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

by J. P. Reedman

  He dropped her onto the furs on the ground, hardly noticing how heavily she fell, and that her eyes had darkened, not with desire, but a hint of fear. Kneeling over her, he yanked the ties on her wet tunic, peeling it away from her body. He caressed and fondled her, none too gently, making Elian utter a small cry, though he did not know whether with pleasure or pain.

  “Longhand,” she managed to gasp, grasping at his bare shoulders, almost holding him off. “Please… I have not been with any man before.”

  He scarcely heard her but ran his hand up the inside of her soft thigh. She flinched. He could not wait, did not want to. Pushing her thighs farther apart, he lifted her slim hips and flung himself on top of her. She flinched again, more strongly and bit her lip, and suddenly he saw a tear of pain run down her cheek. A pang of guilt struck him and he wiped the tear with his hand, but then the need of his body overcame him, and he took his pleasure with little thought of hers. She cried out now, and he knew it was not with pleasure, and he pressed his hand over her lips so he would not hear. She writhed under him, suddenly frightened, as if fearing he would suffocate her.

  Suddenly, it was all over, and with that rush of release, terrible shame flooded over him. “O gods, what have I done!” He dropped his hand from her mouth.

  Hastily he rolled away from her. She lay on the furs like a frightened animal, breath coming in huge gasps, skin smeared with dirt and his sweat. Her knees were hugged to her chest, her eyes wide and fearful, and the whites too big.

  “I told you I was tainted!” he shouted, loathing in his voice. “You should have kept well away and left me to die! I was meant to die… it was decreed so by Ardhu Pendraec!”

  She struggled up, covering herself with her arms. “The Stone Lord? Why… what was he to you?”

  “He is the one I betrayed! I took his woman to my bed, even as I took you. The Queen… the White Phantom. The one woman I should never have touched.”

  A look of horror crossed her smudged and tear-streaked face. Rumour had come down the Great River of the wrath of Ardhu at finding his wife unfaithful, and how he had punished her by sending her into the fields to pull the plough like a beast. “Who are you? What is your name?” She had half-guessed his identity already, but needed to hear the truth from his own lips.

  He stood up, dirt-smeared, his hair a tangle of copper and leaves. “I am An’kelet, prince of Ar-morah, son of the priestess Ailin and King Bhan… once wielder of the spear called Balugaisa, once esteemed companion of the circle of Khor Ghor. Now I am an outlaw, bereft of all honour, a liar, a thief and a defiler of women.”

  She dragged one of the skins around her and rose to stand beside him. She was shaking, her teeth chattering. “This can be made well, just as your body was made well. You can come to my father’s village with me… I will hide you. My father will be angered when he finds out we have been together, but when he knows it is my choice, he will come round and help you.”

  He glanced sideways at her and shook his head. “No. It cannot be. I will not hide away in any village till I am hunted down like a beast… and bring Ardhu’s wrath down on your people. I will go this very day… back to Ar-morah, across the Narrow Sea.” He strode from the tent, picking up the tunic she had made for him and yanking it on, before pulling on his worn calfskin boots with their felt inserts. “I thank you for the kind gift of this garment… and…” he stared down, fiddling with the belt, adjusting it to fit his dwindled waistline, “and for all else you have given me.”

  Elian scrambled from the tent, dropping the fur in her haste. “No… no!” her voice was a moan of torment. “Do not leave… not like this… not now, I beg you. I… I cannot face returning home full of shame. Oh, I have been such a fool… a fool! I beg you not to abandon me… I … Over the days I tended you, I have come to love you, An’kelet of Ar-morah!”

  “You will survive your wound of the heart, as I have survived wounds of both heart and flesh, lady,” he said softly. Reaching forward he gently embraced her and kissed her bruised mouth—as a lover this time, rather than a ravisher. “You are fair to behold; any man would be glad to share your hut. But it cannot be me. I must go from Albu the White or spend all my life a fugitive.”

  “Then take me with you,” she whispered.

  “I cannot. I will not lie to you… my heart will always be with Fynavir, wife of Ardhu. That is the doom the Spirits have laid on me. You deserve more than to be second best.”

