“An’kelet says that if you come in peace you may meet with him within the woods of Bro-khelian. But if you bring war to his door, you will never go home alive… the forest will have your bones, the moss will consume you, and you will pass from this earth as if you have never been.”
Bohrs made a growling noise. “He presumes… We should cut the trees with our axes and then burn his blasted forest.”
“Be silent Bohrs,” frowned Ardhu. “Such talk does no good. Let me think…” He passed his hand across his brow. “Brandegor, bring An’kelet this message from me—I do not come in friendship, because there is much in Prydn that he must still be taken to task for. But I will not bring my warband into the forest. Instead I will come alone. We will meet one on one, as princes and warriors, and make a final end to what is bad between us.”
Bohrs made a derisive noise. “Are you mad, Ardhu? He knows the forest!”
“And I know him,” said Ardhu. “It is the only way.” He nodded toward Brandegor. “Go now, with all haste, to announce me to your chief. I will follow as quickly as I may.”
The youth bowed his bright head. “I will tell the Lord An’kelet of your decision.” He struck heels to the pony’s flanks and galloped toward the tree-furred hills on the horizon.
Bohrs stared moodily at Ardhu. “I pray you have done the right thing, Stone Lord,” he murmured. “An’kelet is not the man who was once your friend, and how can you ever trust him?”
Ardhu shrugged. “I do not trust him. But I will face him, and let the Ancestors decide between us.”
*****
In Kham-El-Ard Mordraed crouched on the ramparts, watching the river and the fields below and occasionally glancing over his shoulder at the inner bailey of the fort. Under a weak blue sky, pale and vapid after yet another summer rainstorm, people went about their daily business—herding beasts, weaving, making reed baskets, cutting wood, cooking. Dogs yapped and barked and children ran screaming amidst the huts. Lazily Mordraed counted the men folk, sizing them up—most were either very old, lame in some way, or very young, with the exception of his band of perennial ne’er do wells, who stalked about swilling beer from their beakers and brawling with each other.
It was as he had hoped. The only important member of Ardhu’s warband left in the dun was Per-Adur, whose head-wound had never really healed and now suffered shaking fits similar to those of Gal’havad… Mordraed shuddered, lips curling into a snarl. He would not think of Gal’havad, would not let his foolish grief cloud the days leading up to his great glory.
Staring back out into the fields, he spotted a band of strangers coming from the direction of the ford. Straining his eyes into the bright midday light, he saw Wyzelo marching at their front, his expression one of self-satisfaction. He smiled to himself. The great oaf had done one thing right, at least—he had gone and collected all his kin and fellow malcontents from their villages on the edges of the Plain. They had dwelt too long in the shadow of Kham-El-Ard and now they wanted more.
As he did.
Wyzelo led the newcomers up the crooked hill to the wooden gates of the fortress. They came slowly, seemingly no threat to anyone, a crowd of stout lads with poorly-knapped axes and flint knives, little copper amongst them. In Kham-El-Ard the tribesfolk stopped their weaving, potting, and scraping skins and turned to stare at the newcomers. Women, sensing something amiss, called their children to them and bustled them inside their houses. The men came up from the fields and from the river, frowning, wishing they had their daggers, but they had not taken such weapons to their daily toil.
Only Mordraed’s chosen, the unfit and the uncouth, seemed pleased to see the newcomers. Still slurping from their beakers, they grinned and nudged each other, obviously enjoying the discomfiture of the rest of the tribefolk.
At the gate, one youth with a spear stepped forward and barred their way. “I know you, Wyzelo,” he said, “but these others have no right to be here, and you have no right to bring them in the Stone Lord’s absence.”
Wyzelo looked the youth up and down mockingly. “I think you’ll find you are wrong,” he drawled. “I think you’ll find things are changing here, and that I can do as I bloody like.”
“You’ve gone mad!” hissed the youth with the spear. “You’ve had too much sun!”
Mordraed stood up. He climbed gracefully down from the ramparts, and padded cat-like toward the stand-off at the gate. Smiling a dangerous smile that did not reach his eyes, he put his hand on the young guard’s spear, pushing its sharp tip towards the ground. “Step aside, my friend, I would advise it.”
