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

by J. P. Reedman

  A wave of nausea crashed over Mordraed. Suddenly he felt pure, blinding hate toward Morigau… the same kind of hatred he felt towards Ardhu. “Shut up, your unnatural bitch!” he spat. “It is ill to gloat over the dead! He did not deserve to die, mother… and although he needed to be removed, I will regret killing him until the day that I too fare across the Great Plain. One day the Spirits will sit in judgement on me for giving him that poison draught…”

  Morigau’s eyes narrowed angrily; but her voice dripped with sarcasm. “What is wrong with you, boy? I didn’t bring you up to have such weak, womanish thoughts. What is the matter, why do you care so much for his fate… were you his lover?”

  Mordraed whirled around and struck her so hard that she fell to the ground. “Never speak of such things to me again, women!” he snarled. “Or you may find yourself as dead as Gal’havad!”

  Morigau laughed; a high crazy sound. She pressed her hand to her face, already swelling from his blow. “I am glad you have not completely lost your spirit. Don’t forget, that although you may not approve of the things I make you do… it is for you, for all of your close kin. You will thank me one day when you are the most powerful chief in all Prydn!”

  Mordraed grunted and turned from her. He could see Khyloq in the field, pressing on towards him through the long summer grasses. Although he knew he had only been away a few weeks, the swell of her belly seemed much bigger now, more obvious to his eyes. He thought of the child inside her dragged screaming into the world by Morigau when the time came—to be taken and used by her just as she had used him, to be moulded into her creature, her pet, maybe even the one who held the poison chalice for him if he displeased her. Fear ate at him, and hatred, deep hatred that expanded in his heart and consumed like fire…

  Khyloq reached him and stood arms folded, red hair tumbling in burnished coils around her. Her face was dirty, her feet bare. “You’ve been a long time coming to us,” she said curtly. “You’ve been back in Kham-El-Ard for days!”

  “Gal’havad had to be buried with proper rites,” he said shortly. “I could not leave without remark. And it was only right I honour him.” He cast a fierce glance at Morigau as if daring her to disagree.

  Khyloq pressed herself against him; she stunk of the pigsty and he guessed she had been mucking it out while Morigau waited for him. “I am glad you are back; I heard most of Ardhu’s men were killed. Are you glad to see me? Do I look fair to your eyes after so long away?”

  Mordraed’s lip curled. “You look fat. And filthy. But I will be glad enough of your company when you are washed.”

  “Yes, go lie with her.” Morigau stepped up to him, still rubbing her swelling cheek, though in an almost reverential way, as if his blow had been as soft and desirable as a kiss, perhaps even more desirable. “Maybe it will put you in a sweeter mood.”

  “I am not here for dalliance,” Mordraed said dismissively. Khyloq looked furious, flushing as red as her hair. “I want to know what is to be done now. Gal’havad is gone, but Ardhu remains strong, with many loyal men around him. Now that his only heir is dead, he may well take another woman since the White One seems barren. He could beget more sons yet. I must move and move swiftly… but how can I, when he still has his warband, depleted though it is through his foolish Imram?”

  “He must leave Kham-El-Ard.” Morigau smiled. “He must fare abroad with his men, and leave you behind with those who are loyal to you. Then you will be free to make your move, with few to withstand you… and I will be free to leave this hovel of my exile, and help raise you to the position for which you were born.”

  “Leave Kham-El-Ard? Why would he? He is deep in grief, and has no reason to leave his home to go questing once more.”

  “The madness of his grief may be his undoing,” she grinned. “I can turn the dagger of pain that is already in his heart. Believe me; I have not been idle in your absence, my son. I have travelled far and found out many things. My hands have not been idle. Wait and see. Watch the River, my son. Abona will bring you a gift.”

  *****

  Night lay over Kham-El-Ard, uneasy, dreaming night. Torches on the stout earthworks twinkled like fallen stars, while the true stars, shining through tufts of fast-moving stratus, glimmered on the moving swell of Abona. Mist coiled from the temperate surface of the Sacred Pool and crept through the trees like a living thing.

  Inside the fort, in his sleeping quarters at the back of the Great Hall, Ardhu tossed restlessly, as he had done every night since Gal’havad died. Coiled at his side but not touching him, Fynavir wept quietly in her sleep. He averted his face, unable to bear the sight of her tears.

