“We should be safe here,” said Pelahan. “I know these lands well, having travelled here many times in my youth. The chieftains here are good men who do not seek to rob or harry travellers… as you said yourself, Lord Ardhu. I would counsel, though, that we abandon the Ridgeway, in case any of Khaw’s followers decide to cross the border seeking revenge. We can follow the rivers, of which there are many here: Mymrim, Ghad, Khess and Ver, and in the North the tributaries of Great O-os, Ou’zel, Flyt and Hyz. Our arrival in the Wastelands will be delayed, but at least we will not have another evil encounter! When I deem that all is safe and quiet, I can easily pick up another path near Efyn Phen—the Ychenholt, the Oldest Road, which men say was used thousands of years ago by wanderers coming in from the Drowned Lands of the Dagarlad.”
“It sounds a wise plan… so let us go.” Ardhu flicked his reins against his horse’s neck and urged her forward with the pressure of his knees.
The group left the track and headed down the valley. Finding one river, they crossed at the ford, and then hastened East along its bank, green with reeds and decked with white, waving water-lilies. They stopped to rest at noon, sleeping on their cloaks in the warm sun, and then continued on with renewed vigour.
Dusk was falling when they spied a huge treeless hill looming on the horizon. The ruins of a round barrow crowned its summit. The long scar of a trackway marred its flank and curved up and over its bald head. Pelahan nodded in its direction. “Efyn Phen. From there we can pick up the Ychenholt that will lead us to the Wastelands.”
They rode on and joined the path that stretched over the hill and wound into the East. By the time the night was half-through, there was a cloudburst and all were drenched and weary; so they left the track again and bedded down in a coppice, stretching a deerskin that Hwalchmai carried rolled in his pack on a wobbly frame made of tree-limbs. They managed to light a little fire, sputtering and without cheer, and drank some thin beer from a clay flask.
Ardhu glanced at Gal’havad. The youth was rocking on his heels, humming to himself as if he was mad. The rain had rinsed away some of the blood on his face but gore still clotted the edges of his hair and left large blots on his tunic. His teeth were chattering and his eyes bright and unfocussed.
“I knew he was not right!” murmured Ardhu, shaking his head. “No one kills a first time and acts as he did!” He went over to the lad, kneeling at his side, passing his hand before the blank-looking eyes. As he did so, Gal’havad unexpectedly let out one of his eerie cries, the sound that heralded his brief journeys to the Unworld, and he fell upon the ground, twitching and convulsing, mud mingling with the blood on his body and garments.
Ardhu fell to his knees and gathered him up, holding him close until the seizure had passed. The rest of the men glanced away; faintly embarrassed; they had heard of the young prince’s affliction but it was not something that was spoken of at Kham-El-Ard, and it was infrequent enough to hide. It had not stopped the boy becoming adept with arms, after all—he had proved that when he slew Khaw as if he had been slaying enemies all his life.
Soon Gal’havad opened his eyes and seemed to come to himself. He did not remember falling, and recalled little of anything that had taken place since the attack at the Hill of the Old People. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out the small cup-like stone his aunt Mhor-gan of the Korrig-han had given him, a gift from the unfathomable waters of the Sacred Pool. He stroked its rough surface and smiled; as Mhor-gan had predicted, its colour had changed from bold orange-red to a dusky purple. It was a cup of the evening, and he was the Prince of Ardhu’s twilight.
“Father, pour me some drink into this cup of healing,” he begged. “Then I may return to you all and continue the journey.”
“Cup of healing…” Ardhu had not seen his sister’s gift to the boy; he was dubious. Years of watching men die despite their amulets, despite their prayers, had robbed his faith in either charms or gods. Yes, he said the right words and made the required offerings, but if there was one thing he knew was true, it was that the Ancestors and Gods were capricious and often had no love of humankind.
“Yes.” Gal’havad held it up, “My talisman. It will protect me.”
Ardhu made a dismissive noise. “Your dagger-hand will aid you more,” he said… but he poured some beer into the cup and helped Gal’havad, who still trembled slightly in the aftermath of his fit, to lift it to his lips. “But you won’t believe me, will you? You have always been half of the Not-world, like my sister and the Merlin.”
