Slater (Hengist: People of the Horse Book 4)

by Jacky Gray

  ‘What do we do with him?’ growled one of them.

  ‘Get rid of him. He can’t stay here.’

  ‘I’ll deal with this,’ said a rough voice, as its owner stepped forward. He pushed his hood back to reveal a hairy face with a gruesome scar running down from one eye to his snarling mouth. A gold pentagram around his neck glinted in the setting sun, and the milling throng took on menacing proportions. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Slater realised how alone he was.

  2 – Tauroch, the Cruel Shaman

  ‘What’s your name boy?’

  ‘Slater. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.’

  ‘Looked to me like you were finding the centre of the circle. You must be a Magi. Strange, with a name like Slater, I’d had said your father was a stonemason.’

  ‘He is. I’m an Outil, but my Magi friend gave me some clues.’ Slater held out the piece of paper, flinching as the man ripped it into pieces without looking at it.

  ‘Give me the name of this traitor who would give away the secrets of the Stonehenge temple.’

  ‘All he did was give me a few clues. I didn’t know this was the centre until you said so. Just like he didn’t tell me about the rainbow lights on the altar stone or the water circles around it; I worked them out for myself.’

  ‘You felt the water circles? Willow or Hazel? Show me your dowsing rod and I’ll believe you.’

  ‘I don’t have one, sir. I just sensed it like he taught me.’

  ‘That’s not possible. An Outil can’t dowse without a rod or wand. You’re trying my patience, boy. You must be up to mischief or you wouldn’t have greeted us by saying you were not doing wrong. Denial is the obvious sign of guilt.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was wrong for an Outil to dowse without rods or know the Magi secrets. We are encouraged to expand our minds at lehren and the professors teach us about the workings of all three clans.’

  ‘Which lehren is this? Sounds strange to me.’

  ‘Aveburgh, sir. All three clans work together as juniors and we study our own subjects as seniors.’

  ‘That’ll be Malduc with his daft ideas about bringing the clans together. It’ll never work.’

  ‘Let the lad be, Ansel. He’s doing no harm; he’s just curious about the temple like you were once.’

  ‘I reckon we need to be staking our claim right now or the Marlburgh bunch will be along. They got the centre last year if you remember.’

  Ansel didn’t look too happy at the prospect of letting his prey go without further questioning, but his companions were getting restless. Slater took the opportunity to sneak away unnoticed. He wanted to check the alignment of the four smaller gateways with the stars, but without his notes, he couldn’t remember the detail so there wasn’t a lot of point continuing. It was getting dark and his legs were stiffening after the eight-hour trek from Aveburgh. The walk would have taken less time but the others had stopped to eat and drink several times.

  Making his way over to the northern moonstone, he tried to make himself comfortable on the steep slope. His mother had insisted he bring a light cloak, which he laid on the ground – it was warm enough that he needed no cover. Curling up with his shoulder sack as a pillow, he resolved to find Carver and the others before the ceremony started. Drifting off to sleep, he could hear the sounds of the groups of people around him. As people passed close by, snatches of conversation seeped through to his sleep-fogged brain, punctuated by loud choruses of drinking songs and the occasional burst of laughter. His dreams were disturbed by strange characters all wearing black hoods and carrying large knives. They chased him in and out of the stones saying that the temple must have his blood.

  He woke in a different position to where he’d gone to sleep; he was now just in front of the bluestone circle. Except the stones seemed much larger and more widely spaced. His heart paused as his brain tried to make sense of the messages it was receiving from his eyes. Worrying solutions presented themselves for consideration: the stone circle had grown in the night or he had shrunk. Dismissing them as fancy, he decided he must have woken up in the night and moved closer to try and find his companions. Standing up, he realised the stones just looked bigger when he was lying down. He reckoned they were still the same height, about a head taller than a tall man. Not that he could confirm that, the crowds of people had disappeared.

