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

by J. P. Reedman

  “Go now to the Ancestors, Green Man,” he said. “On this winter’s morn. I, Hawk of the Plain, have won the Beheading game.”

  With that he struck Bresalek between the eyes with his axe, releasing the life-spirit from his skull. The huge body slumped into the grass, and Hwalchmai knelt by it and cut off the huge scowling head. He carried it to the pillar on the mound and set it on top, gazing sightlessly into the strengthening Sun that had brought ruin to its owner.

  Then, arms and face and garments streaked with blood, Hwalchmai walked back to Lud’s hole. Rhagnell stood outside the cavern, anxious and pale. When she saw his gore-drenched visage, she sobbed briefly, then wiped the tears away with her hand. “So it is done. Bresalek is dead.”

  Hwalchmai nodded. “Yes, and I must now hasten to join my kinsman, Ardhu, in his hunt for the boar T’orc.”

  “And what of me? What will become of me now that Bresalek is no more?”

  “I leave that up to you,” he said. “I would not compel you to come with me, for once already a man compelled you to do his bidding. But if you would ride with me, and share my bed, and dwell with me at the hall of Kham-El-Ard as my wife, it would bring me great pleasure.”

  “So be it,” she said, and she ran round to fetch the horses and provisions for their journey.

  Before bright Bhel Sunface had reached his midday height, they were away toward the lands of the West, while behind them the black crows of the Death-goddess plucked the eyes from the severed head of Bresalek the Green Man and feathered their nests with his hair.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  At Kham-El-Ard, Fynavir felt full of unease. No word had come from Ardhu, not one message from the West. Traders from the Ridgeway spoke of the Chief Boar’s rampages and how Ardhu’s warband could not seem to catch up with it. “It is born of magic,” they said, shaking their heads darkly. “A creature from the underworld. Maybe no man can ever harm it, and Ardhu will chase it till the day the Sun falls from the sky…”

  Fynavir shivered, pulling her red fox-skin cloak tighter about her shoulders. She tried to set her mind to the stitching on a pair of shoes; her bone needle slipping in and out, in and out of the fine deer-hide, trailing a piece of dried gut thread. Outside, the wind was buffeting the Great Hall on its crooked hill, sighing in the eaves like a living thing. And perhaps it was a living thing of sorts, the breath of the world that could whisper the first hints of spring or scream like a foul and malevolent hag. It was screaming today, its sound an incessant torment.

  “Ardhu, I pray you come back soon,” Fynavir murmured to herself. The bone needle flashed in and out. In and out…“We need to set things right between us. A king should not be chasing across country on some fool’s errand, even if a worthy one… He should be in his high seat, beside his queen. He wants an heir, I know he blames me that there is not one, but I will show him if only he will return to me. Prydn will have an heir!”

  A sudden urgent rapping on the hall’s broad door made Fynavir jump in fright. “Oh!” she exclaimed in alarm, as the bone needle pierced her finger. A drop of blood fell into her lap, soiling her tunic. “Who is there?”

  The door creaked open slowly. A dwarfish girl hopped in, dragging a clubfoot, and stood without fear or deference. Her forehead was abnormally broad and bulbous, and protruding eyes stared in different directions. Despite her unappealing visage, she had beautiful reddish-gold curls spiralling past her twisted hips. Fynavir recognised her as Brangyan, one of the Ladies of the Lake, her deformity marking her from birth as one touched by the world of spirits. And so it often was…children born with extra fingers, webbed toes, a squint, or a clubfoot were often taken in by the priests and priestesses of various orders, for it was clear the spirits or gods had marked them.

  “Greetings, Brangyan of the Lake.” Fynavir inclined her head politely. A little knot of fear twisted in her belly—could this strange girl be bringing ill news? “What business have you in Kham-El-Ard this day?”

  “I bear greetings from the Lady Mhor-gan, sister of Ardhu, sister of ravens, all-seeing lady of the funeral rite. She asks that you visit her in the lake valley where our Order dwells. She wishes to speak with you on a matter of import.”

  Fynavir’s cheeks turned whiter than her hair. Ardhu. It had to be something to do with Ardhu. Maybe he was hurt…or worse. Or was it An’kelet? She wanted to grab Brangyan and shake her until she spewed the answer, but she knew that was not the way. “I will come at once,” she said, scrambling for her thickest cloak against the biting wind. She could feel eyes of the women and men in the hall on her, inquisitive, concerned.

