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

by J. P. Reedman

  By the time the light had just started to fade, he reached a spring which bubbled up out of the ground and filled a basin half-natural and half-wrought by human hands, its bottom lined with water-rolled quartz pebbles. Kneeling, he laved his face and took a deep refreshing draught. The day had been hot—the climate in Ar-morah was warmer than that of Prydn—and he was growing weary of the long walk.

  As he knelt on the lip of the basin, the cool spray descending on skin and hair, he suddenly caught sight of a reflection in the crystalline water behind his left shoulder. A wavering image of a face… a face he knew, a face he had once loved… Leaping up, his hand went to the hilt of Carnwennan and he dropped into a crouch.

  An’kelet of the Lake, prince of Ar-morah and son of a priestess and a sacrificed king, stood on the edge of the clearing where the spring flowed, watching his former friend with sombre eyes.

  Ardhu felt a slight stab of envy, just as he had when he first met An’kelet in Prydn when they were both young, himself little more than a boy. Despite the hardships of the years and the wound Ardhu had given him on their last meeting, An’kelet looked hale and hearty, his youth and vigour restored now that he was back in the land of his birth. Indeed, caught in the rose-glow of the dying sun, he almost seemed a god, his amber hair flowing from beneath a pin of polished bone; jadeite pendants around his neck; gold upon his arms and at his belt and upon his brow. He wore leather calfskin breeches and a fringed jerkin that was open to the waist; Ardhu suspected this choice was deliberate, for it showed the jagged white line of the scar from the injury he had dealt him with Caladvolc.

  “Ardhu…” An’kelet stepped forward, unarmed, although Ardhu could see gold-hilted Ar-moran daggers at his waist. “So you have come chasing me. I suppose I should have expected it. Eventually it had to become known that you did not kill me.”

  “It became known, that is true,” snarled Ardhu. “Along with the evil that you wrought upon the one that helped you escape my justice.”

  An’kelet’s expression changed to puzzlement. “I know not of what you speak.”

  “Have you forgotten so soon? Ah well, your ignorance proves your baseness. I am here to finish what should have been done in Prydn… by the Ancestors I will feed your blood to the earth for all that you have done.” Drawing Carnwennan, he flung himself with wild abandon at An’kelet. His sudden burst of rage clouded his aim, and An’kelet carefully sidestepped his headlong rush, and he went crashing into the foliage.

  “Must it come to this, our troubles brought even to the green glades of Bro-khelian?” said An’kelet sadly.

  “Yes, it must! Have you forgotten what has gone before? You escaped justice and wreaked more evil before your departure…” Ardhu crawled from the greenery, ripping vines and fronds away from his face. “Don’t you remember?” he flung at his former friend with venom. “You begged me to kill you. I was the fool and did not smite off your head with Caladvolc. Now I will claim it, as I should have done back in Prydn.”

  An’kelet raised his hands; he still had not drawn blade. “I was ready to die for my sins at Kham-El-Ard… but the spirits spared me. None have survived the blade of Caladvolc save I. Does that not tell you, Ardhu, my old friend, that the Ancestors have some plan for me? I do not think we have come to the end of our tale as yet.”

  “You have come to the end of yours!” Ardhu spat, and he charged madly at his former friend once again. He halted, skidding on moss, as An’kelet folded his arms. “Draw blade, damn you. Do not make me kill you with dishonour.”

  “I will not draw weapon on you… you are still my lord. And despite all that has gone awry… I still think of you as my friend, my brother in heart if not in blood.”

  Ardhu stood spitting with rage, his face suffused with colour. “Curse you… curse you! If you will not draw weapons, fight me without! Fight me!”

  An’kelet undid his belt and flung it aside with his golden-hilted daggers attached. “This I will do, though with a heavy heart.”

  The two chieftains lunged at each other, grappling. An’kelet was taller and in youth had been the stronger, but his belly-wound, though well-healed, was still tender and blood-loss had sapped his former strength. Ardhu, on the other hand, was fuelled by his anger, his grief, his loss, and his strength flourished until he was an even match to the man who once had been known as the most powerful warrior of the western world.

