On the distant horizon another warband appeared, wearing the same mark of Bal’ahr the Winter Sun on their foreheads. Before them loped great grey-coated hounds the likes of which the men of Prydn had never seen, shaggy and near as tall as a man. They raced before their masters like dogs of the Unworld, howling and baying, their tongues lolling horribly.
Catching up with the main body of the survivors, Ardhu gestured ahead to a curve in the river, where a thick patch of elm, ash and alder grew on the far bank. “Get into the water at that spot!” he shouted. “Cross to the trees. Maybe the dogs will lose the scent.” He sounded doubtful. Desperate.
The band plunged into the river, splashing and going under as the muddy river bottom gave way beneath their feet. Mordraed slipped and was momentarily pulled under by the slow, strong current; he resurfaced cursing and blinking water from his eyes; not only briefly blinded, but with a wet bowstring that would render his weapon unusable. And Agravaen… where was he? He had lost hold of him… He glanced about wildly. He had no great feeling for his younger brother but he could not let him drown or fall to a bunch of savages.
A few feet away he saw Gal’havad struggling in the swell, bracing the supine body of Agravaen against his shoulder and fighting to keep his head above the water. “Over here, Mordraed!” he gasped. “Hurry, I cannot hold him much longer.”
Mordraed struck out swimming and managed to get hold of Agravaen again. Between him and Gal’havad they hauled his limp form to the shore and then into the relative safety of the trees. Once hidden in the tangle of foliage they halted, staring back at the progress of the other men. Most were nearly across the river, showering mud and water as they slogged through the shallows. Only Ardhu and Bal-ahn hung back, standing on the far bank amid the swaying reeds. Bal-ahn with his shoulder streaming dark blood and a face as deathly as that of Hwynn, god of the Mortuary.
“With this wound bleeding freely, the hounds will sniff me out for sure.” Brought on the wind, Bal-ahn’s words were carried across the holy river of the Great White Cow. “And I am too weakened to swim such a current. I will stay and hold them off as best I can. It may give you more time, Lord.”
“Bal-ahn… you cannot.” Ardhu’s voice was weary, heavy. “You know what that will mean. You know there can only be one ending if you remain here.”
Bal-ahn drew his dagger, an imported blade from Ar-morah, long and deadly. “I do.”
“I cannot ask you to do this.”
“You have not asked me, Lord. I choose to do it.”
Standing ankle-deep in the mud on the opposite bank, Ba-lin listened to his brother’s words and his cheeks drained of colour. Splashing back across the river, he reached Bal-ahn’s side and grabbed his uninjured arm. “We were born of one womb; it is said we share one soul between us,” he said fiercely, though his voice trembled. “If you make a stand here, my brother… you will not stand alone!” He drew his own dagger and stood at Bal-ahn’s side, ready to share his twin’s death as he had shared his birth.
“Go, Stone Lord.” Bal-ahn glanced desperately at Ardhu. “I can hear the enemy drawing close; they have not given up the chase!”
Ardhu embraced each of the brothers quickly. He was as white as they, his eyes dark hollows, his hands trembling with emotion. “Farewell, my greatest friends of these many years. May we meet one day in the banquet halls of the Ancestors on the Plain of Honey!” Whirling on his heel, he dived headlong into the river and swam with the agility of a salmon to the far shore. He had just reached the bank and scrambled into the shadows of the trees when the first of the great hounds padded into view, a great creature near as tall as a pony, with a dun coat and swinging tail like a club. Its lips peeled over its fangs as it saw the twins waiting with drawn daggers on the riverside.
And then, with a blood-curdling howl, it bounded towards them.
*****
In the little wood, Ardhu gathered his band together. Nine… that was all that were left. Nine, including an injured Agravaen. All had come to ruin… why had the Ancestors turned against him in such a manner?
“We must keep going,” he barked gruffly. “Ba-lin and Bal-ahn will hold them as long as they can but they are far outnumbered, and our foes know this area while we do not.”
“Which way?” gasped Hwalchmai, slapping his sodden hair out of his eyes.
“Down the river. Keep following the water but do not go too close to the edge lest you are spotted by enemies on the other shore.”
