Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge

by J. P. Reedman

  “I would!” Wyzelo answered enthusiastically. “You seem like a wise and noble master to follow! You are young, whereas the Stone Lord grows o…” He shut his mouth with a resounding snap and reddened, realising he had spoken rashly, and in front of the King’s own kinsman.

  Mordraed put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Wyzelo,” he said smoothly, “I promise your words shall remain a secret. A slip of the tongue, that is all… Say, since you seem so wise and knowledgeable yourself, maybe you could assist me… Who else in Kham-El-Ard is like you, neglected despite your worth? Who else might seek a place within a fighting band?”

  Eager to draw the attention away from the folly of his loose tongue, Wyzelo promptly gestured to several other youths standing on the sidelines while Agravaen blundered around the training ground, swinging his axe at the fleet-footed Ba-lin. “Over there… my companion from the same village, Mor Bethuinn… Kehul, Fial and Belenion. You can see they are well grown and full of courage, but the masters here keep saying we are not ready to join the warband.”

  “A shame… they look like they have the makings of doughty warriors. Meet with me on the morrow, Wyzelo. In the fields by the Old Henge, where it is more private. Bring your friends. We will talk more then.”

  “I will, great Mordraed of the Stone Lord’s clan,” said Wyzelo with enthusiasm, and he hurried away toward his fellows.

  Mordraed smirked to himself, watching the rough country youth disappear amid the gaggle of boys. It couldn’t have been easier. He had always had a nose for sniffing out dissatisfaction, perhaps because he often felt so dissatisfied himself.

  Turning from Wyzelo and the other youths, he set his attention back towards his brother Agravaen. He was hand to hand with Ba-lin now, daggers locked, striving for supremacy. Agravaen’s lumpen face was bordering on purple, his eyes slitted and watering, his lips curled back over his strong white teeth. Suddenly Ba-lin’s knee shot out, catching him in the groin. Agravaen fell like a stone, clutching his crotch. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment in his agony, and then he got his breath back and loosed the most awful roar of pain and rage… while the youths packing the training yard fell about howling with mirth.

  Ba-lin nudged the curled-up boy with his knee. “In a battle you play to win, young Agravaen. Was my move fair? No. But remember… your opponents wish to keep their lives, so they will do anything to shorten yours…”

  “Get up.” Mordraed walked over to his brother and dragged him to his feet. “You are making yourself a laughing stock… again.”

  Agravaen’s face was puce, twisted in pain. “It’s his fault! He tricked me when I came close to bettering him… A few more blows and I could have killed him!”

  “You are training; you are not meant to kill anyone. Especially one of the Stone Lord’s prime warriors.” Mordraed’s tone was derisive. “But come, I must talk to you where the others are not listening.”

  They walked around the side of the hall of Kham-El-Ard and sat in its shadow, out of the way of dogs and carts and men herding beasts, and women coming up from Mother Abona with pots upon their heads. “I have seen our mother,” said Mordraed, noncommittally, his tone level.

  Agravaen’s eyes narrowed. “Mordraed, let me speak plainly here… I do not care. In fact I hope never to see the bitch again. You… you… she loves but the rest of us were as shite on her shoe, to be wiped off and thrown away as far as possible. She… she is a liar, brother. She told us tales of the wickedness of Ardhu, but look… he has taken us in, housed and fed us, almost as if we were his own sons!”

  One of us is… The corner of Mordraed’s mouth quirked up; a bitter smile, a cold smile that matched his deep-sea eyes.

  “So your loyalty is to Ardhu now,” said Mordraed, his voice low. “You want nothing more than to serve him.”

  “Aye,” breathed Agravaen, “that is why I try so hard to become a great warrior. I want nothing more than to ride beside him in his warband. But it seems all I do goes amiss…” He scowled and picking up a lump of dried dung from the ground, hurled it angrily across the fort. It bounced off a wooden post on the ramparts and a dog ran out and began to worry it. “I am like that dog, Mordraed. I only get the shite.”

  “It doesn’t have to be so.” Mordraed’s voice descended to a bare whisper. “There is much afoot in Kham-El-Ard that our uncle had no idea about. Things that could bring his kingdom crashing down…”

  Agravaen made a gasping noise. “Treachery?”

