“What is amiss?” he asked urgently. “Why do I hear screams and smell smoke? Have you set the cook-hut on fire?”
Dru Bluecloak’s mouth opened and shut; no words would emerge. He shook his head weakly and pointed with a shaking hand into the gloom.
Gluinval let his gaze follow the trembling hand of the acolyte. Brightness was appearing all over Deroweth, the brightness of flames—flames that blossomed in the dark like hot orange flowers. Flames that ate and gnawed at huts with vicious incandescent teeth, twirling up and consuming walls, devouring thatched roofs with a terrifying hunger. In the direction of Woodenheart there was a groan and a crash so loud it sounded as if one of the mighty oak posts had been tipped from its pit. Screaming and shouting followed the sound, and course, drunken laughter.
Grasping his staff, the High Priest strode forward to defend his enclave. Acolytes and other priests could be seen fleeing through the smoke and fire, chased by men on horseback who swung at their skulls with honed axes of bronze. Some priests had robes aflame and screamed like terrible demons of darkness as they burned to death even while in flight.
“Who commits this act of sacrilege?” Gluinval thundered, glancing right and left. He wielded his staff like a weapon, held rigid across his body as a protection. “A curse be upon your head—you shall have no happiness from this hour forth, you shall not prosper in aught that you do. Whatever you touch will wither and die. Your blood will feed the earth in penance for your crimes, no barrow will hold your bones, and your name will be spat upon unto eternity…”
“Save your curses, greybeard.” Mordraed rode out of the smoke on his stolen steed, ash on his cheeks and falling from the flowing darkness of his hair. In his lean face his eyes were blue cold stars. “I am cursed already by the circumstances of my birth. I care not for your curses.”
The high-priest glanced up, recognising the young man instantly. “You! You are the Stone Lord’s nephew!”
“No, priest,” sneered Mordraed. “Not his nephew, his son. And soon I will be his bane!”
Mordraed forced his mount forward; it whickered and fought his control, frightened of the growing flames, the screams of the dying all across the settlement. Gluinval swung out with his staff but Mordraed struck out with a huge black basalt war-hammer and shattered it in the middle. Laughing, he herded the priest back towards his hut, through the arch of the wooden trilithon, and into the narrow doorway. Behind him his men rushed in, eager for sport, and he gestured to them to barricade the door from without.
“We have a rat in the trap,” he said. “Put it to the torch.”
Wyzelo thundered up to the hut and hurled his brand into the thatch; others joined him. Smoke spiralled, and there was a flicker as the thatching caught… and then the roof exploded, showering sparks into the night air. Watching the destruction, the young men roared in approval and dismounting their steeds, they began a wardance, a victory dance fierce and terrible to behold with the firelight shining on polished weapons, and on glistening, sweating torsos and on the glassy surfaces of drink and blood-crazed eyes.
Behind the hut, hiding in the mud at the bottom of an animal pen, Dru Bluecloak wept in sorrow and terror. “My master, my master,” he sobbed, but as he heard the roof cave in, he knew there was no hope of the High Priest’s survival. “I will go to Ardhu Pendraec… I will bring him back to take his vengeance and right this wrong!”
Hauling himself over the fence of the pen, he ran for his life out past the Khu Stone and across the Plain, into the Deadlands where he prayed his enemies would not follow.
Mordraed saw a flash of blue heading West, but paid little heed. One lowly servant was of no interest to him. He turned his attention to the wooden trilithon before the High Priest’s burning hut, lit luridly by the dancing flames.
“Wyzelo… come help me. We must bring this thing down.”
Wyzelo and his fellows crowded around. They hacked at the huge oak posts with their axes, hammering at them in frenzy as if they were hated enemies. Other warriors joined in, scraping at the bases with picks and other implements they had found around the site, trying to undermine the structure. Yet others gathered kindling and stacked it around the bottom of the posts.
When the structure seemed sufficiently weakened, the two posts full of notches and rocking in their beds, Mordraed kindled two torches and thrust them into the pyres that had been built around their feet. The dry tinder caught instantly and flames darted up the sides of the trilithon, fanned by the nightwind blowing from the East. Higher and higher they roared, twisting around the posts in an all-consuming embrace, illuminating the underside of the wooden lintel. The old wood, already dry from untold years of exposure, crackled and began to glow as the flames burnt through the surface towards the core.
