Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge)

by J. P. Reedman

  Maybe that’s why the water feels warm! Ardhu thought dully. That… that glowing thing, whatever it is, is heating the pool…

  As if of its own volition, his hand reached down below the surface of the water. Ripples ran out across the holy spring. He could hear Merlin shouting from the bank, but he couldn’t make out the words; they were remote, unclear, like echoes in a cavern. In the trees above a bird screamed and he saw the limed hair of the Lady fanning out above him, turned to white ash by the backlight of the Sun. She was smiling… but the smile was not necessarily one of friendship….

  He slipped under the water, into the land-under-wave, a kind of otherworld or underworld. All was green-tinged, the Sun above a sickly blob distorted by the swell within the spring. Weeds caressed him, drawing him down…down…into the dark…past broken beakers and lost flint tools, old bones and a half-mouldered wheel with fishes streaming between its spokes.

  And there, amidst the detritus, an accumulation of offerings from the time before time, lay a rapier—the longest bladed weapon he had ever laid eyes on, longer even than the famed daggers of the princes of Ar-morah. It was wrought of fine bronze, and on its blade were the chevrons and magic insignias of the long-ago chiefs of Khor Ghor. The light filtering through the spring water bounced off its blade, causing the fiery glow Art had seen from above.

  Reaching out, Ardhu grasped the pommel, laced with hundreds of gold pins, and pulled it from its nest of slimy fronds. With a cry, he kicked upwards, leaving that watery underworld and cleaving the surface of the pool like an arrow, the sword held above his head in victory.

  “Merlin, I have it!” he cried. “I have the sword Caladvolc!”

  “And so you do.” The Lady of the Lake spoke behind him. "Soon you must needs use it. The Lake Maidens have received messages that the Sea Folk are raiding anew, coming in ships across the Little Sea and even into Habren’s swell; the lands of Duvnon burn even as we speak.”

  Ardhu grasped the sword, glowing like a fire-brand in the Sunlight. “Then I must go to meet them. And prove myself beyond a doubt to the chieftains of this isle.”

  *****

  “It is too soon!” Merlin snarled as he stomped along the trail back to Deroweth with Ardhu following, barely able to keep up with the older man’s long, angry strides. “Your camp not even built, the men still doubtful, training only just begun, both theirs and yours. I had hoped inclement tides would have kept the raiders away a bit longer…”

  Art increased his pace until he matched that of the priest. His face had suddenly lost its youthful candour and become a granite mask, hard as one of the standing stones of Khor Ghor. “We must manage with what we have. Ka’hai and Ech-tor have brought ponies and horses from the Western moors and they are reasonably trained, if not perfect. Anyone who can sit a horse will ride…even if they must be tied in the saddle! I will ride at their head, as is my place.”

  Merlin glanced over at the young man. He looked less a boy now, the lines hardening on the sharp planes of his face, showing the man he would soon be—if f he lived that long. Gone were all traces of youthful indecisiveness, of deference to the man who had mentored him—there was a shadow of his father U’thyr in him, but more besides. Something sterner and greater than U’thyr. “So be it, then, my lord,” the shaman said with a wry smile. “You will go, and the gods go with you.”

  *****

  By the next full Moon the men of Ardhu’s warband were ready to journey to the coast. Dressed in leather jerkins studded with copper and cloaks sewn with insignias of their respective families, they gathered at Khor Ghor to receive rallying words from their leader. Each one, armed with a bronze war-axe, a dagger, and a bow, stood proudly in an archway of the circle, every man an equal within the curve of that never-ending ring, no man higher or lower than the other.

  Only Ardhu was pre-eminent, the Stone Lord, master of the Great Trilithon. He stood with Merlin upon the height of the huge lintel, with the Face of Evening on his shoulder and Caladvolc in his hand. His green-dark eyes were ringed by spirals of blue war-paint, while his hair was plaited ornately and fastened in a knot with a long bone pin. The Sun flashed off the Breastplate of Heaven, making him look indeed like a son of the gods, of the Sun himself.

  “Today we ride for Duvnon!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the sanctuary. “Today is the day you set out for immortality! Today is the beginning of a great adventure for all of us, when brave ideals and brave words are turned into brave deeds. Together we will crush our enemies, and all of Prydn will praise us, for as long as the Stones shall stand!”

