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

by J. P. Reedman

  Trudging across the grass towards the great mound on the height, darkness suddenly swirled and shattered and the band were confronted by an unbroken line of men and women. Torches flared and they gazed at rows of faces, young and old, some masked, others bare. The strangers were impassive, neither friendly nor fierce, and it seemed their eyes, glimmering in the red torchlight, scryed the truth of their souls.

  Ardhu stepped forward, hands held apart, far from the hilt of Caladvolc. “We come in peace. Is there one here who goes by the name of Maheloas?”

  An old man left the throng and walked in stately manner towards Ardhu. He reminded him of the Merlin, a lean wiry figure with sweeping grey-black hair and a long beard plaited with beads wrapped in golden foil. Beneath bushy brows that rose like wings, his eyes were a pale, striking blue, the colour of thick winter’s ice upon the tarn. He wore a shaman’s robe with a great wheel painted upon it in ochre; the wheel was crisscrossed with lines that showed the movements of the Moon. “I am Maheloas,” he said. “High Priest of the Houses of the Holy—of the Cave of the Sun, and of Cnobga the Hill of the Hag Bui, and Dubad the Hill of Darkness where the Winter Sun is swallowed. And you I know, though we have never met. You are Ardhu Pendraec, King of Prydn, and husband to Fynavir, daughter of Mevva the Intoxicator.”

  Ardhu’s eyes widened in surprised. “How do you know who I am?”

  Maheloas smiled, his face creasing into a thousand lines. “Wanderers come bringing tales of strife and sadness in Prydn. They say the King, the greatest lord since the days of Samothos the Tin-Lord, seeks to find the Cup of Plenty that will bring new life to a barren old world.”

  “That is what I would do.” Ardhu inclined his head.

  Maheloas scanned Ardhu’s face with his ice-cool eyes. “And yet… I do not feel belief coming from you, Lord of Prydn. You do not believe any Cup of enchantment can save your land.”

  Ardhu glanced up again, suddenly fierce, his gaze green-dark fire. “What I believe or do not believe is of importance to no one but me. I do what I must and have the blessings of Deroweth and Suilven for this quest.”

  “You will be welcome here.” Maheloas smiled benevolently and held out his hand. “But if you do not believe, the Cup will never go with you. And if you try to take it by force, not one of your men will leave this place alive. I do not threaten this in anger, King of Prydn, I tell you only what must be. We took the Cup back from the Maimed King long ago, when he fell into folly and ruin; it is precious to our people because the gold from which it is beaten was bathed in the blood of our Good God Dag who, with his consort Ahn-u makes all the land fruitful.”

  Ardhu bowed, and then ran his hand across his tired eyes. “I speak from weariness… half my men are dead, including kin and friends of many years, and we have been running from foes for hours. I beg you, Maheloas, to let us rest awhile and then we may talk of the Cup.”

  Maheloas nodded. “I will agree to that, Stone Lord of Prydn. Follow me.”

  *****

  The priest led the band to the Eastern enclosure beside the great Mound of Spiralfort. An outer ring of mighty totem poles surrounded an inner ring of cremation pits lined with clay, where animal carcasses burned, tended by veiled women in strange broad hats of woven river rushes. The ground was thick with ash; the air greasy and rank with smoke. Beyond the crematory hearths were three inner rows of pits in which the charred remains were strewn—burnt, blackened ribs and cow’s heads with horns, parts of goats and sheep and deer, even a wild horse. A large clay mound, pale and tumescent, stood at the end of the vast enclosure, reminding the warriors of Prydn of their own sacred space at Marthodunu, lying in its valley midway between Suilven and Khor Ghor.

  “This is Wheel-of-Offering,” said Maheloas. “Where we give to the spirits the bounty of our land both night and day.”

  “You do not feast here yourselves?”

  “At the times of darkness and light—yes. Now and for the next few months only the spirits will sup. We have enough for ourselves in our settlement on the hither side of blessed Boann. That we have so much to spare should show you, who has ceased to believe, how we are blessed by the Ancestors and Great Ones.”

  “But have you not noticed the change in the weather, the gods turning their faces away? Surely it has come to you too.”

  Maheloas did not meet Ardhu’s probing gaze, but continued to walk amidst the smouldering and bone-filled pits. “If the rains come, we pray harder and make more and greater sacrifices… The Old ones will listen.”

