Ardhu took a deep breath, thinking of all the men and women he knew who were captive in the dun. Ka’hai’s wife and children, close as kin… he knew the big ugly man was fretting at the bottom of the hill, thinking of what their fate might be. “I will go alone. I am not afraid.”
An’kelet paced uneasily. “If it is your wish. But let me have my say, since we are friends again and you have named me heir. It is late in the day and although the nights are light, still it will not be overlong before the Sun sets; it is not good to fight in the dark.”
Ardhu laughed darkly and unsheathed Caladvolc. “I do not intend to fight at night. Before the Sun is down, it will be finished.”
“If you are not back here by Moonrise, grant me permission to send men to find you,” said An’kelet grimly. “Grant me that much, at least.”
The Pendraec inclined his head. “It is granted.”
He swung down from his steed and handed the reins to An’kelet. The taller man raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“I will go on foot,” said Ardhu, “following the Sacred Avenue from the River. Khor Ghor has already suffered at Mordraed’s hands; I would not disrespect it further by riding a beast beyond its banks, even on this day… this day of reckoning.”
He turned from the fortress gate, the late afternoon sun flashing on his breastplate and buckle of gold and on the surface of the Face of Evening, his shield. He raised Caladvolc and he raised his copper axe, saluting bright-faced Bhel as He soared through the skyway on his journey to the West. He embraced An’kelet, kissing him on either cheek, and then his kinsman Hwalchmai, and also Betu’or, Ka’hai and Bohrs, who stood with his jaw agape, for the Stone Lord had never behaved thus before when battle was imminent. It was almost like a farewell…
Then, his leave taken, Ardhu strode down the hill toward the chalk banks of the Avenue. He did not look back.
*****
Mordraed sat inside the circle of Khor Ghor on the fallen lintel of the Door into Winter. Moodily he stared out across the Great Plain, where the long grasses rippled in the late Sun like waves on a strange green sea. Every now and then he took a sip of water from a small clay flask or chewed on a strip of dried beef. He would not eat more, for he wanted his belly to be empty when the time for battle came; he did not want his body to be sluggish from consuming excess food or drink.
After a while he got up and started to pace. Ash from the destruction of the trilithon eddied around him, small black whirlwinds against the wrenched chalk. The bluestones frowned, close as conspirators, while beyond them the arches of the outer circle grinned, as if mocking him. Maybe Ardhu would not come. Maybe he was too afraid, or had some other plan…
He grimaced. He had to come; an ending had to be made. Overhead the westering Sun beat heavily on his head, increasing the throbbing in his temples that had gripped him for days… no, weeks. He hated it, both the pain in his skull and the relentless heat of Bhel; but not to worry, soon the Sun would fall from heaven and the Moon would rise, and it would be his time, the time of the Dark Moon…
A sudden noise, scarcely more noticeable than a breath of wind in leaves, made his spine prickle.
He was not alone.
Limbs tense, adrenaline rushing, he pivoted around, bow in his hands and an arrow to the string.
Ardhu Pendraec, father and uncle, chief and rival, stood in the gap that led to the Southern causeway, the reddish light of late afternoon flaming on his regalia, turning the unsheathed blade of Caladvolc to bronze flame.
Mordraed fired two arrows in quick succession. Ardhu flung up Wyngurthachar and the swan-feathered shafts bounced harmlessly aside, skittering in the dirt. He then sprang at his opponent, faster than one who was not in full bloom of youth had a right to be, and crashed his full weight into Mordraed before he could release another arrow, striking him in the belly with his shield and throwing him back onto the shattered block of the Great Trilithon.
Mordraed landed heavily, his bow tearing from his fingers, breath forced from his lungs with the force of impact. Almost immediately he recovered, thrusting himself up on his elbows and flinging himself forward against Ardhu’s shield and trying to wrest it from his father’s arm.
Grappling together, they staggered across the circle, bashing into bluestones and tripping over chunks of wreckage from the broken trilithon. Mordraed gave one vicious wrench and twisted Ardhu’s wrist, near breaking the bones, and Wyngurthachar tore loose and clattered to the ground. Grinning, Mordraed snatched it up and flung it outside of the circle. Now Ardhu’s left hand side was open to attack, vulnerable.
