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

by J. P. Reedman

  Maheloas gave a terrible scream and lunged for his daughter, suddenly realising her intent, but Ivormyth was too swift for her elderly father. Swift as a deer, she hoisted her robes round her calves and sprang forward, hurling herself into the flames of Gal’havad’s funeral pyre. She began to scream as the hungry flames roared up to meet her, but as if by the hand of a merciful god, the roof-beam of the house cracked and collapsed inwards with a resounding roar, bringing the walls down with it, and scattering red-hot embers everywhere. Ash and hot sparks fountained up then showered over the horrified onlookers. The standing stone inside the hut seemed to wobble in its pit, and suddenly it cracked at the base and shattered, spewing steaming fragments all over the scorched ground.

  Maheloas was on his knees, rocking with agony. His hair smouldered; his mouth hung open in a soundless scream. He ripped off the ceremonial mask he wore and hurled it into the fire. “Get your son’s bones and go from here,” he said to Ardhu Pendraec, when words would come. “It was a black day for both of us when you set foot upon this isle!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE LADY IN THE RIVER

  The remnants of Ardhu’s warband trudged back to the sea-strand where they had first set foot ashore. For the first time since they had entered Ibherna luck was with them, and they were neither attacked by the tribe of Bal’ahr nor any other man or beast upon the road. Ardhu walked ahead of the others, face sarsen-hard and unnaturally aged, holding in his arms a coarse cinerary urn that contained the charred bones of Gal’havad. Bohrs and Hwalchmai flanked him, axes upheld in a symbol of respect to the remains of the young lord of Kham-El-Ard—while Mordraed, shunned by the others, staggered in the rear of the party, haggard as a wraith, a figure almost to be pitied in his abject misery.

  Betu’or was sitting down by the boats, still faithfully on guard, a spear across his knees. He leapt up, kicking sand over his small fire, when he saw familiar figures crest the rise… then stopped in horror as he counted the men before him and realised what his chieftain bore in his arms.

  “No, it cannot be so!” he cried, falling to one knee as the sand eddied around him, as golden as the Cup they had sought… and left behind, charred in the ruins of the cult-house at God’s Peak.

  “Sadly, it is indeed so. Gal’havad son of Ardhu has gone to the Ancestors.” Hwalchmai came down beside Betu’or and raised him with a hand. Ardhu said nothing; he merely clutched the urn and stared out, stone-eyed, to sea. “And only seven of us will return to Kham-El-Ard… and that is if the tides are with us and we do not founder.” Hwalchmai followed Ardhu’s gaze out to the choppy grey water; bunched clouds loomed like giant’s heads on the horizon and the wind was singing.

  “The wind is not right.” Betu’or held up a string of lank seaweed, watching the direction in which it swung. “The Moon had a sick hue last night, and the dawn was the colour of blood… both ill omens for sailing.”

  “I will stay no longer, not even if Ga’o the Wind Spirit blows his fiercest blasts and Mahn-ann brings down the roiling mists of Symmerdim.” Ardhu’s face was impassive, like granite. “The very soil of this place screams out against us, and if we linger too long I am certain not one of us shall return to Kham-El-Ard. Betu’or, we will only need Pridwen for the journey home, for there are but seven of us left; destroy the other boat, so that none can follow us. We have met many here who have no love for the men of Prydn.”

  Betu’or drew his axe and started to hack at the lesser of their two sturdy boats. Wood cracked and splinters flew. Hwalchmai and Bohrs joined him, smashing the carefully-wrought timbers with great force until the craft lay in shattered pieces upon the strand.

  Then the warriors gathered together and pushed Pridwen out into the swell, with Ardhu seated in the prow, facing his homeland, the urn and its precious contents held fast between his knees. Once Pridwen was afloat in waist-high water, they hauled themselves over the side and took up their flat paddles—all except Mordraed, who crouched at the far end away from his fellows. He looked ghastly and began to heave over the side, his hair hanging in the salty water. The others ignored him, disgusted.

