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

by J. P. Reedman

  Fynavir yanked on the traces with all her remaining strength. Her eyes were screwed shut against the rain, against the sight of her vengeful, grief-maddened husband, and the people who, having been won to her cause over the long years, now cursed her name and called for her death. The priests and priestesses clustered together near the Old Henge, colourful damp blobs in the rainstorm, chanting and singing, swaying in a sickly rhythm that made her head spin and her stomach churn.

  “I wish my heart would burst and this torment be over forever!” she suddenly screamed, and she threw herself forward, the hemp ropes of the simple harness biting into her bare flesh, burning like brands, cutting red channels. The world spun and she fell into the half-ploughed furrow, rain showering over her, churning the mud and the blood where the ropes had torn her flesh.

  The crowd let out a terrible noise, a frenzied inhuman shriek, and they tried to surge forward once again. This time their intentions were clear; glassy-eyed, maddened by fear and superstition, they would tear her to pieces in the furrow and scatter parts of her body far and wide across the Great Plain in an attempt to restore the failing fertility of the soil of Prydn.

  Hearing that awful, crazed cry, Ardhu suddenly seemed to come to himself, as if from a dream. He glanced at the roiling horde and a needle of fear pierced his heart. Not only Fynavir was in danger… they gazed on him with mad, accusing eyes too… the old king, the king whose power was waning, whose arm was growing weak. He abruptly dropped the handles of the plough and sprinted to Fynavir, drawing Carnwennan and slashing the ties that bound her.

  The crowd broke free at the moment, one man rushing forward swinging a great club over his head. He shoved past Bal-ahn, who struck out at him with his axe, only to find his aim ruined as hysterical tribeswomen leapt up at him, biting and clawing, trying to pull him down, to rend him as they sought to rend Ardhu and Fynavir.

  “Keep back… it is your King you threaten!” Ardhu warned in a great voice, reaching for Caladvolc’s gold-pinned hilt.

  The huge, wild-haired man staggered crazily on, showering mud, his eyes rolling and his club making whistling noises as it smote the storm-laden air. Per-Adur sprang into his path, thrusting at the man’s throat with his dagger, seeking the great life-vein that stood out like a twisted pulsing rope. The attacker roared like a wild beast, and his club smashed into Per-Adur’s arm and drove him backwards, his feet sliding in the churned-up mud. He tried to gain his footing, to reach his enemy’s vital parts with his knife, but the wild man whirled the club again and with a crack it smashed into the side of his head. Silently he pitched face forward on the ground, his yellow hair reddened with blood, the left side of his face crumpled and ruined, the cheekbone and jaw shattered.

  Ardhu reached for Fynavir, who lay floundering in the mud at his feet. Freezing brown ooze sucked at her smeared flesh, drawing her into its sombre heart, towards the Land of the Dead. Gasping, breath rattling, she lifted a pitiful, shaking hand to her husband. He hesitated for one moment, staring at her in her misery, then suddenly grasped her hand and pulled her free of the mud. Dragging her under his bearskin cloak, he held her tight against his left side so that his right arm was free to defend both her life and his own.

  The berserker charged towards them, waving the club that was smeared with Per-Adur’s blood. “Die… !” he cried. “I will loose your blood so that the Land will flourish once more and we will all live…”

  “If you want blood to feed the earth, Man of the Tribe, let it be your own!”

  A new voice rang out across the churned up field, making Ardhu whirl around in alarm. Squinting through the lash of the rain, he saw his son, Gal’havad, riding from the gates of Kham-El-Ard like the storm-wind, striking his steed with his heels to drive it on to greater speeds. He had the same strange, almost fearsome light in his face that Ardhu had seen in the East; the face of a man truly touched by the Ancestors, not quite in the world of mortal-kind. His red hair flamed upon the breeze; his eyes were the colour of the Otherworld and the grass that grows on dead men’s barrows. Upon him he wore the true regalia of the princes of the West: golden tresses in his hair, beads of amber at his neck, sun-crosses on the buttons of his madder-red tunic. His Ar-moran dagger, Kos’garak, gift at his manhood ceremony, shone in his hand, hot and deadly, its blade thinner, longer and more piercingly sharp that those wrought in the Five Cantrevs.