  Mordraed turned his head, catching the younger boy’s gaze in a long, level, intent stare. “Of the worst kind, Agravaen. The Lord An’kelet… and the White Woman… they are more to each other than they should be. They are lovers, I know it.”

  Agravaen shook his head. “You must be wrong. An’kelet is his friend, close as a brother! He honours the Lady Fynavir, worships her as a goddess. He would not do such a vile thing.”

  “Because he is the perfect warrior?” Mordraed sneered. “Grow up, little brother. No man is that perfect! Did you really think he has dwelt all these years without a woman?”

  Agravaen leapt to his feet, fists clenched. “If what you say is true, why have you not spoken to Ardhu?”

  Mordraed spat on the ground. “What… and end up with my head on a pole outside the gates? You know how it is, brother. He tolerates me, but he trusts me less than you and our brothers because I am older and he thinks I am under Morigau’s sway. An’kelet and I have no love for each other and he is a favourite; I would never be believed. However…” He sprang up, leaning in toward the stockier youth. “This might be an ideal opportunity for you. If you were the one to reveal the trysts of An’kelet and Fynavir, then surely our uncle would mark your loyalty and reward you by allowing you into his warband.”

  Agravaen scratched his chin, covered with scraggy, downy black traces of a beard. “Maybe you are right… maybe that would work. But… I have never seen the Queen with An’kelet. How would I manage to catch them? You do understand that I must see their treachery myself and not rely on rumour.”

  Mordraed draped his arm about his brother’s broad, muscular shoulders. “I will help you. My eyes and ears are keener than yours. It is my joy to help you improve your lot; after all, we are kin.” His smile was wide, friendly but his eyes diamond-hard.

  Agravaen smiled back, the smile as naïve and trusting as a child’s.

  *****

  The messenger came from the East, from where he had been keeping watch over the borders of Ardhu’s lands. Smeared with dust and sweat from the long ride, he entered the Hall of Kham-El-Ard and stood before the seat of the Queen. “I bring news, blessed Lady.”

  Fynavir sat before him, palely shimmering like some spectre, her hands outspread on her lap, fingers splayed like icicles on the woad-stained blue fabric of her dress. Her face looked even whiter than usual; she bit her lip in consternation. “Speak!” she nodded. “Keep nothing back. If you bring ill news of my husband or my son, say it now and do not hide it with gentling words.”

  The messenger cleared his throat. “The King of the Wasteland has passed into the Land of his Ancestors, despite the best efforts of Ardhu Pendraec and Lord Per-Adur. Even now, the Lord of the West travels home with the Prince Gal’havad at his side. Within three downings of the Sun, he will be back at Kham-El-Ard.”

  Fynavir released a shuddering sigh. “My son… he is unhurt, praise Bhel. My thanks for your tidings, messenger. Go to the fire-pits and you will be fed and given drink and money of copper rings. I must myself move in haste to prepare for Lord Ardhu and Gal’havad’s homecoming.”

  She left the hall, hurrying out amongst the round huts that belonged to the warriors. The wind lifted her hair, tearing it free of its long plait, and men stared, but she ignored them. Finding the largest hut, surrounded by a wooden palisade and a ditch, she passed the threshold and went inside.

  Inside An’kelet, Prince of Ar-morah, lay abed under a pile of skins, still sleeping, for the hour was early. Hearing the noise of
an intruder, he sat up at once and reached for his blade, Arondyt. When he saw Fynavir silhouetted in the doorway, he cast the blade down and grinned. He threw off the skins and stepped forth naked, his tall frame still lean and muscled and golden despite his age. He pulled her into the circle of his arms and she leaned heavily against him, pulling his head down to hers, her mouth seeking his with almost desperate urgency.

  “Fynavir, why do you come here like this?” Suddenly he drew away from her and reached for his tunic and trews. “It is not safe. The Sun is too high in the sky, all must have seen you. We must not become careless, even though Ardhu is not here. Other eyes than his may be watching. Not all are friends to us and men’s tongues often wag when they are idle.”

