“There are men in the wood, armed men!” cried one of the boys, waving his arms frantically. “We’ve seen them! They attacked Yde when she was washing clothes by the ford, but she got away... ”
“I warned you, chief!” cried Merlin, rounding on Vhortiern with flashing eyes. “This is the price of your greed!”
Immediately Vhortiern’s attendant warriors sprang into action, grabbing Ven and Kaash and binding them. Vhortiern himself staggered out into the smoky twilight, axe in one hand, dagger in the other, shouting ‘To me, warriors, to me!” One of his older sons blew on a great cow’s horn and the rest of the warriors of Faraon poured out of their huts, raising knives and axes both of ancient stone and new-wrought bronze. Shouting in fear and excitement, eager for action, they streamed down the hillside toward the wooded valley below, cloaked with a cap of mist that concealed both friend and foe.
Merlin did not follow them. His heart felt heavy, his mind troubled. All his learning, his natural-born arts, yet he was oath-bound to a fool who would sell his own people for a girl and a few trinkets. A vision entered his mind of the other Merlin, the one who had used his Arts to build the circle of Khor Ghor. He longed to be such a one, whose power would be remembered forever, whose memories were whispered from the stones to the grass to the everlasting sky.
In that instant he knew what course he must take. Oath or not, he had to leave the oppressive atmosphere of Faraon. Maybe he would become a priest of Khor Ghor, as he desired…or maybe he would be slain as an interloper by unfriendly priests, shot full of arrows and dumped in the ditch…His fate, his future, was in the hands of the spirits. What he would not do is waste more time in a backwater where he would grow old and die with his potential unrealised.
Snatching up his staff, he stalked from the village and hurried to join the Golden Road that wound past Din-Amnon and curled like a Wyrm’s tail across the ridged brow of God-of-Bronze. Women and children called after him—he could hear Keine weeping—but he did not glance back at them lest his resolve was lessened.
As he reached the soulstones on their lonely moor, the first stars were coming out, dancing over their dark tips. He paused and bowed in respect to the Ancestors, remembering how close he had come to joining them, aware they still might be angry because they did not receive the gift of his blood. He noticed that a piglet’s carcass had been placed at the foot of the mother-stone, its eyes plucked by the ravens.
A pig when it should have been a child…
Suddenly out of the wispy night fog a figure rose, lurching and lumbering, malevolent. Despite himself, Merlin jumped in alarm, his breathing ragged… and then he recognised Vhortiern.
Vhortiern bloodied to the shoulder, the Good-striker a gory mess in his hand.
“Why are you here?” asked Merlin. "Should you not be in the valley, seeking to undo the evil you have wrought?”
“The battle is over. I have killed the foreigners—all of them,” panted Vhortiern. “Ven’s head.” He reached under his woollen cape and flung a gaping severed head to the ground. It bounced along by Merlin’s feet, and he stepped away in disgust. “I brought it here to appease the Old Ones, who will be angry at me, for it was I who let these wolves in amongst our people.”
His eyes suddenly narrowed. “But why are you skulking around by the stones? Where were you during the battle?”
Merlin’s face turned hard as flint. He raised his arm, and his Merlin-hawk flew down with a cry and flutter of wings. “I leave Faraon again, Chief. This time for good. I will not stay in this place. You have sullied it with the blood of those sea-devils that wanted our tin…and our freedom as a people. I go to Khor Ghor, to see if they will have me, and maybe the wise there can raise a force against these ill-starred men who will seek our shores as long as there are men like you to let them get a foothold!”
Vhortiern made a strangled sound, half-enraged and half-surprised. “You are my magic-man. I forbid this! You have brought luck to Faraon, and if you go, all I value may fail…” He grasped Merlin’s shoulders, shaking him, spittle flecking his lips in fury as he shouted, “You swore to stay with me…”
“Until the day you go to the Ancestors…”
Merlin’s copper dagger leapt out of the dark like one of the stars above the mountains. It pierced Vhortiern’s chest, drove deep. “You are old, Vhortiern; old kings must die before their dotage causes crops and the wombs of beasts and women to fail,” he said coldly. “Go now to the Ancestors; your sons are young and hale and will be better rulers than you.”