Pelahan came up at that moment; in the ruined leprous mask of his face his eyes were strangely kind. More so than men of the axe like Bohrs, who had turned swiftly from the scene, embarrassed by Gal’havad’s perceived weakness. “Are you hale, little lord?” Pelahan said quietly. “I do not forget that you spoke kindly to me in my affliction, and so I support you in yours.”
Gal’havad nodded. “I am fine. Such turns are not new to me… I have always been this way. I am not ashamed. It is how the spirits set the fire within my head.”
Pelahan gazed at the broken stone that Gal’havad clutched. “The broken cup… the colour of even’s sky, a sign of the Otherworld, the mystic’s sign. That is you, boy, the mystic-child, but not just a tool to whom the spirits speak but also a warrior with a blade in your hand.” His sunken eyes suddenly glazed, and Ardhu, listening to this exchange, felt hairs rise on the back of his neck—was the ill-favoured man, wracked by illness, a seer himself? “Keep your cup at hand… but maybe you will also seek a greater cup of gold that will give healing to all.”
“What do you mean?” Gal’havad frowned. “What is this golden cup of which you speak?”
“You may soon learn. But it is not time to speak of it yet. Not until we have seen the Maimed King.” Pelahan suddenly shook his head as if to clear it and stalked towards the horses. “Now it is time we move on again. Come on, men of the West, we now ride down Ychenholt toward the great Estuary of Met-Aras, where four rivers meet and the Kingdom of the Wasteland stands.”
The warriors of Ardhu clambered up, soggy from the rain, hair hanging in sodden coils on their shoulders and their fur cloaks dripping water. Hwalchmai stamped out the sullen embers of their fire and they mounted and turned their steeds’ heads toward the broad track. Soon, as the sky lightened, they began to chatter and joke with each other, even Pelahan. Gal’havad seemed to have completely recovered as if he had never been ill.
Only Ardhu remained quiet and dour, riding at his son’s side. He had dreamed of a cup of gold, he who was born of good solid earth and dreamed only of hounds and hall, and who understood not the path of shamans and seers like the Merlin.
A cup locked in a cage of bone. A cup that was entwined with all their destinies.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE TREACHERY OF MORDRAED
Mordraed lounged in the shadow of the Tor-Stone, a burial marker that pointed toward the line of undulating hills that led to Magic Hill in the East. Casually, he knapped a flint arrowhead, making its barbs as long and sharp as he could, deadly prongs that would rip the innards of any living creature it pierced. He was far from Kham-El-Ard, and was shirking his duties for the day, including his weapons training with An’kelet. He hated to admit it, but he was bored without Amhar… though how it would be between them now that the other youth had become a Man and taken his adult name, he did not know. If Amhar… Gal’havad now, he thought with a slight sneer… got above himself he would soon have to find a way to bring him down to earth again.
Suddenly he heard a sound behind him, a whisper in the grasses—light feet, almost as soft as hare-feet, but not so quiet that his keen ears could not discern the noise. Grabbing his bow, he leapt to his feet with an arrow on his string. “Who goes there? Show yourself.”
A small dark head bobbed up from the tangle of grass and shrubs that grew in the field behind the Tor-Stone. A frightened child’s face appeared through a haze of blowing green strands.
“Ga’haris!” Mordraed cas
t down his bow and ran forward, grabbing his younger brother by the scruff of the neck and swinging him round. “You little fool, creeping up like that. I might have shot you… and then I would have had to finish you off and bury you beneath the Tor-Stone!” He gestured to the menhir behind him, its shadow a long black finger stretching toward the two brothers.
Ga’haris looked terrified, almost as if he thought his brother might just intend to do away with him for disturbing his afternoon sojourn by the stone. Mordraed shook him lightly, frowning. “Little fool, I spoke in jest… I’m not mother… I would not give you to the stone! But I am wondering why you have come so far to seek me out! You and Gharith hardly pay me mind at all, now that you are wards of Ka’hai the Cook.” He spoke the last with sarcasm.
Ga’haris grabbed his sleeve and clung. “I...I come because of Mother.”
Mordraed’s jaw tightened. “What of her?”