  More sacrifices… Ardhu’s stomach lurched; he had had enough of sacrifice. The loss of Ba-lin and Bal-ahn burnt his memory like the fires around him, while the smell of hundreds of lumps of burning meat made hot acid leap into his throat.

  Maheloas took the men of Ardhu from the great Eastern circle to a more intimate structure in the West, where twin rows of massive parallel posts stood like sentinels, the early morning mist swirling around their bases. One of the standing stones of the circle surrounding the passage tomb was trapped within this artificial forest, a lumpen grey ghost glimmering in the torch light. A low roof made of plaited river-reeds lay over the top of the posts, casting deep shadows that hid whatever lay in the sacred space at the back of the structure.

  Out from the entranceway of this mysterious cult-house stepped a girl who greeted Maheloas in a soft, musical voice. Next to Mordraed, Gal’havad made a small noise in his throat. Mordraed was about to cast him a scathing glance… but then he saw the torchlight illuminate the maiden who walked gracefully towards them.

  She was slight and her hair was as black as his, curling to her waist, twined with blue beads and roundels of carved bone. Crescent earrings imported from the realm of Ibher hung from her lobes, and an intricate gorget ribbed with golden beads clasped her neck. In contrast to the darkness of her hair, her skin was white as if she seldom walked under sun, flawless and unmarked—this proclaimed her status, that she need not work tending the crops or herding the cattle. In the small, perfect oval of her face, her eyes were a clear, deep blue, the colour of Mordraed’s own eyes, but lacking their coldness—instead they were filled with a calm clarity. In one hand she held a bowl bound with bronze, in the other a sceptre similar to Ardhu’s Lightning Mace, its shaft cut with deep spiralling grooves and its polished stone head pinned on by golden studs.

  “I am Ivormyth daughter of Maheloas,” she said simply. “I am the Maiden of the Holy Cup, its servant and its Guardian. Be welcome here, to the House of the West.”

  She gestured with her hand and the companions entered the cult-house, bowing to the great standing stone confined within its walls. Inside were two other young women, near as beautiful as Ivormyth, who brought out bowls of ancient design, wreathed in spirals and brimming with pork, and tall fine beakers impressed with wheat and nail-marks like little crescent Moons.

  “This is the House of Vedu,” said Ivormyth, placing the symbols of her rank on a dresser of stout withies at the back of the hut. “House of Intoxication.” She handed Ardhu the largest of the beakers, a huge drinking vessel as red as fire. Honey-mead swirled in it, with tiny flowers added for sweet flavour dancing on the swell.

  Ardhu clasped the beaker and raised it above his head as expected, then drank it to the dregs in one. Ivormyth took the empty pot from him and smashed it against the single standing stone, the pieces spinning out across the room. “The spirits welcome you,” she said. “Sit and rest and my sisters will tend your wounds.”

  The warband sat down on the floor, humble and quiet in the presence of these sacred maidens. Ivormyth and her two companions went amongst them, bringing food and drink and bowls of clean water and moss to tend their scrapes and gouges.

  Mordraed was unable to keep his eyes from Ivormyth as she bent and knelt beside the warriors, graceful as a willow wand. Khyloq and the child in her belly were forgotten; they fled from his mind like mist. House of Intoxication indeed! He had not expected this… suddenly he felt a little less angry and confused. If
he could take this girl back to Prydn it would please him; there was no law that said a man could not have many wives, it all depended on wealth… and stamina. He grinned. Once Ardhu was out of the way and Mordraed claimed his rightful place, he was sure he would soon be richer than Samothos and Bolgos in their golden barrows!

  And then Ivormyth was there, standing demurely in front of Mordraed, offering him a beaker. He leaned forward, taking the drinking cup slowly, letting his long, slim fingers slide against hers. He smiled, tossing back his hair, confident that she would look upon him with favour; he had long known how the women of the tribes desired him. Why should she be any different? They were alike; both beautiful, both high status; it would be an excellent match.

  To his surprise she did not return his smile. Her lips were pale straight lines and her eyes cool. Without a word or gesture she turned away… and faced Gal’havad, who sat beside him. “You are the son of Ardhu Pendraec?” she said. Her voice was lilting music; it infuriated Mordraed to hear it wasted on his younger brother.

