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

by J. P. Reedman

  He strode up to the Stone of Adoration and suddenly a shaft of light, the last of the day, streaked through the arch of the western trilithon, the Gate of the Guardian, and pierced the sanctity of the great circle. Stones turned green-gold then golden-pink; Gal’havad’s auburn hair ignited, a stream of fire upon his shoulders; while his high pale forehead, struck by that glorious ray as it speared the gathered clouds of dusk, seemed to burn with an unearthly flame.

  Ardhu stared in wonder, and Mordraed felt his belly give a queasy jolt. Gal’havad seemed more than just a youth of noble lineage come to take his vows within Khor Ghor. He looked like a priest-king, one who would mediate between the gods and men but who also had the authority to rule. Mordraed frowned, a twisting serpent of jealousy rising in him; he wondered if he, even with his years of practice, could keep the expression of hatred and envy from his face. But it was not just envy… a frisson of fear shot through him at the same time. What if Gal’havad prevailed against him, loved as he was by the spirits of this grim circle? He stared around at the Sun-touched Stones towering overhead … by the Moon, he wanted to see those huge sarsens fall, shattered on the ground…

  A moment later the clouds bunched and the light-beam failed. The Stones descended into darkness, turning slatey then a sullen blue. Cold shadows fell over Gal’havad, extinguishing the light in his face and the fire of his hair. Mordraed smiled to himself, coldly; yes, that is how it should be and would be… the light of this touched and tainted youth diminished, cut off. Forever, when Mordraed found the right moment to remove his rival and claim the inheritance that was rightfully his.

  Ardhu gestured to Gal’havad and his son went to him, walking three times around the Stone of Adoration and then laying his hand upon the inlaid golden dagger on Throne of Kings. The Terrible Head spoke to the youth of the Land and of duty, and the sacred responsibilities that came with being the Stone Lord of Prydn. Watching, Mordraed stifled a yawn; these pretty speeches seemed nothing but meaningless babble to him. A waste of time. For Gal’havad would never rule after Ardhu. Never.

  Suddenly he felt Ardhu’s sharp hazel eyes upon him. He jerked back into total alertness, schooling his face to look serious and sincere. Ardhu held out a hand toward him. “Remember what we spoke of, Mordraed Sister’s Son,” he said softly. “It is time for you to swear to the Prince Gal’havad, that he may have a faithful and loyal protector and servant.”

  Gal’havad’s expression was one of surprise, but also of warm gladness. Mordraed came before him and knelt in a way he hoped would seem humble, and took his hands in his own. “I swear,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “to serve you and be at your side, as if you were my brother…” His lips curled slightly, hidden by the raven-wing fall of his hair.

  “Swear…” Ardhu loomed over Mordraed, vaguely threatening, his fingers playing with the hilt of Carnwennan, his dagger. “Swear that you will bring him no harm. Swear by the Everlasting Sky.”

  Mordraed writhed in irritation. “I swear…” he suddenly raised his voice, glad to see the black birds that nested in the Stones fly in fright at the unexpected sound, “that I will never raise blade in anger against my kinsman and my prince, the Lord Gal’havad of Kham-El-Ard. And if I should in madness and folly commit such a base act, may the Everlasting Sky fall upon my head and my bones remain unbarrowed for eternity.” I may speak the words you crave, father, but how can such an oath be binding when you have forced it upon me? And my mind is quicker than yours… there are many other ways to rid oneself of troublesome kin besides daggers and axes…

  Ardhu grunted and gestured that he might rise. Mordraed got up, and Gal’havad embraced him, giving him the kiss of peace on either cheek. “I am so glad you have sworn your loyalty to me, Mordraed, my dearest cousin. You will be as high in my esteem as An’kelet was to my father… before… before…” He abruptly bit his lips and glanced down, realising that he had spoken rashly.

  Ardhu appeared not to have noticed. “Let us go forth and let the people of Kham-El-Ard and the Place-of-Light see their Prince. Then we must make ready for a great Imram, a great journey...to find the Golden Cup that lies across the sea in Ibherna.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TRIPLE DEATH

  Ardhu sent messengers to the far west the next day. Boats would be built, sturdy enough to carry his war-party to Ibherna’s shores. Gold he sent with the horsemen, as payment to the shipwrights, who lived on the headland on the tip of Mhon, and also to the priests of the Shrine of the Dark Grove, for their prayers in seeing Ardhu’s men across the treacherous waters that separated the sister isles.