  In the hut assigned to youths in training, Mordraed too lay sleepless in the dark. Now that Gal’havad was dead, he had been excluded from the warband, thrust back into the quarters of the inferior young men who would never make warriors. He sprawled under a patchy old skin, listening to the chorus of snores around him, the rattle of mice in the rushes. He was not one of Ardhu’s chosen men any longer, so this would be his band instead, a band where he was no follower, obeying orders, but where he was the unquestioned leader. His warband would have no old men like the king, no fools with high ideals and their endless prattle of honour. Killers, berserkers, the foolhardy and the vainglorious would serve Mordraed well.

  He grinned, fingering his dagger blade in the dark. The new would sweep out the old; the fierce would put down those that had become tame as old dogs.

  Suddenly his ears caught a sound, brought on the night-breeze… an alarmed shout from one of the night-watchmen on the ramparts. Mordraed sat up, head on one side, listening intently. Another shout came, louder than the first. Footsteps sounded across the dun and he heard the creaking of the gates of the fort as they were dragged open.

  Something was happening, something abnormal.

  Mordraed sprang up and kicked the shoulder of Wyzelo, who sprawled near him in the rushes, mouth hanging and snores emerging. “Quickly, up, up, Wyzelo… all of you!” he cried, glancing at the other supine shapes scattered across the floor. “The watchers have left their posts. Some ill is afoot.”

  The youths clambered up, bleary-eyed and yawning, and with much grumbling followed Mordraed from their hut like a flock of bad-tempered sheep. A stream of curious people hurried past them, heading toward the open gateway. Ardhu and Fynavir, dressed hastily in tunics and cloaks, strode through the middle of the crowd, surrounded protectively by the remaining members of the warband. Everyone looked disorientated and confused.

  They proceeded to the riverbank, far below, led by the gate-guards with drawn bows. The Sun was just peeping above the eastern horizon, a streak of blood-red between the boles of the trees. Its rays stroked the flowing waters; caressing the hair of old River-Woman… and illuminating a strange craft that floated along Abona’s swell.

  A deep dug-out canoe was drifting aimlessly along the current. An old man sat in it, shoulders bowed, face chalked to reflect death and grief. Before him, in the prow of the boat lay a girl as fair as the sunrise, stretched out on her back, her hands holding pebbles of magic white quartz. Flowers were heaped around her, lilies and flags, foxgloves, red campion. Two pots stood by her head, one filled with milk, one with grain, and an awl and two scrapers had been placed at her side.

  As beautiful as she looked, her features made rosy by the warm dawn-light, there was a livid hue marring the cheeks, the full mouth.

  She was dead.

  Ardhu pushed through the crowd of tribesfolk and warriors and reached the river bank first. His face looked haggard and strained and angry. “What do you here, bringing this strange burden to Kham-El-Ard?” he asked. “She should be taken to her people and buried in their rites.”

  The old man glanced up; tears had made snail’s tracks through the white chalk paint on his cheeks. “I come here because I want vengeance, reparations… although nothing can bring my daughter back to me.”

  “What has this to do with the folk of Kham-El-Ard?” snapped Ardhu
, irritation obvious in his voice.

  “Everything!” The man poled the craft to the shore and clambered onto the bank. He marched up to Ardhu and stared into his face without flinching. “It was one of your warriors that brought this doom upon my daughter… my beautiful daughter who was more precious than the Sun and Moon to me.”

  Ardhu frowned. “I do not understand. How did she die? There is no mark upon her. What has happened here? Speak clearly, old one!”

  “I am Phelas of Astolaht,” said the man. “And my poor dead child…” he gestured to the body in the boat, “is Elian, known as the Maid of Lilies. I will tell you her tale and you will know why I have come here in my grief… Several Moons ago Elian found a wounded warrior from Kham-El-Ard on the edges of our territory; she saved his life with her healing arts and nursed him back to health… and he repaid her by forcing himself upon her, then casting her aside like a broken beaker. Her heart may have healed from that wicked deed, but there was more… he left a child in her belly. The shame was too much for her to bear. She wished to rid herself of her burden but her simple remedies did not the job. So she went to another wise-woman in the valley and gave herself into her care… but the woman’s arts failed and she died in my arms, in agony…” He stopped, his face crumpling.