The youth erupted in anger, though dawning fear was clear in his face. “Who are you to tell me what to do? Ardhu’s nephew but a man disgraced, cast out of the warband…”
Mordraed’s hand shot out, catching him round the throat in a vicious grip. In an instant he was on the ground, helpless and gasping. Mordraed pulled his bow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow to the string, pointed toward the youth’s chest. Women screamed inside the dun and old men flurried, too fearful to get involved but craning to see. Mordraed’s fellows began to strut up and down in front of the tribefolk, smirking and swinging their axes, daring the people of Kham-El-Ard to come forward.
Mordraed lifted his head, his glance raking over the assembled villagers. “I will tell you and this…” he kicked the fallen guard, “who I really am and why I it is my right to command all within these walls. Listen well, you sheep, you worthless cattle! Ardhu Pendraec is no fit master for you; he is fit only for the grave. Not only have the land and crops failed, showing he is no longer rightful king… he is the breaker of taboos, a dealer in the forbidden. He has lied to you for years, pretending he had favour with the Spirits—but they had no love of him! The White Phantom was barren save for one sickly son, who the Ancestors have now taken. The Spirits cursed Ardhu and rightfully so!”
“How can you speak such treachery?” one elder cried, his voice tremulous. “Your tongue is that of an adder!”
“Is it, old man?” Mordraed’s eyes crackled. “Look at me, all of you. What do you see? Am I not in the image of the Stone Lord himself and all his Ancestors before him in Belerion and Dwranon? Do I not look, more than nephew, but more as son? That is because, you fools, I am Ardhu Pendraec’s son, born of his own sister, the Lady Morigau. He begot me in forbidden union and deceived you all, while robbing me of honour and birthright!”
A hush fell over the crowd, a horrified silence.
Mordraed’s lips tightened to lines. “He has gone on his fool’s quest to Ar-morah, leaving his lands yet again. He is no fit leader—may the sky fall on his head and the sea eat his bones! I will take his place here, as is my right by the strength of my arm, ruling over you in high Kham-El-Ard from this day forward.”
“You cannot do this unjust deed!” a voice roared. Across the dun hobbled Per-Adur, leaning on a stick for support. Despite the injury that made his gait unstable and his limbs shake, he still managed to clutch a bronze axe in his free hand. “No one will follow you, son of a serpent-woman and witch! If what you say is true, you are cursed by your birth and by your actions.”
Mordraed stared at the shambling figure of what had once been a proud warrior. He felt nothing but contempt. Per-Adur would be better off with the Ancestors. His eyes turned hard as diamonds, cold as winter. “Kill him!” he said to Wyzelo, and then, sweeping his gaze over the whole of the inner bailey. “In fact… kill them all. Only keep the White Woman… for me.”
Wyzelo and several of his companions lunged forward toward Per-Adur as people shrieked and howled and ran about madly in panic. Drunkenly, Mordraed’s followers drew their weapons and chased the villagers, baying for blood like mad dogs. The youth at Mordraed’s feet recovered from the compression on his throat and tried to get a firm grip on his fallen spear. Seeing his arm reach out, Mordraed spat disdainfully on him and shot him through the heart with an arrow.
Wyzelo and his cronies now had hold of Per-Adur. He swung at them with his axe, knee-cappi
ng one and sending him rolling in the dirt in agony. Wyzelo kicked his staff from under him, and the injured warrior staggered forward, unbalanced. Mordraed ran over to him, striking him with many blows from his fists, before snatching the older man’s streaming hair, worn, as customary, in an upswept style like a horse’s mane. It was perfect to grab hold of.
Mordraed forced Per-Adur to his knees, dragging him around so that his face was toward the village… and the terrified people who ran screaming through the huts, falling to dagger, rapier, axe blow and arrow’s flight. “Look your last on Kham-El-Ard!” he snarled. “Look your last on the Sun.” He dragged Per-Adur’s head back, forcing him to stare into the sky at the glowing disc of Bhel Sunface. “Now look at me… your lord, your death.” He twisted Per-Adur’s head again, until their eyes locked. “I am Mordraed, son of Morigau, son of Ardhu. I am the Dark Moon, and I am vengeful! Fear me and despair.”
“I fear neither death nor you,” Per-Adur croaked. “You are a deluded fool. By the gods, you will pay dearly for this act.” And he spat at Mordraed, the spittle hitting the Moon-scar on his cheek.