  Then he called his men to his Hall and chose those who would be his companions—chief amongst them being Bohrs, Hwalchmai, Betu’or, Ba-lin, Bal-ahn, Mordraed and Gal’havad. “Go to your women and your families and make your farewells,” he said sternly. “We will not linger long, but will leave at first light tomorrow. We will go for blessings at the Crossroads of the World, then hasten to the shores of Mhon, where we may depart Prydn if the seas are calm enough. If they are not, we will wait and sacrifice a horse to the waves. Bring your talismans, and bring your sharpest blades, your most doughty axes. We dwell in dark times, when even the Sun is not so mighty as he used to be… Let us show the people of this land, this holy isle of Prydn, that still their King fights for them, that he is still strong and one with the Land itself and will bring its flourishment once more!”

  He finished his speech to great cheers, and men began to beat drums and dance, while others ran about packing provisions and attending to the horses of the warband.

  Mordraed walked with Gal’havad through the heaving throng. “Are you excited, cousin?” asked Gal’havad. Little children were clustered around him, trying to touch his purple robe for luck. “To go out into the world and see the great and magical things that lie beyond?”

  “Very excited,” said Mordraed dryly, not meeting his eyes.

  “I must say farewell to my mother.” Gal’havad sighed. “She seldom smiles or even weeps these days… but I know, beneath her ice, the pain is raw, and that she would not have me leave.”

  “I have a woman to see as well,” said Mordraed. “Do not expect me back in Kham-El-Ard before our leave-taking at dawn.”

  Gal’havad glanced at him, brows lifting in surprise. “What is this, Mordraed? You have not told me of any woman!”

  “I do not tell you everything, little cousin,” said Mordraed mockingly. “And do not ask me… I will not share her with you!”

  He turned and left before Gal’havad could ask any more questions, striding through the open gates, and down the hillside towards the shining band of Abona without a backwards glance. Pressing forward without delay, he soon reached Morigau’s hovel, its roof even more unkempt than he remembered and its doorframe leaning at an awkward angle. The oracular pig in its pen lifted its ugly porcine head and grunted at the sight of him.

  Hearing the snorts and squeals of the pig, Morigau stuck her head out of the doorway. When she saw the arrival was her son, she ran forward with a glad cry. “Again… it has been too long, Mordraed. How fares my boy?”

  “Well enough,” he answered. “Tomorrow Ardhu’s warband, of which I am now a sworn member, sets out for Ibherna, on some fool’s chase to find a Golden Cup.”

  “A cup?”

  “Yes. Ardhu believes it will bring hope and goodness back to the Land. The fool.”

  Morigau’s thin but strong arms wrapped round Mordraed, drawing him against her lean, wiry body. He tried not to flinch in revulsion as she stroked his back with her long-nailed hands. “There is only one way to restore the failing of Prydn,” she whispered her breath hot against his ear. “A new king, young and virile and beautiful. You, my Mordraed.”

  “I will be ready for it when that time comes,” he said.

  “It will be soon.” Her deep eyes misted, seeing into Otherness. “There is change… in the air about us, in the water that flows, in the earth in which we barrow our dead.
An old king will die, another one will come to replace him.”

  “I will need your help,” he said. “I have sworn an oath to raise no hand against Ardhu’s heir, Gal’havad. And yet I must. I know it is weak of me to even question what I must do, but an oath is powerful…”

  “Any oath sworn to Ardhu is not valid… he who is no rightful king, who broke the greatest of taboos…”

  Mordraed glanced at her, amused since she also had committed the sin of which she accused her brother… and he was the fruit of that folly. She appeared not to notice.

  “But if it troubles you, there are other ways. I can make poisons that could fell a hundred strong men! Use such a draught to kill the boy and you would not be forsworn; you would have raised no hand against Ardhu’s heir.”

  Mordraed rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It could work. No marks and no trace. What brew can you give me that will do the deed but with little outward sign?”

  “Come with me, Mordraed.”

