How to Tell a Berserker a Terrible Truth
Telling Nighthand was harder and bleaker than facing any creature in Glimouria. Christopher would gladly have met the three-headed dog again, gladly have exploded three dozen snakes.
At first Nighthand was pure rage. He had been there to welcome the boat, accompanied by an eager and sweet-faced Teren, and by Gallia, whose fluttering wings betrayed her relief at their return.
It took Nighthand a moment to understand. He had helped Anya and Christopher from the Neverfear, ruffled Ratwin’s fur, greeted Jacques with a salute.
And then he had looked, again, to the boat, waiting for her to emerge. He had waited. And then, very slowly, he had turned to fix his eyes on Christopher. ‘Where’s Irian?’
When he had understood, it had been like watching the eruption of a volcano of lions: an explosion of molten rage.
‘Irian? Held hostage? My Irian? And you did not tell me?’ He grabbed Christopher by the shoulders and for one moment Christopher thought he might kill him.
‘Nighthand! Listen to us! They said they would kill her if we told you. Look!’ He thrust the ransom note at the Berserker. ‘Read it!’
‘I don’t care! I would have found her! If you had come straight to me!’ His voice was a roar. It shook the trees, the grass. He turned to Anya. ‘And you! We welcome you here and the first thing you do is betray me?’
Anya coloured, red to the tips of her hair.
But she stood her ground. ‘We didn’t betray you!
We did what we had to do to save Irian! You’re not the only one who loves her, Nighthand!
’ Her temper was rising to meet his, and her knuckles were white against her skin.
‘And don’t you dare talk to Christopher like that! You don’t know what he’s done!’
Nighthand was not listening. ‘And you two!’ He rounded on Jacques and Ratwin. ‘I know dragons are selfish, but, Ratwin, I expected better of you.’
‘Nighthand, you’re not being fairs!’ said Ratwin. ‘They woulds have killed her instantly! The young-ones nearly dieds in their taskings! I lost my horns-pride!’
‘Not being fair? The only woman I have ever loved – the only woman I will ever love – has been stolen from me, and you dare tell me I am not being fair?’
And then after the rage, the calm. The calm had been, if anything, more terrible.
‘I will go now to her.’ He looked like he might tear apart the world with his fists.
‘I will comes with you,’ said Ratwin. ‘To navigates.’
‘No. It says, come alone.’
‘So you are obeying their conditions, just as we did,’ said Jacques. He had not spoken since Nighthand’s outburst.
Nighthand halted. ‘Yes. I am,’ he said gruffly. ‘I apologise for what I said. Though I do not apologise for my anger.’ He looked down at Teren, and hesitated.
‘And Teren? What nows, for him?’ said Ratwin.
‘I cannot take the child. And yet I cannot leave him. I am sworn to defend him with my life.’
He hesitated: his face contorted as he looked down at the toddler. Then he bent, and spoke to Teren.
‘Teren. You are the Immortal. It is my life’s work to keep you safe. I am betraying you, and myself, in going. But this is new … Perhaps this is why Berserkers do not love. I must go to her.’ He turned to Christopher. ‘You must look after him. He is your responsibility now.’
‘Of course,’ said Christopher, and Teren smiled his wide, sparking smile. ‘Don’t worry. We have the fendthorn to protect us, remember.’
‘Trust us, Nighthand! We can look after Teren,’ said Anya.
‘Do not speak of trust.’ His face was white. ‘I must go.’ And the Berserker had run towards the house.
Christopher had expected him to take time to prepare, but Nighthand moved as if he were aflame. Less than five minutes passed before he emerged, sprinting, for the dock. The glamry blade was at his hip.
‘Will you take the Neverfear?’
‘No. The Immortal’s boat – the Ever Onward. It doesn’t need a crew, and it’s the fastest craft I’ve ever laid hands on.’
He threw a barrel of water into the boat, a map, a compass. He leaped in. ‘Take care of each other,’ he said.
There was a break in his voice. Christopher knew it, though he had never heard it in Nighthand before. It was fear.
They stood watching the boat vanish over the horizon, Anya holding Gallia cupped in her hands, Teren in Christopher’s arms.
‘I liked him more,’ said Jacques, ‘when he didn’t care about anything or anyone. He was far more relaxing.’