  “I have reason.” She reached for him again, arms locking around his neck, her white hair falling like a shower of snow over his chest and arms. “A messenger came this morning. Ardhu is on his way back from the Wasteland. In three days he will be home.” A sob tore from her throat. “I have missed Gal’havad, but I cannot lie… in the depths of my being I almost hoped this time would never end. For the first time in all these long years, we could be together as we wished, every day… and almost…” her lips trembled, “every night.”

  He took her by the shoulders, shaking her lightly, gently. “Fynavir, remember what we do is a grave wrong! Ardhu would have every right to kill us both if ever he found out.”

  She pressed herself against him, shivering. “Why have the gods cursed us so, making the love between us a thing of darkness and treachery?”

  “Why, indeed…” he said with sadness, stroking her hair.

  “Let us ride out…” she said. “One more time… let us lie together. Just one more time before he comes back, and I must do my duty by him… and you yours.”

  “Fynavir, I do not think it is safe… We must go about our daily lives, as we always have.”

  “Please… One hour with you, that is all I ask… that I may think on it during all the lonely nights.”

  He groaned and pressed her close. “I am a fool… but when could I deny you anything, Fynavir, my love… my doom.”

  *****

  Down by the river Mordraed perched on the grassy bank, dangling his legs in the swell. Agravaen was stomping out into the swell, holding up a long bone harpoon, his face crinkled in concentration as he tried to spear a fish for that night’s supper. Other youths milled around the trees that grew along the Abona, drinking from water-skins and chewing strips of dried meat as they blathered about non-existent battles and their prowess in them. Mordraed lazily eyed this young unruly pack … Wyzelo and his friends, the malcontents, the disobedient, the thick-in-the-head. A slavering band of dogs, all of them, scrabbling to get to the top, but dogs could be trained to be loyal with a few thrown scraps… then these dogs would bark for him.

  Rising, he casually sauntered towards them. “How is it with my brothers?”

  “Not good!” yelled one he knew was called Belenion… the Henbane. Mordraed wondered if the scrawny, hooked-nosed lad was as venomous as his name. “Not enough mead… no women… nor any war! I came here to be a great warrior and I am sent running about like a little boy with a wooden blade every day while the ‘great chiefs’ look on and laugh. Tired of it, I am! I want to decorate my hut with the jawbones of my enemies!”

  “Your hut?” said Wyzelo. “You don’t even have a house of your own yet. We sleep together in one hut like children or beasts.”

  “It is not as it should be.” Mordraed sighed deeply, theatrically. “I do not know how my uncle cannot see the wrong that is being done to you. I would not treat you so, mighty warriors that you are. I fear the men around Ardhu have poisoned his mind. I mean, what is An’kelet but a foreign prince? Loyal he might have seemed over the years, but who is to say treachery does not dwell in his heart and that he does not covet all Ardhu owns? Maybe he has just been biding his time.”

  “Bloody foreign pig,” grunted a skinny gap-toothed boy named Ic’ho. “You should be in Ardhu’s circle, Mordraed, and treated with just as much respect as An’kelet. You are of the blood of kings. His blood. Why does he ignore you in preference to outsiders?”

  Mordraed licked his lips. Now was the moment. He could feel the tension in the air, the dissatisfaction growing into anger and disdain. The moment might pass, he might find he had been presumptuous and incur anger or puzzlement from this fractious band of youths, but he had to speak now or forever hold his tongue. “If I asked it and… if my uncle does not acknowledge your worth… would you be my men, my followers instead? Although I have no land as yet, who knows what the future may hold? After all…” His eyes were shining, his breaths short and shallow, “Prince Gal’havad is Ardhu’s only heir; his union with the White Woman has not been blessed. And Gal’havad… he is not hale, he has fits and sees the spirit-world. He is more suited to be a priest than a king! Who knows, his affliction may even shorten his days. If he were to die young and have no heirs of his body… who knows what I might be then?”

  “King Mordraed!” shouted out Ic’ho, laughing, obviously drunk. “With us at his side as his chief warriors!”

  The rowdy youths hooted and whooped, circling Mordraed. Laughing, they lifted him to their shoulders and raised their axes to him in honour.

  Agravaen sloshed his way out of the river, scowling at their antics, and tossed his harpoon on the ground in frustrated anger. “What foolish mummery is this? Mordraed, if any from Kham-El-Ard should hear you, it might not go well for any of us!”