Vhortiern sank to his knees, face white with shock. He grasped at his chest; blood welled between his fingers and splattered the ground like red rain. He staggered against the long Man-stone, then thudded to his knees. Good-Striker rolled in the grass beside him.
Merlin picked up the chief’s axe, beautiful, polished, its head jade-green beneath a slime of blood and brain. It was a fine thing, ancient and full of power. He raised it to his lips and whispered, “Make it swift, great Ancestors. Take the life of this one as final payment for sparing mine, and may my blood-debt to you be finished forever.”
He swung the axe and it crashed into Vhortiern’s temple. The big man crumpled silently, his skull a shattered ruin, and Merlin watched his death-throes in solemn contemplation, divining the future from his last twitching contortions. He noticed, with a sense of elation, that the already stiffening fingers on Vhortiern’s out flung arm pointed to the south—toward the gentler lands of Albu and the pathways that led to the fabled temple of Khor Ghor.
CHAPTER TWO
Merlin wound his way up to the spires of God-of-Bronze, the Golden Road a pale ribbon beneath his feet. He passed the outcrops where the first Merlin had quarried the bluestones of Khor Ghor, and bathed his feet in the healing springs that sprang around the sacred dolerite. Then, to pay the stone-spirits for his safe passage, he sheared off a single lock of hair to leave as an offering on the capstone of the tiny ancestral tomb on the summit of the mountain. The shorn strands blew away like smoke, towards the South.
Towards Khor Ghor.
Descending from the mountains into tamer lands, he abandoned the Golden Road, fearful of encountering traders heading West, who might give information of his whereabouts, willingly or not, to Vhortiern’s vengeful kinsmen. He set out across open country instead, climbing banks and fording streams, sending his hawk ahead and following its shadow on the grass.
He passed through the Valley of Wolves, where he walked with drawn bow and watched every rock, and crested the Bald Hills and the Black Hills, where no trees grew and the earth was dark and ashen as if it has been burned in ancient fire. Then he began a slow journey South into lower, flatter lands covered in deep vegetation, until, at last, he reached the banks of the mighty, green-brown river sacred to the spirit Ha-bren, who every year caused a great tidal bore to roar inland, sweeping all before it. Ha-bren could be dangerous and capricious, but not to all men—she allowed many to sail and fish her waters unharmed. Still, in order to ensure her favour, Merlin tossed her a quartz pebble from the magic-bag at his waist before continuing his journey along her banks.
Ha-bren must have been pleased by the gift. Not long after he deposited the pebble, Merlin saw smoke rising from a gaggle of huts near the riverbank. He had been guided to food and lodging. As he drew near, he noted the pungent smell of fish, and wrinkled his face in disgust—fish was taboo to his people, who ate only meat and grain—but he forced his revulsion down and approached the village’s wattle fence. His hawk gave a disgusted cry and soared away, as if he, too, found the reek of the place foul.
Immediately scavenging dogs and fishy-smelling children poured from huts and surrounded Merlin, the children wide-eyed and bouncing with excitement, the dogs barking and snuffling at the hem of his robe. They were followed by a pack of curious women, all rather unappealing and smelly, and then several warriors, who left off drinking, snoring, and boasting round the evening fire to see what the commotion was about.
T
hey gazed at Merlin suspiciously, fingering their axes, till he cast back his cloak to reveal the robe beneath – a knee-length sheath of tanned hide painted with mystic symbols, the edges sewn with ancient teeth of dog and wolf and boar. Buan-ann had aided him to paint it and sew the points on in the prescribed order, and it was obvious even to these strangers that the robe was the attire of a magic-man.
The people drew back then, gasping, slightly afraid, especially when Merlin’s totem-hawk suddenly appeared, dropping onto his wrist and uttering a challenging scream to the throng.
The chief of the tribe, an old man with stringy grey hair bound in a knot high on his head, ambled forward, hands outstretched. His face was leathery, his mouth toothless. He walked with a limp, but despite this defect, his clothes were carefully crafted, with expensive conical buttons of jet fastening the front.
“Welcome, holy man!” he cried. “You may dine with us this evening, and stay the night if you so desire. My son had gone hunting and will be away till the new Moon—his hut is empty.”
