The warrior-priests glanced at each other, anger replaced by surprise and even a touch of fear. “If what you speak is truth,” said the tattooed one, “you must come with us right away, to meet the leader of our Order.”
Dragging him from the centre circle, they skirted the Summer Stone that marked the year’s longest day, before hurrying down the parallel arms of the processional Avenue, which led over the fields before curving sharply toward the River Abona. However, the priests did not take Merlin this way. Instead, they left the safety of the Avenue and herded him along the top of a ridge studded with huge, swollen tumuli, some of the largest burial mounds Merlin had ever seen. Cow carcasses rotted in their ditches; offering to placate restive spirits.
“Seven kings sleep here,” said the yellow-haired priest. “Lords who wrought Khor Ghor of old. This is not a Land of the Living, stranger-boy; it belongs to the Dead, and there may be horrors in the morning mist that freeze your heart.”
“Not mine,” retorted Merlin. “The Dead have been as much friend to me as the living, priest.”
The party journeyed onward in an Easterly direction. The rising Sun was a burning red eye through the dwindling night-fog. In the distance Merlin could see a range of sloping hills, curved like a woman’s body, the chalk scars on their slopes gleaming in the growing light. And not far away, facing the hills, was a settlement on an escarpment that overlooked a shallow dell and the river beyond.
The sight of this holding awed him, but he kept his expression impassive, not wishing to appear a gawping and unsophisticated country fool. He had never seen a settlement so large, never really knew that one existed. Standing on the highest point of the plateau was a great round temple, lintelled and open to the sky in similar fashion to Khor Ghor, but wrought from stout oak timbers instead of stones. A scatter of barrows hugged the temple’s sides, as if the dead sought to press in upon this place where the living worshipped.
A short distance away, a circular earthwork shone white as bone in the half-light. Hundreds of rectangular houses clustered around its edges, and at the centre stood a mighty cult house, once again circular and open to the sky. A pair of soaring totem poles fronted this house of the spirits, and a wide pathway, smoothed by the passage of countless feet, curved from its doorway toward the river lying in the dip below the settlement.
The blonde warrior-priest gestured with his bow, pride and the rosy light of dawn bringing a flush to his face. "Look and wonder, newcomer. You gaze on Deroweth, place of oaks, place of the wise seers—the greatest dwelling in all of Albu, maybe all of Prydn.”
“It is a mighty place,” Merlin agreed, his gaze sweeping over Deroweth. “Though quiet, considering it has many dwellings.”
“You have not seen it in Midwinter, when chiefs come from all over the Five Cantrevs, bringing their women, children and herding beasts. Laws are passed by the priests, disputes settled, marriages made…but best of all is the Great Feast on the day Bhel Sunface dies and is reborn! Even the dogs of Deroweth are glutted with meat on that night, and beacons burn on every hill to greet the rebirth of Bhel from Ahn-ann’s womb.”
The warrior-priests and their captive soon reached a house standing near the entrance to the great henge. It was of highest quality, long and rectangular, with stout oak walls—the dwelling of a man of status. Smaller huts straddled its sides, with middens at the back and strong scents of cooking wafting from them—but there was no midden near the big house or signs of domestic life. All was clean and perfect and holy.
The fair priest rapped on the door, before entering the house without further ado. “You had best be respectful,” his companion hissed into Merlin’s ear as he shoved him forward, jabbing him in the back with the tip of a barbed arrow. “You don’t know how lucky you are that we’ve let you live to come before our High-Priest!”
The interior of the house was dark, wreathed with smoke from a large fire-pit at the centre. A sleepy-looking old woman, bunched-up hair straggling from a bone pin, was stoking the flames. She didn’t even glance up at the newcomers. Merlin’s eyes darted about, taking in everything: the painted symbols on the walls, pots sealed with clay plugs lined up on wooden shelves, rich furs and weavings that enshrouded the boxed-off sleeping cells. The opulence confirmed his first impression that whoever dwelt here was indeed held in high esteem.
“What have we here?” A hoarse voice sounded from the back of the hut, bodiless, its owner shrouded by the roiling smoke. “Why this intrusion so early in the morning? Bhel has hardly risen.”
“We have a captive, great one.” The blond guard shoved Merlin forward. "He was caught in the Stones. The disrespectful dog had spent the night there, curled up at their feet! We would have punished him in the usual way, but he claims he is a magic man come seeking admittance to our Order.”
“I am eager to see this brave or foolhardy one!”
