Mako’sa was unusually tall, with a thin brown face and grey-black hair threaded with blue faïence and wrapped into coils on either side of her head; an added pad of horsehair gave her tresses towering height. Madder dye had given her robes a blood-red hue, and her cloak was wrought from the skins of hares—her totem animal. The hares’ heads had been left on and were bound with fine bronze thread.
“Welcome, Stone Lord,” she said, as she sat cross-legged outside of her cult-house within the great earth-ring of Suilven. “It has been long since you came to visit us at the Crossroads of the World.”
He nodded. “My business has always been at Khor Ghor. I do not think the great priestesses of this place need the help of any mortal man to run their temple.”
“No, that we do not,” said Mako’sa. “But we are surprised to see you now, unbidden and carrying your axes and daggers of war. “
“The world is changing, priestess. You will have seen how Bhel fails and the rain comes.” He held up his hand to the sky; it was raining again now, a thin drizzle. Water beaded on his greenstone wrist guard.
“Yes, we have seen it.” Mako’sa’s eyes turned grey as the soggy sky. “There is little that the Eye of Suilven does not see, Ardhu Pendraec. So a quest it is, for you and for your men. A quest to save the Land? Or to save your life?”
He went ashen. “What have you seen, Lady?”
Rain trickled between her dark brows, furrowed from age and weather. She must have been over fifty, a great age for a woman; though such advanced age was not infrequent among the priestesses of Suilven. “I have seen the fate of kings, Pendraec. As it always must be.”
“We all die and go to the Ancestors, that is true,” he said gruffly. “But I have no intention of going anytime soon, and it is my Land that worries me more than the fate of my body. Crops are failing, Lady Mako’sa; children with bellies swollen from hunger die in ditches.”
“And so you will fare over the Sea to seek the Cup of Gold, the Cup of Plenty, that stands within Spiralfort, where the lamps of Uffern burn. Hoping its powers will restore what has been lost.”
“Yes… the tale of the Cup was told to me by the Maimed King of the Wasteland ere he died.”
“Perhaps hope in the quest is the thing… rather than the finding,” Mako’sa said quietly.
He ignored her; perhaps not understanding her words or choosing not to understand them. “I have brought my men here not just for rest and food but for your blessing.”
“And they shall have it, for what it is worth,” said Mako’sa, bowing her head. “Bring them to me.”
*****
The warriors of Ardhu’s band came one by one to the cult-house of the Esteemed Lady Mako’sa, each one bowing before her door with its carven poles that showed the faces of many beings both foul and fair, their eyes made out of pebbles polished from years of supplicants touching them for luck. Whatever she said or did with each man of the tribe within the stout walls of the house was never spoken of, either by the priestess or the warrior, who, his brow marked with a sign made of animal fat, marched back to the encampment at the Palisades. It was secret and made sacred before the spirits.
Gal’havad, looking a bit pale and queasy, went into the cult house before Mordraed, who waited impatiently outside the skin-hung door, striding back and forth with a petulant expression. Gal’havad wasn’t long and came out bone-white and quite unsteady on his feet. Mordraed saw him stagger and lean against one of the totem poles, hand pressed to his midriff as if he was about to be sick.
“What is wrong with you?” Mordraed caught him, as his knees buckled.
“It is nothing. Go and have your blessing from the Great Lady.”
Mordraed cast a distasteful glance toward the hut door. Scents of burning herbs, unwholesome and possibly hallucinogenic, drifted out towards him. “I think not, cousin. My fate was already mapped out by the spirits at the hour of my birth… that is my belief; I do not think a blessing, even from a powerful priestess, can change what is destiny.”
He helped Gal’havad from the henge and out into the now-darkened fields. The Moon came out above, slicing through the sky; the stars were hard eyes, watchful and unfriendly. Mordraed breathed a little sigh… he was well aware that out here, beyond men’s comforting fires, there was no one around. No one but him and Gal’havad, cousin, half-brother… and rival. It seemed the perfect place to finish his unsuspecting kinsman. Yet somehow he could not bring himself to find his dagger hilt. Not here. Not yet. Striking down a man who looked as weak as a babe was not honourable. And of course there was the forced oath, sworn before the Stone of Adoration, that he would raise no hand to Gal’havad.