Ardhu stared at the man before him… this thing he had made in one night of folly so long ago it seemed like a terrible, twisted dream. So alike in face and form, but Mordraed with a prettiness about him that contrasted with the ice in his eyes, the cruel and uncompromising set of his mouth. The downing Sun shone on the black river of his unbound hair and warmed his cold features. His skin was unadorned, with no sacred marks upon him for protection, nor were any talismans bound to his deerskin jerkin or belt; it was obvious he believed he needed no help from the Spirits to win this fight.
“I should have killed you as a child,” Ardhu said harshly.
Mordraed smiled and drew his new long sword from his belt, the blade fashioned just for his hand. King-killer. “But you did not and now I shall kill you.”
They engaged in the centre of the circle before the fallen half of the Great Trilithon and the crushed, half-buried Stone of Adoration. Bronze smote against bronze with metallic clangour and sparks flew into the air. In the West, through the towering arch of the Gate of the Guardian, the Sun was rapidly descending, spraying out spokes of incarnadine light like gore from a fatal wound. Above the Stones, the vault of the Everlasting Sky resembled a blood-stained shield. Sullen clouds towering on the horizon turned crimson and broke apart, burning like a thousand heavenly funeral pyres, a thousand fallen monuments. Nearing the edge of the horizon, the lurid, watchful red eye of Bhel looked distorted and huge, black cloud-streamers darting over its surface as it began its final descent into the Land of the Dead. Trapped in its last bloody rays, the stones of Khor Ghor burned out against the failing twilight sky—red, gold, green, beacons lit in a final blaze of glory before night fell forever.
Ardhu and Mordraed did not speak, nor meet each other’s eyes as they slashed and parried and hacked at each other with their keen bronze blades, seeking to wound and then bring down. Mordraed fought like a wild animal, obviously hoping his youthful strength and the rage in his heart would carry the day; but Ardhu was more experienced and patient, his blows less frenetic and more accurate, and he countered every move the younger man made with consummate skill, stepping aside and around when Mordraed lunged in his direction, hoping to bring blade to flesh.. He was aware that his shield arm was unguarded and his left flank open to attack, but as Mordraed bore no shield himself, Ardhu did not greatly worry about it. They were equal, like the Days when Light and Shadow balanced in the great Circle…
Mordraed’s face was pallid, sweat streaming into his eyes as he struggled to get in under Ardhu’s guard. He had not expected the old fool to be so sprightly still, to have such an arm of stone. He had underestimated his father sorely. But if he could not best him by swift blows and sheer force, other forces could and would come into play…
Stabbing and parrying with his long sword, he gradually managed to work Ardhu around in a semi-circle until the last hot piercing beams of Sunlight flared on the older man’s helmet and breastplate… and shot into his face, making him squint against the harsh burning glow in the farthest West.
“Fool!” shouted Mordraed as he saw Ardhu try to shade his tearing eyes with his left hand, an instinctive gesture. He gave a great leap forward, throwing himself onto Ardhu, trying to smash his knee into his groin or belly and render him helpless. Ardhu staggered back under his son’s weight, Caladvolc lowered to waist-level in defence of his lower body, and Mordraed’s blow went wide, his kneecap meeting wi
th force against Ardhu’s hip bone. It was not what Mordraed had hoped for but a violent impact nonetheless, which made Ardhu’s leg crumple beneath him, pins and needles rippling down his thigh.
Mordraed saw the agony in his father’s face and rushed him again. Off-balance, Ardhu was hurled backwards, slamming into one of the mighty grey pillars of Throne of Kings on the Southern side of the circle. Anger flared in his eyes, and he swung Caladvolc in a shining arc towards Mordraed’s head, eager now to end this in the only way it could end… in blood and death.
Grinning now, sensing that the tide might be turning in his direction, Mordraed threw his blade up to meet that of his father. The Hard-Cleft was like a tongue of burning flame in the dusk and, gleaming, King-killer leapt forth to answer its challenge. The two swords smote against each other with force, sparking and sawing. Aware that Ardhu had nowhere to go with the massive trilithon at his back, Mordraed relentlessly pushed his advantage, drawing in closer and closer till they were almost touching, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Upwards he forced Ardhu’s hand, a move he had learned from An’kelet whilst in training at Kham-El-Ard. He saw Ardhu grimace, and try to twist Caladvolc for a sharp downward thrust.
