“Lies and slander? Knowing you, those ‘lies’ were likely to be true.” Ardhu gave a cynical laugh and glanced knowingly at the two others who stood near the high seat—a tall, amber-headed man of great presence and a sharp-faced elder leaning on a staff who had a bird-headed talisman about his neck. Mordraed guessed the first was the Ar-moran Prince, An’kelet of the Lake, Ardhu’s most loyal companion, and that the greybeard was the Merlin, High Priest of the Stones of Khor Ghor, famed throughout Prydn for his power and his machinations that could raise kings to greatness… or destroy them.
Morigau cast her arms over her face and feigned a few harsh sobs. “My story of woe is not of my doing… and I say this to you, brother—kill me for my past misdeeds towards you if it be your will, but do not toy with me. And do not harm my sons, who are innocent of any wrong-doing.”
Mordraed stared at his mother, writhing like a worm amid the dog-shit and chewed pork-bones, and cringed in utter shame. What game did she play? For her sons, indeed! When had she cared about any of them, save him, and she had never debased herself in such a way even in his defence?
Ardhu sat back, toying with the Lightning Mace as if deciding whether to strike her skull with it and release her spirit to the gods. “Let me see these brats of yours,” he said slowly. “I will decide whether I can train them to be of use to me and to Prydn—or whether they should be drowned like runtling puppies.”
Morigau sprang from the floor and promptly grabbed the collars of Gharith and Ga’haris, thrusting them at their uncle. “My two youngest. Small but sturdy. They will be malleable to your will, lord-brother, I swear it. Whether as slaves or as soldiers, they will do you proud.”
Ardhu Pendraec appraised the two boys, huddled together like small brown birds sheltering from the winter gales. His face softened almost imperceptibly. “You two… do you know what it is to obey?” he asked, leaning forward until his gaze was level with theirs.
They nodded in unison. They certainly knew the consequences of disobeying Morigau.
“And do you know what punishments can follow disobedience?”
The boys’ eyes slid to their mother, then back to Ardhu. They nodded again, silent and solemn.
“When you are grown would you swear to serve me and no other, joining the Men of the Tribe and maybe my warband if you have the skill?” Ardhu glanced from Gharith to Ga’haris. “That means I would be the one to give you orders, not Morigau. That means you will not see her or listen to her, only to me, your kinsman and king.”
“Yes, lord!” piped up Ga’haris, the elder of the two by a year. His brother nodded furiously. Morigau was their dam, but both were old enough to realise they had no place in her world. “We would like that very much!”
“Then so be it.” Ardhu clapped his hands. “Now, Ka’hai, come and take these lads and give them pork and bread. They are as skinny as skeletons; my kinswoman obviously never saw fit to feed them properly.”
Ardhu’s foster brother Ka’hai, comrade at arms and ruler of the stores of the Kham-El-Ard, stepped out from the press of the Stone-Lord’s men and ushered the children from the Hall, casting a backwards glare at Morigau. He hated the woman, and his dislike grew even more intense when he saw the obvious neglect of her small sons. He had a pack of children of his own from his two wives and could not imagine such cruelty.
Ardhu turned back to his sister and her remaining sons. His eyes settled on Agravaen, bull-shouldered and bull-headed, full of adolescent gaucheness and half-bridled fury. Ardhu beckoned him forward curtly. “Why do you look at me with such rage, boy? What have I done to you?”
Agravaen was silent; he looked slightly confused, as if he had expected open anger from Ardhu to which he could respond with righteous anger of his own. “I… I don’t…” he stammered.
“What is your goal in this short life, boy? Do you wish to be a warrior some day?”
“I am a Man of my Tribe—my rites were held two Moons ago. Of course I wish to be a warrior—that is every right-thinking man’s desire, is it not?”
Ardhu smiled ruefully. “So many think, and indeed my own wealth has come from the use of dagger and axe. But never forget, boy, it is the man that tills the land and herds the beasts that puts food into your belly. It is the beekeeper that gets honey for your mead and the grain man who pounds barley into bread… and who also brews the beer. A sword’s edge has a much more bitter taste than sweet beer or mead. And often that draught is lethal—the cup of death.”
