled. She clapped her hands together and laughed ecstatically. ‘Then it’s true, you are cursed, and I can be free … I can be free!’
‘Why don’t I burn?’ he cried, sensing some awful truth.
She said, ‘Because you are no longer mortal. You are cursed by the Sky god, and are less than mortal, and it is a less-than-mortal who will release me from the hold of Mumaggra!’
‘I came to beg release, not to give it!’ shouted Harald, but his anger showed in no more than the raising of his voice, for the woman’s scent was strong in his nostrils and his body ached for her.
‘I can help you only to know where to look,’ she said sadly, and kissed him again, quickly, before glancing up to the weapons that hung from the corbelled roof of the chamber. ‘Among the weapons there is a dirk and a belt that was given to me …’ she broke off, looking at Harald … ‘a long time ago,’ she finished, almost sadly. ‘After the curse was laid on me I was much as you are now, searching aimlessly for release, not knowing where to go or whom to ask. A Sky Rider, one of a great race from islands beyond these lands, now dead and forgotten these last hundred generations … as he passed, on his way from sea to sky, to die and scatter his dust in the great void between the stars, he gave me the dirk, bade me wear it and ask how to start my quest for release. It is no more than a beginning, but you are welcome to that dirk, my young Berserker lover. You are more than welcome. It will not cure the curse, though, and nor can I. My spells are the simple spells of my ancient race, now lost below the grass and the earth. I come, Harald, from a time before even these great mounds were built, and it has been my fate to search for one such as you to release me from the spell I labour under.’
Quickly, then, as if time might take the words from her mind before she could speak them, she told Harald of her girlhood, and the terrible plight that had led her to wander these lands of the red-haired Celts. She came from a time when these lands and the lands of the Saxons had been joined by a vast bridge of land, and there too she had wandered, searching for one who was not mortal, who himself rode beneath a great curse, seeking escape.
In her own land, which she called Ortygia, she had consented to being love-bonded to the son of a powerful Earth Master, one of a great élite who could manipulate the raw forces of the supernatural into magic charms and life-forces that could be hidden from the eyes of a mortal man, save when he summoned them for help. Then a Sky Rider, one of a
race from above the winds, from a distant land that was incomprehensible to even the Ortygians, had captured her heart and she had run from her betrothed. For a year she had been free in the deserted but sunbaked lands that would one day become the lands of the Western Celts.
The Earth Master, seeing his son’s grief, had spent a year formulating a frightening spell, a magic bond that it was unthinkable to form, for it condemned a man (or woman) to eternal searching, and this was something that was never allowed. Even though the Earth Master, and those like him, played with time and invisible forces as gods in their own right, beneath them, in a place beyond even the supernatural world of ghosts, there existed the Dark Ones, whose angry voices were the storm winds of Ortygia; and whose pleasure was the gentle rain that fell with a sound almost like the music of the Sky Riders, music which could fill the mind with images and senses as real as being in the place imagined.
To appease the Dark Ones, the Earth Master had incorporated a release from the curse he had placed on Deirdre. He had condemned her to eternal lovelessness until a man who was less than mortal released her with his own love. Since only a man cursed in similar vein was less than mortal, and since such curses were virtually intolerable to consider, let alone cast, it seemed to the Earth Master that he was binding the faithless Deirdre to an eternity of isolation, and this had well pleased him.
Her Sky Rider lover was not immune from the burning, consuming effect of her body and he died in agony while she cowered in the corner of their tent and screamed, wondering what had occurred.
And thus for all her life she had searched for a man who had been cursed by one of the supernatural descendants of the Ortygian creations beyond that veil of reality.
Harald was one such, and she felt that at last she could swim the time winds to find her Sky Rider again.
‘The Sky Riders,’ murmured the Berserker in the blue light of the chamber. Deirdre stared at him, her green eyes shining with new-found hope, her body shaking and moist, perhaps with the effort of remembering her long forgotten past, perhaps with the closeness of the man who could release her from her spell. ‘Where are they now?’