Up and up the conflagration rose, eating, consuming. Ashes started to fall through the showering sparks, and for a brief instant the entire shape of the trilithon was lit up, a stunning red-hot beacon against the starry sky. Then, with an unearthly groan, one leg of the structure slumped forward. The whole structure wavered back and forth, back and forth in unearthly motion.
“Get back!” shouted Mordraed, gesturing wildly to his celebrating warriors. “It’s coming down.”
The youths scattered in all directions, as the burning wooden trilithon seemed to dance in its pit. Wood crackled and snapped, and in a blazing flash of flame the whole structure collapsed, one post completely fallen, the other tilting at a disjointed angle. The blazing lintel was cast into the darkness, where it continued to burn.
Mordraed raised his axe to the sky in victory. “The priesthood of Deroweth is cast down! Next we will bring our vengeance to Khor Ghor. A Moon will rise there to replace the failing Sun. But not tonight!” He motioned for his men to take to their horses once more. “It is still an unsafe place in the dark, and I have more pressing matters. We ride to collect my mother, the esteemed Queen Morigau of Ynys Yrch, and take her in triumph to Kham-El-Ard.”
*****
Morigau and Khyloq squatted amid the rushes in Ardhu’s Great Hall gleefully rummaging through Fynavir’s personal possessions. Morigau had appropriated her golden shoulder-cape, ripping away the aged fabric and replacing it with weavings in her own colours. Khyloq was fingering a huge crescent-shaped jet necklace with shale spacer beads, holding it up to her throat and admiring her reflection in the blade of a ceremonial dagger.
Several feet away Mordraed sprawled across Ardhu’s throne of antler tines, a beaker of mead clutched in his hand. He had washed the ash and blood from his face and was dressed simply in a close-fitting deerskin tunic and leggings, but on his head he wore a circlet given him by Morigau, wrought of two strands of gold from the rivers of her birthplace, Belerion, beaten into fine sheets and fastened by rivets. She had hidden it amongst her possessions for years, waiting for this day.
“Tonight you will bed the White Woman,” Morigau said cheerfully, trying on coiled armlets and bronze finger rings, “so you will be wedded to the Land in the eyes of the people. You have sent men to Place-of-Light to tell them that you have taken Ardhu’s throne?”
“Yes.” Mordraed’s voice was curt. “I have sent guards to make sure none of the villagers there try to take up arms or send messengers to Ardhu while he is in Ar-morah. The more time he is gone, the more resistance I can devise against him.”
Morigau rose and went to her son. She kissed him on the cheek, twining her fingers in the long black silk of his hair. “Don’t look so sullen, my beautiful child. We are attaining all that we have ever desired.”
He gave her an inscrutable look. “Did you ever ask what it was I desired?”
She seemed surprised. “Surely this is it…”
He waved her away as the doors opened and one of the men came in leading two young boys—Gharith and Ga’haris. Although they were being brought to greet their own mother and brother, they looked terrified and clutched each other’s hands as they were herded down the hall.
Morigau frown
ed to see them; she had almost forgotten they were in Kham-El-Ard. “The brats,” she hissed under her breath.
The children were brought before Mordraed’s seat. He leaned forward, placing his hands upon their shoulders with surprising gentleness. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, “I won’t hurt you. Indeed, now that I am master of Kham-El-Ard, it will go better for you. I will make sure you rise in position, and have many heads of cattle and as many lands as I can spare. I only ask that when you are grown you do not raise hand against me, but serve me well. Will you, my small brothers?”
Looking from one to the other, the boys both nodded gravely. They did not understand what was going on… but they trusted Mordraed. Their older brother had always watched out for them, even while Morigau ignored them.
“Then go and sleep well, and do not fear. Any that wish you harm, will have me to contend with.”
The children bowed and were led back out of the Hall. Morigau glanced at Mordraed with a raised eyebrow. “They were terrified,” he said testily. “I wanted them to know their lives and futures are safe with me.”