  The warriors began to cheer, raising their daggers to their young lord atop the height of the trilithon. He in turn raised the Lightning-Mace Rhon-gom, and they marvelled to see it, shining pale against the broad blue sky.

  Art scrambled down from his high perch, using the secret hemp ladder that hung on the reverse side of the trilithon, and beckoned the men from the sacred enclosure. He led them across the fields to where Ka’hai, Ech-tor and a load of boys in their service were gathered with the horses and ponies. “We ride,” declared Ardhu. “Our enemies will not be expecting men on horseback; I have heard they believe we fear horses. Remember, if they speak, do not listen to their words, and do not gaze into their snake-like eyes lest they entrance you. Strike them down as you would strike down a maddened boar! Strike hard and fast for Albu the White…for all Prydn!”

  The men cheered again, but some were looking a bit warily at the horses, who stirred uneasily, sensing excitement in the air. Ka’hai and Ech-tor had set to teaching the warband to ride, but it was early days yet, and many a proud would-be warrior had bruised his arse and his pride during a riding lesson. Merlin looked at the men thoughtfully, his brow knitting in a frown. “They are still not sure, they could break faith with you at any time…Ardhu, do you want me to ride with you, hold them in check?”

  “No!” Ardhu’s reply was vehement, his face stern. “You said yourself they will not heed me if they think I am merely a tool of the priests of Khor Ghor. I must prove myself to them in this battle—or perish.”

  He whirled away from the older man and reached for the reins of his mare, Lamrai. Swinging up onto her back, he held up Rhon-gom and Carnwennan, the two signs of his kingship. “We ride!” he shouted. “To glory, to a free Prydn…or to death!”

  The other men and boys mounted, clumsy but eager, and soon the Great Plain was filled with the dust of thundering hooves and the cries of excited warriors, rising above the wails of the women and children who had come to see them leave. Those left behind huddled in the swaying grass, keening and sobbing, not knowing if any of their loved ones would return from those far distant war-torn coasts.

  Merlin stared after the warband, his own heart filled with unrest and foreboding, no different to the weeping women. This was the test above all other tests, and he, great magic-man though he was, did not know if he would see Ardhu Pendraec again in that world, or only in the next.

  *****

  The journey to the coast seemed to take forever. The company stopped in various villages along the way, some friendly, some less so. Occasionally one or two men would slide from their horses and slip silently into the darkness, their nerves broken as the coast approached…but usually some bright-eyed village youth would leave his mother’s hearth to ask if he could ride with the young King Ardhu. And so defectors were replaced; indeed the numbers in the band swelled considerably. And, most importantly, Art’s main circle of men remained stalwart and loyal: Bohrs with his blustering voice and brawny arms; Betu’or, whose life Ardhu had spared; Ka’hai, who was as good as a brother to his lord; the twins Bal-in and Bal-ahn, kin of Betu’or; tall Per-Adur with his golden mane and aristocratic manner.

  One evening, as they rode through the foggy dusk, Ka’hai sniffed the air. His big, lunkish brow wrinkled. “Art…I can smell burning, somewhere out ahead.”

  Ardhu took in a deep breath and nodded. “Burning thatch. And worse, I fear. I can also smell the sal
t... it must be the sea.”

  “Aye, indeed it is, Lord Ardhu.” Bohrs rode up, nodding. “I know it well. We are at the junction of two rivers the Glain and Duv’las, where they meet to flow into the sea. I’ll wager the pirates have taken over the arm of the Glein; there were a few rich villages there, where they used to bring in gold from Ibherna and beyond, and export shale and axes.”

  “Well, there is but one way to find out.” Ardhu urged Lamrai forward through the fog.

  The band soon reached a cliff top covered with many scrubby trees stunted by continuous blasts of wind from the sea. The mists began to part, and down below they could see a river shining dully in the failing light. On its banks stood the smoking ruins of roundhouses, and the fields that ran up to the base of the cliff were smouldering. Dark shapes lay sprawled in the furrows; it was too far to say for sure that they were men, but Ardhu’s band knew they could be nothing else.

