Bohrs and half a dozen of the men scattered, while the rest remained, gazing solemnly at their fallen chief and talking in low whispers.
After a while, Ardhu’s eyelids flickered and he sat up, pale and shivering. “The boar…Rhyttah…”
“Do you not remember, lord? Both are dead,” said Rhagnell. “Your quest has been successful. Prydn is safe.”
Ardhu tried to smile; it came out a grimace.. “Aye, I do remember. Ah…the pain…” He clutched his leg.
An’kelet knelt beside him, gave him a draught of strong beer from a handled beaker. “T’orc gored you with his tusk,” he said. “It is a nasty wound. But I have seen worse. You are young. You will heal.”
“Yes…yes.” Ardhu lay back, his sweat-soaked hair a midnight stain across his white forehead. “I must get better. Morigau cannot be allowed to win.”
At that moment Hlwch Windyhand the Archer made a hissing sound from between his clenched teeth. He whirled around, snatching his bow from his shoulder and setting an arrow to the string,
“What is it?” asked An’kelet, rising and reaching for his spear.
“I can feel thunder in the ground beneath my feet,” said the archer. “One comes, seeking us, following the trail our horses have left.”
“Who would seek us?” asked Ba-lin and Bal-ahn almost in unison, those two identical youths who, men said, had but one soul between them.
“It could be Morigau,” muttered An’kelet. “Maybe she has been watching our battles from afar. Or maybe it is more men loyal to Rhyttah. Prepare yourselves, men of the Warband!”
The warriors grabbed their weapon and stood, grim and silent, poised for attack. There was great crackling of branches and twigs, and a youthful figure on a lathered, staggering horse burst into the clearing. He stared at the circle of armed men, his eyes big and round with terror.
“Drem!”Anwas the Winged, who was lying on the ground, being treated for his own tusk-wound by Ka’hai, lifted a shaking hand to his kinsman. “Leave your weapons, men, it is Drem, my sister’s son! What brings you here?”
Drem slid from his horse’s back; he tried to walk toward Anwas, but his knees gave way and he fell heavily. “I have been riding for days with scarce a stop,” he gasped. “I have been in strange lands under strange skies, menaced by boar and bear and wolf and cannibal-men! I come to bring word of a great evil, a terrible thing that has happened at Kham-El-Ard.”
Ardhu staggered to his feet, grey-faced with pain and exhaustion, his eyes like shattered flints. “What evil? Speak, boy!”
Drem began to sob; great noisy ragged sobs. “The Queen…Lady Fynavir….she has been abducted.”
A horrified murmur went through the warriors.
“By whom?” Ardhu demanded.
“By…by Melwas, King of the Summer Country.”
Ardhu grabbed the lad’s shoulder. “Do you know this for certain?”
Drem nodded. “I was with the Lady Fynavir when the evil bastards attacked. She told me to flee and raise the alarm, and so I did, but at one point I heard men near me so I hid in the bole of an old dead oak. While hiding, I heard them speak the name of Melwas.”
“This is grave news indeed,” groaned Ardhu, and he limped towards Lamrai, who was tethered to a tree. “Men, to your horses…we must ride for the Summer Country in all haste.”
“Art…you cannot!” cried Ka’hai. “You will kill yourself!”
Ignoring his foster-brother, Ardhu tried to vault up onto Lamrai’s back. The mare snorted and danced about, unnerved by the scent of blood and the boar on his clothes. Ardhu’s strength failed, his arms giving way, and he sank back to earth, landing heavily on his wounded leg. His lips went white and he slumped on the ground in a half-faint, still clutching Lamrai’s reins.
“Attend to the king, attend to the Pendraec!” Hwalchmai shouted, running forward. “Cousin, you mustn’t be a fool! You cannot throw away your life, even for Fynavir! Women are sometimes stolen like cattle, that is how it has always been! What say you, An’kelet? Tell the fool to wait till he is well!””
An’kelet did not reply. He stood with night in his eyes, a great copper figure with the Balugaisa in his hand and his long Ar-moran daggers gleaming at his belt. He was, as Ardhu had first seen him, the man of bronze, inscrutable, god-like. A muscle flickered in his jaw, and then he was running, moving swift as lightning, hurling himself atop his horse, which was tethered beside Lamrai. Snatching up the reins, he gave a great cry and drove his heels into the beast’s flanks.