  There was something much more concerning than the height of the bluestones and lack of people. And it wasn’t the tall figure dressed in weird clothes striding toward him, shaking a solid-looking staff and shouting angrily. The huge megalithic circle and the horse-shoe of sarsen gateways were not there. Someone had stolen them.

  ‘Knave. Name.’

  Slater didn’t understand and the confusion must have shown on his face as the man beat his paint-daubed chest with the staff. Slater’s attention was drawn to the chalky spiral designs which covered his arms and naked upper body. Growling something that sounded like ‘Tauroch,’ he pointed his staff at Slater, obviously expecting a name.

  ‘Slater, sir.’

  ‘Kenit?’ He pointed north. When Slater gave no immediate answer, he stamped the staff on the ground and said, ‘Durren.’ Swinging his staff around to include the local fields and woods, he repeated, ‘Durren’ and once more pointed the staff at Slater.

  ‘I’m an Outil sir, I come from Aveburgh.’

  ‘Kenit, yes or no?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’ Slater was going to explain he lived not far from the river Kennet, but the sour look on the man’s face when he said Kenit suggested it was bad. He spat on the ground dramatically and Slater remembered Professor Jadon saying that people did this to avert evil spirits. Good sense told him not to volunteer any more information until he had worked out what was going on.

  Raising his staff as though to strike, the man barked out the command, ‘Down.’ His action made the intention plain as he brought the staff down on Slater’s shoulders, forcing him to his knees. This apparently wasn’t enough, the pressure from the staff continued until he was lying flat on the ground with his cheek pressed into the grass. The ground trembled and Slater heard a strange rumbling, but it was faint, as though far away. He ignored it, concentrating on his immediate vicinity.

  Watching the strange antics, Slater realised the man was calling on spirits. The stamping of his bare feet and the staff alternated with kicks and whispered words as he performed an elaborate dance. A strange aroma wafted over, although Slater couldn’t tell if he had released some incense or if the smell was coming from the strange things tied to a hide belt round his waist.

  Studying the bizarre costume, Slater identified animals’ tails: red and grey from foxes or squirrels. Several were more exotic: black and white stripes, shades of brown, and one was pure white. Twigs, plants and small pouches dangled from the belt, with a couple of long bones, pierced through the knuckles and tied on with horse hair. Underneath this was a short leather kilt, the only piece of clothing he wore. Around his upper arms and below his knees, strips of leather hung with more trophies.

  The rumbling grew louder, but Slater’s vision was restricted. His attention was drawn back by a quiet jangling sound. He traced it to the array of feathers, berries and small bones tied into the man’s wild, dirty hair, kept off his face by a strip of leather round his temples. These clattered as he shook his head and spoke strange words which Slater didn’t recognise.

  One word was repeated – “So-lah” and Slater looked up to see him gesturing to the sun. Solah, the sun God; that made sense. Tauroch caught him watching and spun the staff in his direction so it crashed into the ground less than a finger’s width from his head. After that, as the man performed his shambling dance, Slater dared not move his head, trying instead to remember what Professor Jadon had called the prehistoric priests. Shamen, that was it. Ancient sorcerers whose function was to provide healing, religious advice and guidance, usually to the tribal leaders by reading the omens. Slater couldn’t tell if the omens were favourable or not a
s the stamping got closer and closer until the shaman jumped over his prostrate body, continuing the ritual with erratic movements and curious chants.

  Slater was reminded of one of the pictures in the professor’s class showing their ancestors. The man’s attire was accurate in every detail and the blunt way of talking using only names and action words was exactly how Jadon said they would talk. A breeze blew with it a snatch of some kind of chant, with a repetitive chorus. Coming from somewhere outside the henge, it sounded like one of the drinking songs some of the seniors were singing round their fires as they waited for the sun to set.