  He released her and began to stride purposefully down the riverbank, into the trees. “Don’t leave me!” she shrieked at his back, falling to her knees. “I cannot bear it! I will not live with the shame you have brought to me! You have used me and now you abandon me… you may as well have put a dagger through my heart! You have killed me, An’kelet of Ar-morah!”

  An’kelet broke into a run. He did not glance back. He vanished into the woodland as the rain began to fall, a thin, drizzly, drenching mist.

  Elian the Lily-Maid of Astolaht tumbled to the ground like a sapling struck by lightning and lay unmoving, white and cold on the banks of Abona, with the rain washing her flesh as if seeking to rinse away the sorrow and the bitter truth.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  OATH TAKING

  Rain poured down out of a leaden sky, a solid sheet of water that slapped the stout timbers of Kham-El-Ard. Solstice was nearly upon the people of the Plain and the Place-of-Light but it was hard to believe it was summer. A chill hung in the air and the crops were dying where they grew, black rot speckling their roots. The fields were swamps, though the hills and hollows looked greener and more fecund than ever, but man could not live upon grass like a beast.

  Ardhu Pendraec stood on the walls of his hilltop dun, staring at the winding, widened curve of the river, with the trees beyond sinking into mist-caps and the distant rises cloaked with helms of grey cloud. Despite the punishment of Fynavir and his own offerings to the spirits at Khor Ghor, nothing had improved in Prydn, neither with the weather nor with the actions of men. For the first time in many years a rumour came of a raiding party down on the south coast; dark-bearded men in sky-blue cloaks, seeking tin and copper and bronze, but with sword-blades rather than through legitimate trade. In the East, rumour had it, men raided cattle and women as they did in the days of their forebears, and rough brigands overthrew lawful chiefs and set themselves up as petty kings. And from the Middle-lands up as high as Peakland where the henge of Ar-bar stood on a limestone plateau, there were reports of a plague that killed men, women and children within a day. Pyres burned day and night on the Peaks and the air was black with the greasy smoke of the crematorium.

  Ardhu frowned, his fingers twitching round the cold hilt of Caladvolc. Despite having broken An’kelet’s influence and casting him forth to die, despite the atonements he had made to the spirits—sacrifices, prayers, fasts and dances, Fynavir had not quickened again. She was quiet in his presence and did not deny any demand he made upon her, and her shorn hair had grown swiftly and now lay on her shoulders like a boy’s, but she had grown thin, the flesh burned from her with sorrow, and she did not ever laugh or smile, not even when Gal’havad came to visit her, holding her hands and speaking gently to her.

  Ardhu knew there was only one thing left to do… follow what the Maimed King had suggested ere he gave himself up for the ruined Land. The Quest. The Quest for the Chalice of Gold, the beaker of Plenty, that had been taken by its makers and protectors back over the sea to the isle of Ibherna. He had lived long enough and seen enough to question in his heart whether the gods cared enough about men to place great powers in a thing wrought by mortal hands… but he knew others believed in its power, and, perhaps, that gave it the greatest magic of all. Its finding would be a token that he, as King, could still bring prosperity to Prydn, that age had not weakened his hand or his skill, and that the Cup of Gold could be the Cup of Plenty and the wheat sway in sun-burnished fields the next year.

  And if it did not work, and the rains still came… he shivered and h
is blood felt as ice in his veins.

  No, it must work, and he would announce the departure of the warband on an Imram, a Great Journey, as soon as possible. He would send messengers ahead to the ship wrights of Ynys Mhon, who would be well paid—with gold—to make two long, seaworthy boats in the style of continental craft that would hold twenty warriors and their weapons. From those rocky shores, dotted with the tombs of the Ancestors, his warband would fare to Ibherna where the Cup lay hidden in the Hollow Hills of the people who dwelt there.

  But first the warband must be readied and new warriors sworn in at Khor Ghor. Replacements for An’kelet and for Per-Adur, whose head-wound caused him dizziness and ringing in the ears, and for Ka’hai who these days preferred to order the stores of Ardhu’s household to fighting. Gal’havad would have his official Coming of Age ceremony before the Stone of Adoration, as befitted the Prince of the West… and also, as Ardhu had promised, Agravaen and Mordraed would take oaths as loyal warriors of the warband.