  The crossing was bad, with a high wind taking them farther down the coast, but not as bad as it could have been; at least no storm-god had swept in to try and capsize them, and no Maidens of the Waves tried to draw them onto hidden rocks. Before long the shores of Prydn became visible under a helm of grey drizzle. Pridwen had been driven off course by the capricious winds, but it had turned out to be no bad thing… the cliffs on the horizons were not unknown to the warriors; the red and pale cliffs and sea stacks were the bastions of the Land of the Dwri, the People of the Water, one of Ardhu’s own holdings through his father, U’thyr Pendraec.

  Sailing into a sheltered cove with a huge, storm-carved arch that opened to the wild seas, Hwalchmai, Bohrs and Betu’or leapt into the shallows, dragging Pridwen up across the loose shingle on the beach until its prow came to rest against a vast weedy rock. As the company disembarked, climbing stiffly out onto solid land, the towering cliffs above became filled with spear-carrying men who waved their weapons with menace.

  Ardhu set down the precious urn that contained Gal’havad’s remains and took Rhon-gom from his belt and held it aloft so that all could see the symbol of his sovereignty. Immediately the tribesmen on the heights cast down their spears and began running down paths on the cliffside to greet the King of the West upon the cold sea-strand.

  Their leader was a man known to Ardhu; a youth of twenty summers called Ithel who had been at Winter Solstice celebrations at Deroweth for the last two years. He was distant kin, a grandson of one of U’thyr’s sisters.

  As Ithel jogged down the beach, shouting out a greeting to his kinsman, Ardhu held up his hand for him to halt. “Ithel, we come to the lands of the Dwri with no tales of glorious questing and its rewards. We went over the waves with death at our shoulders, and death is all we have brought back to Prydn.” He nodded grimly towards the rough black urn at his feet.

  Ithel stared at the coarse pot, not understanding its significance.

  Ardhu bowed his head. “That urn contains the bones of Gal’havad, prince of Kham-El-Ard, my only son and heir. He died upon the Imram, the… gods…” he swallowed, fighting for control, ‘… took him at the moment of our victory… for he was too good to walk longer amidst mortal men.”

  Ithel looked thunderstruck, his cheeks draining at the gravity of this news; he made the sign against evil with his hand. “My … my lord… these are unwelcome tidings indeed! Sorrow is in my heart and will be in the hearts of all true men of Prydn, Great Stone Lord. May the spirits give you ease.”

  “I will have no ease for the rest of my days, be they long or short,” said Ardhu bitterly. “And the spirits? They have turned their faces from me. But if you would aid me, there is something I would have you do… to honour Gal’havad. Send your most reliable men across Prydn, to every camp and settlement you know. Let them spread the news of the death of my son, the Hawk of Summer, who has now passed from us as summer passes to winter. Let all of Albu the White and even beyond weep for the Prince of the Twilight.”

  Ithel bowed. “It will be done, Ardhu Terrible Head. I will see that all men know and honour the memory of Gal’havad. Fires will burn to light his bones home to the houses of his forebears.” He turned, shoulders slouched with the heaviness of his assignment, and scrambled back up the cliff, gesturing to his men to follow. Once they reached the cliff-top there was scuffling and commotion on the height, and then, against the faded, dismal sky, a tongue of flame blossomed. It spiralled upwards, smoke trails billowing above its burning heart like the hands of departing spirits. It was joined within a short while by a blaze upon the summit of the opposing sea-cliff, matching the first in ferocity and intensity.

  Ardhu picked up the heavy urn, cradling it in his arms, and began to climb the steep slope from the cove, his steps slow and lacklustre, the steps of a mourner.

  And so the bones of Gal’havad the Son of Ar
dhu, the Prince of Twilight, began their long journey back to Kham-El-Ard.

  *****

  The Land was in mourning. Ithel’s messengers had spread the unhappy news, carrying it through all of Dwranon and as far afield as Khor Ghor and Suilven, while other men continued to pass the tale of woe on through all the villages of the West right down through Duvnon with its twisted tors to the craggy tip of Belerion where the land meets the sea. Mounted on a steed borrowed from Ithel’s holdings, Ardhu rode slowly through Dwranon with the cinerary urn in its place of honour before him on the horse, and his men gathered around him like a guard, marching sombrely on the long road home. Mordraed, though still pale and wretched, had regained some of his equilibrium and even marched at their side, though the others still ignored him. They could accuse him of nothing, and his grief seemed real enough, but his behaviour in Ibherna and its consequences had estranged them even more from him. But he was Gal’havad’s kinsman, and had been his friend, so they had no right to bar him from the funeral procession.