  Without a moment’s hesitation he bore down on the berserker. The man raised his great club again, brandishing it in defiance, but Gal’havad behaved as though the weapon were a child’s toy, a stick wielded by a petulant boy. Knocking the weapon aside, he forced his plunging mare straight at the man, his gaze riveted on the coarse red face, the mouth open like a dripping cavern. His arm shot out, his dagger shining, his blow straight and true, quicker than the lightning that came over the distant hills. Kos’garak bit the throat of his enemy and passed through flesh, sinew and bone in a crimson shower. The crazed man gurgled once and tumbled like a fallen stone into the furrow, lying amidst the mud, the worms and his own warm blood.

  Gal’havad wheeled his horse around and faced his father. His breath came in ragged gasps, as if he was drawing in his slain foe’s life force with every inhalation, and his dagger slewed off a shower of deep life’s blood that struck Ardhu’s lathered tunic.

  “There has been enough bloodshed and unwholesome deeds for today,” Gal’havad said chillily, and his voice held a certain authority that astonished and even frightened Ardhu. He knew he should have been angry—Gal’havad had been banished from the Hall after his first outbursts about Fynavir, and it was his intention that the boy not witness her ordeal, but he could not deny that Gal’havad’s unexpected arrival may have saved both his life and hers.

  The crowd was dispersing now, their wails and shouts becoming sobbing and low keening. Gal’havad edged his mount closer to his father and held out his arms. “Give her to me,” he said.

  It was not a request.

  To his own surprise, Ardhu the Stone Lord complied, lifting the crumpled figure of Fynavir in his arms, mud and blood and streaking ash, and laid her over the front of Gal’havad’s steed, across the young warrior’s knees. Gal’havad steadied her limp body against his shoulder and covered her nakedness with his cloak, and then, without another glance at his father, he galloped back towards the black cone of Kham-El-Ard, the fortress of the Crooked Hill.

  *****

  Gal’havad came to his father’s seat later than night. The warband had been sent from the Hall; outside, above the rumble of the storm, they could be heard drinking and carousing in the huts, while pipes skirled and drummers beat a strong tattoo that mingled with the thunder.

  The Hall was dark, the fire nearly out. Ardhu sat in his chair, leaning back, feeling the ache in the leg that had been wounded so long ago, in the shadow of Mineth Beddun, the mountain of Graves. It was always so now, when the weather turned foul.

  He peered through the smoky shadows at Gal’havad, still wearing his princely attire, although he had cleaned the blood from his arms and hands, even scrubbing his nails of any gore.

  “You had been told to stay away until you were summoned,” Ardhu said accusingly. “I swore I would not hurt her. You disobeyed me.”

  “I saved you,” said Gal’havad softly, inclining his head.

  Ardhu gave a deep sigh. “Aye, I cannot deny that. For that I am grateful.” He stood, stepping up to the youth. “Sometimes I think you see things that I do not, Gal’havad, with your eyes that gaze into the spirit-world like a priest’s. Even if you were disobedient I owe you for your actions this day… name what you desire of me, and it shall be given.”

  Gal’havad licked his lips and shifted uncomfortably. “My father, I ask that you admit my cousins Mordraed and Agravaen back into the Hall. They sought to help you when the Lord An’kelet’s duplicity was exposed, and you have repaid their loyalty ill by driving them away. They should be rewarded, not punished! Both should be admitted to the warband as befits faith
fulness and their rank as the sons of kings!”

  Ardhu let out a long drawn breath. “Agravaen, he is stupid… but yes, I can see he would be loyal to me, and his arm is strong. But the other one, Mordraed… .you do not understand, Gal’havad.”

  “Do I not?” Gal’havad’s fine brows rose. “Then maybe you should tell me, and not keep me in the dark! I know there is bad blood between you and his mother Morigau; maybe that should be put to rest at last.”

  Ardhu groaned and shook his head. “It can never be so.”