  “Lady!” Her attendant, Khelynnen, a pretty maiden from Place of Light, tugged on her sleeve, trying to draw her back. “You can’t go tramping in the marshlands dressed like that! You need felt boots, an otter skin! And if you must go, shouldn’t you take one of the lads as a guard? The days still draw in early, and both strange men and spirits may fare abroad in the night-mists!”

  Fynavir tore the girl’s fingers from her sleeve. “Peace…I am called, I must go.” Quickly, she went with Brangyan into the outer ward of Kham-El-Ard, and down the slope past the defensive ditches with their rows of glistening wooden spikes.

  “Your servant—woman need not have feared.” Brangyan brought from beneath her cloak a small bow made just for one of her height. “I am the best archer in my order, and my arrows are treated with poisons that will stop a man’s heart within a beat.”

  Together they walked down the well-worn track to the old Henge, before turning upstream and crossing the main fords of Abona, where River Mother’s consort Borvoh the Boiling churned in the weir, restless from the heavy winter rains.

  After a short journey through a land of withies and soggy pools, they began a slow descent into long valley enclosed on either side by steep banks, though the northern side was higher and steeper, a barricade that cut the valley off from the sacred landscape of Khor Ghor.

  However, the vale-side was a sacred place in itself and had been for many lifetimes, ever since the first Merlin had floated the skystones on rafts down the shining coils of Mother Abona, from the Western mountain known as God-of-Bronze. Tumuli littered the high northern slopes, facing toward the Great Temple on the Plain beyond, while on the far side of the river, beyond stands of deciduous trees, new farming systems had sprung up and a great livestock enclosure ringed the brow of the Hill of Ogg the Eloquent, where it was said the sky first whispered words to men and gave them the art of speech.

  Brangyan led Fynavir away from the trackway that split the valley’s heart and toward another fording place in the river, which surged into two channels before forming a small, mirror-bright lake. A wooden causeway jutted into the waters, its edges fringed by sentinel reeds, and at the end stood a roundhouse with a sloped roof that touched the water.

  The House of the Nine Ladies of the Lake.

  Brangyan gestured for Fynavir to mount the causeway and enter the hut. Nervously she walked along the creaking planks, glancing back hopefully at her companion, but Brangyan remained behind in the faded afternoon light.

  Fynavir entered the roundhouse and glanced around. A fire burned in a hearth of stone slabs, its smoke spiralling up through the smoke-hole in the ceiling. Fresh herbs and medicinal plants hung from the rafters. Offerings lay on a many-shelved shrine at the back—crow feathers, a broken archer’s wristguard, a shard of the spiralled pottery used before the Tin-Men came and found scattered all over most sites of veneration. Mhor-gan, Ardhu’s sister, was kneeling by the fire, tending the flames that must never be allowed to die. “I am glad you have come.” She spoke without glancing up at Fynavir. “We must talk.”

  Fynavir felt her heart begin to thud. “Is it…news of Ardhu? Tell me, sister, I cannot bear it! Is he dead?”

  “No, No!” Mhor-gan rose and steadied her with a comforting hand. “Calm yourself. The Ladies of the Lake have many eyes, and we can assure you that Ardhu is hale and well—although he has not yet found his quarry,
for the one that trained the beast made sure her minions served her well. However, T’orc’s reign of terror is nearing an end—winter is almost over, the skies are growing bright. Chief Boar’s men are weary of flight and want to return to their own hearths, while T’orc snaps at his own handlers…he wants naught more than to eat acorns and rut with wild sows in the forest! Soon, the warband will catch them, and Ardhu will mete out the justice of the King of Prydn.”

  “Why have you called me here, if not for news of my husband?”

  “It is of you I wish to speak, not my brother. Have you forgotten what night is coming up soon?”

  “All days have become as one since the warband went seeking the dread boar. Enlighten me, sister.”

  “It is Y’melc, the feast of Lambing. The beginning of spring. The day is ruled by Fiery Arrow, who breathes on the hearth-fire and wields both flame and lightning.”

