Warriors of Camlann by N. M. Browne Page B

Duke of Britannia, and I believe that you are the Bear Sark of legend.’
    Dan did not know how to respond to that, but sat awkwardly on the couch as if it were a sofa. He took the wine offered to him by a young servant boy in a homespun tunic, and sipped it. It was strong. He dare not drink more. He needed what remained of his wits.
    â€˜I’m not sure what you mean.’
    Medraut laughed abruptly. ‘You are not alone in that. According to the Druid, our merlin-man, you fight like a demon from the very bowels of hell and are exactly what we need to help our cause.’ His tone was mocking.
    Dan said nothing, being uncomfortably aware, for the first time, of the silent audience of men observing him from the furthest walls of the chamber. It was a very large hall and the domestic nature of the arranged couches had misled him from its public function. It was a kind of audience chamber and any impression of intimacy was illusory; all that was done here was done for display. That thought did not make him any more comfortable.
    â€˜Are you the Bear Sark that the Druid has told us so much about?’
    Arturus looked at him with piercing blue eyes that seemed older and more harrowed than his youthful demeanour suggested. Dan felt compelled to honesty.
    â€˜I was the Bear Sark, yes, but …’ He paused, aware of how strange his words would seem. ‘But, I do not think I am that person now.’
    There was another loud guffaw from Medraut who spoke rapidly to Arturus in the language of the Carvetii. ‘See, I told you. He is a fraud and a weakling – the Druid plays a game of his own. I don’t know why you trust him.’
    Dan wondered if the assembled men could understand Medraut’s rapid Carvettian, or had he changed languages only to keep his thought from Dan? In the same tongue, Dan replied, ‘I may be a weakling, but I am no fraud. I was called the Bear Sark before, when I fought for King Macsen …’ He paused, not knowing how to explain the gulf between that place and this. He understood now what Ursula had known at once at an almost cellular level: this was not Macsen’s world and they were not what they had once been. ‘I don’t know what you have been told about me but I’m not sure I am what you need. Anyway, I can’t stay here. I have to help my friend who is in trouble.’
    â€˜The Boar Skull?’
    If Arturus had been surprised by Dan’s grasp of the tribal language he did not show it, his tone was measured, calm.
    â€˜Yes, the Boar Skull.’
    Medraut murmured to Arturus, ‘I don’t like it. We should not trust this man.’
    â€˜But what if he is the Bear Sark? To have such a figure with us would surely inspire the men. We would befools to throw away such a prize! And then there is the prophecy …’ Arturus speaking in little more than a whisper glanced appraisingly at the waiting men, who were fidgeting slightly as they watched the scene played out. ‘And morale is not all it might be, since the High King Ambrosius died,’ he added in a harder undertone.
    Medraut smiled his twisted smile again.
    â€˜There is only one thing to do! He has to fight. If he is the Bear Sark he will prove himself in battle; if he is not, then we will quickly be rid of him.’
    Medraut’s voice was cold and firm. Dan felt the sinking sensation in his gut that was a precursor to real fear. He never wanted to fight again. In the moment that his recognition of Taliesin had opened the floodgates of all his memories he had realised one thing. He was no longer a berserker. He was sane and whole and could not lose himself in the wild killing frenzy that had earned him his name. Now he was himself again, Dan, he did not think he could fight without it.

Chapter Eight
    Six soldiers in variations on Roman military dress escorted Dan to the barracks training ground. He was not under arrest, for Arturus smoothly assured him