Inside, he felt something he had not expected.
Pity.
It was as if he gazed at one of his two youngest brothers when he saw the ailing Gal’havad. He shook his head, wondering at his own feelings, despising himself for this unbidden weakness. He cursed silently and dropped his arm from his companion’s shoulder … and at that moment Gal’havad toppled over into the growing corn and was noisily sick. His limbs jerked and Mordraed realised he was having one of his fits where he entered the Otherworld.
The sight of Gal’havad helpless and unmanned, lying twitching in the corn, filled him with revulsion, but again… that sense of pity rose up in him, snaring him, twisting his gut. Gal’havad could not stop his spells, could not control the forces that tormented him… Mordraed would hate to be so out of control, used by spirits for reasons unknown…
“Gal’havad.” He crouched down beside his half-brother. Mercifully he had ceased shaking and lay crouched on his side like a corpse in a barrow, pale-faced and with closed eyes, his breathing rapid and shallow. “Gal’havad, can you hear me?”
Slowly Gal’havad’s eyelids flickered. His expression was one of disorientation. “I am sorry, Mordraed,” he whispered, “that you have seen me so.”
“I know of your strange spells,” said Mordraed bluntly.
“Will you help me back to the encampment, cousin?”
Mordraed put his arm around Gal’havad’s narrow waist and assisted him to his feet. He staggered slightly and put a hand to his face. “They are getting worse, Mordraed,” he whispered. “The fits. There is great pain in my head too, and a blinding light. In the morn I ofttimes void my stomach; the other youths think it is because of too much mead but it is not.”
“You bear a burden, Gal’havad.” And so you should have been a priest and not a king’s heir… and then I would not have to kill you! “Come; let us get you back to the Palisades.”
*****
Reaching the encampment, they entered the hut that had been set aside for the younger members of Ardhu’s warband. As Ardhu’s heir, Gal’havad had a section separate from the others, with fur-draped screens separating his bed-space from that of the others. Mordraed shoved the hangings aside and ushered Gal’havad through, and the red-haired youth collapsed in a weary heap on the bare chalk floor, still looking wan and weak and drained. “Mordraed, will you stay with me?” he asked, almost plaintively, as if he were still a little boy, and not a warrior who had already proven himself at Pendraec’s Mount and who had ritually taken the life of the Maimed King.
Mordraed shifted uneasily; he did not wish this, but what could he say? “Yes, if that is your will.”
He sat down uncomfortably on the ground near to his half-brother, stretching out his legs before him. Gal’havad shifted and laid his head on Mordraed’s knee. He turned his head to gaze up at Mordraed, “I am afraid,” he said quietly.
A cold sensation passed through Mordraed. Do not look at me… Do not look at me… He tried to ignore the intense, unwavering stare of his young half-brother. “There is no need to fear.” His voice sounded harsh, the caw of the gorecrow.
“I dream of the barrow, Mordraed… Sometimes I cannot see myself upon my father’s high seat or … growing old.”
“All who live dream of the barrow now and then,” Mordraed said shortly. “Do n
ot think of it more; it can make a man mad. Rest or you will not be able to continue with the Pendraec’s quest. I will watch over you; if you sicken again I will call the priestesses.”
“My thanks, Mordraed.” Gal’havad closed his eyes. “You are good to me. I often feel bad that you have no inheritance like I do, that your lands were lost when your father Loth died. I swear that one day I will see that you have lands aplenty and many head of cattle.”
Mordraed was taken aback. “You… you would? You would give me those things, which would make me nigh as powerful a chief as yourself?”
“Of course I would. I swear it by our shared blood.”
His voice was growing faint, heavy with need for slumber. Cushioning his face with his hand Gal’havad was soon asleep, head resting on Mordraed’s knee. The older youth sat as if frozen, horrified by the intimacy of Gal’havad’s touch, his face nearly as white as his half-brother’s. Oath or no, he should end this now, snap this sickly boy’s neck like a wounded animal’s, free the wretched spirit-touched youth from his blighted life… He could claim he had another fit, that he fell at an awkward angle and his neck snapped…
But he could not bring himself to touch him… Anger and emotions he could put no name to welled up, a coil of conflict. Moving Gal’havad’s head onto the ground with a gentleness incongruous with his inner turmoil, he covered his half-brother with his own cloak, then raced from the hut out into the darkness.