  Mordraed laughed scornfully at him. “It is only a harmless game,” he mocked. “Why so serious, brother?”

  Agravaen’s face purpled. “And why so reckless, Mordraed? It was never like you… and I do not like it.”

  At that moment, the sound of hooves interrupted the brothers’ verbal sparring. “Someone rides out from Kham-El-Ard!” cried Wyzelo, pointing east with the haft of his axe. “I see An’kelet of Ar-morah upon his stallion… but he does not ride alone. Another is with him.”

  Mordraed shaded his eyes with a hand and stared towards Kham-El-Ard. He could see An’kelet’s amber hair shining in the sun, and his checked cloak, woven with the lozenge pattern of his high-born clan, streaming out behind him in the wind of his speed. Beside him on a smaller horse rode a figure wrapped in a rust-coloured fur, a voluminous skin hood pulled up to hide the face. He immediately knew there was only one person it could be.

  The White Woman, the treacherous Queen.

  He knew at once his hour was here and he must seize the chance. Whirling on his heel, he gestured to the band of drunken youths, to red-faced Agravaen with his angry expression. “Follow me!” he cried. “Let us go into the wilds after them.”

  “But why?” asked Belenion, staggering drunkenly on the river’s edge. “I don’t care where An’kelet of Ar-morah goes!”

  “Do not question!” Mordraed’s hand caught the front of the other’s woven tunic, almost causing the youth to trip and fall into the river. “That is an important lesson you must learn… if you wish to be accounted in any chief’s warband! Listen, all of you, if you want to rise in esteem, come with me now and bring your weapons. This may be a day for great feats of arms, I promise you all. A day that will go down in the memories of men!”

  The youths grabbed their axes and untied the peace-strings that bound their copper daggers into their sheaths. The drink was hot in them, stirring them to act. Agravaen stormed up to Mordraed, huffing and heaving; Mordraed noticed for the first time how tall he had suddenly grown… they were now nearly the same height, almost eye to eye. “What are you planning, brother?” he snapped.

  “To root out treachery, if there is any to be found,” said Mordraed. “Is that not what you want too—to keep our uncle’s domains safe? I told you I would let you have the honour of bringing any evil to his attention.”

  Agravaen grunted, unable to deny his elder sibling’s words. “I would bet on this being a fool’s chase. But let us go and see, and if y
ou are wrong, I want you to bring me the best bit of beef at the fire tonight and refill my beaker before your own.”

  “It will be as you wish,” said Mordraed excitedly. “Now let us hasten, in case we lose their trail. But do not let them see you… that is most important.” He glanced sternly around the gathered group of young men. “Keep to the bushes, keep to the reeds—use every trick of woodcraft you have ever been taught in order to be silent… and safe. Remember, it is An’kelet of Ar-morah who is our quarry today, and he is the greatest fighter amongst men—or so they say. Luckily, he does not seem to have his spear, the Balugaisa, with him—which must mean the Spirits are smiling upon us.”

  The youths raced down the river bank, single file, sobering up now that the chase was on. Mordraed grasped Agravaen’s arm, and pushed him after the rest. “Hurry up, brother. We are the sons of kings—we must lead these cattle and prod them to do what they must.”

  The group continued along the Abona, nearly to the dwellings of the Ladies of the Lake, but suddenly, as the river spread out into multiple channels, the trail went dead, the clear passage of the horses veiled by the wetness of the ground. The youths groaned and started complaining bitterly that an afternoon’s good drinking had been spoiled by a fool’s errand.

  “Shut up!” Mordraed cast them a dark glare that made them all fall silent. Flinging himself onto his knees, he scanned the water-logged ground, the patchy grass, searching for signs of hoof prints. At length he found a depression in the soil, recent, an earthworm coiling on the disturbed surface. “Further down the valley, to the north… I think they are heading toward the Great Enclosure.”

  “The Great Enclosure!” Agravaen’s face paled. “That’s where they used to take the dead. It’s an evil place… why should they go there?”

  “That is obvious,” said Mordraed, face glowing with self-pride at his deduction. “They think no living man would dare set foot among the place of the dead so it would be ideal for their immoral tryst. Come, let us hurry and catch them.”