He glanced up at the encased stone of the Great Trilithon. The wooden struts were beginning to ignite; flames licked the lowest rungs with harsh red tongues. “Get behind it!” he shouted to his men, waving his arms, his motions almost as frenzied as Morigau’s. Fear and excitement shot through him like a spear. “Push it… push it into the pit!”
The youths ceased their victory-dance and rushed up to the great standing stone, some eager to bring it down, others more reticent. Not all in Mordraed’s band believed the desecration of the temple was wise; they thought of eyeless skulls deep underground and fleshless mouths of Ancestors in rictus-screams of rage. Others, more practical than superstitious, thought on what might happen if the stone fell awkwardly, crushing or trapping them beneath its bulk. No man could survive being struck by such a weight.
Mordraed gestured again, a downwards motion with his arm. The young men pushed, trying to tip the mighty stone that had stood framing the south-western sky for over five hundred years. At first little happened. The flames licked higher, shooting up the front of the menhir, burning the wooden scaffolding away utterly and sending clouds of rank smoke and burning ash billowing high into the air.
With the wooden support completely engulfed in flame, the stone began to slowly lurch forward, straining towards the huge pit that had been dug at its foot. The intense fire that burned in the crater roared up to meet it, funnelling round it as the wind blew, and sending the men behind running for safety. One or two howled, burnt by the searing updraft, and ran out of the Circle onto the Great Plain where they fell into the long grasses, writhing in agony.
And then the earth began to buckle. A strange shriek filled the air, as if the stone itself was crying out, the spirits locked within its heart wailing in rage and despair, and with deadly speed it plunged forward into the fire-pit blazing at its foot. The huge stone bulb at its base pulled up from the ground as it descended, showering chalk and packing material, and sending men flying across the Circle as if they were no heavier than feathers.
Mordraed leapt back as the megalith came down, roaring like a giant creature that had taken on a life of its own. It struck the Stone of Adoration, ripping it from its socket and beating it into the earth with its enormous weight, then cracked through the middle as it rocked back and forth over the sandstone block that had been the heart of Khor Ghor. Instantaneously the giant lintel that spanned the top of the trilithon was thrown violently through the smoke-filled air and landed near the Guardian’s Gate with a noise like a thunderclap, leaving the remaining half of the Door into Winter standing alone with its naked tenon thrust like a dagger at the storm-laden sky.
“It is done!” screamed Morigau. She was half-white with chalk dust, half-black with ash. Her eyes were wild, ecstatic. “The Moon has smiled on us and felled the Sun!”
Mordraed approached the fallen stone. Fire was still licking it from the pit below, but the flames were beginning to go out, smothered by its fallen bulk. He should have been pleased; he had always hated this place of Stone Ancestors, of memories. But he felt strangely empty and afraid… the remaining Stones seemed to cluster about, the bluestones huddled like conspirators, a wall to hold him in. To pinion him, while punishment was meted out to him for all his evil deeds…
Overhead the ominous sky grumbled.
A storm was coming!
Moments later, the sky roared again, shouting the agony of the desecrated Stones, the angry Ancestors. Huge forks of lightning pierced the ebony clouds, spearing down amidst the barrows of the Seven Kings on their rise. Sulphurous smells filled the air; hair stood on end with static charge. Another boom sounded, the drum of a waking god, followed by the piercing crack of a thunderbolt. The sky turned a sickly yellow and suddenly the circle was filled with eerie ball-lightning, spinning and bouncing from stone to stone like a living entity, lighting up frowning faces and carvings from the days of old.
Mordraed’s men screamed at the sight of the unnatural balls of light and they fled the ruined inner sanctum and cowered within the ditch. Even Morigau, her sanity returning, yelped in fear and ran from the circle dragging Mordraed behind her as torrential rain began to lash down.
“What have we done?” Mordraed gasped, huddled in the ditch beside his mother, rainwater streaming down his face, his bare chest. He shivered wildly although even with the storm it was not cold. “This is a sign! It is not good, not good at all.” He held his head in his hands, his heavy, aching head that seemed to pound every waking hour and sometimes even woke him from sleep.