Agravaen stared, trying to digest and understand his uncle’s words. Farmers as important as warriors… what madness did his uncle speak! “All I know is that if you let me serve you and give me axe and blade, I will try to kill every enemy that comes against you!” he blustered impetuously. He was not quite sure why such an oath fell from his lips, when he had spent years hearing how his mother hated Pendraec, called him usurper and worse, but suddenly he just wanted to get away from Morigau—from her jibes about his lack of brain and her unflattering comparisons with Mordraed. He saw something… different… in the eyes of his uncle, something kinder and more accepting than what he was used to… and he gravitated towards it.
“Then, go, follow your younger brothers,” said Ardhu, gesturing to the door “and remember that our eyes will be upon you at all times, watching how you behave.”
Agravaen stomped out of the hall, flushed, embarrassed, and elated all at once. Ka’hai smirked behind his hand at his gauche manner, but managed to hide his laughter with a cough and took the lad out to the cooking hut where his younger siblings were already tearing at slabs of meat like hungry dogs.
Mordraed was left alone, before the high seat of the Stone Lord.
Suddenly the room went quiet and still. A dog whined; the fire-pit made a harsh crackling, spitting noise. Wind skittered over the roofline like the feet of malevolent spirits.
Ardhu’s face was solemn; his hand gripped the haft of Rhon-gom until the knuckles were visibly white. “You, boy…” His voice was low, almost a growl. “Come to me. Kneel before your lord.”
Mordraed took a step in his direction. His face was blank, a hard slate, his eyes shuttered. Arrogance and rage oozed from him, despite his chill demeanour; the truth was in his stance, in the tautness of his back and shoulders, the defiant tilt of his chin. He did not kneel, but continued to stand, staring down at this man who was both uncle and father.
Ardhu’s breath hissed between his teeth; the rage of the Dragon, the Terrible Head. With a sudden rapid motion, he flung Rhon-gom to the ground and lunged forward and grabbed Mordraed by the hair, twisting his head back before he had a chance to react. Ardhu’s right hand moved like lightning, unsheathing his dagger Carnwennan, Little White Hilt, with its worn antler pommel on which he had carved a mark for every man he had slain in his eighteen years as Stone Lord of Khor Ghor. He pressed the honed blade to Mordraed’s throat, drawing a bead of blood.
Everyone in the Great Hall of Kham-El-Ard gasped in horror, and Morigau cried out, her voice as harsh as a raven’s caw and full of uncustomary fear.
“Why do you defy me?” Ardhu said, his tone even but with a hint of menace.
“My brothers did not have to kneel!” Mordraed gasped, starting to struggle but mindful of the sharpened bronze at his throat.
“They are children, or scarcely more so. You are not. You are of age to serve a master and serve him well or perish for your folly. Now… kneel.”
Ardhu gave Mordraed’s hair a vicious twist, forcing him down upon his knees in the rushes. Dog faeces oozed near his hand, along with a chewed bone, a pile of spittle. He writhed, burning with indignation, wishing he could reach his bow and make an end of this miscreant who tormented and shamed him in front of the people of Kham-El-Ard.
“Mordraed!” He heard Morigau’s voice, desperate, strained, and he saw the hem of her tattered skirt flash before his face. “Do as your uncle says! Don’t be stupid, boy!” She kicked him, the blow landing on his still unhealed cheek.
Pa
in and the surprise of Morigau’s assault shocked him into stillness. Ardhu Pendraec slowly released his hair, allowing him to rise unsteadily to his knees before staggering to his feet. “You know where we stand then, boy,” Ardhu said quietly. “You have the measure of me, and I of you. But it need not be this way. If you turn from your path of anger and serve me well… there is no telling how high you might rise within my warband. I would not reject you out of hand because of who your mother is.”
Mordraed stared at him; hot anger dwindled to embers but a deep bitter resentment remained in the pit of his belly, a hard indigestible knot. Yet you have rejected me as your son… your eldest son… You would not dare acknowledge me for fear of your own life! You will pay for that cowardice, for the lust that made me what I am… by the gods and the spirits, you will pay, ‘FATHER’…
“I do not know what arts of war they have taught you on Ynys Yrch,” Ardhu continued, “But in any case you will be under the tutelage of my best warrior, the Lord An’kelet, and he will teach you both the skill of sword and spear, but also the temperance with which you must use them.”