It reared, not used to such violent handling, and with a harsh whinny, it bolted through the forest, An’kelet bent low over its flowing mane.
Like a man possessed the Prince of Ar-morah rode out across the bleak moors and sheltering dells, the bald hills and the black hills, heading south at great speed toward the Land of the Summer Stars.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Another day passed and night had fallen once more when the warriors of Melwas reached the Summer Country with their captive. Lying bound in the wagon, Fynavir could smell the scent of burning logs, animals, cooking. The skies above her blurred, the stars obscured by a haze of wood-smoke.
“Out you come.” Melwas reached into the cart and dragged her out, cutting the bonds on ankles and wrists with his dagger. “Time to meet your new People.”
Hand clamped on her shoulder, he pushed her toward a circle of mean-looking thatched huts. “People of the Summerlands, look what I have brought you!” He propelled her into a guttered street, a ring of flickering torchlight. “My new woman! Your new Queen!”
The folk of Melwas gathered around, staring at Fynavir—a dour, unsmiling crowd wearing tattoos of fabulous birds and beasts on their flesh and little else. Their woven skirts and trews looked crude, the cloth coarse, and their only jewellery was made of old cast-off bones—there was no gold or jet or other wealth. Their eyes hardened with suspicion as they gazed at the newcomer.
Watching those grimy, brooding faces, Fynavir remembered hearing that denizens of the Summer Country were a strange breed, ignoring the matters of the Five Cantrevs for nigh on a thousand years as they eked out a meagre existence in the shadow of the Great Tor. Perhaps, if they had no love of outsiders, she could play upon their fears and persuade them to ask Melwas to release her.
Taking a deep breath, she cried out, “People of the Summer Country, listen to me. Your lord, Melwas, has carried me here against my will. I am the wife of Ardhu the Terrible Head, anointed of Khor Ghor. I ask you to beg your lord to return me to my rightful home—death and destruction will befall you all if I am not brought to Ardhu’s side!”
One solitary villager laughed. The others’ faces remained like masks, fierce, mud-smeared. Melwas stiffened at Fynavir’s side, and suddenly his fist shot out, striking her to the ground.
As she lay stunned, head reeling from the blow, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to her feet. “You will never try that trick again, woman!” he snarled, spittle from his cut mouth striking her cheek. “My people listen to me and no one else—do you understand?”
An old crone hobbled forward, pointing at Fynavir with a finger bent with arthritis. “Master, why this one, of all the fine women you could have had from the Summer Lands. She is as white as dead bone…it is unnatural!”
An unhealthy gleam entered Melwas’s eyes. “Her whiteness is a sign of holiness, hag. Her mother is the Peaked Red One of Ibherna. She is the White Phantom, the White Lady, protectress of Albu. Any man who takes her as his own has right to rule as King as long as she is by his side.”
“But you are already King here in the Summerlands,” someone in the back of the throng shouted.
Melwas grimaced. “Aye, but what have our people become these long years? Hermits, hiding from a changing world. Friends to no one, not even each other! Yet once, long ago, we were Chosen People! My mother-ancestor, Evaen, was bathing in the lake when a great crane wrapped its wings around her in lover’s embrace. Nine Moons later she bore a son, Trig
aran, founder of our people, who wrought a magic bag made of Crane-skin from which our luck flowed…till it was lost by unwise fathers before me! Now, by taking this white woman, this spirit-touched one, I will restore the glory that was ours, before we were pushed into this marsh-bound land. She is Sovereignty and I will be the Sovereign through her—we will leave this place and take the lands and glory that is due us!”
“These tales sound fine to naive and youthful ears,” the crone shrilled, waving her raddled arms, “but what of Ardhu Pendraec? Surely he will come for her and bring ruin on us all just as the White One said!”
“He is a mere boy!” Melwas shouted. “Aided by the trickeries of the sorcerer, Merlin! He will not prevail against us. He cannot even put a brat into his wife’s belly!”