Morigau recovered her composure and sneered at him. “Don’t be a fool. The storm-god Tar-ahn smites the Stones even as you did! He joins you in their destruction. Men will come to see this as a sign of his approval, even if they are frightened now. Men, especially the mindless dolts of your warband, are fearful of change, fearful of anything beyond their customary rutting and fighting. But they will adapt. Now, come… we must hasten to Kham-El-Ard and shower them all with food and riches! You must get out before the tribes and show yourself to be the most generous lord that ever walked beneath the Everlasting Sky!”
*****
Drums boomed within the high ramparts of Kham-El-Ard. Men danced and drank, chased the unwilling women who were the wives and daughters of those who had gone to Ar-morah with Ardhu. Gold was distributed, animals slaughtered and eaten, clothing divvied up, and weaponry and jewellery fought over. Drink-fuelled youths grew angry and tussled with their fellows; split eyebrows and bloody noses abounded and threats and curses rang out.
Mordraed watched for a while, face pinched with distaste. How he hated these quarrelsome and greedy fools! He could never trust them; one foot wrong and they would tear him to pieces…
He shuddered and walked away to the Great Hall, Khyloq trailing behind him like some lost sheep. She was wearing so much pilfered amber and jet jewellery he though her neck might bend and snap. It sickened him.
Without a word, he took off his dagger belt and cloak, flung himself onto his pallet and yanked a skin over him. Khyloq crawled under the fur, trying to rub seductively against her husband. He felt her growing belly press against the small of his back and to his horror, felt the thing inside her stir, just a little...
Cold terror ran through him; icy sweat broke out on his forehead despite the warmth of the night. This was a magic he did not understand—woman’s magic. What if it, this unborn brat, was planning evil even when in the womb, eager to come forth so that it could steal all he had striven for… just as he had taken all that his father Ardhu Pendraec had attained?
Jerkily he tore himself out of Khyloq’s embrace and stood up. He hoped she could not see in the smoky darkness that he trembled from head to foot.
“What is wrong?” she asked. “Come lie with me… you have paid me little attention of late.”
“Nor shall I, if you continue to whine,” he snapped. “Go to sleep. I need time… alone. I will return to you later.”
He picked up his discarded belt, fastening it tight about his waist and strode back out of the Hall, feeling stupid and angry at the same time. Outside in the dun the fire-pits were starting to gutter, and inebriated men sprawled about, their drinking-vessels strewn around them. From the clustered huts came continual waves of irritating and disturbing noise; harsh laughter, a barking dog, a woman’s screams.
Mordraed glanced towards the gate. A single guard stood there, leaning against a huge post, but he was obviously drunk, his head lolling onto his chest.
Anger flared inside Mordraed… at himself as much as anyone. What was he thinking to let these fools go mad like this? Ardhu was in Ar-morah… but he would be coming back, unless An’kelet killed him in battle. He would be back! And even with his smaller forces, Ardhu would swiftly overwhelm these undisciplined idiots unless Mordraed established some kind of order… and swiftly. He had to find Wyzelo, the most receptive of that unruly bunch, and get him to try and drag his fellows from their mead and women and ready them for the conflict that was almost cert
ain to come.
Approaching the fine, large roundhouse he had bestowed on Wyzelo, he heard a lot of groaning and panting coming through the open doorway. He’s got some slut in there… Mordraed thought with a grimace, as he stepped over the threshold.
On the sleeping pallet he could see two figures writhing on a nest of skins, clawing at each other’s flesh like beasts. The white moons of Wyzelo’s fat, moving buttocks were an unwelcome sight to Mordraed’s eyes.
And then it all got worse. As Mordraed took another step into the hut he could clearly see the female entangled with his prime warrior, her hair spread out across the skins like coiling snakes and her head arched back, her lean brown body slippery with sweat, her mouth drawn back in a taut grin that was almost deathly.
It was Morigau.