At that moment there was a movement from the shadows of the Hall and Mordraed saw a youth step past the pale-tressed figure of Queen Fynavir, who, coming suddenly to life, tried to stay him with her outstretched hand. He gently disentangled her fingers from his cloak and stepped into the ring of firelight before Ardhu’s seat of power, clearing his throat. “Harsh words have been spoken today, and maybe they needed to be,” he said. “But in the haste of the moment, let us not forget that these newcomers are still kindred of the king, and words of kindness can often soothe the anger in one’s soul better than those sharp as arrows. I, for one… will give greeting to my cousin Mordraed.”
He walked swiftly towards Mordraed, his long legs carrying him smoothly, confidently as any warrior, despite the fact he wore short child’s tunic of dark, plain wool. His long red hair burned upon his shoulders, the two child braids in his forelock that would be sacrificed to the Ancestors, bound with twists of ancient gold. He wore a princely necklace of amber, many strings of it wound over and over around his neck; some of the chunks were so large and clear, one could see bugs and beetles trapped within their hearts, preserved and imprisoned forever in those yellow tears of the Sun.
He halted before Mordraed, appraising him with thoughtful eyes of forest-green. “I saw you the other night,” he said, “coming up through the barrowfields. I nearly shot at you and you at me. Glad am I that it did not come to a war of arrows! Well met, Mordraed son of Loth, son of my aunt Morigau. I am Amhar, son of Ardhu, son of U’thyr… your cousin.”
Mordraed stared at this slender youth, still wearing a child’s garb but not a child in manner or bearing. Cousin… and brother. He felt a sudden shiver, he did not know why… as if somewhere, some barrow-ghost trod on the plot of land that would one day hold his own bones. Hatred was what he should feel… this boy-man was the one acclaimed as Ardhu’s heir, the one who would rule the Five Cantrevs after Pendraec was gone, the one who held the positions that would have, should have been Mordraed’s. And yet… .he did not hate.
Amhar slipped a friendly arm over his kinsman’s shoulder. “Come, you look tired. I am sure you are hungry. I will take you for food and then to lodgings. Tomorrow I will introduce you to my father’s foremost warrior, the Lord An’kelet, who will teach you the warrior’s craft. I will help you here, cousin; there need be no more battling between your folk and mine.”
In silence Mordraed moved toward the door of the Hall with the red-haired Princeling talking as if they had been the best of friends for all their lives. Mordraed briefly glanced over his shoulder and saw Morigau watching him depart, her face intense, twisted, almost demonic in the sullen red light of the guttering fire-pit.
She was smiling, her lips drawn back over her canines. It was the smile of a wolf.
CHAPTER THREE
COUSINS AND BROTHERS
Mordraed dropped into a crouch and circled his opponent, lip curled in a fierce snarl. In his hand he held a fine Ar-moran dagger, its blade a deadly rapier that could pierce a man’s heart and kill him instantly before he even realised the blade had touched his flesh. His deerskin cloak was wrapped around his left arm—a makeshift shield. He was stripped to the waist, and his hair pierced by a thick pin carved from a human arm-bone; he had whittled it himself one day, when loitering out amid the barrows, hoping that by robbing it from the mound and setting his own seal on it, he would bind the Old One’s spirit to him, fortifying him with the Ancestor’s strength and prowess.
Across from him, also armed with a fine Ar-moran blade, was the Lord An’kelet, right-hand man of Ardhu the Terrible Head. Despite encroaching age—he was over forty—he still was near as lithe and supple as the youth he fought, and his looks were still striking as if given him from the gods. He towered over most other men in the settlement, and muscle had not turned to fat as it did in many warriors who enjoyed much pork and mead. If the amber brightness of his hair was a little faded and laughter lines crept like fine-spun spider webs round eyes and mouth, none held it against him or spoke of the changes with disdain. He was, after all, the King’s closest companion and the protector of the Queen Fynavir… he had saved her once, years ago, from the rival chief Melwas. If any whispered behind his back, it was only about the unusual fact that he had no wife, no woman at his hearth—his life was dedicated to the Stone Lord and to his Lady. Such dedication seemed strange, even unseemly, to some.