The smoke eddied, and a tall man stepped from behind a skin curtain. He was one of the oldest people Merlin had ever seen, well beyond his fiftieth summer. His hair was so white and fine, it was almost a shade of pale blue, the colour of snowfall at twilight. His long beard was equally pale, tumbling in tendrils over his floor-length robe. Serpent tattoos slithered round his frail arms and coiled in knotwork designs above his eyes, which were shrewd, sharp, grey flints beneath a ridge of frosty brows.
“I am Ambris, Speaker-to-Immortals,” he said. “High priest of Khor Ghor. Is it true what my priests tell me? That you broke the sanctity of the Stones and lay amongst them while you slept?”
“It is true, Great Lord.” Merlin bowed to the stately elder. “I was in the Stones. But not to desecrate or bring dishonour. They called to me, and all the mighty Ancestors of old called to me too. I come from the mountains far away, but that is my home no longer. My home, my heart tells me, is here, serving the temple of Khor Ghor. I know the number of your priests is less by one, and I would fill that empty place.”
Ambris stepped forward and caught Merlin’s face in his withered hands, staring into the youth’s eyes and searching the depths of his heart, his soul, with a glance that cut like a dagger-blade. After a few minutes, he let his hands fall. “I can see no falsehood in you. Fervour, aye…and maybe, just maybe, some kind of power. Who are you?”
“I am called the Merlin. The hawk that also bears that name is my totem; one travels with me, he comes and goes with the wind, as I do.”
Ambris’s brows lifted slightly. “There have been other Merlins here, before our father’s, father’s, father’s time. One came to Khor Ghor when the land was forest; he danced the Horn-dance with the Moon, and raised great poles as beacons to the spirits above. He gave his name to these isles—the Merlin’s Precinct. Later, there was the Merlin who brought the skystones from the West; floating them down rivers while wolves howled on the bank and strange men flung spears. Three is a magic number, Merlin. Maybe, as the third Merlin, you will be the greatest and most famed Merlin of all.”
The priests who had escorted Merlin to Deroweth were gawking. They had obviously expected anger from the High Priest, maybe even an ordered execution. “High One,” owl-eyes muttered, “You speak like he’s one of us already! Surely he will have to pass the test!”
Ambris glanced at the man with irritation. “Do not fear; he will have to pass the test like every other priest.” He turned back towards Merlin. “There is a bed and food here, within my hut. You may make yourself at home. When the next full Moon comes, it will be time to choose a new priest to replace Eckhy, who is lost to us. A competition of wisdom will take place. No man shall have an advantage above the other; no priority is given for status or age. You have as much chance as any other competitor, young stranger. But if you fail, you must leave in the dawn and never return on pain of death. The Stones will have chosen and if they reject you, you must never set foot in their presence again.”
*****
The night of the full Moon rolled round after what seemed an interminable time, during which Merlin had stalked aro
und the settlement like a beast trammelled in a cage. He explored the entire settlement, guided by one of Ambris’s many attendants, and committed to his mind and heart the places of power: Woodenheart, with its gateway facing Magic Hill at Midsummer, and the Hallows in the centre of the great chalk ring, which was focussed on Midwinter Sunrise in reverse to Khor Gor, where the dying Sun was framed by the arch of the Door into Winter.
He knew he must not fail in his testing, lest he be cast into the wilds, a tribeless man—there was no going back to God-of-Bronze and those far off Western lands, not with Vhortiern’s blood on his hands. Sighing, he reached to his belt-pouch, brought out Buan-ann’s crystal ball and wiped it on his fringed cape. He held it up and stared at the sky through its heart, but today the magic stone was misty and vague, showing him nothing.
“Master Merlin, it is time to make ready.” One of Ambris’ acolytes appeared from a hut and gestured to Merlin to follow him. “You must be prepared and purified for tonight’s testing.”
“Are the other men who seek a position here also?” Merlin asked, following the acolyte as he was bidden.
“Aye, Lord Tyllion arrived yester eve from Peak-land, and Uinious from the East this morning, just before the Sun was up. That is why there is so much activity here today. Most of the year, except at the times of festivals, only the priests dwell in Deroweth. The common folk live in the Place of Light, on the Hill of Golden Graves where the tin-men set up their tent-camps long ago, but some have been employed by Lord Ambris to come down to tend to the newcomers.”
Merlin glanced over near to Woodenheart, where a gaggle of children, women, robed priests and priestesses, dogs, pigs and even a roving ox milled about in disarray. A cacophony of noise filled the air: geese honking, dogs yapping, babies wailing, women laughing and shrieking, and suddenly he saw a man the size of a black bear sweeping around the circle of onlookers, touching the foreheads of children, laying hands on the bellies of women in blessing. “Is that one of the would-be priests?”
