Berserk: The Novel
Book One:
The Black Swordsman
– – – – –
Chapter One
Take heed, struggler.
Struggle. Endure. Contend. For that alone is the sword of one who defies death.
The brand burned, as always.
Lately, the dull tingling had risen to a sharp prickling, like hot knives poking at the back of Guts' neck. The more the pain grew, the more Guts relished in it; it meant he was getting closer. He could nearly taste it in the cool, morning air: the rush of nervous excitement that came with the hunt.
At long last Helden came into view over the patchwork of rugged hills ahead. Tufts of half-dead grass were scattered on their slopes, with here and there a gnarled tree, skeletal branches twisted skyward. Travelers dotted the narrow, dirt pathway to Helden's outer wall; Guts could see slanting roofs poking above its crenellated top. Beyond, the inner wall stood higher still, gray-green moss scattered across its face, bulky towers jutting out on each corner. The citadel fortress gleamed in the sun above it all: a marble monstrosity that loomed over the entire valley.
The sickly smell of rotting wood clung to Guts' nostrils as he jostled folk out of his way and strode through the yawning archway in the outer wall. The town's cobbled streets were jam-packed with people rushing about: lone travelers carried sacks over their shoulders; families huddled together; merchants drove wagons stuffed with goods. The lot of 'em were wrapped in tattered clothes, eyes fixed on the ground ahead.
A cage-on-wheels came rumbling the other way, surrounded by men-at-arms that looked ready to throttle anyone who crept too close. Inside were children and mothers with babes, hunched down on heaps of straw, peering out. Guts locked eyes with a young boy whose gaunt face was smeared with dirt, skin stretched tight over his rib-cage. The boy seemed dead already; he stared blankly at Guts like he wasn't even there.
Dark times, these were. Guts was no stranger to dark work himself.
Just behind the cage-on-wheels came a man on horseback, clad in shining armor. The cap on his feathered helm was up, revealing a large, drooping mustache under an even larger nose. His gaze swept the crowd about him; the man had a stoic look etched on his face, as if he was all the world's glory writ man. Truly the world's finest shits, knights.
Guts ducked into the nearest tavern he could find, passed a few coins to the barkeep, and plopped down at a shoddy wooden table. He attacked a bowl of creamy, roast-beef stew like an animal when it was set down in front of him, taking long swallows of mead with every spare breath. Dry and sharp, with a nice kick, just the way he liked it.
Soon he felt a buzz washing over him like a warm blanket. These days it was a rare thing for Guts to sleep more than a few hours, let alone feast on good meat and mead. It reminded him of fuzzy, long-ago nights spent around campfires with Judeau and Corkus. A sudden spasm of fury wound its way through his chest.
"Stop squirming around!" came a loud voice. "How'm I supposed to hit you?"
Guts was jarred back to the present. The pounding in his head slowed as the memories faded.
He ground his teeth together and turned around in his chair. Across the tavern, a great bear of a man was shouting at a bug tied to the far wall by a length of rope. It zipped back and forth in the air, trying to free itself and screeching its little head off.
Bearman was bald on the top of his head and on the butt of his triple-chin, but he had a thick mustache and sideburns, with tassels of dark hair sprouting from the sides of his head. A slender man with ugly bangs sat grinning next to him, a longsword laid across his lap. Their table was surrounded by a few more thugs in odd bits of armor.
"I feel bad for that elf," muttered a grubby man sitting a few tables down.
"There's nothing we can do about it," said the man beside him. His side-profile was right in Guts' line of view; he had a long, hooked nose, his whole face covered in boils and pimples.
Behind him, Bearman raised a throwing knife. "Here comes another one!" The knife zipped towards the wall, and the bug zoomed out of its way by a hair.
"Not even the lord mayor can lay a hand on the men of Koka Castle," said Hooknose. "Best not to get involved."
Koka Castle, eh?
The boiling anger in Guts' chest had simmered; in its place a cold feeling crept up like frost on glass, kneading its fingers through his gut. He stood up and sauntered over to the bar, slapped a coin down on the counter in front of the barkeep.
"I'm gonna mess up your shop a bit."
"Huh?" The stocky man stood there dumbfounded, jowls trembling.
Guts ignored him. He turned, raised his iron arm, and aimed the auto-bow attached to it directly at Bearman's ugly, bald head. The bow looked like a crossbow with a skinny wooden box jammed into it, a handle mechanism built into its side.