Mordraed was one of them. An’kelet had been set up as his tutor in war-arts, and he hated him nearly as much as he hated his uncle-father. Ardhu treated Mordraed well enough, a kind word of praise here and there… but An’kelet… Mordraed fancied he looked down on him as if he were cow-dung stuck to the sole of his shoe. His did not contemplate for one moment that An’kelet hardly recognised him as anything at all; he was just a duty to be attended to on a daily basis.
“Come on, Mordraed…” An’kelet’s lightly-accented voice was sharp with irritation. “You can do better than this—I have seen you! You are lazy, that’s what’s wrong with you—too much time drinking and gazing at your pretty reflection in the river!”
Mordraed’s usual simmering rage ignited and he lunged forward, dagger swinging in a shining arc. “You dare to criticise me… you who have no woman, but dote on the King’s wife…”
The next moment he was down on his back with a hard thud, his head banging off the ground. An’kelet was kneeling over him, his blade Arondyt at his neck. “Beware of what comes out of your mouth, Mordraed, lest it bring you to ruin. And control that temper, boy, or you’ll not live long enough to be a warrior of Ardhu’s clan.”
“Let me have my bow!” Mordraed panted, struggling to be free of An’kelet’s hold. “Then you will see who is a warrior!”
“Enough of this folly!” An’kelet suddenly sheathed Arondyt, slamming the long Ar-moran dagger into its scabbard of horn. He sprang away from his floored opponent, brushing dirt off his long woven tunic with its amber buttons surmounted by golden sun-crosses. “I tire of this sparring… with word and otherwise. Go, and come back when you want to learn and not act like an angry bee!”
He stalked across the dun without a backward glance and Mordraed clambered to his feet, muddy and still angry. He was about to go after An’kelet, casting caution to the wind in his vain attempt to save face, when Amhar son of Ardhu, who had been watching the training within a crowd of half-grown lads, strode briskly to his side and placed a hand on his arm. “Kinsman, be still, fighting like this ill becomes warriors of Kham-El-Ard... We are all Ardhu’s men; we must hold together and work out any quarrels between each other with cool heads and wise counsel.”
“What do you know?” Mordraed said bitterly. “You are not even a Man of Ardhu’s band yet… you are still deemed a boy, a child…”
He shut his mouth with a snap as Amhar gave him a reproachful look and bowed his head. No, he must use caution; it wouldn’t do well to in
sult this boy, his rival… his brother. Amhar was one of the few who did not treat him with suspicion in the high camp upon the Crooked Hill, and that could be useful in the long run. Most useful.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, though the words of apology came hard. He leaned over and picked up his discarded tunic and his bow. “I come from the North when men do not have gentle tongues. Let us go from this place for a while, I need to wash the dirt from me.”
*****
The two youths wandered down to a spot along the banks of Abona where the river widened just before it reached the great ford. Women were beating clothes on rocks in the current, and a cattleman drove a brace of cows across the water, scoring the unruly beasts with a switch as they rolled their eyes and lowed unhappily. Mordraed plunged into the deepest part of the swell, scrubbing at his bruised and dustied skin with a handful of river grit while the youngest washer-maidens giggled and eyed him with interest… until their mothers slapped them and told them to look to their tasks and not to the newcomer.
Amhar sat on the bank, dangling his legs amidst the weeds. “Would you teach me some of your warrior-arts?” he asked at length. “The bow… I am good with a bow, but I know that you are even better, a true master despite your youth. Or… even the dagger… or war hammer.”
Mordraed paused, pushing his wet black hair back from his high forehead. He stared at his young kinsman… oh by the gods what disaster he could wreak on Ardhu’s kingdom if he were to grant the young princeling’s wishes! His mother would be dancing with glee if she heard Amhar speak to him so; the foolish boy was almost begging to be killed. And yet… and yet…
“It is really not my place,” Mordraed said smoothly, gliding up to the bank, the water breaking into bright ripples about him. Caught in the sunlight, he looked like a young water-god risen from Abona’s beds, the water-weeds snaggled in his locks, streaming down his golden skin. Across the ford the washer-maidens sighed… except for the few who found him strangely unsettling, as if he was one of the Everliving Ones from the Land of Youth—beautiful but cold and amoral. “You are still deemed a child, ridiculous as that seems, and I would not want to anger my uncle Ardhu the Terrible Head.”
Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge Page 4