Merlin smiled. The tribes of Prydn had a custom that favoured a lone wanderer on the road. They were generous to a fault to those with special gifts: magic-craft, tale-telling, metallurgy, healing or dagger-play. A chief who was stingy, whose hearth was unwelcoming to guests, would soon be a laughing stock for miles around. No one would willingly besmirch their honour by being niggardly, and especially they would not do so before one who spoke with the spirits, lest he call a blight to wither the crops or spirit their babes off to Ahn-un.
Surrounded by the curious children, Merlin entered the communal feasting hut, his hawk still flapping on his arm. He was handed a beaker of honey-mead and a haunch of pig. It tasted good, and he realised how weak and hungry he had become on his long journey. Across the room he spied the tribe’s shaman, an ugly man with a sly, canny face shaped like a crescent Moon, with a jabbing chin and bulbous brow that strove to meet. Moon-face must also have had a dedication to the Lady Moon, for he had a crescent tattooed between his brows, and his deerskin cloak was patterned with the lunar phases picked out in tiny beads.
The Shaman was kneeling by a hearth, cooking something that sputtered and sizzled on a spit. “Come, young stranger and man-of-magic,” he wheedled. “Come, hawk-man, and see what we do here in Ha-bren’s village.”
Merlin had little interest in what Moon-face was doing. Nevertheless, he did not wish to offend his hosts, so he sent his hawk flying back out into the night, causing the gathered women to scream as its wings brushed their heads. He then squatted by the shaman, and saw that Moon-face was cooking a fish over the fire. Its juices foamed and spat; its mouth gaped and its big luminous eyes seemed to bulge at the young watcher. Again, Merlin fought his instinct to gag at the sight and smell.
Moon-face smirked, obviously aware of his discomfiture. “Is it ‘gesh’ for you, do you have a taboo on sea-flesh?” he cackled. “'Tis a pity, for this fish is the Salmon of Knowledge. Eat its flesh and you will have greater knowledge than any mortal man.” With that, he grabbed the fish himself and bit into its shining scales. Juices spurted out and ran down his skin, but he had evidently miscalculated how hot it would be, for he let out an agonised howl and flung the fish from him.
The flopping, sizzling thing landed straight into Merlin’s lap, as the villagers nudged each other and sniggered with mirth. He slapped it away, but his thumb sank into the roasted flesh, and he bit back a pained cry as the hot juices burnt him. Instinctively he placed his scalded thumb in his mouth, and the essence of the taboo creature passed into him.
He sprang up at once, glaring angrily at those gathered in the hut. “You think me some poor man of the mountains to jeer at,” he snarled. “Beware, I say, lest you be cursed for your inhospitable ways!”
The people parted as he stormed from the tent, burnt thumb in his mouth like a petulant child. He heard snorts of laughter behind him, which both riled and concerned him. Safe passage in these unknown lands depended on his ability to convince the tribesmen that he was untouchable, worthy of honour and hospitality. He had not convinced these folk.
In the hut the chief had loaned him, Merlin lay down with his staff and dagger close by his side. The strange taste of the fish lingered in his mouth; he spat onto the ground once or twice but could not rid himself of it. At least it had not killed him or turned him into some foul beast!
When he finally found sleep, after many hours, he began to dream... He was a fish, like the one he had tasted; the Father of all fish, the Salmon of Wisdom with the Fire in his Head. As he swam, he felt the presence of pursuers, dark men along the water line who prodded the water with barbed spears, seeking to hook him, kill him.
Using the Salmon Leap, the champion’s leap, he flew up through the water in a spray, soaring high above the heads of his foes. And as he leaped, ringed in the light of the rising Sun, he began to change. From fish that leaped high, to a bird of the air.
A hawk. His hawk.
A Merlin that soared over the forests of Albu toward a conical green hill that filled him with strange excitement and longing…
“I must go!” He sat up in the fuggy dark, eyes shining like a wild beast’s. It was silent in the riverside village, with only the occasional wail of a babe or the bark of a dog breaking the stillness. Yet something was stirring, coming his way. Merlin could feel it with a new, inborn sense.