Mordraed fumbled in the calfskin pouch hanging at his belt. He felt the vial of poison there; undamaged, its stopper still sealing its contents, praise the spirits. “My bowstring is wet; I cannot shoot at our foes. But I also have a slingshot. I will take any down with that, if I can.”
They began to run again, Mordraed and Gal’havad pulling Agravaen’s supine form along the ground, one arm each; he was proving too weighty to carry between them. Woodcraft was forgotten as they crashed through vines and growing shrubs, desperate to put as much space between them and their pursuers as possible. In the distance they could hear the great dogs barking and howling in canine fury; then men were screaming, shouting, their voices eerie and hideous and distorted on the rising wind.
They forced their way through the greenery for what seemed an eternity. Eventually Ardhu held up a hand for a halt. “I hear nothing now. We will find a place where we may rest and tend the wounded. Leave the river and head for that rising ground…” he pointed through the tangle of trees to a grey outcrop of stone furred with mountain-ash and ferns. “There’s an open spot above the treeline where we can watch for the approach of any enemy.”
The companions veered away from the River Boann and began to climb the escarpment. A few hundred yards below the top, in a bald space denuded of greenery, stood the retaining circle of a ruined roundhouse. The band climbed into the safety of its sheltering walls and then collapsed, some leaning against the tumbled stones, panting, others falling full out on the ground, their strength almost completely sapped.
Mordraed and Gal’havad placed Agravaen on Mordraed’s skin cloak and Mordraed tried to give him some water. He could not swallow. “Let me try,” said Gal’havad and he took his little violet-coloured cup from the safety of his tunic, filled it with a bit of weak ale from his flask, and pressed it to Agravaen’s dry and peeling lips.
Mordraed scowled, sitting back on his haunches. Gal’havad was like a child, playing with his silly talisman, a stone scraped out of the bottom of a pool. And yet… he saw Agravaen’s eyelids flicker. The big lad glanced around dazedly. “I… I have done well this day, haven’t I?” he asked. His voice was strange, lost; his eyes glazed and unfocussed.
“You killed your enemy, so yes,” replied Mordraed.
“I have done well for the Stone Lord, then?” Agravaen asked, letting his head fall back on the earth with a thud. His mouth trembled slightly; a purplish stain deepened his lips.
“Aye.” Mordraed’s voice was sharp. “What a good warrior should do for his chieftain.”
Agravaen’s hand shot out, catching Mordraed’s wrist and drawing him down until their heads were close together. His fingers were icy. “I know… what is in your heart… brother…” he whispered, and suddenly there was bloody foam leaking from his mouth. “Don’t do it. Our mother is not right. Turn from your path, Mordraed, or you will die…”
Mordraed listened in horror. What if Gal’havad or any of the others heard? Leaning down, he pressed his hand over Agravaen’s mouth, trying not to recoil at the feel of his hot spittle against his palm. “Be silent… the poison makes you rave. Be still, we will do what we can for you, perhaps the dart did not go too deep.”
Agravaen stared up at his older brother, unable to speak due to the pressure of his hand. His eyes suddenly darkened with a look akin to hatred, and then he made a gasping, wheezing noise and began to jerk and spasm.
Gal’havad heard the sound of his heels drumming the loose stones. “Mordraed… what is happening?”
&
nbsp; “Get back!” Mordraed swung out at him with his arm, gesturing him away. “This is not for you to see, Prince of Kham-El-Ard!” Bitterness and rage dripped from his words and Gal’havad stood as one stunned, too fearful to move.
Agravaen lay still. His eyes were wide open, sightless, and a trickle of yellow foam ran from his mouth. Mordraed wiped his hand on the grass, face contorted. “He is gone to the Ancestors… Leave me, Gal’havad. I will make a burial pyre for him.”
Having heard the commotion, Ardhu strode over and looked at the inert body. “I feel grief that Agravaen has gone to the long-house of his fathers,” he said formally, “but there can be no pyre. The smoke would be a clear sign to our foes.”
Mordraed’s eyes crackled. “So you think it acceptable that a man of your own royal house, your sister’s son, lays unbarrowed as food for wild dogs and wolves…”
“I do not,” said Ardhu wearily. “But we are in danger and the needs of the living must outweigh those of the dead. Remember, Mordraed, in the days of our forebears, the bodies of the dead were laid open to the sky for many Moons before they were burned or placed within their mounds.”