There was a burst of raucous mirth from the crowd. Standing beside Melwas, Fynavir shuddered with embarrassment. Melwas caught her chin in his hand, and pulled her towards him. “I will put an end to your barrenness,” he grunted, flashing a lascivious grin that made the torn flap of his lips gape like a horrible second mouth. “I will ride you like my prize bull rides my cows, giving them new calves every spring!”
Fynavir shrank away, revolted and angry. “How dare you compare me to a cow!”
He caught her round the waist. “I dare, because that is what you are to me—a thing that brings me wealth and power, and will breed me heirs... You must understand this, white woman: you will be treated with honour if you obey my wishes, but if you seek to deny me what is rightfully mine, you will suffer. We are a harsh people in the marshes of the Summer Country; we do not throw flowers before the feet of our women and bow to their every whim like your southern tribes do. I expect obedience and compliance in all things.” His hands wandered up from her waist, groping, seeking.
“Don’t touch me!” she gasped. “Ardhu will kill you, you ill-visaged pig!”
“You need a lesson in humility, woman,” he sneered, and with a vicious movement he suddenly ripped her dress from neck to hem. Bone toggles showered. She tried to cover herself with her veil-like hair, but he grabbed her arms and roughly pinioned them behind her back. As she started to sob in shame and fear, he smirkingly dragged her around the encampment like a prize beast. His men laughed, leered and made crude gestures, begging Melwas to throw her to them. After what seemed eternity the marsh-king lost interest in the sport and pushed her down onto her knees in the churned mud in the centre of village. The mob sneered and hooted as she cowered; the women looked contemptuous and the men were still hot-eyed and foul-tongued with lust.
“This will be your Queen!” Melwas shouted again, prodding her roughly in the back of the leg with the toe of his leather shoe. “See how fair she is, how perfect, as befits a goddess? But she is also a woman, born of earth—she does not float in the sky with Sun and Moon…” He laughed lustfully, hauling Fynavir to her feet and yanking back her hair to expose her breasts.“Her paps are not made of gold, as you can see, and the Sun does not shine from her thighs! She is still a woman like any other woman, and will obey the lord who won her by right of capture!”
Hatred in her eyes, Fynavir stared up into his pitiless face. She knew her fate was sealed, that she could neither soften this warlord’s will nor appeal to his followers for help. She’d seen many men try to abduct Mevva and force themselves upon her, but her mother was a warrior as well as queen, and she had beaten every one of them in single combat and painted her flesh with their blood. Fynavir had no such strength of arms, all she had left to her was her defiance. “Right of capture!” she spat. “You fought no battle with my husband for me! You crept through the woods like a thief in the night, choosing a time when you knew Ardhu would be away! Not one blade was drawn, nor any arrow fired! You are a coward, a brute…and you will die for your dishonour of me!”
“You tongue is too free, woman,” he snarled back. “Put it to better use.” He grabbed her shoulders and bent her backwards, forcing his broken mouth over hers, his hands rough and proprietary on her naked flesh.
“If you touch me again,” she spat, when she was able to tear her mouth away, “I will curse you so that you are unmanned, and can never lay with a woman again! As the daughter of a goddess, you should fear my curses!”
Melwas made a sign of protection with his hand and spat. “You have said enough,” he growled, his tone threatening. “More talk of curses and I will cut out your tongue!”
Roughly, he bundled her toward the largest hut in the village and shoved her unceremoniously through the door, while the villagers laughed nervously, ill at ease with the stranger-woman’s talk of curses. Inside the hut was a low hearth filled with sputtering embers, an array of weaponry, drinking vessels, and a bed-place topped by many skins. Melwas tossed Fynavir on to the pallet and flung himself on top of her, filled with both anger and lust, trying to jam his knee between her legs and push them apart. She screamed and bit him; she didn’t care what punishment he gave, she would not let him defile her without a fight, poor as her effort might be. He slapped her face once, then yet again, and grabbed her flailing arms and pinned them at her sides. “The more you fight me, the more I want you,” he snarled, panting, his eyes fixated on her naked flesh as she writhed beneath him, trying to shove him away.
Suddenly the door of the hut banged open. An old man entered; he wore a floor-length robe and his hair was cut bluntly at brow and mid-back, making him appear to wear a shining helmet of silver. He had a narrow, imperious face, the face of a man who was used to respect. Three serpents were tattooed on one cheek, and a grid pattern on the other. Fynavir guessed that he must be the tribe’s shaman.