*****
Merlin paced around the bottom of the sacred shaft, a caged beast trammelled by walls of chalk. He touched the place on the wall where he had tried to mark off the days and nights of his imprisonment… how many had it been? He was losing track of time now, as he grew weaker and more despondent.
“I must get away!” he muttered to himself, staring up at the tiny circle far above that allowed a glimpse of the darkling sky. He knew, felt it in his bones, that there was much amiss in the outside world. Ardhu… he must go to Ardhu, warn him, help him before it was too late.
He sighed and sagged against the chilly chalk wall. Yes, he was wrong to try and stave off what the Ladies of the Lake termed as ‘Fate’… but how could he not? He had made Ardhu, engineering even the union that brought about his birth… how could he abandon him to wanton destiny now?
Suddenly he heard a noise from above, the sound of feet skimming grass. He stared up, rheumy eyes straining in the gloom. Moments later, Mhor-gan’s face appeared at the lip of the shaft, gazing down. “Merlin?” she asked. “Are you hale? I have brought more food and a warmer garment.”
Merlin made no answer. It was doubtful Mhor-gan would fall for his wiles, but he must try. She would be the one to appeal to if all else failed; Nin-Aeifa’s heart was long ice towards him, and Mhor-gan had always been the softer of the two priestesses, her heart fair and true, like her brother’s.
He crouched down, curling into a ball and putting his arms over his head. Opening his mouth, he let out what he hoped sounded like a pain-wracked moan.
High above him, Mhor-gan looked alarmed. “Merlin, what ails you?”
“The elf-stroke…” He touched his cheek. “It has happened again. You must help me lest I die here like a trapped animal.”
“I will come down at once.” She dropped the rope ladder down the side of the pit and began to descend.
Reaching the bottom, she knelt beside Merlin as he crouched on the floor. His heart was pounding and he resisted the urge to lunge at her and battle with her for the ladder and freedom. Instead he held out what appeared to be a weak, quavering hand. “Help me, Mhor-gan,” he implored. “I wish to smell the pure night air one more time if I am to die.”
“You will not die,” she said fiercely. “Here, put your arms around my neck and I will bear you to the surface. I will take you to Nin-Aeifa’s abode for warmth and healing.”
Merlin staggered to his feet and climbed upon her back. He trembled as he wrapped his bony arms around her neck. She did not know the trembling was from excitement, from anticipation of freedom.
“How is your grip, Merlin?” she asked, concerned. “Can you hang on?”
“My fingers will hold… I think…” he said in the weakest whisper he could muster.
Mhor-gan began to climb the ladder, clinging to the ropes till her fingertips turned white. Like her brother she was not overly tall, with Merlin being slightly the taller, and he could tell that it was a strain on her to carry him in such a manner, tiring her, sapping her of strength.
He smiled, there in the dark, out of sight.
After what seemed an eternity, they reached the top of the ritual shaft. Gasping, Mhor-gan crawled on all fours upon the grass, Merlin still with his arms looped around her neck, dragging on her like a dead weight.
“Are you well, Merlin?” she panted.
“I am…” he said, and suddenly his voice was deeper, stronger… and the quivering hands that flapped so feebly at her throat were now tightening on it with intent.
She tried to cry out, but Merlin pressed her face down into the grass. “I will not harm you, for you are a priestess and the spirits would not be pleased,” he said, drawing off his belt and binding her arms together. Then, still pushing her into the ground, he tore strips from the hem of his robes and threaded them through the belt, tying her arms to her ankles so that she could not rise and pursue him.
“Merlin…” Gasping, Mhor-gan rolled onto her side, red marks from his fingertips glowing on her neck. “I meant you no harm; you know that; we only wanted to keep you from rash actions …”
“Rash actions—what? Saving Ardhu? Killing myself? No matter what you think is the right course for Prydn, woman, I will tell you one truth… you and your sisterhood will have no say in the fate of Merlin.”