  “I am. I am called Gal’havad, the Hawk of Summer, Prince of Evening. My mother, Queen Fynavir, is from your fair country.” Gal’havad got to his feet and made a small, courteous bow. “The Ancestors bless the day of our meeting, Lady Ivormyth of Spiralfort.”

  Mordraed’s eyes widened in fury. The little bastard was trying his wiles with the girl! Gal’havad, the pure one, the different one who was more apt to speak with ghosts on the Plains than women!

  New hatred coiled in Mordraed’s heart; how did Gal’havad dare, when Mordraed had made it obvious where his interests lay! He let his thumb touch the hilt of his dagger. He should have finished it before; well, the time was coming. None would gainsay Mordraed son of Morigau and the Pendraec.

  Ivormyth gave a hand-signal to the other maidens and together they left the cult-house. Dawn was coming; light seeped through cracks in the roof and the torches were guttering, but the companions were all weary, and lying down they slept like dogs round the hearth, sated with meat and drink.

  Gal’havad and Mordraed alone remained awake. Mordraed would not look at his brother, but stared moodily into space. Gal’havad seemed not to notice. “Cousin, I am filled with a great joy,” he said impetuously. “This is a great and holy place; I can feel the spirits of the Old Ones all around me. And the Lady Ivormyth… it is as if she holds my destiny in her hands, I can feel it.”

  “I would imagine that is not all you would like to feel,” said Mordraed with heavy sarcasm.

  Gal’havad frowned, his brows drawing together. “Mordraed, what do you mean?” And then, as the words registered, “Mordraed, that is an unjust thing to say. I would not dishonour a lady of such high rank and beauty. Or any other, for that matter.”

  “Oh noble Gal’havad,” mocked Mordraed. “Spare me your words of honour and let me sleep.”

  He flung himself on the ground, back to Gal’havad. The red-haired youth stared at him for a while, noting the tenseness of his back and shoulders. His eyes were closed but Gal’havad knew he did not sleep. For the first time a little cold finger of doubt touched Gal’havad. Mordraed had always been quick to anger and sharp-tongued… but in the last few days there had been strangeness in him. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out the violet cup from the sacred pool at Kham-El-Ard, given him by his aunt Mhor-gan. He held it to his face, feeling the stone, washed smooth by five thousand years of gentle waves, against his cheek, reminding him of home, of the forests and the Plain, of the Stones of Khor Ghor in the morning mist, and the great hump of the Spirit-Path streaking toward the rising Sun.

  He wished he was home now, and that this quest was over.

  But that was not to be. He was in the Land of the Setting Sun, at the Temple of Spiralfort, for good or for ill. Stretching out on the ground, he fell into an exhausted sleep alongside the rest of the companions, the little violet cup clasped like an offering between his fingers.

  *****

  Gal’havad woke later in the day. He could hear people moving around him, and the sounds of dogs, animals and people outside the cult-house. He sat up, scrambling to his feet, and suddenly he realised something was wrong. Something terrible.

  His talisman was gone.

  Cursing, he searched through the rushes on the floor, searched through the calfskin bag at his waist and in the folds of his clothes.

  It was gone. The violet cup of twilight, his talisman of protection, his gift from Mhor-gan.

  Angry and desperate, he whirled around to see who else was in the hut. His father was standing by the doorway, with Bohrs, and Hwalchmai… all trustworthy, kin or as close as kin. The other men too, he trusted; they had not even been lying near him. Mordraed had slept at his back, of course; he was still nearby, sitting cross-legged in the rushes, honing his dagger blade and seemingly unaware of Gal’havad’s distress.

  “Mordraed!” he called out. “Have you seen my cup?”

  Mordraed craned his head around, continuing to work his blade with the flint sharpening-stone. “No. Should I have?”

  “It is missing. I had it in my hands last night!”

  “And you went to sleep with it on show?” Mordraed rolled his eyes. “Not wise, little cousin. No doubt one of these foreign savages has made away with it. Don’t worry yourself… it was just a trinket. I am sure Mhor-gan will dig up another one for you when we return home.”