  Along the riverbank were moored three large foreign ships, their red and black sails furled. The sound of singing and raucous laughter lifted on the night air.

  “Let us kill them!” cried Per-Adur, from behind Ardhu and Ka’hai. “Look what they’ve done, the murdering scum!”

  “Silence!” Ardhu raised his hand. “We must not behave as fools. We must approach with stealth, not shouting and rushing in like mad men, with anger taking away our wits! Bal-ahn, you and your brother Ba-lin, go down to the right, and circle the village where it meets the water. You are both strong swimmers, just like a pair of otters; I want you to go out to the raiders’ ships. And burn them.”

  The two brothers—twinborn at one birthing and hence thought to share one soul—grinned at each other and nodded. Pulling up the hoods of their deerskin cloaks, they dismounted their horses and slipped away into the shadows.

  Ardhu likewise dismounted and passed Lamrai’s reigns to Ka’hai. “I will go down first,” he said, looking from his foster-brother to the other young men of the warband. “I want to speak to the pirate leader, to let him know that Albu is not his to do what he wills. To let him know there is a high king at Khor Ghor once again.”

  Ka’hai tried to protest but Art silenced him with a stern look. “Keep your bows ready but do not come seeking me until…” He gazed into the East where the Moon was hovering, a thin white sliver between fleeting clouds. Expertly he deduced its course across the sky, using arts taught to him by Merlin, at night amid the Stones. “Do not come to me until the Moon appears fully over the water. When you do ride down from the cliff, I want the enemy to see you on your horses. They will not be expecting such a sight.”

  “Take care, Ardhu,” Ka’hai’s voice was a cracked whisper; he licked his lips nervously.” Don’t do anything too stupid!”

  Art grinned and clasped his foster-brother’s shoulder. “You know you can trust me on that score!” Hefting Wyngurthachar onto his shoulder, he vanished into the shadows.

  *****

  On foot he wound his way down the hill to the river. The stink of fire and death hung in his nostrils; he felt a cold rage rising up to clench the pit of his belly. Ahead of him reared a sentinel stone, the Ancestor marking the territory of that riverside tribe…but its face was smeared with blackened blood and it leaned at an angle, where the invaders had tried to topple it from its pit, desecrating the site and driving off the spirit of the place. That made the young king even more angry; it was as if all the generations of people of Albu had been violated, the land itself raped by these foreign invaders who cared for nothing but tin and gold.

  Passing the teetering stone, he caught sight of a man by the river. He had a woolly black beard to his waist and an aquiline profile. Robes of a lurid purple hue Ardhu had never seen before frothed round his ankles; the hem was fringed with gold wires. He held an ornate cup from which he sipped daintily, almost effeminately. Indeed, Ardhu thought he looked rather womanish in his flowing, brightly-coloured garb; the rims of his eyes were also painted with dark smoky lines. He was talking to another man, with his head shaved like a slave, who sat scribbling on a tablet, an activity alien and rather abhorrent to Ardhu. He had heard rumours that men in far off lands wrote down tales of gods and wars, but it was not the custom in Prydn. It was considered taboo, even if one had the art—surely it was better to learn the lore of one’s people and pass it down around the fires, than to write it on clay or bark, where any enemy might make use of it, stealing the sacred names of living things and sapping their power?

  Shaking his head, he took another step forward. Blood begin to pulse in his veins and a light sweat broke out on his face. His resolve wavered momentarily as, for the first time since he left Deroweth, he felt fear tighten his belly. Merlin was not there to guide him…and he was just a fifteen-year-old lad who had not even been blooded. He had the arms and regalia of a king, but how would that help him against these strangers from across the sea?

  In that second, the black-bearded man turned as if sensing his presence. His robes swirled and Art could see daggers at his belt, long and deadly. “Who goes there?” the man barked, first in his own tongue, which sounded like the cawing of crows, and then in a rough version of the tongue of Albu. “Show yourself…I know you are out there.”

  Ardhu stepped forward at once, moving into the ring of fire. The bearded one’s hot little eyes raked over him, as black and oily as his long tumbled beard. They lit up slightly as they touched on his golden breastplate and belt buckle, and the helmet he wore

  .“Welcome, my young friend,” the man said, extending a hand jangling with rings. “I can see you are a man of worth and standing in your community. Please, let me get you a goblet of wine. Who is it who does us the honour of this visit?”