“I will build him a small cairn at least,” snarled Mordraed. “High on the hill above, where the Sun will touch. No thanks to you, Stone Lord, and no honour to your kin.”
Ardhu turned his back to his bastard son. No use in argument that would solve nothing… especially with Mordraed who seemed to crave argument at every turn. He was sorry to see Agravaen dead, he had been loyal despite his upbringing in Morigau’s household, but he could not make exception for him.
Mordraed angrily grabbed Agravaen’s body beneath the arms and started to drag him out of the hut circle and further up the slope, while the other members of the warband stared, motionless. They knew him little, as he was one of the younger members, and had rarely mingled outside of his group of fractious youths who had few prospects.
Gal’havad, who had watched the exchange between his father and friend, suddenly leapt forward as if released from a spell. “I will help him!” he cried, and raced after Mordraed.
He soon caught up with the dark-haired youth and in silence grasped hold of Agravaen’s legs. Mordraed stared at him, surprised, then nodded curtly in acceptance of his help. Between them they wrestled the young warrior’s body to the crest of the hill, where they found the shattered cairn of an earlier people, its inner stones, covered with Suns and spirals, now open to the frowning sky. They placed him in the unroofed entrance passage and tucked his knees up to his chest, laying his head to the North so that his unseeing eyes faced East toward Bhel’s glory. Mordraed began to hunt out rocks from the fallen dome of the mound and placed them over him, one by one, heaping them up into a pointed cairn. Unspeaking, Gal’havad worked steadily beside him, until, by the time the sky had darkened to purple and the light of a big Moon turned the hilltop to white-silver, the body of the dead youth was completely covered, safe from the predators that roamed the wild places beyond the firelight.
Upon finishing, Mordraed fell back against the retaining circle, breathing heavily, rubbing his blood and earth-stained hands over his hot, sweating face. He felt wearier than he had ever felt… he who was graced by the spirits with good health and strong limbs… and his mind was in turmoil. Agravaen dead… his ally, even if only to use as a shield against the hostility of others. And if that was not bad enough… there, across the river when they were attacked, he had lost yet another chance to claim his birthright. He could have finished it off then, quickly and easily. Two arrows gone astray in the heat of battle… Ardhu Pendraec and his son Gal’havad dead in one tragic accident. None would have dared blamed him, and he would have made the suitable show of grief.
He moved his knuckles across sore, burning eyes. What was wrong with him? Why had his arm turned soft? No… no, nothing was wrong! It had just not been the right time to make such a decisive move, that was all… if he had killed them, the remaining warriors of Prydn might have lost heart and been overwhelmed by their enemies, and he would have swiftly met the same fate he had dealt out.
“Mordraed… are you all right?” he heard Gal’havad’s voice through what seemed a heavy mist. He managed to force his eyes open and glare blearily at his half-brother, who knelt on the lichenous stones, hand on his shoulder.
Mordraed shrugged him off. “Why?” His voice was dry, cracked. “Why did you come up here to bury Agravaen with me?”
“It was right. Agravaen deserves to lie in honour. My father was wrong not to help you himself.” Gal’havad hung his head. “I would aid you in whatever you asked, Mordraed. You are my brother.”
A cold chill swept through Mordraed, piercing him to the heart. It was as if a barrow ghost had prodded him with an icy skeletal finger. The heavy mist of exhaustion fell from him, and his dark eyes narrowed. “Brother… what do you mean?” Could the boy know? Had he known all along?
Gal’havad’s face was open and guileless. “I know we are really but cousins, yet I have no brother of my blood and I have always looked to you as I might a brother.”
“You are a fool, then…” Mordraed scrambled up.
Gal’havad stared at him. “You are not yourself… but I understand.”
Mordraed stormed down the hill, slipping on the shale, eyes burning, tearing with an emotion he could not fathom. Oh my little brother… it is you who does not understand. I AM myself. Completely myself. And that shall be your undoing…
*****
Ardhu led his remaining men down the river in the dark. Fish flopped in the swell, the wind sobbed in reeds and withies. Animal eyes, luminous as floating moons, shone out of bushes, then vanished into the tangle of foliage on the banks.