“I was playing late, down by the river. I heard a rustle in the bush, and then there she was, watching me. I was scared that someone would shoot her or spear her, ‘cos she is not supposed to come so close to Uncle’s fort… but she wasn’t scared at all. She stepped right out and grabbed me, just like you did! But it wasn’t me she wanted to see anyway… it was you. She’s given me a message for you, Mordraed.”
Mordraed felt his heart begin to pound. “What message was that, Ga’haris?”
“She says that now Ardhu is safely away, she wants to see you. Just for one night. Tonight. She’ll meet you on the Prophet’s barrow down near the house of the Ladies of the Lake. She says she has a gift for you.”
Mordraed’s eyes narrowed. Gifts from Morigau were often a two-edged sword. “I will go to her. “But you must tell no one, Ga’haris. Not Gharith, nor any other of your playmates. If you do, Mother would have no hesitation in giving you to the Stone… or the Earth… or the River.”
“I promise, Mordraed. I won’t tell anyone!” cried Ga’haris, his eyes full of pure terror, and he turned and bounded away like a terrified young deer.
Mordraed slowly followed him, wandering back over the stubbly fields, over a hill crested with the tall barrows of local chiefs and then down toward the Abona, sparkling in the late afternoon sun. He wondered what Morigau could want. He doubted very much it was just a mother missing her favourite son.
*****
Night descended over the fort of Kham-El-Ard. Wood-smoke coiled from holes in thatched roofs, and shrill bone pipes skirled into the gloom, merry and inviting. Warriors strode in and out of the Great Hall of Ardhu, where the Queen sat with Ardhu’s chair empty beside her. Despite her earlier anguish at the leave-taking of her son, Gal’havad, Fynavir now smiled and laughed. She wore a wreath of flowers in her hair and had reddened her cheeks with berry juice and wore a fine shift of pale linen, thin and revealing, the firelight passing through its folds to catch on the rounded limbs within. A heavy shower of amber beads sewn in appropriate areas spared her modesty yet drew attention to her full breasts and thighs. Even at her age, she was the most striking woman in all Kham-El-Ard.
Mordraed sat in the shadows of the hall, a beaker balanced on his knee, his narrowed eyes fixed on the Queen. His earlier suspicions were still there, and had increased with every passing day. Since Ardhu had journeyed East, Fynavir and An’kelet had grown more relaxed in each other’s presence… and then less careful. Others did not see, or else put evil thoughts from their minds, but Mordraed, searching for the signs, saw everything… the easy looks, the glances, a touch upon an arm, a smile. He had hardly ever seen the frosty bitch smile until she had been left alone with An’kelet… and to think he would have to mate with her when he became King!
Rising, he downed the rest of his mead in one go and made a move towards the open door. An’kelet, Prince of Ar-morah, arriving for the nightly feasting and story-telling, blocked his path. He was a good hand’s breadth taller than Mordraed, and the younger man felt a surge of irrational anger, as if the older man were looking down on him not just through his greater height but with arrogance and superiority. He noted that the foreigner was dressed up like some bright bird of prey, just like his whore, Fynavir—white feathers were braided in his amber hair and his tunic of painted leather was fastened with shiny jet buttons decorated with gold sun-crosses. A belt of fibres twined with bronze threads hung from his waist, fastened by a ring of polished shale, and his two famous daggers, Fragarak and Arondyt dangled conspicuously from it in sheathes of finest horn. “You leave the hall early tonight, Lord Mordraed?” he said, falsely polite. “Are you unwell? I note you did not come for your arms practice today.”
Some of the nearby men sniggered and glanced up, hoping to see a confrontation.
“I did not want to tax you, my lord,” said Mordraed, veiling his eyes with his lashes to hide the anger in them. His voice was measured, calm. “I have thought since the Stone Lord left that you have looked a bit… tired. As if something has kept you up at night.”
An’kelet stared at him, stunned into speechlessness, his face blanching beneath his tan.
Mordraed tossed back his hair and suddenly cast him a razor-sharp grin. “And if you must know my business, I am faring out to meet a woman, Lord An’kelet. A woman! I know you might not approve, since you are so bound with honouring one woman only, being of great purity and holiness… our Great Lady, Fynavir of Ibherna!” He bowed exaggeratedly low in the direction of the Queen, the ends of his hair sweeping the rush-strewn floor.