  Gal’havad folded his arms across his chest “You said you would grant me what I wish. That is what I wish—for Mordraed and Agravaen to join the warband and have the rank in Kham-El-Ard that they deserve. If you do not trust Mordraed, you can trust me; I will keep watch over him and guide him if he goes astray. He will listen to me, I am sure of it… and I am sure he will serve you well; he is the best archer I have ever seen…” His voice rose and his eyes danced with delight; he sounded like a young child now, all enthusiasm for an older sibling or friend that he admired out of all proportion. “Together as kinsmen, I am sure we could accomplish so much, father! If we do quest to find the Maimed King’s cup of gold, I am sure Mordraed will be a much-needed help on the long road.”

  Ardhu shook his head again, feeling suddenly old and drained. “You love this cousin from the North, don’t you?”

  “The spirits did not see fit to give me a brother to stand at my shoulder. They gave me Mordraed instead.”

  Ardhu went cold; he was glad the hall was dark so that Gal’havad could not see the sudden pallor of his cheeks. He longed to shout the truth, the terrible truth… but his tongue felt thick and heavy, and trembled like that of an old man shaken with palsy. There was nothing he could do or say that would not reveal the shamefulness of his past and condemn him. He should have been the one to pull the plough and heal the Land, not just Fynavir; he was as guilty as she.

  “I will grant your wish,” he said heavily. “Mordraed and Agravaen will be admitted back into the Hall and accepted into the warband. But if I get any scent of dissension or strife, they will both be cast out, not just from the Hall but from Kham-El-Ard itself.”

  Gal’havad bowed low; he was smiling, a happy youthful innocent smile that tore at Ardhu’s very core. “Father, I swear you will have no cause to regret this day.”

  Gal’havad retreated from the Great Hall, feeling cheerful and light of heart. Almost immediately Mordraed appeared through the spray of the wind-driven rain and swooped on him like some dark bird of prey, drawing him into the lee of one of the round huts clustered around the dun. “What did he say?” he asked sharply, clutching Gal’havad’s arm

  “It is good news, cousin. His anger has abated. You—and Agravaen—are permitted to enter the Hall again… and he has said he will have you both amidst his chosen warriors. A time of great questing may be coming, you know, if the Stone Lord and the priests will it; what adventures we will have together, Mordraed!”

  “What adventures indeed,” Mordraed said dryly, his teeth a flash of white in the murk.

  “And now we should go to our beds… it has been a hard and wearying day for all in Kham-El-Ard.”

  The red-haired youth looked suddenly drawn and he staggered slightly and leaned against the side of the hut; Mordraed wondered if he was about to have one of his fits and commune with the Otherworld. He hoped not; to witness such a vile event would be shameful and embarrassing. But luckily Gal’havad shook his head as if to clear it, then pulled himself upright and began to limp away. He paused after a few steps and glanced over his shoulder. “Are you not coming, Mordraed? Are you going to stand out in the rain all night?”

  Mordraed drew up the hood of his sealskin cloak, which he had brought from Ynys Yrch and was sound protection from inclement weather. “I have an errand to run, dear cousin. Do not wait for me tonight, but look for me on the morrow.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked towards the gates. They were ready to be closed for the evening but the same simpleton he had spoken to weeks before was on guard, and he passed unchallenged. Like a shadow, he descended the ramparts and crossed the flooded field. Finding the riverbank, he followed the course of the Abona into the deep valley beyond, seeking out the hut of his mother Morigau.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE LILY-MAID

  An’kelet sprawled on his back amidst the growing greenery on the banks of Abona, staring with rapidly dimming eyes at the faded sky. The ground beneath him was soaked with river water and with his own blood. Around him river-reeds and lilies dipped and swayed in the breeze, as if bowing in honour of the passing of he who was once known as the greatest warrior in the West.

  After Ardhu Pendraec had wounded him with Caladvolc, he had managed to stumble a few miles upstream from Kham-El-Ard and then bind his own wound, packing it with mosses and sap as he had been taught by his mother, the Priestess of the Lake in distant Ar-morah, Land of the Sea. However, as he tried to follow the river’s course to safer lands where he could escape the Stone Lord’s wrath, the wound started to go bad. Having lost his two famed daggers, Arondyt and Fragarak, when he had been taken prisoner by Mordraed and Agravaen, he had to quickly knap a blade of flint… with which he re-opened the wound to expel a stream of vile, reeking pus. Cleaning it till blood ran afresh, biting on a whittled tree branch against the excruciating pain, he began walking again, though fever burned in him, and the bleeding started once more, though at least the blood and the wound smelt clean.