  Then it hit him – this was all some elaborate hoax his friends had arranged to frighten him. They had persuaded someone to dress up and act like one of these prehistoric shamen from the copper or bronze age – what did they call it? Neo something or other. The time when they had just discovered farming, a couple of centuries before Christ was born. That was about when the stones were put up.

  Grinning, he relaxed slightly, thinking what a grand jest it was when he caught sight of a movement out of the corner of his eye and rolled his eyes to see a flash of white. Any second now the gang would pop out of hiding and tease him for his fears. He was trying to decide whether to act scared or play it cool when another thought struck him. If it was some kind of hoax, how had they managed to move the stones? And who did they know who could act the part so convincingly, painting their body and turning their hair to dirty straw?

  A prey bird screeched overhead and he heard the flapping of wings an instant before it came into his field of vision, flying high toward the sun.

  ‘Solah speak. Knave must live.’ A new voice, with an unmistakable air of command softened by a girlish edge, came from behind him.

  ‘Knave Kenit. Knave must die.’ Tauroch stamped his staff on the ground to emphasise the words, then raised it above Slater’s head ready to smash it down on his skull.

  If this was a jest, they were taking it a bit far. If it wasn’t a jest, he was in serious trouble.

  3 – Aurala, the Sun-bride

  ‘Bird fly Solah, knave must live. Knave Aurala gift from Solah.’

  Any further discussion was halted as the chanting became loud. Slater risked turning his head to look, guessing the shaman would be distracted. What he saw filled him with awe. Around thirty large, hairy men wearing animal skins were hauling on ropes pulling a huge stone boulder across a platform of greased logs. Another twenty men were moving the logs to the front of the stone to keep a continuous smooth surface for the stone to slide on. It was the work of a few minutes to drag it past the heal stones to the edge of the ditch. It struck him then that the actual henge bank was no longer grass, it was gleaming white chalk. Before he could focus on this, his attention was drawn by a high-pitched scream.

  Everything halted as the shaman threw something from one of the pouches over the stone, intoning strange incantations to the sun-god Solah. Moving to the centre of the circle which had been cleared of grass, he fell to the earth with an intense howl. With a shuffling step, he approached one corner of the cleared space, leaping around with wild arm movements. He let loose a brief stream of urine at each corner of the intended resting place. This was obviously to bless the area, but Slater thought he looked more like a dog marking its territory.

  The silvery voice whispering, ‘Come quick,’ in his ear startled him, but Slater was easily persuaded to escape. Getting to his feet, he was rewarded by his first proper look at his saviour. She was beautiful, much younger than he expected, only a year or two older than him, but with the assurance of someone much older. The flash of white he had glimpsed earlier was a short fur tied around her waist like a shawl. According to the Professor Jadon, the white fur was significant. As well as being rare and precious, it symbolised purity for virgin brides. So she was obviously about to be married, to someone important by the look of her attire.

  Her tunic was of a fine, soft material, much better than the standard dress of the period. Slater knew that woven cloth came some time later – this was a hide which had been scraped to remove the hairs and tanned to make it thin and soft. It had probably been bleached, then dyed to the sunshine yellow colour which almost matched her hair. Even as he ran with her, his mind was analysing the clues which affirmed the hoax idea. Her name, Aurala, was too close to the word for gold and she seemed much too modern for a stone-age girl, her long straight hair shining in the sun. He could not imagine how any girl could make her hair that smooth without combs or brushes, or create such a shine without a complex blend of oils and soaps.

  Deciding to play along with the clever pantomime for a little while longer, he resolved to match their sparse speech patterns. By listening, he knew to cut out all words except nouns and verbs, the way they did. When they reached the small copse, she stopped, and he waited for her to speak first. She introduced herself in a similar manner to the shaman, putting her fist over her heart. ‘Aurala.’

  Copying the gesture, he inclined his head slightly, to show respect. ‘Slater.’

  Stamping her foot on the ground, she drew an imaginary circle with her hand which encompassed all the surrounding area. ‘Durren.’