Morigau’s lip curled. “Mordraed, you must learn to be harder. If I were you I would have them drowned in the Sacred Pool like unwanted puppies! They have seen your actions today, what you have taken solely with the strength of your arm… What makes you think in a few years they will not do to you what you did to Ardhu? I counsel you to have them put to death”
His eyes were ice, and furious. “You unnatural bitch. You are their mother. Do not ever speak of such a thing to me again.” He leaned forward, a vicious smile twisting his lips. “I have followed your orders long enough anyway. Now I have something I want from you…”
She frowned, twisting a coil of her hair with sudden nervousness. “And what is that?”
He nodded toward the end of the hall where Morigau’s long-time companions, La’morak and Ack-olon, stood in the light of the flickering tallow-lamps, haggard-faced and out-of-place amidst the raucous youths of Mordraed’s warband, who played games with coloured pebbles, drank copious amounts of beer and wrestled with each other in the rushes. “Those two… .your ‘attendants.’”
“What of them?”
“I have always hated them. I want them dead.”
Morigau straightened abruptly, high colour flaring into her cheeks. “They have served me since before you were born!”
Mordraed cast her a sharp glance. “I know how they have ‘served’ you! Listen, I have done your bidding in all things so far, even when I did not agree. I am not yours to move as you will, like the game-pieces my men play with. I am now your lord, mother, even if you are priestess here. Do what I command you!”
She looked furious, as if she would explode. But there was also resignation in her face; she knew Mordraed would not be moved. “Do what you will,” she spat. “I can find other younger servants who interest me more anyway. Just do not expect me to watch the execution! Now I will go prepare for your union with the White Woman—I am sure you are looking forward to that.”
Lips curved into a rigid sneer, she stormed from the Great Hall, striding straight past Ack-olon and La’morak without giving them even a glance. The two men moved to follow their mistress but Mordraed leapt up from his high seat, casting his beaker to the ground and drawing his dagger. “Halt, you!” he shouted down the hall. “Do not move!”
Ack-olon and La’morak stared at him and then at each other in growing fear and confusion. The young men of the warband ceased their gambling and brawling and set down their beakers. All eyes turned expectantly on to Mordraed. Tension grew in the room; the air crackled with it.
Smiling cruelly he glided down the hall, hair of shadow, eyes blue death, gold fire on his brow. His lips smiled but it was not a smile one wanted to see. He nodded to the warriors nearest to the two older men, who were already loosening the daggers at their belts.
“Kill them,” he said softly.
*****
Mordraed stalked toward the hut where Fynavir was imprisoned, guarded by several warriors in case she attempted to escape. As he neared the entrance he saw that it had been decked out for the marriage-rite, the high door frame twined with flowers and greenery. Bowls of milk to please passing spirits and encourage fertility were laid out before the door. Not much chance of that, he thought sourly, his stomach suddenly churning. She is a barren stalk…
Morigau appeared, as if from nowhere, wearing a wreath of hawthorn and cloak dyed red with madder. In silence, she laid down chalk balls and phalli before the threshold while Mordraed watched. He noted that her eyes were red-rimmed … had she wept for Ack-olon and La’morak, whose heads now adorned the gates of Kham-El-Ard? He hoped so with all his being … it was time she felt some of the suffering that he had felt at Gal’havad’s death.
Coming over to him, she took his hands and daubed them with life-affirming ochre, whispering spells to make him potent and Fynavir fertile… although she was nowhere to be seen, the unwilling bride held captive inside the hut. Mordraed resisted the urged to heave as Morigau finished her ministrations. He had never felt less like lying with a woman; in fact it was as if someone had tossed freezing river water over his loins.
“Mother,” he whispered thickly. “I do not want to go through with this.”
She cast him an evil look. “You must… even if only once. To make the marriage with the Land.”
He gritted his teeth. “I do not think I can.”
A mocking laugh left her lips. “Oh, so that is the problem. Fear not… I can brew you a potion that will make you like a bull with a herd of cows.”
“No! I have had enough of your potions.”