  Eventually, despite his great strength, blood loss and pain overcame him and he collapsed, expecting never to rise again. Gasping for breath, his lungs aching, he had turned his gaze on Bright Bhel, his face an umber ball trailing towards his rest below the Western horizon, and prayed for a quick death before the wolves and other scavenging animals smelt the scent of his blood and tore him to pieces.

  But Bhel hid his bright Face behind a cloud, and An’kelet of Ar-morah did not die. He lay, staring up at the heavens as they changed from blue to gold to purple, his mind running over and over the folly of his life, the events that had led to this ignominious death on the riverbank. Fynavir… the White Phantom… he had known better than to touch her, to break oaths to both the spirits and to his King. A small bitter gasping laugh came from his peeling lips. But how could he have denied his own heart and not died anyway, just as bitter, just as destroyed in mind and body?

  “Come, Hwynn, White One!” he groaned. “Take me away and be done with it! I wish no more to suffer the hurts of the world of mortal men!”

  As he spoke he caught the sound of movement in the growing twilight, amidst the thick trees that grew along the riverbank. He tried to prop himself up on his elbow to see who was watching him. Maybe it was Hwynn himself, mounted on his horse of bones, his hair and his face and the blade he carried tongues of white heatless fire. If it was, he would welcome him in a strong embrace and draw in his cold breath that would still the heart forever…

  Again, he heard a noise, the crack of a branch. Hwynn? No. Maybe a badger… maybe a brigand who was out to see if any rich pickings could be found on the fallen warrior in the forest. An’kelet flexed his fingers. Well, if any miscreant tried to rob him, he had just enough strength left to wring the bastard’s neck and send his spirit shrieking into Ahn-un—the Not-World.

  Ahead of him the bushes parted, showing dewdrops and sending up a flutter of moths. A figure stood in the shadows, bent forward, on tiptoes, almost like a frightened deer poised for flight. But it was no beast of the forest, nor was it skull-faced Hwynn.

  It was a young girl.

  She took another tentative step towards An’kelet and he could see her clearly now. She was tall for a woman and slim built, with long, straight, shining hair mixed between dark gold and leaf-brown. She wore a soft deerskin tunic belted with cord that was looped through a shale ring. The hem reached only just above the knee, leaving her long legs bare.

  Slowly she approached and leaned over him, her
hair falling forward like a stream of poured honey. Her face was a pure, sweet oval, her wide eyes a deep blue touched with violet… much like the twilight that even now cloaked the riverbank and all around it. She said nothing, and he wondered for a moment if he but dreamed; or if she was some sprite of the woodland or water, come to claim his life-essence for her own.

  But then she spoke: “You are sore hurt! Can you hear me?”

  He moved his mouth; suddenly his tongue felt tingly and he struggled to talk.

  “Hush!” She knelt beside him. “You must not expend your strength. I will help you… if I can.”

  She reached to a bulging pouch fastened at her belt and opened it, revealing an array of herbs and seeds. “My mother was the village healer ere she died. She taught me her craft well… or so I am told.”

  An’kelet reached toward her, his shaking fingers, cold and numb, touching her arm, bronze from lots of sun and outdoor living. So different from Fynavir’s snow-white flesh, the only other woman he had ever touched… Warm and alive… and he felt so cold, like the soil of the burial mound.

  “Who… are… you?” he slurred.

  “My name is Elian,” she said. “I come here to pick the lilies every spring. The folk in the village where my father is chief call me the Lily Maid.”

  *****

  Elian dragged An’kelet up river to a little grove of alder trees, where she had rigged a tent of hides for use as a shelter while she gathered her lilies and herbs from the forest. She had wanted to take him back to the small settlement where her father was chief, but he had begged her not to. He could not of course tell her why, but she had not questioned, just stoically grasped hold of his arms and pulled him along through the damp grasses. She was surprisingly strong for a woman, and he guessed she did much outdoors work and the tending of beasts, despite her father being a minor chief.

  In the tent, she pulled away his sodden tunic, breath hissing through her teeth as she saw his wound.