She had not seen Mordraed. She pulled Wyzelo down on top of her, curling her legs around his back. He groaned and rolled heavily onto her, while she laughed as if she had won some huge prize by taking him to her bed.
Mordraed stood and stared in shocked silence, unbelieving. He knew she had many lovers over the years, but other than Ack-olon and La’morak she had never mentioned names and he did not ask. But now, she was here, playing the slut with his warrior, his most trusted man, who was young enough to be her son, manipulating him and binding him to her will, just as she had done with Mordraed from childhood onwards…
He must have made a sound because Morigau’s expression rapidly changed. She glanced over and saw him standing in the doorway, eyes feral, too bright in the taut white mask of his face, his breathing suddenly erratic, strangled. “Mordraed, why are you looking so stricken?” she taunted. “You killed my companions of many years… did you think I would live alone forever more like some dried-up crone? I found new flesh… as I warned you I would.” She ran her nails down Wyzelo’s broad back, laughing. Wyzelo jerked uncomfortably, all desire gone with a wave of embarrassment; still locked in her embrace, he looked both afraid and confused.
Mordraed felt his hands knot into fists. Strange rushes of hot and cold flashed through his head, his heart; he wondered if the spirits, the angry spirits from desecrated Khor Ghor, were coming to punish him. “You are a foul, wanton creature,” he snarled, his voice thick; it felt as if his tongue would not move correctly to form words. “I think it is true what men say; your mind is possessed by evil spirits.”
“You sound like your father, your oh so righteous father, Ardhu Pendraec. And who are you to judge me? It is obvious to any with eyes that you loved that dead half-man, Gal’havad… a man and your own half-brother! If I am foul, you have wallowed in the filth with me.” Morigau’s eyes were blazing, mad, with too much white showing; her lips were drawn back almost in an animalistic snarl showing pointed white teeth.
Looking at the twisted countenance of his mother, something snapped in Mordraed’s skull. The pounding in his head that had assailed him for days suddenly became a violent hammering. He said not a word but lunged towards the pallet where Wyzelo and Morigau lay, still entwined.
Wyzelo reacted first, trying to disentangle himself from both furs and Morigau. “Mordraed… my lord… no, no!” he squealed, sounding like a pig brought to the slaughter. He half-turned, trying to rise, one arm flung up defensively to shield himself. “It was nothing… I was drunk…”
It was too late. Mordraed’s hands were lightning and his long Ar-moran rapier was in his hand. In deadly silence he thrust downward with the long, fire-red blade, piercing straight through Wyzelo’s heart and driving the long, spiked tip into Morigau beneath him. Wyzelo had no chance to scream, but blood rushed from his mouth in a great burst and his body collapsed over Morigau’s, twitching in death throes. Morigau started to shriek; the blade had entered her chest, but not deep enough to kill. She heaved at the heavy body of Wyzelo but could not move him.
“Mordraed, Mordraed!” she cried. “Why have you done this to me? I gave you the world… the world!”
He knelt beside her and viciously gripped her hair in his hand. His face was inches from hers. His blue eyes, death eyes, burned into hers. “You gave me ashes, mother… ashes and dust.”
“Oh, let me go, take out the blade… help me!” She writhed in pain, her blood mingling with Wyzelo’s on the pallet. “I won’t speak more of Gal’havad; I swear to you… I won’t try to tell you what to do…”
“Too late…” he said coldly, but he withdrew the Ar-moran danger from Wyzelo’s corpse and from Morigau’s chest.
She sighed and gasped with relief and pain, tried to stem the bleeding with her hands. “I knew you’d see sense. You are angry… that is good. It shows you are a man and not some tame creature. Call the healer now; I am losing much blood…”
“I told you, mother… too late.”
The dagger suddenly flashed down again, plunging into her ribs. The blade struck the floor on the other side of her body and snapped, leaving Mordraed with a useless horn hilt and fragment of bronze in his grip.
Morigau made a gurgling, gasping noise and clawed at the broken blade. “You… you have slain me. I… I am your mother.”