“Then let your anger fuel your lust, my son.” She leaned against him, hand to his face, her nails caressing the scar she had placed on his cheek. “Think of all the injustices Ardhu has done to you and your people. Think of how this will be the ultimate vengeance! Think of this, and take his White Woman; fill her with your fury and make her scream for your mercy!”
Mordraed tore away from his mother in disgust and pushed his way into the hut. Inside were the guards and a gaggle of women who had been preparing the marriage-chamber for his arrival. Fynavir lay naked and motionless on a pallet of furs; she had been washed and painted with the customary designs. She almost looked dead; there was no resistance in her, her eyes closed and her legs drawn up in foetal position.
Mordraed gestured to the grinning men and the frightened, pale-cheeked women. “Get out.”
They hurried from the hut, leaving him alone with his father’s wife. He flung off his cloak and pulled off his leather tunic and trousers and knelt on the pallet, staring down at her, his breathing slow and heavy. So beautiful once, he knew that… but ruined now. He let his hands slide across her ribcage and hollow belly, feeling her shudder with revulsion at his touch. He tried to conjure up the anger that would bring the lust Morigau had spoken of, but he felt nothing except a vague sense of sickness. And guilt. This was Gal’havad’s mother, and he had killed her son. Now he planned to destroy her further by dishonouring her.
He suddenly felt exhausted, his head heavy as a stone. He just wanted to lie in the dark, alone.
He must have made a small noise, a soft groan, for suddenly Fynavir opened her eyes and glanced up at him. Again, he was shocked by her eyes; green like Gal’havad’s, bringing with them bitter memory... He recoiled, staggering back and falling onto the floor near the fire-pit.
“Are you ill?” her voice was heavy, dull. “I thought you had come to rape me, you, the strong conqueror who takes all!”
Anger rose in him and he leapt back onto the pallet, throwing his body over hers and pressing her down into the furs. “How dare you speak so to me!”
“If I displease you, kill me.” She sounded as weary as he felt. “I would prefer it.”
“I don’t want to kill you. And, truth be known … I don’t want to bed you either.”
She stared up at him. “I… I don’t understand…”
&nbs
p; He shook his head. “I don’t want you to understand. I just want…” He picked up his discarded cloak and flung it at her. “I want you to leave. To go from Kham-El-Ard. Now. This night. The men are getting drunk; they will not notice, not if you go to the back route, the escape route that leads down from the rear of the fort to the Abona. Behind the goat pens. Can you manage it in the dark?”
“I… I, yes… I can.”
“Then go.”
She wriggled out from under him, dressing quickly in her discarded robes and wrapping the cloak he had given her around her shoulders. Going to the doorway, she glanced back at him, sitting on the furs, his shoulders slumped, a figure of gold and shadow in the fluttering, failing light of the tallow lamps.
“Why have you decided to free me?” she asked once more, softly.
He raised his head and his eyes met hers. Cold, dark blue eyes beneath lashes long and black that a girl would have been proud of. But there was something new in that sharp, uncompromising gaze, something she had not seen in Mordraed before tonight. It horrified her, because she guessed its meaning.
She gasped and staggered, clutching the doorframe for support. “You are freeing me because you feel guilty! It is in your eyes, your face! So it is true what men whisper … you killed my son! You are suffering torment for his death!”
The solemn mask of Mordraed’s face shattered, twisting as if she had drawn a blade and stabbed him. “Just go, get out!” he rasped. “Before I change my mind!”
She fled, and Mordraed curled up on the floor, his arms flung over his head, crying out in rage at the gods who had afflicted him with this madness.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE FOREST OF BRO-KHELIAN
The Forest of Bro-khelian gleamed golden in the late afternoon sun. A magical place it seemed, the leaves of the deciduous trees light-spangled, the scent of greenery and running water permeating the air. Ardhu walked silently along its mossy paths, past dolmen capstones long fallen and hidden by foliage, through tangled briar-thickets where blossoms masked sharp thorns, and over streamlets where mists coiled like shy water-spirits, touching his legs as he passed. His men waited at the forest’s edge as promised and to leave them made him uneasy, but so far he had seen nothing of danger in the confines of the wood.
Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge Page 33