He gazed at his blistered thumb. “The Salmon of Wisdom… Knowledge given me by my enemy’s own mocking.”
Quietly he crept between the dark huts, making his way towards the river. He halted, slinking into the shadows of one round hut, as two warriors swaggered past in a haze of alcoholic fumes. “He’s not one of us,” he heard one say. “He’s ill-starred. Did you see the magic crystal he carried at his belt? It would go well in my hut, a gift for my new wife. Why should such as he have it? We should throw him to the fishes he despises so much.”
The other man’s teeth glinted in his coppery beard. “Let us do it. You can have the bright ball. Just let me search his pouch for other wealth…”
The two warriors picked up pace and Merlin swirled by them, silent as a breath of wind, a trick he had learned from Buan-ann. His fears had been proven; these men had no honour and were out to rob and kill. His lip curled in a snarl of outrage; in these lands even a magic-man was not safe…surely an affront to the spirits themselves!
Reaching the river, he spotted the tribesmen’s canoes, tethered like animals to pegs in the thin, Moon-bathed mud. Cutting one free with his dagger, he paddled it into the centre of the flow, the sound of the oar no louder than that of fish leaping in the dark
A few moments later there were angry shouts from the village. Torches flared. He grinned and spat in the direction of the huts, murmuring a powerful curse on the faithless and the false. As if it already had taken effect, a stray spark from the watch fire landed on a thatched roof and it burst into sudden, unexpected flame. Screams of fear and anger filled the night. Merlin watched for a moment more, coldly satisfied, then paddled on into the shadows, with the flip-flop offish all around him and the soft laughter of the spirits soughing through the bushes to speed him on his way.
*****
Merlin abandoned the canoe many miles upstream. His arms ached, and he knew, if he pursued, he could not keep up the pace against experienced boatmen. So he decided to proceed inland on foot.
Using his staff for support, he walked for what seemed an eternity, until the soles of his skin footgear hung in tatters. But still on he walked…
And walked… and walked…
Villages came and went; he made cautious stops to gather supplies and ask directions, but he never lingered. Like a man caught in a dream, he shouldered his pack and wandered on…
And on… And on…
His shoes soon disintegrated utterly; he caught a hare with help of his Merlin-hawk and made its pelt into a pair of new boots, which he padded with grass woven into a matt. He fed the hare’s giblets to his eager bird, then walked
on, uncomfortable because the hide had not been properly dried, but grateful he was not barefoot.
And still the path wound on, seemingly endless, deep into the strange southern lands far from the mountains of his birth.
Eventually, he felt the ground changing beneath his feet, becoming soft as a maiden’s pliant flesh. It was Woman’s land here, void of the harsh masculinity of his homeland of gods and giants. In his nostrils he could smell water and earth intermingled—women’s elements, unlike fire and air, which were male.
Cresting a low rise, he suddenly spotted a conical hill on the horizon. It dominated the surrounding landscape, looking somehow unnatural, as if man, or maybe a god, had sculpted its form. It was the hill of his dream—deep green, with a spiral-path winding up to its crown and water pooling at its feet. The evening Sun was passing over its shoulder, and the lake below gleamed dark as jet, sucking in the lingering light.
Entranced, he hunkered down and watched as the Sun fell from heaven and the water at the base of the hill turned scarlet—a lake of blood, the birthing-pool of the holy hill. Slowly, the gory welter of sunset faded from the West. Jewel-like stars now glimmered on the surface of the lake, reminding Merlin of the white speckles in the stones on God-of-Bronze.
“What is this place?” he whispered. “Surely it must be one of the Hallows of Prydn.”
Rising, he continued with renewed vigour toward the holy hill, skirting the edges of the now-sullen lake. He trod carefully, for the ground became even wetter, saturated with rank marsh-water. Glancing down, he could see that he walked on a mesh of ancient withies, laid down in some bygone time to aid passage across the fen. A little god-doll carved from a slab of bog-oak squatted in the marsh near the head of the track, its quartz-pebble eyes glinting in the dusk. Fireflies ringed the figure’s head, making a crown of dancing light. Merlin bowed to the effigy in respect, but could not sense if it welcomed or warned him.
Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge) Page 3