Scowling, Melwas swung round. “Why do you bother me, old one? Can’t you see what I am doing?”
The old man looked sourly at him. “If you truly wish to marry this woman, certain procedures must be followed. You have stolen the White Phantom from the bed of another man, and if you take her to your own bed so soon, and she then grows great with child, there will be rumours that the child is Pendraec’s, not yours. This could cause division amongst our people. It is my counsel that you do not lie with her for one passage of the Moon, until we know that she has no child in her.”
“And if she does? I will not wait for her for nine months, Kanhastyr!” shouted Melwas.
“It will be dealt with,” said the shaman Kanhastyr. “There are many ways to expel an unwanted child.”
Melwas snatched a ragged skin from the floor and flung it at Fynavir who wrapped it around her nakedness. “So…you have a reprieve, then, bitch. One turn of the Moon. But I shall be watching you; you’ll still be here with me every moment.”
Grabbing her arms, he bound the wrists together with hemp rope and dragged her from the bed. He flung the end of the rope over one of the roof’s supporting beams and, pulling down on the rope, hauled Fynavir almost onto the tips of her toes, her arms painfully extended above her head. He then secured the twine to an opposing beam. “I won’t make it comfortable for you, I can assure you,” he snarled in her ear. “You may regret you did not choose to willingly lie in my bed. And you’ll end up there anyway.”
He turned to Kanhastyr and beckoned him to go outside. “If I must cool my head and my loins, Kanhastyr, then give me one of your potions to quell my ardour!”
The men exited the hut, leaving Fynavir to weep bitter tears of despair and pull upon the ropes that bound her until blood ran freely from her wrists.
*****
An’kelet rode across the wilds of Albu like a man possessed. His horse stumbled with weariness, sweat lathered on its neck; he cursed it and shouted in frustrated temper, then cursed himself for his own impatience and begged the animal for its forgiveness. After all, if the mare had not bent its neck to him and allowed him to ride upon her back, his journey would be much longer.
Too long.
He tried to focus on facing Melwas and not to think of Fynavir in the hands of the dour chieftain who lived in the Summerlands. He did not know the man or what his intenti
ons might be…Melwas might kill Fynavir to spite Ardhu and draw him into conflict; or sacrifice her for luck to the strange water-gods that lived in the bogs of his homeland. He might keep her as slave or concubine, or give her to his men as a diversion if she displeased him.
Terrible images flashed through his mind of her white, broken body sinking into the mud of the marshlands, her eyes staring blankly at the fading sky, her spirit lost forever to men. He fought to banish the images, to force them away, for he knew that such hideous fancies would weaken him, tying his belly into knots of anguish and making his spear-hand shake with rage and fear.
No. He had to collect himself, empty his mind of fearsome thoughts. He must be more than warrior now.
He must be a killer, with no thoughts of honour.
A killer, and a hunter.
A hunter whose quarry was the King of the Summer Country.
*****
He reached the marshlands surrounding the Tor of Hwynn son of Nud shortly after Sunset. Clouds turned to flame in the West; weird night-birds trilled and called. Marsh-mist coiled from the saturated ground and fey lights flitted over the bog—the spirits of lost men trapped between the Underworld and Otherworld. An’kelet turned his gaze from their tricksy light; they were dangerous, for they could maze a man and lead him to his death in deep water.
The marsh was not a safe place to wander after nightfall, so An’kelet halted his weary horse and set up camp, resting in the shelter of an upended willow that lay half-splayed in the green-dark bog-water, roots spiralling down into the murk. He tried to keep wakeful, but as the stars and Moon westered, and the chirping and croaking of bog-dwelling beasts dwindled into silence, he slipped into a deep, restless sleep.
He woke in the morning with the pallid winter Sun beating into his face. He groaned and quickly sat upright, ashamed that he had allowed his bodily exhaustion to overcome him.
His shame was promptly replaced by alarm. He could hear voices nearby, coming closer. Cursing, he snatched the haft of his spear and crouched down behind the trunk of the willow, hoping he would not be spotted
Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge) Page 34