  They passed the great Mai Dun Fort of the Plain, where a causewayed camp had crowned the hilltop in the days of the Ancestors, a place where feasts had taken place and marriages were contracted and the silent dead had watched over all from platforms raised to the Everlasting Sky. A great long barrow, so large it seemed more a bank than a mound, stretched along the brow of the hill like a dark, undulating worm. As the warband passed on the track that skirted the foot of the hill, small figures scurried along the barrow’s length and suddenly its humped back burst into flame—beacons lit to honour the dead youth whose charred bones were carried ever onwards towards Kham-El-Ard.

  It was the same at the Great Dragon Path of Dwr, white-banked and massive under a stark crescent Moon, trailing away into the distance as far as the eye could see. As Ardhu and his companions processed along its length, the night air was suddenly filled by smoke and ash, and the Spirit-Path and all its satellite barrows were lit by flames from hastily ignited brushwood pyres. And the people of the Dwr came from hut and farm and settlement, some travelling many miles, whitening their faces with chalk and smearing their bodies with charcoal, and they wailed and keened and cried, dancing and drinking themselves into a frenzy in honour of their lost prince.

  Within a few more days, Ardhu’s warband reached the Harrow track, the Way of the Temple, and came at dusk within sight of Khor Ghor. Stark, eternal, it gleamed hazily in the purple of the twilight, the trilithons a faded red, like old blood, surrounded by the ever-circling black birds that made their homes beneath the lintels.

  Ardhu drew rein, watching as night drew down its cloak, furling the Seven Kings on their high ridge and the Spirit-Path with its attendant barrows. All was silent, still, save for the distant yipping of a fox…

  And then the lights began, twinkling in the gloom, myriad tongues of flame that leaped down the Avenue’s parallel banks, over the rounded heads of the Seven Kings, and along the top of the Great Spirit-Path itself. A drum rolled, its sound awful and solemn, reverberating within the massive Stones that made up the holy circle, and the shrine itself came to life with fire. The darkened stones turned red once more, flickering torches moving between the archways, and suddenly the tops of the lintels were ablaze, as flames shot high into the air before dissipating in an instant, some magic wrought by the priests of Deroweth in tribute to Gal’havad and his passing from the world of men.

  Dismounting his steed and passing the reins to Hwalchmai, Ardhu started down the Avenue, the urn heavy as stone in his arms, and the fires burning around him, blinding his eyes.

  And so he came to Kham-El-Ard and found its people waiting for him, lining the path that led up the hill with torches burning in their hands, and on the top of the ramparts were fires so great it almost looked as if the entire wooden fort was alight. He could hear the flames roaring, and huge clouds of smoke and ash puffed into the night air, obscuring the stars.

  As he ascended the path, men and women knelt before him, weeping and crying out, rending the earth with their hands. He passed them, stony-faced, and then, just within the great oaken gates, halted and placed Gal’havad’s urn upon the ground.

  Across the yard from him stood Fynavir, face daubed with chalk, as was customary in times of mourning, her unearthly whiteness and the thinness that had come upon her since the banishment of An’kelet making her look like a skeleton that walked. Upon her shoulders gleamed the golden shoulder-cape that she had worn to their marriage-feast, still as bright as the day it was made… though the linen that drooped from its eyelets hung in tattered grey shreds, a shroud that tangled around her gaunt limbs.

  Ardhu went to her; he clasped her hands. She stared blankly at him, her fingers not enclosing his. He sank to one knee before her and suddenly he wept, for the first time since Gal’havad had died. “Forgive me,” he said. “I have not brought him back to you.”

  “I know…” she said. “The whole land has mourned for him.”

  “The gods willed that he go to the Undying Realm…” Ardhu said feebly, brokenly.

  “I know that too. But everything to me is lost, grey ash on the wind. If the spirits would take me away to be with him, I would gladly die this very instant.”