  She took him into her hut. It was a little less rank than he remembered but still close and smelly; Ack-olon was cleaning a skin by the sputtering hearth while La’morak chewed on a piece of meat in the corner. Khyloq was stirring a pot full of some revolting gruel, her face smeared with ash and grease and her expression one of bored annoyance. As she saw him, her green eyes flickered in the thin oval of her face. After the initial awkwardness of their forced marriage, she had swiftly warmed to him, perhaps seeing him as her protector from the excesses of Morigau and her two warriors. Any shyness gone after the first clumsy night, she was eager to please him every time he visited, dragging him out behind the hut and down to a secluded spot down by the river, where she would lift her ragged skirts for him.

  “Mordraed, you have come…” She dropped her ladle and stroked his arm with her grubby work-worn fingers.

  He shook her off. “A moment, woman,” he ordered, his gaze fixed on Morigau. “I must attend to more important things than you.”

  Morigau was prying amidst clay vials and pots lined against the wall. She sniffed at some and eventually brought up a little urn stoppered with blue clay. “This one,” she said with satisfaction. “Mixed in a drink it will not smell and will have little taste. It is fast and it is deadly.”

  Mordraed took the urn and carefully tucked it into his belt pouch. “That is what I need. May it work as well as you claim.”

  “I am mistress of the art of creating poisons,” she said. “What do think happened to Loth of Ynys Yrch? Do not doubt me… I, who, through my gods-given craft, shall be mother and priestess to the new King of Prydn before this year is gone!”

  “I do not doubt you—I would be afraid to, mother! Now, I will say you farewell—until this quest of Ardhu’s is over. Listen to word brought down the great Ridgeways, that you will know when to expect me home.”

  She clutched him to her, kissing his mouth in a way that was not altogether seemly, as Ack-olon and La’morak sneered in frustration. Pulling away from her, he grasped Khyloq’s grimy wrist and led her from the hovel and away down the hillside to their usual spot. She undid the ties on her scruffy brown kirtle but he seemed distracted and did not look at her. “Go take a bath, girl,” he said. “You smell of the pig.”

  She quickly ran down to the river, then returned dripping wet and wrapped herself around him, shivering in the cold. He still seemed barely interested; he kept reaching to the pouch at his waist, fingering the small urn tucked inside that carried death. “Mordraed, won’t you touch me?” she breathed in his ear. “I have missed you, though I know you have many things to think of. Killing people… becoming King… doing what your mother says…” She spoke the last words with a hint of jealousy and spite.

  Mordraed swung round on her, grabbing her long water-darkened red hair. “Do not speak of Morigau like that! Who do you think you are?”

  She tried to tear herself away but he dragged her closer. Rather than looking fearful, however, she looked rebellious. He liked this expression far better than when she appeared meek and cowed. He felt the stirring of desire.

  “I know who I am,” she panted, standing with her hands on his shoulders, almost as if pushing him away—except that she was in fact leaning towards him, her white skin dappled with shadows, smelling of river water and the woodlands. “I am Khyloq, daughter of a noble chieftain and of good blood… and I am wife to Mordraed son of Ardhu son of U’thyr Pendraec the Terrible Head. When he is King of Kham-El-Ard and all of Prydn, I shall sit beside him as his best woman, for even if he must wed the White Woman as Morigau claims, I will be the one to bear him sons. Sons that will rule Prydn after him”

  She suddenly snatched his hand and pressed it to her bare stomach. “Stupid man! Do you not notice that my belly has grown? Already you have put a bairn inside me. The Ancestors have smiled on our union”

  His jaw dropped. “Why did you not say something sooner?”

  She flicked back her fiery mane. “I would not tell of it before a few moons had gone by, lest evil spirits snatch the baby from the womb. Stupid man… why do you look so surprised by my news? A baby is what comes when you plough the furrow. Surely Morigau taught you that!”

  “You are a sharp-tongued little shrew, aren’t you?” he said, half-laughing, drawing her close against him and running his hand over the slight swell of her stomach, wondering at the strange, old magic that had seen fit to make his seed quicken to life.

  “I am,” she said. “And one day I will be lady of Kham-El-Ard, and my son and yours will be prince of all Prydn!!”