  Grunting, they fell and rolled on the moss, rose again, struck out with fists and feet. Ardhu managed to hurl An’kelet against a tree, and An’kelet, recovering almost instantly, retaliated and flung Ardhu straight over his head, sending him crashing into the waters of the fountain.

  Soaked to the skin, an oath on his lips, Ardhu sprang back up and attacked An’kelet with renewed fury, seeking to fling himself on his back and get his hands round his throat, to twist his head backwards and break the spinal column. But An’kelet guessed his intention and tucked his chin low, and grabbing Ardhu’s legs by the calves he heaved him up high, throwing him into a nearby bramble bush.

  And so it went on for many an hour, with neither man gaining the advantage. The glade and the waters near the fountain were trampled to mud, the bushes were rent and branches of the trees snapped. The daylight died in the West and the forest turned the hue of blood. An’kelet and Ardhu drew apart, seeking a moment’s respite to regain their strength, and stood staring at each other across the waters of the spring. Both were muddy from head to toe, bruises blooming like dark flowers on their flesh, blood on cut mouths and on their battered hands.

  “Do we go on?” said An’kelet softly. “Does this not show that we are equal before the spirits? Would it not be better if we put our strengths together and fought as one instead of fighting each other?”

  “Have you forgotten? You dishonoured my marriage bed! You had my woman!”

  “I know, Ardhu… it is the shame of my life… But, listen… I tell you, I did not take Fynavir to dishonour you or without thought or guilt for my action. Nor did she betray you lightly. It was as if—do not be angry at my words—we were fated to come together. It was as if the spirits and gods had decreed it so, and we could no more deny it than we could stop the rising of Bhel.”

  Ardhu hunkered down, suddenly weary. He did not want to hear these words… yet somehow knew he needed to. And to accept them. That was what tormented him the most; that Fynavir had wed him and he had been too blind to see that her heart was not with him but with another. Secretly, it had made him doubt his own kingship; the people thought the White Woman was the Land, the spirit of the chalk personified… and the man she bedded the rightful master over all. An’kelet had been her true choice of mate… Ardhu had been endured and no more, and had been too deluded and sure of his own claims to see it. Was he just a tool of the Merlin as many of his enemies had claimed? Maybe it should have been An’kelet who sat in Kham-El-Ard, the greatest warrior of all with his great barbed spear, the Balugaisa, and the White Phantom at his side…

  Across the glade An’kelet was washing his bloody, swollen hands in the spring. The dying light turned his curling hair red, red as Gal’havad’s. Ardhu felt his throat tighten. No… he could not allow himself doubt or grief at this moment, when he must steel himself against all weakness and summon his last vestiges of strength, and end this rivalry for once and for all. Hopefully, if the Ancestors willed, with his one-time friend dead at his feet.

  “I was greatly grieved to hear of Gal’havad,” An’kelet said suddenly. “News of his death reached me here; all the traders on the coasts were abuzz with it. I went to the great stepped-cairn on the headland and stared across the sea that sunders us and wept for him. I imagined—it may have only been in dream—that I could see the beacons burning on Prydn’s far shore all through the night.”

  “Fires burned on every hill.” Ardhu’s voice cracked. “The banks of Abona blazed with great pyres; the waters themselves looked to be aflame. No man has been so mourned in Prydn as Gal’havad, the Prince of Twilight. And now
I am lost, my strength failing… and I have no heir.”

  Both men fell silent, staring at each other over the darkening water.

  “I would throw in my lot with you again, Ardhu,” said An’kelet softly. “If you can forgive me my sins against you. I cannot replace him… but I can fill one space at your side and firm your hand if it wavers.”

  “And the girl? What of the girl?”

  “Girl?” An’kelet frowned in perplexity. “You speak in riddles, Ardhu! I know of no girl.”

  “Elian… the Lily-Maid. She died through your dishonouring of her, and her father begs for retribution. He brought her body to Kham-El-Ard and many of my men cried for your death when they heard she came to grief by your hand. And so I came here, to finish it… and you.”