  Mordraed felt his heartbeat quicken at Phelas’s words and he craned his head to see the dead Elian and her father. A ‘wise woman’… could it have been his mother and her poisons? Morigau had told him to ‘watch the river.’

  Ardhu’s lips tightened as he stared down at Elian’s still countenance, the cheeks slightly speckled with livid stains.. “Who is the warrior of my band who has done this grave deed?”

  Phelas’s breath was a sob. “An’kelet Prince of Ar-morah.”

  Ardhu’s breath whistled between his teeth; a muscle jumped in his jaw. “He is long gone from here… he may even be dead. I wounded him with Caladvolc…”

  “He is not dead.” Phelas shook his head. “Elian healed him. When he abandoned her to her fate, he told her he was heading back to his domain in Ar-morah, over the Narrow Sea.”

  Ardhu stood in silence. Indeed, it seemed the whole of the world had grown silent, save for the soughing of the breeze and the continual gurgle of the holy river.

  Suddenly Fynavir, pale and sharp as a winter icicle at her husband’s side, fell to her knees beside the riverbank and began to sob.

  Ardhu whirled, an awful rage in his face. Even his oldest friends recoiled —none had seen such a terrible expression of anger, grief, and despair. “Cease your noise!” He grabbed Fynavir’s arm, hauling her roughly to her feet. “Look! Look what he has done to this innocent girl! Look what evil he has wrought. What kind of a creature did you lie with, Fynavir of Ibherna?”

  Fynavir struggled free of Ardhu’s grip. Tears spattered from her eyes, but there was fire in her stare for the first time in months. “One who loved me… as you did not. One who valued me not because my mother was god-touched, because I am the White Phantom, but because I am Fynavir. Think on that, Stone Lord.”

  Tears still falling, she gazed down at Elian… this girl who An’kelet had taken in her stead, taken cruelly and thrown aside if the story was true. Taken and then killed as sure as if he had stabbed her with his Ar-moran dagger. It was beyond bearing… even the memory of their love was now tainted, mould upon the blossom. Choking back sobs, she picked her way back toward Kham-El-Ard in the chill dawn, while the crowd murmured and stared at her retreating back.

  “What do you intend to do?” asked Phelas, facing Ardhu again with an air of defiance, as if daring him to do nothing. “This foul deed must not go unpunished. When you took power, ruling the Great Trilithon and assuming the mantle of that king of old, Samothos, you swore to defend Prydn from all evil. Instead, by taking the foreigner from Ar-morah into the fold, you brought it to us. My daughter has paid the price for your folly, Stone Lord.”

  Listening to his words, Mordraed jabbed Wyzelo in the back with a finger. “You… I need you to speak for me,” he whispered in his ear. “Now. Shout out that Ardhu should take his warband and ride for Ar-morah to take vengeance on An’kelet for his crimes.”

  “Why me?” Wyzelo was still half-asleep, his hair sticking up in tufts around his bovine face. “Why not you? You’re kin!”

  “He won’t listen to me; he no longer trusts me. But seeking An’kelet is the right thing to do; you know that, don’t you, Wyzelo? Deceitful killers and adulterers cannot be allowed to live. He has murdered this girl with his lust and he has made a fool of the King. Ardhu must go forth across the seas and slay him…” His eyes narrowed. “And if he goes, that leaves our lot in charge at Kham-El-Ard, Wyzelo. His band is so depleted, he will need to take them all, leaving just us. Think of it. Something of merit to do, rather than waiting for scraps to be flung to us.”

  Wyzelo nodded, expression brightening at the thought of a Kham-El-Ard where he could have his say. “I did not think of the benefits to us. I will put in a word, Mordraed.”

  The warband had gathered in a circle around Ardhu and Phelas. “I counsel a cool head,” Hwalchmai was saying. “A vile thing has happened, and I would not have expected it of An’kelet, but what can we do? He is far from here, hidden in his ancestral lands. It would be foolhardy to follow him.”

  Ardhu drew Caladvolc, holding it out before him. “But when men hear that he has escaped my justice, what will they think? That the sword of the Terrible Head is weak, that he allows treacherous men to go free.”