"Bring it on, fathead!" came a shriek from across the room. The tiny bug zipped around on its leash, squirming and struggling against the rope. "Why don'tcha untie me? I'll gnaw right through your arteries!"
Bearman and his goons chuckled. "I'm gonna stuff those words right back down your throat. Now stop wigglin'!" He hoisted up another knife.
That's when the bolt took him right in the side of the head, punched clean through his skull, and slammed him into a nearby wooden beam. The big man gave a wet squeal. His head was pinned tight to the beam, black blood pouring from him like a fountain. More spilled from his mouth and ran down his chin; his squeals turned to bubbling gurgles.
"What the–"
"Igor!"
Bearman's thugs spun round to face Guts, springing up and drawing their steel all at once. Three of 'em were about five strides away – a brute-faced man with a mop of greasy hair; the slender, bony-faced man with the ugly bangs; and a short, squat man, face hidden under a steel cap.
"Bastard! Who the hell–"
Guts snatched the handle on the auto-bow and turned it in a circle, fast – away, down, back and up, again and again.
Arrows flew from their slits inside the wooden box, several impaling Bruteface right in his brute face. One shot through his open mouth mid-sentence and out the back of his throat. Steelcap got an arrow through his visor slit – and right into his eye, Guts hoped. Both of them dropped to the floor.
Between them, Bonyface Bangs stood untouched, sword held fast in a white-knuckled grip. Guts pulled the lever on the back of the auto-bow and more arrows dropped into the box. He gave the ugly bastard a dead-eyed stare, cheeks flush with liquor, gut terrible cold with fury.
Bangs didn't seem eager to use the sharp metal clutched in his paws, so Guts made the decision for him. He spun the handle once, fast-like, just as the man turned his shoulder sideways in a defensive stance. The bolt pierced the bridge of his nose, sunk in deep with a sickening thud. He cried out in pain and fell to his knees.
Guts came forward slowly, almost carelessly, at ease. His cloak brushed the wooden boards behind him as he strode, the slap, slap of his boots on the floor.
The arrow hadn't gone all the way through Bonyface's nose – leaving six inches of shaft for Guts to snatch hold of and jerk around. The man gave a strangled cry.
Boo-fuckin-hoo. Guts got up real close, right in his face.
"You're one of the thugs from Koka Castle, aren't you?"
The man grunted. Not nearly the answer Guts was looking for. He drove the shaft down with sudden, furious strength, lodging the arrowhead into a tabletop – with Bonyface's nose very much still attached.
Guts leaned down, whispered in his ear, "Answer me."
The man had tears streaming down his cheeks now, dripping on the wood and into the puddle of black blood from his nose.
"Yes. . . Sir. . ."
"Alright, then," said Guts. He flicked the fletching and it bounced back and forth, vibrating. "I suppose you could deliver a message to your boss for me?"
"Wha-what message?"
"The Black Swordsman has come," he said. "That's all."
Bonyface's face went slack. With fear. Guts could smell it on him.
"Behind you!" came the bug's high, squeaky voice.
Guts rose, spun, reached over his shoulder and drew the Dragonslayer in one smooth motion.
"Uh?" the man managed to croak before Guts' swing cleaved through his sword arm, down into his ribcage and out his other hip. His arm and torso spun through the air, spraying blood, guts, and gore all over unsuspecting drunkards. The man's blade clattered to the floorboards along with his severed legs.
Every drunken bum in that run-down tavern had the same look on their face. It was easy to tell the same thing was on each of their minds. Even the bug hovered in mid-air, stupefied, spiky blue hair sprouting from its head. Indeed, every living thing that laid eyes on the Dragonslayer tended to think the very same thought:
What in God's name is that? It's much too big to be a sword. Massive, thick, heavy, and far too rough. Like a heap of raw iron.
Guts gave Bonyface-Bangs a sideways glance as he strode past. "I'm counting on you."
– – – – –
The crazy, violent, self-proclaimed "Black Swordsman" turned and stalked towards the tavern door.
Puck wriggled against the rope that bound him to the wall, for the hundredth time. Why couldn't fairies magic their way out of ropes or cages? It made no sense to have wondrous magical powers if you couldn't use them when you needed to. Puck decided he'd bring that up with the Flower Storm Monarch the next time he saw her.