  An’kelet passed his mud-splotched hand across his brow. “Elian! This is evil news you bring! She was a sweet and trusting girl. I behaved shamefully with her, that is true; my mind was not right, so ill and grieved was I, but I never wished her ill. I cannot bring her back, for no mortal can tread beyond the Great Plain and return a living man… but I will send restitution to her father, as poor a thing as that might be.”

  Ardhu was silent. The anger and the pain inside him was a tight knot. And yet, he wanted to trust in An’kelet’s words, wanted things to be between them as they were of old. But, with Gal’havad dead, and Fynavir a creature in perennial mourning, a withered white flower that knew no spring, surely that could never be again.

  Or perhaps there was a way… a sacrifice of pride, an acceptance of what was once unacceptable.

  “An’kelet…” his words came in ragged pants. He did not know where they came from or how he managed to speak them. “I want you to ride with me again. I have never lied and will not lie now. If you return with me to Prydn and stand by me in all things and help me restore the Land to what it should be, I will not only forgive your sins against me but reward you above all men. Above anyone. I will take you and Fynavir before the priests at Deroweth and I will give her to you. If she is spirit-of-Earth, it was you she chose, not me, no matter how I wished otherwise… who am I to force her to remain at my side? I should praise her for her sense of duty! And you… if the White Woman has chosen you, and remained loyal throughout all these long years, then why should you not, as the greatest warrior in the Western World, be king of Prydn after me? In older times a King could choose his own successor; it need not be the heir of his body.”

  An’kelet stared at Ardhu in shock. “You would do that… even though many men would speak ill of you for it and even laugh behind their hands?”

  “I care nothing for the laughter of fools,” Ardhu said angrily. “For the first time in months it seems darkness is lifting from my eyes, and I see clearly what must be done. An’kelet, will you return with me? Will you be the heir to Kham-El-Ard should I fall to my enemy’s daggers or to evil magic?”

  An’kelet strode forward, through the spring and he grabbed Ardhu’s hands in his own and went down on his knees in the mud and water. “Oh my friend,” he said, and his cheeks were wet. “I had only hoped you would accept me at your side again. Yes, I will return to Prydn with you. And yes, I will be your heir if that is your wish… although you will live many years yet!”

  Ardhu laid his hand upon the mane of waving amber hair. He felt strangely at peace. “I have missed your company, An’kelet,” he said. “Can we not now go from this place of fruitless battle, and eat and feast as we did in the days of our youth?”

  An’kelet leapt up, eyes warm honey-amber. “We can and we shall. I will take you to the settlement of my kin, and have your warband sent for, and we will dine on suckling pigs and fish of the sea. I look forward to seeing old familiar faces again… Hwalchmai, Bohrs, Betu’or, and hearing the tales they have to tell.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DESECRATION

  The Sun bled between the bruise-dark clouds tiered over the edges of Moy Mor, the Great Plain. Heat mingled with the promise of thunder and later rain. Heat waves shimmered above the soil; the first real heat in the long damp summer that had spoiled crops all across Prydn.

  In the heart of Khor Ghor Mordraed stood staring at the sky. The Sun was coming out… surely that was a good omen for his reign? And yet, the sky behind was dark as if Tar-ahn the Thunderer was angry, and Bhel’s Eye was a burning red slit, an evil eye watching him with scorn…

  Shuddering he turned from the stormy sky to the activities taking place within the great circle. Morigau was there, dressed in the robes of a priestess, her face painted with Moons. Child crania clacked round her neck on a thong and her belt was full of fingerbones reddened with ochre. She had taken magic draughts and her eyes were wild and crazed; she swayed from side to side, staff in hand, mumbling gibberish then suddenly becoming lucid, shouting out to proclaim her son as rightful lord of all Prydn—Mordraed, the Dark Moon, who had wrest power from the waning son of Bhel and who would bring back the Old Ways of the Land, before the Tin-men came. The days when Moon with her skull-face was Mother of all, and even the mighty Sun was in her cold shadow.

  She raised her arms, her tattered raven-feather cloak, patched many times, streaming out around her. “Hark now!” she howled like a mad woman. “Mordraed of Ynys Yrch has won the right of kingship in the Five Cantrevs. He will restore us to the glory we once knew. We will bring down the Stones of this tainted place, this haven for fools, this place where the true powers were forgotten and false ones venerated!”

