Ardhu’s face paled beneath his tan. The last few years had seen poor crops and rain, endless grey skies that brooded like his dark night-time dreams. On the last feast of Bhel there had been no glorious Sunset; the snow had fallen so heavily and the night had been so dismal that some believed Bhel was truly dead and would never rise again. And in the summer past, at Midsummer, the rain had fallen in sullen sheets until there were puddles circling the feet of all the stones in Khor Ghor, reflecting the worried faces of the Merlin and his priests. Word had come from the moors of the far West that the rain had been so severe many farms had been washed away, and the soil was ruined forever for the planting of crops. People began to abandon what had once been rich, fertile uplands, and headed for the valleys and coasts, leaving settlements, stone rows and temples to decay in the incessant rain.
Pelahan noticed Ardhu’s expression and smirked, his teeth rigid as standing stones through curtains of livid flesh. “I knew it had come here too.”
An’kelet tossed his head angrily. “Still, what has it to do with Ardhu? There have always been bad years; that is the way of things!”
“But the King is the land, and the land is the King,” Pelahan whispered. “One fails, so does the other. This blight must be dealt… otherwise, it will not be just the Maimed King’s domain that is the Wasteland, but all of Prydn. And when the Land is weak, and under a cloud of shadow, then, too, will the enemies from the coasts come in their darting ships, like serpents of the seas.”
“Ardhu, I do not like this wheedling, ill-visaged creature,” said An’kelet. “Send him forth and let us burn the evil burden he drags with him!”
Ardhu Pendraec held up Rhon-gom and shook his head. “Peace, my brother. We cannot do that, as much as my heart tells me to. We must hold counsel with the Merlin at Khor Ghor; we must call the men to join in the Round and decide the best course of action. For all I shudder at the sight of this stranger, I fear there may be truth in his words. I have grown a better judge of men as my years have increased and do not feel that he means us harm, unsavoury though his aspect may be.”
An’kelet sighed and clutched the Balugaisa tighter in his fist. “It will be as you say, lord. You are the Stone Lord, chief of chiefs of Prydn.”
*****
The men of Ardhu’s warband gathered in the Stones the next day, his most loyal men through the long years. Foremost amongst them — Hwalchmai, still youthful and handsome; Ka’hai with his face creased in its usual concerned expression; Bohrs who was round as a barrel but strong as an ox; horsemaned Per-Adur whose haughty mien had long been tempered; Betu’or the ever-faithful, quiet and serious; the twins Ba-lin and Bal-ahn, still as one soul… they had even married sisters so alike were they in temperament. Walking at the right-hand of his chief and friend Ardhu, An’kelet led them, an imposing figure wearing a gold headband and a long dyed wool tunic with toggles of jet bound in copper wire.
Ardhu himself carried his shield Wyngurthachar, the Face of Evening, and wore his bronze helm that blazed like the Sun amidst the sombre stones. The breastplate of Heaven gleamed on his leather jerkin amidst its patterning of conical golden studs, and from his shoulders streamed a cloak wrought of a rare sky-blue cloth which had come from far beyond the Isles, beyond even the Narrow Sea and the Middle Lands where Rhin and Rhon flowed, beckoning traders and adventurers—a gift of remembrance and thanks from Prince Palomides of the distant isle of Delos, who had been freed from slavery by Ardhu in his first battle by the Glein.
Merlin stood in the heart of the circle, staff in hand. He looked not only old but weary, as if he seldom slept, and many in the company noted that his staff was not solely for use in his magics, but needed for support. The hands clutching the worn ash-wood were gnarled and rimed with bumps—the painful, inflammatory bone-bend that afflicted most of the tribesfolk as they aged.
“My men, I call you, after many years, to accompany me on a quest.” Ardhu took a deep breath. “If it is not considered too ill-starred by the mighty Merlin.” He glanced towards his ancient mentor, silent in the shadow of the Stone of Adoration. “It is not, I deem, a quest of arms, but one of strangeness—evil magic might be afoot in lands beyond Kham-El-Ard. You have all seen the foul wain that has been driven to our gates, and its accursed master, who comes from a place in the East known as the Wasteland.”