Mordraed used his last reserve of strength to slam his own sword heavily against Caladvolc, a blow violent as a thunderclap. Ardhu’s hand snapped back and the blade of Hard-Cleft struck the face of the trilithon behind him, smote the stern grey sarsen that was one of the hardest stones on earth.
And shattered…
Glittering in the embers of Sunset, shards of the sword from the Sacred Pool, gift of Nin-Aeifa of the Lake, spun across the circle and came to land amidst the ashes left by Mordraed’s destruction. Stunned, Ardhu stared at the hilt and jagged fragment in his right hand. The useless stump… his broken kingship.
At that moment Mordraed struck. Lowering his sword-arm, he grasped Ardhu’s shoulder and yanked him close, almost as if he would embrace him. But it was no tender moment of forgiveness. Lips curved in a triumphant leer, he thrust King-killer into Ardhu’s unprotected left side and twisted the blade.
Ardhu’s face whitened with shock. Mordraed began to laugh, driving the blade deeper. “I knew I would prevail, ” he gasped. “The Old King always dies at the hand of the new in the month of Death!”
Behind Mordraed’s shoulder, the uppermost rim of the Sun was finally sinking under the horizon. The sky and the Circle were the colour of old blood. Real, fresh blood poured from Ardhu’s side and reddened his pale and draining lips as his knees gave out from under him and he slumped to the ground at the foot of Throne of Kings, the inlaid daggers and axes shining out above his dark head.
Mordraed withdrew King-killer and raised it in triumph, red rivulets from the gutter of the blade streaking down his arms, his face, his chest.
And then… there it was. A soft sound, a faint movement in the deepening twilight near the Gate of the Guardian, no more substantial that the beating wings of a moth…
Afraid of new attackers, Mordraed whirled on his heel, weapon at the ready. The remaining fragments of brightness in the West briefly dazzled his eyes...and then, as he struggled to adjust his vision, he spied a figure gazing through the arch of the trilithon. Red blood-ruby hair, long robes wrought of twilight and eventide mist, a sad, solemn face he knew so well—object of love and hatred. Eyes green as the grass on a barrow-hill and deep as death caught his and held him in a reproachful stare.
“No!” he screamed, the word wrenched from his constricting throat.
Unwillingly he staggered in the direction of the vision, the apparition.
It changed.
The Merlin stood before him, not the old feeble man crippled by elf-shot whom he had dispatched to the Otherworld, but a strong youthful shaman in a great ceremonial headdress of horns and bone. His visage was dark and saturnine, strong lines running from nose to mouth, lips curved in mockery and deep dislike. His robes frothed around his ankles, blending with darkness; on his breast his hawk talisman gleamed, its eyes shining like molten bronze and its open beak dripping the blood of the sacrifice…
No words came from his lips but Mordraed heard cold, familiar words echo inside his head, first spoken Moons ago, “You will never be king in Ardhu’s stead… if I have to fight Hwynn and Nud themselves, I will return from the Otherworld to stop you!”
“You won’t stop me!” he shrieked, waving his sword like a madman. “My reign is destined!”
His back was turned to the crouched, wounded form of his father. He did not see Ardhu move, crawling on his knees, one hand pressed to his bleeding side, the other stretching toward his lower leg.
Mordraed had forgotten, in his moment of triumph, his moment of terror…
He had forgotten Little White Hilt, the Sword from beneath the Stone, the dagger that had given Ardhu his right to rule the tribes of Prydn…
Until it bit deep within his lower belly, tearing into his entrails, a fatal blow from which no man could recover.
Mordraed dropped to the ground, the pain, the fear, making the shadows and spectres that assailed him flee from his mind. There was no Merlin, no Gal’havad within the circle of Khor Ghor. Only him, with the horn-hilted dagger protruding from his side, and Ardhu Pendraec, bleeding from a similar wound beside him, their blood co-mingling, pooling on the ash and chalk. “This… cannot… be…” Mordraed gasped, disbelieving. “I… was… destined…”
He was clutching Ardhu’s shoulders, trying to keep from collapsing; it almost looked as if they embraced as kinsmen, not as bitter enemies struggling against each other till the last. Ardhu glanced up at him, and his pinched, grey face was twisted with sorrow. “You… my son… were deceived…”
As Ardhu spoke, a horn suddenly sounded outside Khor Ghor, its notes bouncing eerily from stone to stone. Hoof beats made the earth tremble.