  Behind Morigau, Mordraed’s men worked steadily, raising a great wooden cage around one stone of the Great Trilithon, the southern one nearest to the Throne of Kings with its axe and dagger carvings. Others were digging with antlers picks at the base, sweating profusely in the heat and white with chalk dust. Yet others were dragging bundles of kindling and pitch-lined buckets full of river water. They worked steadily, occasionally glancing up to listen to Morigau’s proclamations, but many looked uneasy as if they hated and feared what they had been commanded to do.

  Mordraed stalked back and forth between the bluestones. The red sun, glancing off his golden circlet, made the metal hot and his head pound like a drum. “Mother, the men look unhappy,” he whispered testily in Morigau’s ear. “It is not their wish to slight this place. What can I do? If they turn from me now, I have failed.”

  “Promise them the world.” Her dark eyes gleamed. “They are stupid oafs, without the high ideals so beloved of my brother. You will not even have to keep your word, just throw them a few scraps and kill any who complain.” She gave him a mocking glance. “You will have to work a bit harder to keep them, my son. I cannot believe you let the White Phantom slip away so easily when she was such a important symbol to the people.”

  Mordraed bridled; averting his head so she could not see the truth within his eyes. “She spent the hour in my bed; that was time enough for the deed to be done. Why endure her whey face beyond that? I would have to watch my back at every turn!”

  Turning from Morigau, he stepped toward the working men, inspecting the woodwork circling the massive southern stone of the Door into Winter. “This is good,” he said loudly. “You will all be blessed by Mother Moon and the Ancestors. Tonight we will all feast—you may bring all your families, and you will have the best of the pigs—Champions’ Portions, for that is what you are: champions of Prydn, cleansing the old, evil ways to make way for the new. Gold I will give you, and amber for your women, and you may divide amongst you the weapons, cattle, sheep and women left by the men of the unclean and unworthy Ardhu Pendraec, whom the gods once favoured, but now is fallen in glory. The unnatural man who has left you in time of need to go to Ar-morah on a fool’s quest!”

  Leaning over, he inspected the crater that widened at the foot of the stone. The upright rose many feet above his head, casting a black shadow over him, its stone foot held in place only by the remains of ancient packing and the wooden supports constructed to stabilise it while the underminers worked.

  It was time.


  Backing away from the stone, its grey face a stern warning, he gestured to Wyzelo, who was directing the men in the slighting. “Let us begin,” he said. “Light the fires.”

  Flushed with excitement, Wyzelo flung the dry kindling into the pit and lit it. Flames crackled and licked around the edge of the pit and the half-buried base of the stone. More kindling was dumped on and the flames sprang higher, blackening the face of the monolith. Earth began to give way, and the huge sarsen swayed dangerously, the wooden cage around it groaning as over forty tons of rock strained against it.

  Morigau began to shriek and wail, dancing in circles and chanting, her eyes rolled back in her head as if she had gone mad. Spittle shone on her mouth, trailed down her chin. She writhed sinuously around the bluestones, a serpent-woman spitting out words of hatred and venom. “The Dark Moon is risen, beloved of old Moon Mother who was here before the Sun himself!” she cried, pointing with a clawed hand to the ghost of a Moon between the brooding tiers of cumulous. “The old ways will return with the rule of my son, Mordraed the Dark Moon! My brother has made you not-men, giving gifts only to his favourites. You will all live as men were meant to—making war, gaining cattle, earning glory. And Mordraed shall be your ruler, cruel and yet benevolent to those who follow his path.”

  The youths roared, calling out Mordraed’s name in proclamation. They started to dance, weaving in and out of the Stones, striking them with hands, with axes, driving themselves into frenzy, all their frustrations and hatreds blazing out in this act of ultimate desecration. Mordraed stood near the base of the unstable stone, watching his men, sweat pouring down his forehead as the fire flared. He ripped off his smouldering jerkin and stood naked to the waist in the blistering heat, ash smearing face and body, his hair lifting and crackling in the updraft. “Today the first stone of Khor Ghor falls!” he cried. “Today the Dark Moon rises over Kham-El-Ard and my sire’s evil reign is ended forever!”