The men murmured; some were restless, especially the younger ones that were relatively new to the warband. They had heard of the deeds of years gone by—the Thirteen battles of Ardhu, beginning by the river Glein and ending under the bleak shadow of Mineth Beddun, the mountain of Graves, where he had shaved the beard of the evil giant Rhyttah and defeated T’orc, the otherworldly boar. They longed to do high deeds themselves… but magic was something to be avoided. That realm was for the shaman, the priests and priestesses, the wisemen and women, even, to a lesser extent, the singers-of-songs. It was not for doughty men whose trust was in good bronze, well-shaped stone, and barbed arrows.
Merlin emerged from the long shadow of the greenish block that was the heart of Khor Ghor. His eyes were black beads rimmed with red; he had been consuming many herbs and mushrooms that would bring him into communion with the spirit world. In his shaking hand he held up his seeing stone of quartz. “Yes, it is time for men to journey across Prydn and even beyond, finding that which all men seek to stave off the blight that comes to our lands.”
“And what blight is that?” puffed Bohrs, folding huge arms covered in twisted tattoos. He had grown nearly as wide as he was tall in his older years, his beard hanging down to his waist and plaited into the woven girdle that encompassed his large belly. “Let me know who threatens the great peace brought by the Lord Ardhu and I will go forth and strike his head with my axe, the Foe-Smiter!” He fingered the large dolerite axe, its haft tied with bright strips of beaded wool, which hung at his side.
“It is not men… at least not yet.” Merlin’s eyes were hooded. “Though they will come in the end, sniffing at our doors like hungry wolves. It is time itself that brings us ill, as time always does… and ending to all things fair and foul. However, we can attempt to hold evil at bay for a while.”
“How? We cannot turn back time,” said An’kelet solemnly from his position beside his lord. “Every man grows old be he chief or farmer. The only ones who never age further are the blessed dead.”
“To fall before the wrath of time is indeed the doom of men,” continued Merlin. “But it must not happen before we can ensure the endurance of the peace that Ardhu has wrought. Many years of prosperity have we enjoyed, and if it is to remain so down the long ages, we must buy some more time… but change is coming, I know that, I have seen it…” He stumbled suddenly, eyes rolling, sweat glossing his brow. He leaned against a dark, spotted bluestone, hugging it like a brother. “The Dark Moon… comes… a time of betrayal, many betrayals. The cycle of Lady Moon reaches its end, but it is also the termination of a cycle of three, a holy number of fifty six years mirrored in the shaft-pits around Khor Ghor where the most blessed and ancient Ancestors lie, looking to the Moon. Change is coming. Death is coming. The Wasteland will spread from east to west, but the Chalice of Gold will bring it back… for a while. The lamb will fall to the serpent’s venom and men will sorrow, but his sacrifice will reap the weakness in our mightiest foes.”
Merlin coughed and pitched forward, hand clutching his throat, the power of his prophecy sapping his strength. Saliva that was black from the herbs he had been chewing bubbled on his lips; his limbs shook as if with ague. Froth appeared at the corners of his mouth. “Hwalchmai, Per-Adur!” Ardhu raced to the old man, catching him as he reeled and went to fall. “He is ill; this affliction assails him often these days… he is so old now, older than most men ever live… the strain of his knowledge is too much, the spirits seek to take him for theirs. You have healing arts, learned in these years of peace; use them now and then let us get him to Deroweth where even more skilled priest-healers will tend him. Once he is settled, we will heed
his words and ride for the Wasteland and whatever fate awaits us.”
*****
Hwalchmai and Per-Adur, both of whom had learned healing skills at Merlin’s own hearth, set about making the old man comfortable, turning him on his side and taking care he did not choke on his own tongue. A crude bier was made from twined skin cloaks, and the company of Ardhu Pendraec bore the ailing shaman to the sacred holding of Deroweth, with its timber cult houses, circular enclosure and metalled pathway that led to the flowing waters of the Holy River, Abona. The temple Woodenheart stood nigh to the side of the Great Henge, ringed by a shallow bank and ditch of its own, a forest of leafless trees guarded by several grey stones like warning fingers.