  Fynavir nodded. “I know of Her. She has a sanctuary in the land of my birth, where the tallest stones in all Ibherna stand guard. I remember a little of her rites from my childhood, but I was sent to the northlands as a young maid and have dwelt in many foreign homes since then, and my memory does not serve me well. As a priestess, I beg you offer me guidance, that I may do the right thing on her Feast and give no offence to gods or men.”

  Mhor-gan smiled. “You must stand as Brygyndo that night, as queen of your people and the Fiery One’s representative. You must pass from house to house and receive gifts, and in turn, confer luck and blessings on the people of Kham-El-Ard and Place-Of-Light. Then you will be put to bed with the bride-doll of the goddess lying beside you, and a magic wand hewn of an ash-limb; these shall be burned on a sacred bone-fire the next morning at Sunrise, and the ashes scattered over the fields to make them fruitful.”

  Fynavir’s mouth worked; her eyes were bitter. “I am hardly a good choice if it is fruitfulness the people crave. So far, I am barren, and they all know my shame. The old women laugh behind their hands whenever I pass, or cluck with mock sorrow!”

  Mhor-gan ran a practised hand over Fynavir’s stomach, pressing, kneading, and eventually coming to rest near her hipbone. “When a new spirit is ready to go into the world, you will quicken. It is only a matter of time.”

  Fynavir hung her head; she could not look into the other woman’s face beneath its loops of dark braids. “I am filled with doubt…I once heard a rumour among maidens that if…if another is in your mind beside the one to whom you are vowed…the spirits will send no child?”

  Mhor-gan laughed aloud, her teeth flashing.“Ah Fynavir… Ardhu has no other woman, he is enamoured of you! He defied the Merlin to wed you—no mean feat! What you heard was the chatter of silly virgins… Children are born from love, from hate, from long-time lovers and those who seek merely to ease their flesh on a lonely night! It is all in the hands of the spirits how and when the gift of babies arrive.”

  Fynavir still did not raise her eyes; scarlet stained her cheeks. For all her learning, Mhor-gan did not realise that she spoke of herself, not of Ardhu!

  “Thank you for your words of comfort,” she finally managed. “I will prepare for the feast of Y’melc, as you have directed, even though I am not worthy to emulate such an esteemed One as High Brygyndo.”

  “You are worthy in the eyes of the tribes. People far and wide have heard that you are the daughter of Mevva the Intoxicator. They hear tell of how your flesh is white like the chalk that is the bones of the earth, white like Mother Moon who draws the shades of the dead to her. To them, you are a symbol of white-cliffed Albu itself, and only the king of that land may possess you.” She poked at the fire, her eyes suddenly shadowed. “And that is another reason why I have summoned you here today. It is not Ardhu’s safety that worries me, but yours. Art has many enemies among the chieftains of Prydn—violent, fractious men who cannot see the good he does. The eyes of Afallan see far, Fynavir, and our ears hear what others miss. Many have spoken treasonously, seeking their own power; they cannot draw the sword from beneath the stone, but they can still abduct the white Queen, the sovereignty of Prydn, and claim king-right through you.”

  “That is madness!” cried Fynavir. “I am no goddess, I am not my mother! I want no man fighting over me, or treating me like some lucky talisman! I would stain my white hair blue if I thought it would keep these beasts of men away!”

  “I fear it would not,” Mhor-gan sighed, “not now that they have scent of what they desire—a white Queen, a whole kingdom. So, I beg you, although you must continue in your daily duties, be on your guard till Ardhu returns from the Boar Hunt. Lady Nin-Aeifa and I have gazed into the sacred lake and seen many things; some we fear, some we do not understand—the omens of the Otherworld are often not clear to decipher. But there is sorrow and fear, and love and triumph, a setting Sun and a wan Moon that is yet to rise. ”

  *****

  Fynavir returned to Kham-El-Ard, much troubled. But at least she knew that Ardhu and An'kelet were unharmed, which soothed the fears she found hardest to bear. In the days that followed, she tried to cast her worries aside and concentrate on preparing for Y’melc. With deft hands she created the Bride, the god-doll, from dried sheaves of wheat and early flowers. With Khelynnen and other women, she went to the herdsmen to ascertain there would be enough roundels of cheese and pitchers of milk to satisfy all the celebrants, while leaving some to be offered to the Fiery One herself and to any wandering spirits that might chance upon the Feast. Houses were swept out and domestic rubbish tossed into the middens; it was a time when all life would be refreshed and renewed.