  *****

  Shortly after sunrise the next morning Ardhu’s war party set off toward Suilven, the Crossroads of the World, as he had decreed. It rained and the wind blew, howling across the sky as though winter still held sway in Prydn, although it was actually nigh on the Summer Solstice. Several men had whispered that it was ill-luck to leave at such a time, before Bhel Sunface had sent his shaft of light into the holy circle in the red sunrise of the longest day, but Ardhu paid these whispers no heed. He knew it would be deemed equally unlucky if he stayed to lead the ceremony, and no Sun and no warmth came. Instead he gave the honour of his place to the newly appointed high priest, Gluinval, and Fynavir, an unusual move, for such acts were not often the province of women, but he was eager to show the people that he had accepted her back and she him… though he knew the truth of her silence, and to even look on her half-grown hair and thin, wan face felt like a dagger was being turned in his gut.

  A few paces behind Ardhu and his chief warriors, Bohrs and Hwalchmai, Gal’havad rode beside Mordraed, happily surveying the rain-washed countryside. “I look forward to seeing Suilven,” he said. “I have heard it is much different from Khor Ghor… much bigger… and there is a mighty hill where some say Bhel sleeps and is reborn… and a tomb of the Old Ones where the spirits fly after dusk…”

  “Aye, and it’s such a magic place, all the priestesses have three tits and an extra eye in their forehead,” said Mordraed dryly.

  “Do they?” gawped Agravaen, who was riding just to the rear of his older brother.

  “Of course not, you dolt,” laughed Mordraed, and Gal’havad laughed too, while Agravaen flushed red and murmured, “I knew that!”

  Other than Mordraed occasionally tormenting Agravaen, the ride across the Plain and beyond, following the great Ridgeway track, was uneventful. Mud sloshed underfoot and hail beat into the company’s faces as they crested Red Horn hill, but it did not slow their progress, and soon the wooden posts of the Sanctuary became visible on the horizon, dim under a soggy cloud cap. The door was barred and no fires burned.

  As they drew near, Ardhu reined in his stallion and paused for a moment, remembering a time he had been here as a young man no older than Gal’havad, and how his actions could have ruined all he had worked to obtain. But it had all turned out for the best. None save Merlin knew of his dark secret… unless Mordraed himself knew.

  Ardhu glanced furtively over his shoulder at the dark-haired youth riding be
hind him, the wind blowing his black mane straight back from his high forehead. He still didn’t trust him, but looking at the boy, relaxed and even smiling as he talked with Gal’havad and Agravaen, he found himself wishing the path of fate had been different. Maybe he should have killed Morigau and taken the child, raising him as his own… well, he was his own. Then, perhaps, there would be no fear of what darkness might be lurking in Mordraed’s head. Certainly he was a warrior one could be proud of, bold, fearless, a lethal archer… with a face and form that spoke of the ancient lineages of the West. It was cruel fate that Mordraed resembled Ardhu’s family so much, when Gal’havad resembled no one…

  He scowled, not allowing his thoughts to travel any further on that road, and slammed his heels into his steed’s flanks, driving the beast away from the shuttered Sanctuary towards the twin lines of menhirs, diamonds and longstones, which wound down from the Ridgeway toward the heart of Crossroads of the World. The rest of the warband followed him, unaware of the doubts and fears that roiled within their leader’s mind.

  They did not enter the great circles of Suilven, protected by their monumental chalk-cut ditches, but instead turned toward the Hill of King Zhel, rising like a snowy cone with a pool of wind-rippled water hugging its feet. Passing by, with an offering of gold and bluestone chips given to the waters, they came at last to the tall rows of wooden buildings that formed the Palisades. There they were greeted by the folk of Suilven, who took their steeds to pens and fed and watered them, and brought forth champions’ portions of meat and huge ceremonial beakers slopping thick, honey-rich mead.

  Once this greeting was over, Ardhu travelled on foot back into the Great Circles to meet with the priestess who presided over Suilven. In his youth, the Holy One had been a great, fat old woman called Odharna, but she was long barrowed, her spirit now dwelling among the Ancestors, and her place had been taken by the Esteemed High Lady Mako’sa, She-who-dispenses-Food.