“I can smell a tang in the air,” hissed Hwalchmai. “Can you smell it too, Ardhu? Wood smoke.”
Ardhu lifted his head, scenting the air like an animal. “Yes, I smell it too. But not just wood smoke. Flesh cooking. Let us hope…” his smile was grim, a shadow deepening his eye sockets till his visage looked a skull, “it is animal flesh. Although men say the folk who dwell at Spiralfort are wise and peaceful. If what I have deduced by the stars is correct, we should be drawing near the bend of the River of the White Cow, and will soon see the great sanctuary of God’s Peak.”
“Let us pray to the Ancestors that you are right about the peacefulness of the folk who dwell there,” murmured Hwalchmai.
“They wrought the Cup of Gold for the Maimed King,” said Ardhu.
“Aye… but they took it away again,” said Hwalchmai darkly. “A capricious folk, whose motives we do not know.”
Ardhu glanced over his shoulder at his dwindled warband. Their faces glowed pale in the starshine. Mordraed and Gal’havad were at the rear of the party, walking side by side… Mordraed’s visage was dark, shuttered, his lips drawn into thin lines, his hair whipping his cheeks like the wings of the flesh-hungry raven. Ardhu felt a sudden, irrational surge of fear; the like of which he had never felt before, even in his first battle by the Glein, when he was scarcely more than a boy. He gripped the hilt of Caladvolc, tempted to draw it, although he knew he would appear mad to his men.
Trying to get hold of his emotions, he turned in his saddle and gestured to the two youths. “Come to me, both of you. Gal’havad, you must stand with me as Prince of the West. Mordraed, I take it you have restrung your bow? We may have need of it.”
“It is done,” said Mordraed flatly. “My weapons are always close to hand, Lord Ardhu.”
I would wager that they are indeed, my serpent son born in shame and shadow! But oh gods, I must trust you now because I have no choice and almost no men left…
The course of the River Boann turned abruptly, and in an instant the trees vanished, leaving a wide open vista. The companions stopped and stared, for before them, on the northern side of the Holy River of the White Cow, was a marvellous complex, with features both familiar and alien to them.
On the top of a slight slope stood a huge mound, not as large or as
conical as the Hill of Zhel, but wide and drum-shaped, a sun-disc with a mighty white quartz revetment and decorated kerbstones that gleamed blue in the moonlight. A circle of about thirty massive stone blocks surrounded it, shutting out the profane world and holding the powers-that-be in. Two timber structures stood close at its side—a smaller, linear one in the West, facing the Land of the Ancestors, and an enormous circular one in the South-East, filled with many rows of pits and posts and fronted by a pair of gigantic stones similar in function and appearance to the Three Watchers of Khor Ghor. Torches and fires flickered by stones and wooden posts, making shadows dance, and the smell of roasting flesh permeated the night air. By the entrance passage of the great mound a pair of stone lanterns could be seen burning—the famed eternal night-lamps of Uffern, the Very Deep.
“So this is it!” Bohrs stood staring, arms folded over his barrel chest. “The place they call Spiralfort, the God’s Peak.”
“And also Kar Pebir, the Flaming Door, and Fortress in the Middle-of-the-Earth,” said Hwalchmai. “or so the song-singers tell, when they fare across Severna’s sea.”
Gal’havad looked across the rippling waters of the river at the mound and its satellite structures. A strange sensation gripped him; fear and yet elation, a sense that here destinies converged… it was just as he had felt when he first set eyes upon his cousin Mordraed walking through the snow across the barrow-grounds of the kings.
“Father…” he swivelled round in his saddle to face Ardhu. “Let us cross the river and come to this place. I can sense the Cup we seek is here, waiting for us to claim it.”
“We will not be hasty,” said Ardhu. “We must be cautious, though I have heard the folk of the God’s Peak are hospitable, enemies of those who attacked us on this bitter day. The headman is said to be a wise man called Maheloas.”
The companions walked a little further, crossing the Boann at a place where there was a natural ford with signs of passage. White cattle sacred to the spirit of the river moved through the waters with them, passing to and fro under the vast haze of the Milky Way, the cloak of Nud and skyward path of the Dead.
Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge Page 26