  From what the shaman had said, and the fact that a nearby town was called Durrington, he worked out that the local area must be called Durren and the area to the north must be Kenit. It could also be that these were the names of the local tribes. Pointing vaguely to the northwest, he said ‘Aveburgh.’

  Looking at him sharply, she said, ‘Not Kenit?’ Somehow, he felt her piercing gaze could see right inside him and know if he lied. He tried to distract her with a question. ‘Why Kenit evil?’

  Crossing her arms over her chest in a gesture obviously meant to protect, she spat on the ground. ‘Kenit men slay Durren men, take Durren women.’

  ‘You’re at war with Kenit?’ The realisation made him forget the simple speech and he watched in alarm as her eyes narrowed and a guarded look which could have been fear, transformed her face. Spitting on the ground as she had, he tried to talk like a very young child. ‘Kenit very evil?’ Her expression changed to curiosity tinged with confusion as he tried again. ‘Kenit much evil? Great evil?’

  She finally understood his meaning and her tinkling laugh made him smile. ‘Slater speak wrong. Aveburgh far from Durren?’

  ‘Much far.’ He mimed the meaning by shading his eyes and looking into the distance.

  ‘Two day? Three?’

  ‘More like two million,’ he said under his breath, and then corrected himself at her sharp look. ‘Two moons.’ Watching her trying to imagine a distance which would take that long to walk, he realised he’d overdone it.

  ‘Slater walk far. Slater much great?’ He frowned, trying to understand her simple logic and she tired of waiting for an answer. ‘Why Slater come Durren?’

  ‘Pray at stone temple. Stone circle?’ He mimed praying.

  ‘Slater shaman?’ The guarded look was back on her face as she stood, preparing to flee. She was startled by a loud shriek from the temple as Tauroch obviously remembered his prey.

  The shaman shouted, ‘Slater, come’ several times in a voice much louder than his scrawny build would suggest.

  ‘Slater not shaman,’ he whispered, hoping her probing gaze was enough to convince her he was telling the truth.

  It must have been, as she took his hand, leading him further into the woods. Reaching a small clearing, she climbed a tall ash tree with a graceful speed which suggested she’d done it many times before. Leaping up after her, he followed the same path, using well-worn hand and foot holds, reaching a thick branch just below the one she was on. The foliage was thick enough to cover them below and he watched as she worried at a small twig which had caught in her tunic. Finally, she pulled at it in frustration and it came free, leaving a small tear. A blood-curdling howl made him jolt and he lost his balance, falling backward.

  Grabbing his flailing hand, Aurala pulled him up with more strength than he would have suspected from her d
elicate frame. She tugged so hard that he fell toward her and had to hold on, trying to stop himself overbalancing the other way. The momentum made his body slam hers into the tree trunk. Pulling away hastily, he was full of apology, but she anticipated this, covering his mouth with her hand to silence him. When he tried to shake his head free, she removed her hand, replacing it with her lips.

  His eyes snapped shut as he tasted the berries on her lips and breathed in the warm honey of her skin. But his first kiss only lasted an instant as the bottom of the tree was struck a blow which rang throughout his body. He froze, with all senses alert as the shaman shouted, ‘Aurala, Slater, down!’

  Parting some of the branches to peer down, Slater could see a couple of the men preparing to climb the tree.

  ‘No. Tauroch harm Slater.’ Aurala’s tone was pure defiance.

  The rage on the shaman’s face suggested that the longer they took, the more he would suffer. Slater didn’t doubt the man’s intention, nor his ability to carry out his threats.

  Aurala’s face was calm, as though the threat was of no consequence.

  As Slater wondered who would break first, the Shaman howled his frustration, and then hissed the consequences of any further disobedience.

  ‘Not come down, Tauroch slay Slater.’ When there was no answer, he issued a curt command to climb.

  Without warning, Aurala let out a piercing scream and threw herself off the branch.