  Gal’havad’s shoulders slumped. Maybe Mordraed was right; he attached too much importance to his aunt’s gift. No matter the truth, he could do no more to find the talisman; he could not accuse Maheloas and his people of theft for fear of causing an affront that might lead to all their deaths…

  Sighing, he gathered his cloak up and walked toward Ardhu, trying not to think of his missing gift. Mordraed rose and followed him, hiding a slight smile behind the fall of his hair. The little fool wasn’t looking so sure of himself today…

  Ardhu peered out of the cult-house into the bright sky. “Maheloas is coming for us. I believe we are to have a testing of sorts.”

  “I would test my axe on some heads,” murmured Bohrs.

  “Again…” Ardhu cast him a warning look, “no fighting unless we have no choice.”

  A shadow fell over the threshold, stretching inward over the great stone that was the heart of the house. Maheloas was there, a fox skull bound in the upper section of his hair and its bright pelt falling across his shoulders. Skulls of cranes and swans dangled from his cloak, making an ominous clack and clatter. In his hand he carried a great, antiquated crook made of stone, its front wreathed in jagged patterns. “Come, my guests.” He gestured with his thin, knotted hand. “You will eat with us and we will speak of the quest you have come upon and what you desire.”

  He led Ardhu and his warriors across the green vista outside the great Ancestor tomb. Even in broad daylight it was a magical place, all its features now clearly revealed. The grassland swept away toward the river, dropping in stepped terraces toward the foaming, frothing cauldron that was the heart of Boann, River of the White Cow. Birch trees tossed their branches on the far riverbank, silver dancers amidst more solemn alder and magic hazel, so beloved of shamans for their wands. Deer flitted amidst the trees, passing like shadows as they migrated towards the distant peak of Redmountain, the source of many streams and tributaries that merged their strength with the holy river.

  The group passed East toward the rising Sun, back toward the crematorial pit circle with its still-burning offerings. The vast entrance of the passage tomb came into view, clear now in the light of day, a place of power, of the spirits, of life and death. White quartz fronted the mound here, a wall that had buckled and slumped, fallen after uncounted nights of rain and wind and erosion. A huge stone blocked the way to the passage, an enormous prone block carved with art such as the men of Prydn had never seen—huge swirling spirals, locked together, looking to some like the orbs of the Watcher who protected the souls of Men, to others like a vast proud bull ready to charge, to yet others a vast
sea with the waves curling and the bright stars that were the watching Ancestors above.

  Behind the portal-stone, above the dark womb-passage, was a stone box… the place where the beams of the Midwinter Sun would pierce the mound, lighting the holy of holies, drawing the spirits from the cremated ashes that lay in huge carved bowls in niches inside. Ardhu recognized the significance, even as he observed the box, for its purpose was similar to that of the Great Trilithon, which on the same day also framed the Sun, drawing its rays into the circle and bringing life to the spirits.

  Leaving the entrance of Spiralfort behind, the company circled the mound alongside its vast decorated kerbstones, partly hidden by the collapse of the heavy cairn material, which was already over a thousand years old. In the East loomed the pit-circle with its many rings of posts, and by its entrance, guarded by the two flanking stones like grey needles, a small domed hut that they had not noticed last night amidst the flickering fires and the smoke of the cremated offerings.

  Maheloas guided them to the hut door. Inside, the beehive hut was dark and dank, the clay walls oozing moisture. Incense cups burned, the fragrance of herbs mixed with the ever present aroma of charred meat. Ivormyth knelt on the floor, her two attendants beside her. Her bowl stood before her knees, while the sceptre lay near her right hand. She had assumed a new robe, thin as mist, her flesh, painted with ochre, gleaming tantalisingly through the folds.

  Maheloas gestured for Ardhu and his band to be seated and they settled themselves on the floor. Ivormyth’s women rose and, as before, brought mead and bread and meat, which were consumed in silence. When the remnants of the meal were cleared away, Maheloas rose to his feet and gazed first at Ardhu then at each of his men in turn.

  “You have come many miles from Prydn to Ibherna to see the Golden Cup of Plenty, Blessed by the Good God, old master of all,” he said. “The Maimed King held it once but it passed from him when he became unclean and doomed. You wish to take it again, to bring hope and maybe more, for it is said all things of goodness flow from its depths. But not all may touch the Cup, and already once have hands not worthy enough held it, diminishing its power. Ardhu Pendraec, Stone Lord, you have already admitted the belief is not in you—you will not touch or bear the Cup of Gold. But of those who travel with you, your loyal companions, I cannot say.”