Ardhu was struck by the silence of the place as he entered the settlement bearing Merlin’s limp form on its makeshift bier. Grass sprouted on top of the bank of the henge, marring its stark bone-whiteness, and thin beards of moss dangled from the lintels of Woodenheart, rustling as the chill wind blew. Some of the houses clustered around the site were falling into ruin, uninhabitable, their roofs patched with holes. Burial places had appeared on the periphery, ominous and oppressive, the dead encroaching on the living.
Ardhu shivered, and it wasn’t just from the bite of the north-easterly wind. When had this decline begun? He could hardly remember. The festivals of his youth had seen so bright and vibrant… but now not so many came at Midwinter to feast on the young pigs and greet the re-born disc of Bhel Sunface. Men were busy in their own lands—settlements and farming had spread; fewer men herded, and fewer folk wanted to make the long journey on foot from across the Five Cantrevs and beyond.
Merlin was carried to his hut, the dwelling of the High Priest, which was situated on a slope that gave it prominence above the other houses. Two smaller thatched huts stood beside it, where food was cooked to feed the master of the central home. A semi-circular ditch open at the front ran around the dwelling, and a stout trilithon of wood reared up before the door, symbol of the power of its inhabitant.
Seeing Ardhu and the burden he carried brought the priests of Deroweth running from their cult-houses, pale with concern, chanting and burning incense in rounded cups to chase bad spirits away. The mightiest among them laid Merlin down within his hut, laving his face with water that had been poured over the holy ancestor-stones of Khor Ghor and then saved in dark pottery bowls that had been plugged by resins.
After what seemed a long while, the old man coughed and opened bleary eyes. He spat on the floor and struggled to sit up. “What are you all staring at?” he snapped, glaring at Ardhu who crouched beside his pallet, watching him. “What is this… a festival? Get you gone, Ardhu, and seek the Wasteland before its plague and famine comes to our door.”
“So you will live then, Merlin.” The corner of Ardhu’s mouth twitching upwards, though his tone remained serious. “You will live to rebuke me one more day!”
“If I do not live to kick you into action, then my spirit will surely chase you down the long ages,” rasped Merlin, eyes narrowing. “Now go!”
*****
The wind whispered in the eaves of Kham-El-Ard as Ardhu made preparations to leave, ordering serving-men to pack food and skins and clean the edges of his weapons, Caladvolc and Carnwennan. Its sad soughing came hard to his ears, bringing memories of youthful days and happier times before the ravages of age and the wear of life had started taking toll on most of those he loved well. He felt his own back spasm, low in the lumbar spine, and bit back a rueful groan. Weakness could not be seen. Not even among his own loyal band. There was always someone who might turn, sensing weakness, like a wolf…
“We don’t need to all go to the Wasteland,” he announced to his gathered warriors, who sat in a circle in the Hall, discussing all that had happened that day. “A few blades should be enough; I do not think this will be a battle of arms.”
Bohrs harrumphed and folded his arms over his great girth. “Not arms? Then what? Sorcery? That needs more swords, Ardhu, not fewer.”
Ardhu shook his head emphatically. “No. It won’t be that kind of fight. If it is a fight at all.” His gaze raked over his men, taking in the glint of silver in hair and beards, the lines drawn on once youthful faces. There were new, younger men in the band of course, replacing those who died or were maimed in accident or conflict, but could they be wholly trusted, as he trusted his original band? He did not know; their loyalty had never been put to the test.
“Hwalchmai.” He glanced at his cousin, who had defeated and taken the head of the fearsome Green Man of Lud’s Hole. “Will you come?”
Hwalchmai rubbed his chin in thought, then nodded slowly. He had gone off adventuring on his own each spring and returned in the autumn for near on ten Sun-turnings, ever since his wife Rhagnell had died in childbirth. It was as if he could not abide to stay long at Kham-El-Ard with the bitter memories of Rhagnell, who was taken, along with her infant, near the Summer Solstice, although women loved his still-handsome face, and he had many lovers and children throughout the western villages.
“And you Bohrs?” Ardhu nodded toward the big man. “You may not have need to use your axe in this quest, my doughty friend, but I would gladly have it ready for service should the need arise.”