Leaving her struggling against her makeshift bonds, he began to run jerkily uphill. Adrenaline pumped through him, giving him a strength of body he had thought long gone. He knew he teetered on a dagger’s edge, pushing himself beyond the limits of his failing flesh, but he no longer cared. This would be the last quest of the Merlin, and he would gladly look good to those Ancestors who awaited him in the spirit-world upon the Plain of Honey.
Following the top of the ridge he set his course toward the East and the hill of Kham-El-Ard. His heart leapt in his bony chest as he saw its dark hump rising like a land-locked ship against the star-strewn sky. He could see torches flickering on the ramparts; smell the comforting scent of fires and animals, of human life.
Ardhu, Ardhu, my son… I pray you are still there, and that you are safe…
He puffed up the hill, staggering over to the gate guards who stood on duty all night. They gawped at him like simpletons but opened the stout oak gates at once to allow his passage. Hair wild, robe flapping around his knees, he stumbled across the inner yard and burst into Ardhu’s Great Hall…
And found it almost empty. Neither the Stone Lord nor his prime warriors were to be seen—no Ardhu, no An’kelet, no Hwalchmai, no Bohrs. A few idle-looking louts lounged around the fire-pit, frowning in Merlin’s direction as the freezing night air washed in over them.
The old shaman felt fear grip beneath his breastbone. “Where is Ardhu Pendraec?” he rasped. “Where are Prince Gal’havad and Lord An’kelet?”
One of the youths sitting at the fire snickered. “An’kelet? You are out of touch, old man! He is gone from here, by Ardhu’s will. By now, he is probably dead in the forest and being eaten by beasts. Where in Prydn have you been? He was fucking the bloody Queen!”
Merlin’s face went bone-white and dizziness washed over him. “And Ardhu?”
“Gone to find the Cup of Plenty over in Ibherna.” The youth, Mordraed’s friend Wyzelo the Weasel, belched and flicked a greasy pig-bone into the fire. “Waste of time, if you ask me. We should be fighting the tribes who have become unruly, not chasing such womanish dreams!”
“And Gal’havad is with him?”
“Yes, pretty boy has gone.”
Merlin felt his dismay turn to
sudden anger. Striding to Wyzelo’s bench, he caught the youth’s throat in a clawed hand, almost knocking him from his perch. Wyzelo’s beaker went flying and rolled in the dirt. “Who are you to speak so of the prince who will one day rule you? And who do you think it is that you speak to now, boy?”
Wyzelo made a squeaking noise, so high-pitched and effeminate that his half-sotted companions fell about the place laughing.
“I am the Merlin,” snarled the old man, his eyes burning into Wyzelo’s. “Have I been gone so long you do not recognise me? Or has this place gone to ruin so swiftly that men no longer honour those whose hard work brought them here?”
“Merlin!” He released Wyzelo as he heard a familiar voice behind him. Turning, he saw Ka’hai striding towards him from the outside ward, pinch-faced and worried. “Glad am I to see you… but so surprised that I shake like a leaf in the wind! It was rumoured you were dead!”
“It seems reports of my death were highly exaggerated,” said Merlin dryly. “Do I look like a dead man to you? Now tell me, for you I know I can trust… has Ardhu indeed gone to Ibherna for this Cup of Gold?”
Ka’hai nodded. “Yes, he left a few days ago, travelling first to Suilven for blessings on his quest, and then intending to ride for Mhon, where he has paid for ships to be built on the strand. He has taken twenty of his best men, including Gal’havad. Mordraed his sister’s son also rides with the company.”
Merlin’s face whitened. “Mordraed! I can hear by your voice, friend Ka’hai, that you feel about this news as I do. Why should he take on the whelp of the bitch who tried to bite him?”
Ka’hai sighed. “Gal’havad wishes it… he seems besotted with the man, as if he has been bewitched! Mordraed also exposed the treachery of An’kelet and Fynavir—maybe Ardhu feels he owes him something for that deed.”
“He owes that one nothing! This is evil news indeed.” Merlin shook his head, chewing his chapped lips as he thought about what he should do. “Ka’hai, I cannot linger here… I must ride and catch up with Ardhu if I can. Have a horse brought for me. Quick, man… all we hold dear may depend on it! Ardhu is as your brother, and if you love him, you will do as I say!”
Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge Page 23