  “Who cares what others think?” said Hwalchmai, testily. “We know the truth…”

  Ardhu slammed Caladvolc back into its sheath. “I care. For once rumours spread that I am not in control of this Land and all that is in it, then a darkness will spread, like a night that has no day following. Evil men will come as they did of old—raiders will burn the coasts and chieftains who dwell within our very midst will turn to bloodshed and plunder.”

  “You should go, lord!” Seeing his opportunity, Wyzelo shouted out, his voice booming amongst the trees. “Bring the miscreant to his knees! Take his head for your hut! Restore the glory of Kham-El-Ard!”

  “Shut up, boy!” Bohrs looked Wyzelo up and down contemptuously. “Why do you speak, when you are not even a man of the warband but a useless ox who fails in his training?”

  Wyzelo reddened and his teeth clenched but Ardhu held up his hand. “No, even such as he should speak, for he will have to fight should our borders ever fall. I have made a decision; when I saw the body of the Maid of Lilies, I knew it to be right. We will cross the Narrow Sea to Ar-morah. Every able man of the old company will come with me, even you, my brother.” He patted the shoulder of Ka’hai, who stood with a worried frown at his shoulder. “It will be one final last flowering of our might, to make this Land safe forever.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE TIME OF BURNING

  The journey across the Narrow Sea was surprisingly smooth, the winds favourable and the seas calm, though Ardhu was glad they had to go no farther South, for just beyond lay the Little Sea, Mar-Byhan with its many green islands, and then the vast curving expanse of the Great Bay, where the tides were always capricious, sending unwary Tin-men to watery graves for the last five hundred years.

  The company sailed round the jagged tip of Ar-morah, so similar in appearance to the coast of Belerion, and set ashore below a headland crowned by a massive cairn made of many steps. It dominated the landscape, grey and brown, its pebbled layers rising towards the horizon and its summit surrounded by wheeling, screeching seabirds.

  Climbing to the top of the cairn, Ardhu gazed out across a land of verdant fields and grey rock that shimmered under the watery sun. He sighed, wishing he had been able to bring the horses with him on this journey… but it would have been far too dangerous to take such animals in their relatively flimsy craft. Cattle and sheep, yes, if kept with careful handlers and tied well—horses, no.

  Hwalchmai came up next to him, the daggers and axe in his belt
jingling as he walked. “Where now, Ardhu? How do we find An’kelet in this great space?”

  Ardhu waved his arm in an Easterly direction. “I suspect he has gone to ground in the forest of Bro-khelian, which lies in the territory of Ar-goad, the Land next the Wood, somewhere in the middle of Ar-morah. Within its depth he was born to Ailin, the Priestess of the Lake Maidens and King Bhan, and he claimed his kin still had holdings there amidst the trees.”

  Hwalchmai frowned, squinting into the distance. “We will be far from our ships… I do not like it, Ardhu.”

  “Nor do I, cousin.” Ardhu placed a hand on the other’s shoulder, leaning on him for a moment as if for support. Then he pulled away and drew himself up to his full height. “But my choice is made and whatever the spirits have destined for me, I will accept.”

  The warband trudged on amidst a landscape of golden gorse and speckled boulders, of fallen tombs and standing stones that seemed to point the way across Ar-morah, as well as to the Moon and Sun and stars. As they settled down to camp for the night in the lee of a bald hill, they heard the drum of hooves and saw a solitary rider on a stocky pony galloping over the terrain towards them. Immediately the archers raised their bows, and Hwalchmai and Bohrs readied their axes in case of attack.

  But Ardhu, leaving Caladvolc sheathed, walked forward alone to meet the rider. It was a youth of about fourteen Sun-turnings, with honey-bronze hair and long limbs tanned golden from the sun. He reminded Ardhu of a younger An’kelet. “Who are you, boy?” he called out. “What is your business with us?”

  “Are you Ardhu Pendraec, king of Prydn?” the boy shouted, leaning over his pony’s neck.

  “I am. Who asks?”

  “I am Brandegor, kinsman to An’kelet of Ar-morah, who dwells in his ancestral holdings in Bro-khelian. He has given words to me that I may speak them to you.”

  “Speak, then, Brandegor kinsman of An’kelet. You have nothing to fear from me.”