“I am pleased at the thought of that, lord.” A grin split Bohrs’ face. “By the Everlasting Sky, I have been idle too long! I need to shift some of this…” He slapped his belly with his big thick hands, making his paunch shake and the younger members of the household laugh.
Hearing the laughter, Ardhu smiled ruefully. Twenty years ago no one would have dared laugh at Bohrs, a warrior as fierce as the wild boar of the woods. Now, to them, he was just fat, blustering Bohrs, a figure of fun to the upcoming warriors of the West who were not old enough to have known his reputation first-hand. Time was the doom of men; turning firm muscle to jelly and strong hands to quavering sticks, and making high deeds recede into the stuff of legend…
Turning from Bohrs, Ardhu nodded toward Per-Adur. “And you my friend...over the recent years your fame has grown not as a warrior, but as a healer. Where once your hand brought death, now it brings life. If this Maimed King needs one to attend to his wounded flesh, I deem that man should be you.”
Per-Adur bowed. “I am grateful. I would like one last quest in foreign lands. I would heal this foreign king… but also, if need came, I would fight for you, as before.”
“And what of me, Ardhu… lord?” An’kelet cleared his throat; his voice was strange, low and oddly reticent. “Do you require my presence on this journey?”
Ardhu gazed at his right-hand man, standing a head taller than most of the other warriors, still golden-bronze as in his youth but dimmed slightly, a hazy dusty bronze like the sun fading into the West at the end of a long, hot summer’s day. An’kelet was staring at the ground, avoiding Ardhu’s gaze. He does not want to come with me! Ardhu thought with a flash of surprised annoyance. He had imagined they would ride out together, as in the days of their youth.
“I would not force you,” he said, somewhat coldly. “There are others who would be glad to join me.”
An’kelet glanced up and Ardhu was surprised, again, to see that he looked relieved, almost glad. “Ardhu, friend, I give you my thanks. I have no stomach for riding out on such journeys. Not any more. I will stay at Kham-El-Ard and guard your holdings… and your Queen.” He glanced over his shoulder at the silent white figure of Fynavir, who went around the great hall with her women refilling the men’s drinking beakers when they were empty. She looked up, as if suddenly aware of his attention, and blushed. Quickly she averted her face, bowing her head so that her thick braid of milk-pale hair swung in front of her visage and hid her flaming cheeks.
She was not swift enough. Ardhu, standing face to face with An’kelet, missed her expression; his friend’s broad shoulder blocked his view. However, in the shadows, ignored as the newcomer not yet initiated as a member of the warband, Mordraed saw.
Saw and understood.
He had seen such furtive glances before, passed between Morigau and her many lovers while she still dwelt in the hut of her husband, Loth of Ynys Yrch.
The White Woman was cuckolding his father, the great and mighty Pendraec, the Stone Lord, king of the West. With his chief warrior, no less, the man he trusted above all.
Mordraed could have laughed out loud.
But he did not.
It was a secret he needed to keep… for a while.
Pushing a path through the assembled warriors, he raced out into the growing dusk. Dogs barked at him and women muttered darkly as he stormed through the busy heart of the dun, bowling over small children and sending squawking chickens flapping into the air. He did not care. Like a man possessed, he climbed onto the ramparts of Kham-El-Ard, where newly lit torches flickered in the dusk and danced along them. In the eastern sky the moon was rising, its sickly death-light bathing his face and hair, bleaching it of colour, making him a man white as chalk, white as Death, born of the Old Woman in the Moon with her cruel sickle nose. “Soon, Mother!” he breathed to the rising crescent, holding up his arms to the pallid glow in the sky. “Soon the Sun shall lose its supremacy, and the Moon—and Mordraed son of Ardhu—shall rule over Prydn in its place!”
CHAPTER FIVE
HAWK OF SUMMER
Ardhu awoke in the pre-dawn dark beneath the mound of furs in his cordoned-off bed-space at the rear of Kham-El-Ard’s Great Hall. Gasping, he sat upright, trying to focus in the dark. The dream again… the cage of Bones. Death upon the land. A cup of gold. A cup of death… a cup of life. He shuddered; he would not sleep again tonight. The Otherworld was trying to intrude upon his life, through his dreams… he would not let malicious spirits gain any purchase.
Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge Page 6