  “Kind words indeed,” said Ardhu, his own voice coming out harsh and flat. “From a man who has slain the people of this village without reason and left their bodies for the ravens in their own fields.”

  “Ahhh…” The bearded man gave a huge, theatrical sigh. “That. It was a pity. We tried to make ourselves known to them, to let them know we were peaceful traders. However, they did not or would not understand us. They attacked. We had no choice but to retaliate.”

  “Women and children attacked you too, did they?”

  The man shrugged. “Casualties of battle, alas. It was nothing personal. We did not make them suffer. Why does it concern you, stranger? Those lowly river-folk were obviously not of your status.” He gestured to Ardhu’s shield and gold adornments.

  Ardhu’s eyes narrowed. “You asked my name and you shall have it. I am Ardhu Pendraec, son of the Terrible Head, war leader of Albu and high king of the West. Those ‘lowly river people’ you slew were my people, and if I am too late to defend them, at least I will avenge them!”

  The man’s fixed smile transformed into a vicious snarl. With a lightning-like motion, he yanked a dagger from his belt and hurled himself at Ardhu. Art stepped back, yanking out his flanged axe and flinging up Wyngurthachar at the same time. The knife-tip slammed into the shield, cutting a brief channel, and then snapped off with a loud crack. The pirate grunted in dismay, but immediately snatched another dagger from his belt, this one with a wicked serrated blade.

  Ardhu stepped back and spun in a tight circle so that his enemy could find no obvious place to strike. Then, unexpectedly, he dropped to one knee on the muddy ground.

  His opponent’s eyes glistened evilly. He assumed that Ardhu had slipped in the mud. With a ululating battle-cry, he launched himself at his adversary with his knife high in the air, raised for a killing stroke.

  Ardhu waited until the man was directly above him, the cruel blade beginning to descend. Then, uttering a war cry of his own, he struck out with his axe, shattering the bigger man’s left kneecap in one blow, and bringing him down screaming in pain.

  Ardhu rolled out of the way of his flailing body and sprang to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the open-mouthed scribe drop his parchment and run. No time to stop him…he had to finish what he had begun.

&nbs
p; Bending down, he grasped his enemy’s thick hair and yanked his head back. “Ask your gods for their forgiveness and mercy—you will get none from Ardhu of Albu,” he said harshly, and he drew Carnwennan across the raider's throat and released his life force out upon the ground.

  Ardhu stood for a moment in shock, as blood spewed from the severed jugular, soaking his leggings and felt boots, and the feral light in the pirate’s eyes faded into nothingness, leaving him a lifeless husk, food for crows. Art began to shiver…his first kill, but he took no joy in it, despite knowing what the raider had done.

  He had no time, however, to dwell on the less glorious side of death and battle. He became aware of other sea-pirates arriving on the strand, exiting their tents and coming in from the ships, addled with drink and bleary-eyed, angry as disturbed bees for being awakened from their drunken slumber by the noises in the village.

  There were too many for him to take on, he knew that at once. Staring up into the vault of the night sky, he saw the Moon, a bent sickle, over the troubled waters of the Glein. The Moon had risen where he had predicted it would, using Merlin’s skills…

  A shriek ripped through the darkness, a blood-curdling war cry. Out of the night-mist galloped Ka’hai, Per-Adur, Bohrs, Betu’or and the other warriors of the warband, waving axes of stone and bronze, their faces painted with patterns and their hair full of feathers. Their mounts champed and rolled their eyes, unnerved by their riders’ unearthly cries. Nonetheless, they drove them on with heels and hands, crashing them through the foreigners’ watch-fires and barging straight into the line of confused pirates—who only just seemed to have noticed that their leader lay dead upon the shore, his blood seeping into the earth of the land he had violated.

  The raiders quickly recovered from their initial shock, and tried to form a ragged line of defence against Ardhu’s men. Most, however, had left their best weapons on the boats, and soon many fell beneath pounding hooves or the downward strike of an axe or stone hammer. Realising they were outnumbered and at a gross disadvantage on foot, they began to retreat toward the moored ships.