Mordraed’s dagger flashed in the sunlight. Per-Adur crumpled to the ground in a spreading pool of blood. The yellow mane of his hair turned red.
Mordraed took his dagger and licked it, bringing the essence of the dead man’s power into himself, and then wiped the other side of the blade across his cheeks, painting himself with this symbol of victory. So it had begun… what he had been born to do…
Glancing around he saw bodies strewn, men, women, children, dogs… even a pony. His band was running wild throughout the dun, screeching like wild animals and destroying anything in their path, their distorted faces barely human and their arms red to the shoulder with gore. One took a brand from a fire and shoved it into the thatch of a hut; it exploded into flame as the youth shrieked with crazed laughter.
Mordraed cursed. He raised his own dagger and shouted a halt. Reluctantly his band ceased to chase the remaining villagers and came slowly towards him, grinning like the fools they were. “Enough!” Mordraed shouted, fixing them with a hard stare. “Put out that fire, you idiots! We don’t want to destroy Kham-El-Ard; it is to be ours, the finest and most powerful settlement in all Prydn.”
Wyzelo, Ic’ho and a few others hastened to beat out the flames. The fire died away as the hut collapsed inwards, walls and roof disintegrating. Mordraed gestured to the cowering survivors of the raid, a handful of terrified, ashen-faced women and girls, a dozen wailing young children. “I am merciful; these creatures have survived thus far, so I shall spare them. We need women to cook and mend our garments. You can have them for slaves or bedmates, if you desire any of them.”
The youths of the band rushed towards the women, who screamed. Mordraed called his men back again, his voice taut with annoyance. “Later, you dogs. We have work to do! Where is Fynavir… has anyone found the wife of my father, the faithless whore they call White Phantom?”
“Here, Mordraed!” Two youths came forward, dragging Fynavir between them. She showed signs of having fought them and her gown hung in tatters, but she hardly resisted them now; in her thin face her eyes were dead, hopeless. Her cheeks as white as her hair, which hung down knotted and in disarray. She resembled one Moon-mad.
Mordraed stared at her and felt sick; he was to bed that… old, cold as snow, dead as a piece of bone? She… who was Gal’havad’s mother? At the thought of the half-brother he had murdered, his sensation of sickness deepened; a cold ripple travelled up his spine, as if somewhere a man had stepped on the ground where his barrow would one day be raised. No, he would not think on it… Gal’havad was meant to die; his death was due to Ardhu’s actions; Mordraed was only the agent, the one who struck the blow. The spirits surely had meant for it to end that way or they would have intervened.
Fynavir pulled away from her captors and stepped right up to him so that they were face to face. She was a tall woman, not much smaller than he. He could see her eyes beneath their pale gold lashes, green like Gal’havad’s had been, and the lines that showed her age and suffering, marring what once had been a face of great beauty. She showed no fear, no hate, just a dull resignation. “Why have you done this terrible deed, Mordraed? Why? When Ardhu was so good to you, giving you a place in Kham-El-Ard, letting you befriend his only son? Gods, I wish he had never been so trusting… yes, I know what the warriors whisper about my son’s death… and it is only because Ardhu is fair and would not accuse you without proof that you yourself do not lie dead!”
Mordraed’s lips quirked up; more of a grimace than a smile. “Lady, I see no one has ever told you the truth… neither the Merlin nor Ardhu Pendraec himself. You say Ardhu is good to me? He has me here on sufferance! Humiliates me! He withholds deserved rank and respect!”
“Why do you think you deserve anything, as son of the woman who hated her brother and continually strove against him?”
“Because I am Ardhu’s son!” Mordraed grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and shook her. Fynavir looked genuinely shocked; her hand flew to her mouth and her knees buckled and she fell to the ground.
“Yes, know the truth, woman. Know what you married.” Mordraed clutched her wrists and yanked her roughly back onto her feet. “Know also that I will take you in his stead, make you my own woman. You are the White Woman, the Sovereignty of Prydn bound within you, and now you are mine… and the lordship of Prydn with you.”
“You are mad! I would sooner slit my own throat that let you lay a hand on me!”