  The Stone Lord’s eyes narrowed slightly. Since the unhappy homecoming from the East and the banishment of An’kelet, Agravaen and Mordraed had worked hard to keep a place of respect in Kham-El-Ard. No ill word had come from any quarter regarding either of them… and yet Ardhu still felt uneasy. Not of Agravaen, guileless and eager to please, dreaming of glory. But Mordraed, always Mordraed, with his beautiful but closed face, and that slightly sardonic manner that none could fault yet none could trust. Yet he had done no wrong and Gal’havad was by his side most days, just like any adoring younger brother.

  Of course, that is what he is, Ardhu thought, with a sudden stab of guilt. Does Mordraed know? Has Morigau told him the truth?

  He prayed to Bhel and all the spirits of Earth and Sky that Gal’havad would never learn his father’s darkest, most shameful secret.

  *****

  The Rites of the New Warriors began shortly before dusk on the Night of the New Moon. The rain had eased a bit, and clouds scudded across the vault of heaven, flickers of flame as the dying sun caught their underbellies. Up the Avenue came a stream of celebrants carrying burning brands, the men on the right side of the bank and the women dancing down the left. They lined up near Heulstone, the Stone of Summer, before turning to gaze down into the valley bottom, where the initiates were being brought up from the river Abona by the priests of Deroweth.

  The three youths were guided past the Stone of Summer. They walked sun-wise around its grey bulk while the priests chanted and bowed and laid down offerings of dried wheat, little sheaves that tore apart on the rain-sweet wind.

  They were then led into the heart of the circle past the Old Man and the Mother Stone, the two foremost bluestones, and the priests gave them beakers of mead to smash at the Stones’ feet and burnt oat cakes to leave so that the spirits could sup as they pleased.

  Upon reaching the Stone of Adoration, its greenish flanks glittering dully in the cooling light, the priest Gluinval, who performed the necessary rites for all religious matters in the Merlin’s stead, squeezed through the narrow gap of the Great Trilithon, Portal of Ghosts, wearing a headdress with the bleached antlers and skull of a deer dead for nearly a millennium, and a robe painted with solar and lunar symbols of the Everlasting Sky. He raised a red-painted rattle and shook it, making a thunderous noise that bounced around the five inner Trilithons.

  One of his acolytes lifted a perforated cow’s horn and blew upon it, making a mournful noise that echoed alongside the din of the rattle. At that moment, Ardhu Pendraec stepped out from behind the mighty southern trilithon the Throne of Kings, with its inlaid carvings of daggers and axes. He wore a long woollen robe dyed with great art to match the colour of the sky, the colour of the holy ancestral bluestones, and on his breast gleamed the golden lozenge that proclaimed his kingship. He wore no helmet, for this was not a place of battle, but a thin band of bronze held the greying dark wings of hair away from his forehead. Blue beads dropped from the ends of his shoulder-length hair. In his hand he held the unsheathed Caladvolc, sword of bitter edge, undefeated in battle.

  He gestured with his free hand for Agravaen to approach. The youth, his hair twisted into a knot on the side of his broad skull and blue paint running in zigzags across his eyes, lumbered toward his uncle, sweat beading on his brow in nervousness. “Agravaen son of Loth of Ynys Yrch, do you come here before the Ancestors to serve the Stone Lord of Prydn?” Ardhu asked, his voice sounding almost not his own in that sacred, enclosed space.

  “I do, Stone Lord.” Agravaen knelt on the packed chalk, and leaned forward to kiss the damp ground, the bones of the earth, as was customary. His flat, unappealing face came up white. “I will serve until my axe breaks and my dagger shatters and the breath goes forth from my body and my spirit flies over the Great Plain…” he mumbled the ritual words.

  Mordraed watched him, lips compressed into thin lines. He knew his younger brother meant every word. It was embarrassing to watch him grovel and look up at Ardhu Pendraec with the eyes of a soft seal pup… but what else could one expect of a dolt such as Agravaen?

  By the Throne of Kings, Ardhu touched the blade of Caladvolc to Agravaen’s brow and then his heavily muscled shoulder. “You oath is accepted before your chief and your Gods. You, Agravaen son of Loth, shall join the warband of Ardhu Pendraec in this Round, this Dance of Great Ones.”