Ardhu glanced with swimming vision to the East, where a round, pale Moon-ghost floated in the sky. The Moon had risen. His men were here.
Mordraed craned his head toward the noise of the horses. He could see the dim shapes of men entering the stones… saw daggers drawn and bows with barbed arrows on the string. Ardhu’s warriors!
Releasing Ardhu, he started to crawl on all fours toward the entrance of Khor Ghor, toward the Watchers and the Stone of Summer… toward the ghost Moon, the blessed Mother Moon to which he was sworn, as it soared higher into the night-time sky.
Instinctively his hand went to the hilt of Carnwennan, pulling it free of his flesh; blood flowed with renewed intensity and he stared at it, streaking down his legs, covering his hands, shining in the bitter Moonlight.
His life, slipping away, feeding chalk and stones and Ancestral bones buried deep beneath him.
Coldness seeped through his limbs, a strange tingling; he struggled to breathe. An iron taste hung in his mouth and he felt something wet on his lips that was not saliva.
Behind him he could hear shouts from Ardhu’s warriors, knew that they were preparing to leap upon him, to rend him limb from limb with their axes and daggers. They would take his head, they would take his heart; his pieces would be scattered on the plain and his spirit would never rest. An ignominious death, devoid of honour. A traitor’s death.
He heard Ardhu’s voice rise, shaking, hoarse, as if from a great distance. “Men… finish him! But not with your blades. Give him to the Circle in the old way of our ancient forebears, to atone for his crimes against the Ancestors. Give him to the Circle that his spirit might be trapped here for eternity, guarding what he has tried to destroy.”
Mordraed halted, mid-crawl. Behind him he could hear footsteps, heavy breathing.
He knew what his fate would be now… both relief and a curse.
Drawing himself up onto his knees through his pain, he flung his arms open wide in token of his submission and looked up toward the ascending Moon, the bone-white eye of She-Who-Guards, the Protectress of the Dead. On the pitted surface he swore he could see the face of Morigau gazing down at him, filled with love
and hate and pride and mockery…
Three arrows flew. Three arrows struck.
One hit Mordraed’s breastbone and then glanced aside into his heart.
Mordraed fell face first on the ground, arms still outstretched, and the men of Ardhu’s warband took his body by the arms and dragged it to the terminal of the henge-ditch near Heulstone, where they dug a hasty pit. They threw the corpse in with little care, taking his weapons as trophies but leaving his archer’s wristguard because he was a man of high status. They placed shards of bluestone around him, to bind his spirit with the power of the sacred Stones, then covered the crouched body with chalk and spoil and debris.
Done, the warriors returned to the inner sanctum of Khor Ghor. Ardhu had propped himself up against the Stone of Adoration; his breathing was shallow and laboured, a cold sweat gleaming on his brow. His mouth shone dark red. Hwalchmai, Bohrs, Ka’hai and Betu’or flung themselves down at his side, trying to staunch the wound in his belly with torn shreds from their cloaks but the bleeding would not stop.
Hwalchmai leaned over and laved his cousin’s forehead with water, while Ka’hai steadied him. Ardhu swallowed, and reached out to clasp the hands of both Hwalchmai and his foster-brother, who was weeping openly. “I am glad you are here with me… at the end,” he whispered. “And Bohrs too.” He glanced at Bohrs who had got up and stood miserably beside the Door into Winter, his shoulders shaking. He wept freely, though in silence.
“It is not the end, lord,” said Betu’or brokenly.
“In this life, it is.” Ardhu closed his eyes. “I can see the long house of my Fathers across the Plain of Honey. Its doors lie open for me, in a land where falls not the rain, nor the snow, nor any tears; where there is no sorrow and no life’s ending. I can see Gal’havad there, on shores awash with crystals and dragonstones, with the wind in his hair and light in his eyes… and the Merlin is with him… They wait for me…”
Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge Page 37