“That I cannot permit.” He gestured to two of his men, who stood nearby, grinning. “Take her away and guard her well. Make sure no sharp objects come near her hands.” Reaching out, he ran one thumb down the side of Fynavir’s long pale neck, trying not to shudder… she felt as cold as the snow she resembled. Cold as a dead body. God, how he hated the thought of bedding her! “You will have a small reprieve to get used to the idea of being my woman… I have other things I must attend to before you, Lady of Kham-El-Ard.”
Whirling on his heel, eager to put her from his sight, he motioned to Wyzelo and the rest of his warband. “Take any horses than remain in Ardhu’s stables. Bring your weapons. We ride to Deroweth.”
Fynavir, caught in the strong arms of her captors, stared at him with dawning horror.
“What are you planning, Mordraed?” she screamed.
White teeth flashed against his dark, handsome face. “I go to get a blessing from the priests, lady. For our marriage.”
Mordraed’s warriors began to laugh and make obscene jokes. Fynavir was dragged away, struggling furiously, screaming and begging Mordraed not to go to Deroweth.
He shut his ears to the noise and turned to Wyzelo and the others. “We must destroy all the priests, or they will turn their magics on us and kill us all. So show no mercy. You need feel no guilt, no fear of wrathful spirits—the priests have supported my corrupt sire for years, so they too are corrupt and deserve to die like dogs. Burn them out. Cleanse their evil with fire!”
The horses were brought and torches lit and passed out to every man. Mordraed swung up on the back of a black mare, one of Lamrai’s foals and a favourite of Ardhu, and took up a brand in his left hand. Rising high in the saddle, like some vengeful young god, he thrust the flame toward the fading sky. “With fire,” he cried, “we shall destroy our enemies. Fire… to burn away the darkness, to burn the sins of the world to ash!”
*****
The young acolyte Dru Bluecloak strolled between the stout, rectangular houses of Deroweth, carrying a beaker of mead for his master, the high-priest Gluinval. Behind him trundled two serving woman, hauling a huge cauldron-like pot of boiled meat. The Sun had just set, and a purple cloak of twilight lay over the sacred space and the Plain beyond, furling the stunted head of the Khu Stone, stone of Dogs, that pointed the way to Khor Ghor. Woodenheart was a black blot, its posts rising up like a forest of bare trees, and the causeway to the river shone pale dull silver. Night-loving insects made st
range chirping and chuntering noises in the growing dark, while a fox yipped somewhere in a clump of bushes, a noise that sounded eerily human.
Dru Bluecloak cast a jaded glance at the two women struggling along behind him with the great cooking pot. They were spilling broth and scalding each other, and scolding each other too, in some sort of ludicrous rivalry of incompetence. “Come along,” he said testily. “The High One will not wait much longer to take his meat and drink!”
Suddenly one of the women gave a cry. She dropped her end of the cooking pot, making her companion stagger forward and almost fall face first into the cauldron. “Oh, look, look both of you! Down by the Abona! The stars… the stars are falling to earth!
“What?” her companion shrieked, still trying to gain her equilibrium. “Where?”
Brow furrowed in annoyance, Dru Bluecloak turned sharply around, ready to lash both women with the sharpness of his tongue for their foolish imaginations. Instead, his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and his heart began to pound like a solstice drum. He stood transfixed for a moment, unable to move or speak, then released a great and terrible cry. The beaker tumbled from his hands, smashing on the ground.
“Those are not stars! They are torches! Torches born by men on horses! There is no reason why such men should come to Deroweth except for evil… Run, run!”
The first horse came into view, bursting through the night vapours sailing from the river. A warrior with a grinning, painted face sat astride it, torch in one hand, battle-axe clutched in the other. He paused for a moment, surveying the settlement, then hammered his heels into the horse’s flanks, driving it forward into the enclosure. Waving his axe, he screamed a war-cry, and thrust the torch into the thatching of one of the many huts that clustered around the chalk banks. Flames leaped into the growing shadows.
The acolyte and the two women fled, screaming, the females bounding like hares across the field and into the shadows that furled the Khu Stone. Dru Bluecloak hoisted his robes around his knees and ran toward the High Priest’s hut, with the timber trilithon standing proud and tall before its doorway, marking it as a place of high status. Gluinval emerged even as he reached the door, staring in wonder at the younger man’s stricken face and breathlessness, his feebly waving arms.
Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge Page 32