  Agravaen clumsily clambered to his feet and was escorted by priests to the Stones known as the Three Watchers, where he was given a ritual libation of fermented milk.

  Ardhu and Mordraed stood looking at each other across the circle, silent, unsmiling. Gluinval made a hissing noise behind his antlered mask and suddenly downed his rattle. The air seemed to crackle between older man and youth; their gazes sparred, though neither spoke a word, and both wore expressions that were deceptively bland and calm. Ardhu was resplendent in his royal robes, the last beams of sunlight tracing the geometric patterns on the breastplate of Heaven… but Mordraed, standing before him, surely seemed his equal in that moment, almost a dark twin… but younger, the upcoming challenger, the future whether good or ill. Of similar height to Ardhu, his bare arms, wrapped in golden coils, were strong with the power of youth and his black hair fell in shining waves down his back, twined with feathers white and dark. His face was that of one of the Everliving Ones, too still, too perfect… almost pretty but yet with an edge hard as a sword blade.

  “Come here, Mordraed.” Ardhu’s voice was a harsh rasp. He did not speak the usual formal words, but it made no difference.

  Mordraed walked forward, gait stiff. He bowed before Ardhu and then, as Agravaen had done, knelt and kissed the earth. He made sure, though that his face remained clean; he would not root on the ground like a pig, as his brother had done. He spoke the ritual words, clearly; his voice as pleasing as his face and form.

  Ardhu approached him with Caladvolc; the older man’s hand shook slightly. Mordraed noticed it instantly and suppressed a mocking smile.

  Ardhu touched the point to Mordraed’s brow and then to his shoulder, as was customary… but suddenly he whipped it aside and pressed the blade’s lethal tip against the base of Mordraed’s throat. “You will be in my warband, and you will fight at the side of my son, Gal’havad.” He emphasised the ‘my son,’ “And if you betray me—or—him… by the Ancestors I will take this blade and give you to the Stones. Do not suppose that… because we share… blood… … I would not do it.”

  Mordraed’s eyes blazed; people outside the circle and the priests were craning their heads, wondering why he had not been released from the Circle to join Agravaen at the Three Watchers. “I know exactly what you would do, lord,” he said, rather impudently. “It is what any king would do if faced by betrayal.” As I would surely do to you, the biggest traitor of all—to the laws of our people and to your sister and your eldest-born son!

  “So, once again, we understand each other.”

  “I have always understood, my uncle.”

  “Good. Now stand beside me and await
the coming of Gal’havad, your kinsman and my heir. I want you to swear not only to me, but to him.”

  Mordraed’s expression became one of confusion; he had not anticipated being asked to perform such an act. “This is highly unorthodox,” he spat, his eyes seeking Gluinval, as if hoping for intervention from the priest.

  “Maybe it is,” said Ardhu firmly, “but it is what I wish.”

  Gluinval began to move again, as if released of some spell. The rattle whirred, and Gal’havad came forward from his waiting place behind the outer ring of bluestones. On the journey up the Avenue from Kham-El-Ard he had worn a dark fur cloak and cloth hood which had stood in stark contrast to the high status warrior’s garb of the other two youths, but now he had shed them and he stood forth clad as the Son of the Terrible Head, the Prince of Evening, Gal’havad the Hawk of Summer. He wore a long woven robe made by his aunt Mhor-gan of the Korrig-han; it was fringed with strands of glowing bronze and an inlaid chevron pattern ran around the hem. The colour of the robe was like nothing Mordraed or indeed Ardhu had ever seen on textiles before; a rich purple, the colour of the dying day, similar to the hue of the sacred cup Gal’havad carried as a talisman. Indeed, the dye used to get the colour had come from scraping the sides of similar stones within the Holy Pool below Kham-El-Ard—all carefully harvested by Mhor-gan and her mistress, Nin-Aeifa, Lady of the Lake. Besides the robe, he wore an archer’s wristguard of greenstone studded with golden pins, and a vast crescentic necklace of amber beads. He also bore a new ornament, a gift from Ardhu upon this special day—a black jet lozenge, identical in design to the Breastplate of Heaven, a token of the symbols of kingship he would one day inherit.