  She knelt in the dusty soil beside him, great sobs tearing from her chest, and he held her and wept with her, and it was as if, for a moment, the tears washed away some of the dark stain that blighted their marriage, joining them in purpose if only for a brief time. When their grief was at last spent, they both rose and walked, hands clasped, to Gal’havad’s urn.

  “Where shall we bury him?” asked Ardhu. “I leave it for you to choose, my Queen. We can build a new barrow on the Plain or inter him in the edge of one of the great mounds of the Tin-Lords that cluster in the fields.”

  “I do not want him far from me,” She wiped her red-rimmed eyes. “I want to gaze out and see where he is, and think upon him until the end of my days. Can we not build him a fitting grave near us here at Kham-El-Ard?”

  Ardhu inclined his head. “It will be done, Fynavir, my Queen,’ and so the order was made—and a barrow raised below the ramparts of Kham-El-Ard the Crooked High Hill, a fine round tumulus overlooking the curves of bright Abona, which flowed between the stands of ash, and elm, and stout oak that grew behind the hill. Fires were kindled along the banks of the river from the fort all the way to Deroweth and drums were beaten and cattle slaughtered and eaten in a vast funeral celebration. Men and women danced with mad abandon, and leapt through the clouds of flame and smoke… and beside them Mordraed danced harder and longer than the rest, almost till exhaustion took him.

  Then Gal’havad’s urn was lowered into a central grave-pit and a vessel full of meat placed beside it, along with bronze pins and amber beads and worked flint. Earth and chalk was shovelled over the pit with a cow’s scapula, and great wailing went up from Fynavir and the women of the tribe, who cast themselves into the barrow’s newly-dug ditch, tearing at their hair and faces, their beauty turned to ugliness as death itself turned all that was fair to ash.

  Mordraed sidled over to one of the slaughtered bulls and bathed his hands in the blood welling from its slashed neck; he rubbed it through his hair, painted it on his chest and arms and cheeks. His fair face took on a demonic scarlet hue, his dark blue eyes vivid against the crimson gore. He scarcely seemed human, more like a spirit of war, of death.

  He was the Dark Moon.

  He was Death.

  The grief that had almost felled him in Ibherna had dissipated and a renewed anger had replaced it. Anger toward Ardhu Pendraec. It was his fault Gal’havad had to die. If Ardhu had acknowledged Mordraed and given him his rightful due, Gal’havad could have been allowed to live. Mordraed was wise. Mordraed could be merciful if he chose. He would have sent Gal’havad off to the priests at Deroweth; he would have been happy there, talking to spirits, with holy men to tend him in his illness…

  Mordraed shot Ardhu a venomous glare through the haze of the burning. The Stone Lord, dancin
g with his warriors in a circle around Gal’havad’s barrow, did not notice him. A cold, hard emptiness rose up in him, filling his belly like poison, mingling with the hatred of his heart.

  Soon… let it be… Let there be an end!

  Let him come into his birthright and take Ardhu’s head in battle and give it to the Great Circle… before he destroyed the loathsome place forever, breaking its malign power with the breaking of its Stones.

  *****

  Mordraed left the funeral celebrations after Sunset, when most of the mourners were drunk and ill, glutted with the mead and meat they had wantonly consumed. Keeping to the bushes, he dashed along the riverbank, the wind ruffling his gore-clotted hair. Light was failing, but the twilight would be his friend, hiding him from any curious eyes, from the men of the Stone Lord, his enemies, who did not trust him.

  He was doing his duty.

  He was visiting his mother, Morigau, to tell of his victories.

  She was waiting for him on Prophet’s barrow, as if she knew he would come, her unbound tresses a dark foaming cloud like the smoke of Gal’havad’s pyre. She sprang down the hill, lithe as girl, and hurled her wiry arms about him, kissing his cheeks and mouth. His lips stung with her assault and he yanked his head away, noticing his mouth was bleeding at the corner. “So you have done it… at last,” she breathed, “You’ve killed the precious prince, Ardhu’s boy. I wonder how my brother feels to lose what he holds most dear. A just punishment for him. Tell me, my darling Mordraed, was the death long, did he suffer as I have suffered…”