"Excuse me! Hey!" he called after the gloomy, giant-sword-wielding man. "Wait a second! Don't leave me here!" The cuckoo killer kept going like he hadn't heard, out the door.
"Aw, man!" cursed Puck. He strained against the tight rope around his neck.
Thankfully, some humans still realized that fairies deserved their never-ending love and admiration. A kindly old man came up and snipped the loop around Puck's neck with a knife, setting him free. Puck kissed him on the forehead, thanked him, did a quick dance around his head in the air and zoomed out the door.
Puck caught up to the Black Swordsman around the corner after flying under two crumbling archways covered in gray moss, carved with patterns that had long since faded.
This guy was not playing around – he took long strides, fast and filled with purpose. His long, ragged black cloak trailed behind him on the cobbled road. The giant hunk of metal was slung across his back, the pommel reaching above his spiky black hair and the tip of the blade nearly scraping the ground.
"Hey, wait up!" Puck called after him. He flew underneath another archway, flitting around the Black Swordsman as the man stormed on at hell-bent speed.
"Listen, if you're gonna save someone, don't just leave 'em tied up like that," scolded Puck. "You're supposed to follow through to the end, y'know!" He flew in close, grazed his fingers over the pommel of the great sword. It was rough steel, shaped sort of like an acorn, Puck thought.
"Say, that's quite a sword y'got there," he told the scary man, with the gracious kindness he was famously known for. "Or should I call it a slab?"
Nothing but silence.
The Black Swordsman marched on like there was no beautiful fairy blessing him with his presence, like he couldn't even hear Puck talking.
Puck noticed the man had a bunch of funny lines on his face. One on each cheek – short, red and scabbed on the side closest to him; long, brown and smooth on the other. And an itty-bitty one on the bridge of his nose, as if he'd been sliced like an apple.
Man oh man, Puck would love a nice, juicy apple. Preferably a big red one.
The silent man also kept his right eye closed for some reason. Funny, that. If Puck were him, he'd use both his eyes.
"Oh, yeah. I'm Puck. Nice to meetcha."
Again, the Swordsman said nothing, but Puck was sure the grumpy human wouldn't mind hearing all about his wonderful adventures and perilous misfortunes. After all, who would?
"Y'see, I was in a troupe of travelling performers, but we were attacked by those bums. Since then I've been locked up in a Mynah Bird's cage and soaked in a wine bottle. It's a wonder I'm still alive, that's for sure!
"The town was also attacked a number of times, but the lord mayor made a deal with the thugs. In exchange for tribute, they promised they'd leave the town free and there'd be no more raids. But after this, I guess they'll start attacking again."
The Black Swordsman's face remained a blank slate, but Puck could sense the rage and disgust churning inside the man; it felt like a dark, heavy weight on Puck's chest.
"Y'know, if I were you," he told the Swordsman, "I'd get outta town fast. I mean, if they catch you, they'll cut you to pieces." Puck frowned. Now that he thought about it, they might cut him to pieces as well. That was not alright, Puck decided. That just wouldn't do.
He flew in a little closer and hovered over the man's shoulder, setting a foot down on his pauldron. "And it's not just the thugs either," he continued. "Now that the lord mayor has a pact with them, even the town guards will–"
Sharp pain shot up Puck's arse, and he jumped, squealing. The Swordsman had spanked him! And hard, too! The nerve of some humans!
"Owww!" he screeched. "What'd you do that for?"
"Don't touch me," the man grunted, side-eyeing Puck coldly. "I'll squash you."
"What!" cried Puck. Outrageous, ungrateful, despicable humans.
"What is it with you? A person shows you a little concern and you respond with that stuck-up attitude of yours!" Puck crossed his arms, preparing to scold the worthless human a great deal more – but he was cut off short.
An endless conglomerate of armored men had formed up in the street, surrounding the two of them while they had argued. Some of them held crossbows and bow-and-arrows pointed at the Black Swordsman. Plenty of others clutched heavy, sharp steel in their fists.
Puck gulped down a shriek. He decided this was a fitting segway into his next lecture point: "See, I told ya so. Well. . . I gotta go."
He stuck his tongue out at the Swordsman and twirled up into the sky, rising among the marble towers of the palace, leaving the rude human to his fate.