“I know,” he said, bending over her so that his lips almost touched her greying cheek. His breath blew hot against her ear. “I am indeed your son—you made me what I am and now you pay the price.”
Mordraed walked out of the hut, the bloody broken rapier in his hand. A crowd had gathered; rough young men suddenly sobered by the screams and noises. Mordraed gazed around him and then flung the gory dagger-hilt to the ground before them. “Morigau is dead,” he said defiantly, “and so too her leman, Wyzelo. She was a sorceress, a witch who had dread spirits in her head. She would bring only ill to the people of Kham-El-Ard. And to me, your chief.”
The people in the dun were silent. Mordraed heard a faint whimpering and saw his two small brothers hiding behind taller members of the crowd. They clung to each other, as ever, two little dark birds huddled against the storm.
Going over to them, he sank to one knee and took them in his blood-stained arms. They shivered, as cold as winter ice, afraid to touch him in return. “Forgive me,” he said. “It had to be done. For all of us.”
“But… but she was our…” began Ga’haris in a tiny, tremulous voice.
“I know… But there is much you do not understand. She would have killed you one day, I swear it. With me, you will be safe as long as you are true to me.”
He turned from the boys and gestured to his silent men. “The time of feasting is over. You have your gold, your bronze … now you must work to keep it. Put down your beakers and lift your axes. A guard must be put on Kham-El-Ard and Place-of-Light at all times. No strangers must go in; no one must fare out, unless I give him leave. I want men in the woods, men on the Ridgeways and the Harrow track. I want others to fare to the coast and watch the movements of any ships across the Narrow Sea. For, unless the Ancestors smile on us, Ardhu Pendraec will be returning to Prydn. And he will want his fortress… and his revenge.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE DARK MOON
Ardhu Pendraec sat with An’kelet of Ar-morah in the wood of Bro-khelian, two chieftains side by side, united in friendship once again after their bitter separation. Ardhu’s warband was gathered around a fire, laughing and merry-making, as in old times. Joints of roast pork lay spread out before them, brought on wooden trenchers by members of An’kelet’s fair-faced clan, and there were also shining silver fish from the nearby Little Sea, cooked in nests of sweet yet salty weeds gathered from the water’s edge. Big, multi-handled beakers different in design from those in Prydn were passed through the group, brimming with thin, grape-based alcohol unlike anything the men of Albu had tasted before. Branches spread above the company like an enchanted, green canopy; and in the boughs the birds were singing without care. A golden haze hung over the whole of the haunted forest, enfolding it, embracing it, almost making Ardhu feel he was in a protected Otherworld where harm could never come, where grief could not find him.
But in his
heart he knew that could never be.
Evil and sorrow would always find a path.
And so it was, while they feasted and the Sun faded and the stars came out, that Dru Bluecloak, one-time acolyte at Deroweth, arrived after a long and perilous journey at the forest’s edge, seeking Ardhu Pendraec. He was met by the men of An’kelet’s tribe who patrolled the edge of the woods with their man-high yew bows, and taken into the heart of the forest where An’kelet had his holdings away from the prying eyes of outsiders.
“My Chief, one is come from Prydn bearing news,” said the leader of the patrol, bowing before An’kelet, who sat cross-legged on a sheepskin, holding a pork joint in his hand. “He wears the robes of a priest in training.”
Ardhu and An’kelet both frowned and glanced at each other in consternation. “Bring him forward,” ordered An’kelet, setting his food aside.
Dru Bluecloak stepped from behind the warriors of An’kelet’s clan. He was maybe five and twenty Sun-turnings but looked ten years older, his hair knotted and his beard wild and dark lines underscoring haunted eyes. The blue cloak of his order was stained and torn, and his shoes were ragged flaps bound to bloodied and blistered feet with leather ties. “I… I come from Deroweth,” he said, his voice high and wheezy, as if he struggled for breath. “I bear grave tidings.”
Ardhu’s visage became stone. He sat up straight, fingers on Caladvolc’s hilt in an instinctive gesture. “Speak these tidings, holy man.”
Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge Page 35