An’kelet’s fists clenched impotently, and Fynavir made a small gasping noise which she covered with her hand. The warriors lounging about the hearth, already deep in their beakers, laughed, though not unkindly. This was not news. They knew An’kelet was the Queen’s chosen champion and that he looked at no other woman. He had made much of oaths he had sworn to his own mother, a priestess of Ar-morah, which bound him to a chaste priest-like life. They did not see what Mordraed was implying.
Mordraed smiled again, a mocking, knowing smile, enjoying the discomfiture of his father’s wife and her lover. Then, with another bow in their direction, he swept from the hall into the new-fallen dusk.
Reaching the main gate of the fort he was challenged by a red-faced, tawny-haired dolt of a guard; Mordraed could tell he was stupid just by the look of him. “Oh, ‘tis you, Lord Mordraed,” the guard stammered, when he stepped into ring of light cast by the man’s torch. “You’re king’s clan so I can’t stop you from faring abroad tonight if that’s your will. But I’ll be shutting the gates after Moonrise, and no one comes in again till dawn… not even relatives of Lord Ardhu.”
“That’s fine by me, man,” said Mordraed. “I’m going to meet a lady, a fine lady… I won’t be back ere dawn… if then.”
The guard grinned and winked, making him look even more of a simpleton. “A good night to you then, Lord Mordraed.”
A good night indeed… that was to be seen. Lithely Mordraed ran down the slope, passing the outer defences with their fierce, man-killing spikes, and entering the field beyond where the Avenue’s banks glowed like two white bones in the thin Moonlight. He was glad to be away from the confinement of Kham-El-Ard, where there was always a smelly pork-chewing warrior to your left or right, and people prying into your business, watching you… even when you were of noble lineage. Freedom had been his when he lived on Ynys Yrch—freedom to run over the lonely isles and steal seabirds' eggs from nests of the cliff and shoot at strange sea creatures that raised their blunt snouts from the swell. Strangers he shot at as well, those who dared to beach their coracles near Loth’s settlement; and sometimes his arrows found their mark. He had taken a life before he was even accounted a man, which had pleased Morigau greatly.
He scowled. Although Kham-El-Ard was a great achievement, its buildings and organisation unmatched in Prydn, he did not enjoy its warm, muggy chambers and close quarters where spying eyes were rife and there was little freedom from those you despised. If… when… he was lord of Prydn he would have it ritually burnt at the feast
of the Bhel-fires, a conflagration that would surely please the spirits. And if he had his way, a few of the swaggering young warriors who had shown him disrespect would go into the fire as well—extra offerings to the Ancestors.
Striding across the field, he reached the Old Henge on the banks of Abona, its dark ditch sprouting thorny bushes, the vague reek of charnel coming from its central area, where ashes lay scattered amidst the pits left by missing stones. He could hear the river murmuring, its voice almost a chant; River-Mother was restless again, spring waking her from sleep after growing fat and slow with ice and excess water. Soon she would mate with her consort Borvoh, the Boiler, and run merrily on her way again, the Holy Cleanser who swept away the old on her swells and gave life to the peoples who dwelt near her.
Circling the henge, not wishing to disturb any ancient being that might be trapped behind its bank, he hurried down to the edge of the river itself. Rings widened on the water where fishes jumped, silver flashes in the dark, and the stars were like a thousand tallow-candles mirrored on the surface.
He peered at his own reflection too, the stars above him in a crown of light. Beautiful as one of the Everliving Ones who dwelt across the Plain of Honey. But cold, hard as a sarsen slab and death-eyed, with eyes blue, the colour of mourning.
Suddenly an owl shot out of the shadows, flower-faced and with eyes like golden lamps, and swooped above his head. Mordraed’s heart sprang into his mouth and he fitted an arrow to his bowstring in an eye’s blink, but he held fire and the bird flapped lazily Westwards, wings passing in silhouette over the circle of the Moon. An owl, the sign of She Who Guards, the Lady of the Barrow and the lunar mysteries… she was his mother as much as Morigau and would not harm him. Or so he hoped.
Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge Page 10