  The eve of Y’melc soon came, a clear night with a hard frost and many stars. A full Moon, round and yellow as the cheeses that had been prepared for the occasion, hung over the heights of Kham-El-Ard and turned the sacred pool below into a silver mirror that reflected the faces of the nine Ladies of the Lake. The Ladies had gathered at Sundown and poured ewe’s milk into the water before bathing in it, one by one. Now they all sat in a semi-circle, tallow cups burning in their hands, singing as they rocked rhythmically from side to side.

  Fynavir let Khelynnen robe her in her finest kirtle, dyed red with the root of madder. The girl then combed down her wintry hair and circled her neck with seven rows of northern amber. Great crescent earrings from the mainland coast were placed upon her earlobes and ochre was rubbed on her cheeks. Ready to face her people, Fynavir lifted the Bride, the sacred image of Brygyndo, from its place beside the hearth and carried it into the courtyard, trailing grains of wheat and petals in its wake.

  In the centre of the yard the priests of Khor Ghor had come to oversee the lighting of the Fire-Cross of Brygyndo. Although they celebrated the festival of the Ewe’s milk, they played but a small part, for Brygyndo was not a spirit of stone or sky but of earth and childbed and hearth-fire. She was a patron of women, and women’s lore and mysteries, though smiths revered her too, for her holy fire kept the forge hot and her breath hardened their metals.

  Fynavir spotted the Merlin, hawk-faced beneath his hooded robe, and nodded politely in his direction. He frowned back at her, as always, distrust still evident in his black eyes, before turning away to kindle a torch with his strike-a-light. When the torch was ablaze, chasing shadows around the fort, he strode forth and touched the flame to the Cross-of-Brygyndo that the village folk had wrought from river-reeds. It burst into flame and the priests raised it on high and carried it Sunwise around the enclosure, with its crooked, crazed arms shooting sparks into the darkness and threatening to ignite hair and thatch.

  As the wood burned through and flaming fragments tumbled to the ground, the priests placed the Cross on a waiting, unlit pyre at the fortress gates. They blew upon it and chanted over it, and the eternal flame of Fiery-Arrow was kindled from it and roared up into the gloom, lighting the buttressed entranceway to Kham-El-Ard. The watchers roared in delight and ran forward with pieces of kindling, which they thrust into the hottest part of the conflagration. Within minutes, the night was alight with waving
brands.

  The procession moved down the great hill, following the course of Abona toward the Place-of-Light. Fynavir found herself scooped up with all gentleness by the mighty-armed smith, Ech-tor, the father of Ka’hai, and placed upon a wooden chair which two stout village youths hoisted onto their shoulders. “You are Blessed Brygyndo tonight,” Ech-tor said. “Queen of them all. Therefore your feet must not touch the earth.”

  Laughing and singing, the party made its way through the marshy lands below the Place-of-Light, before winding its way up to the settlement on top of the escarpment. The whole village was ablaze with torches, and women singing and holding out bride-dolls and their own small children for blessing from the goddess.

  Fynavir went amongst them in her chair, her own Bride effigy seated beside her, and bestowed on them gifts of grain and milk and cheese. In return they gave her draughts of fermented milk, sweetened with honey, which made her head spin; mostly, she was used to drinking watered-down beer, for the more potent mead was deemed a drink of men. Unless you were Mevva, her mother, whose very name signified the golden drink of the gods.

  She shivered. She did not want to think of Mevva, red and carnal, heaping scorn on the children who could never match her. Tonight she would only be Fynavir... and the Bride.

  *****

  The festivities went on long into the night. Great stars set, and the Moon sailed West and grew small to the eye. Fires burned down, and were relit again, mead and beer flowed free, and mutton was served sizzling on wooden trenchers. Men and women started to dance, weaving round the fires, before leaping across the flames and vanishing into their huts or the nearby bushes.

  Fynavir sat in a place of honour outside the headman’s dwelling. She was nodding off, her lids heavy from the fermented drink, the battered Bride-doll leaning drunkenly against her shoulder. Khelynnen was completely intoxicated, and lay slumped against her mistress with her mouth open and little ragged snores coming out.