“Aye, Tyllion from Peak-land, which is a land of high hills many miles north, bounded by the Great Dark Forest and guarded by the Mother Mountain and Shining Tor. His folk have blood-ties with Khor Ghor going back many generations to the days of Samothos. Jet is much traded through Tyllion and his people, who purchase it from the Brighi along the northern coastal cliffs.”
“And the other man? Uinious?”
“He prays in Woodenheart. He is less boastful than Tyllion of the Peak, but no less determined! Come now, O Merlin, we must make you ready so that you can stand proudly with the other two.”
Merlin followed the solemn youth to one of several smaller wooden buildings stood between Woodenheart and the Hallows. These round huts were for priests and priestesses, where they washed themselves, performed purification rites, and meditated before commencing with their daily lives. Like the larger wooden temples, these culthouses were aligned on events in the sky: one on the Moon, which was for female initiates only, one on the rising of the Seven Sister Stars, and another with opposing entrances that faced Sunrise on the Equal-days when light and dark were balanced.
He was taken into the Circle of the Seven Sisters, where several priests awaited him. “Kneel,” ordered a hard-faced man in a peaked red hood, and he roughly pushed Merlin to his knees beside a lit fire. Other priests came forth and stripped him of his robes, beating his body with willow-switches, to purify the flesh and drive out any evil humours that might linger in him. Lips taut, he bore the pain without complaint, while sweat mixed with blood upon his bare back.
Once the ritual beating was done, the priests raised him up and painted him from head to toe with symbols, the marks of his tribe and the mark of an initiate. Then they brought back his robes and draped them around him, and gave him his crystal to hold, and they bound his raven hair with a long pin made of bone.
“You are ready,” said the red-hooded one. “You may go to Woodenheart to join the others.”
Merlin walked across the frosty ground. Dusk had begun to fall, and tendrils of mist curled up like the reaching hands of the untold generations of dead that lay in the barrow cemeteries just beyond Deroweth. Across the field, the bulky Khu Stone, or Hound’s stone, sank down into an eerie white cloud, with only its grizzled tip sticking out, sharp as a spear.
On the far side of the plateau the Moon was rising, fat and cold and pale as a skull, casting chill light over Holy Hill and the lands below. “Oh Eye-Goddess of Moon and Dead Men," whispered Merlin, “look kindly on me this night! They say you were here even before Bhel Bright-face, and that you see into the hearts of all men. Then see I am the one who best shall serve Khor Ghor and the Isle of the Mighty!”
Prayer finished, he tore his eyes from the Moon and entered the lintelled gateway of Woodenheart. Inside, a forest of posts and standing stones confronted him. Priests glided between posts and menhirs, ghostly in their rustling robes and fantastical masks. They beckoned Merlin forward, toward three stones that leaned in toward each other like conspirators whispering secrets.
A cove. A sacred space that resembled the mouth of a tomb.
Ambris stood within the cove, his flowing hair a nimbus of red in the light of fires that burned in hearths on either side, the flames fanned by attendants who cast strange powders and oils upon them. On the floor, before a cairn of flints, squatted barrel-chested Tyllion, looking more like a strongman than a shaman, but wearing mystical symbols on his face, and with a holy man’s rattle in his hand. Uinious, contender from the east, was kneeling beside him. He was more suave and smooth than Tyllion, with a sandy, bifurcated beard sewn with blue beads, and a strangely-cut tunic fastened by toggles and a fancy bronze pin that must have come from beyond the Northern Sea. He was younger than Tyllion, and his shrewd hazel-green eyes darted everywhere, measuring the mood in the temple.
So this was the competition… Merlin’s lip curled contemptuously. He knew he was the right candidate, that these others cared mostly for their own prestige, but how was he to convince the assembly that he would be a greater asset to the Temple than they would? Beads of nervous sweat popped out on his forehead, and he clutched his seeing stone, damp fingers streaking the quartz as he begged the spirits for a sign.
Ambris clapped his hands, and the temple priestesses brought round the Beaker of Peace, brimming with the fermented honey-mead that only men were allowed to drink. Each one of the priestly candidates took a draught, savouring the rich golden taste and the rush of fire in the belly that followed soon after.
Uinious was first to speak. “I come from the East to the West, and will bring new ways and ideas to Khor Ghor and its peoples. The gods have always been with me; I killed a wild cat at nine and my first man a year later.”
“I shall bring new ideas too!” roared Tyllion. “Northern ideas!” He took another swig from the Beaker and wiped his red, dripping lips. “The gods have always smiled on me, as much, if not more, than you, Easterner. I have wrestled a bear in a darkling forest, and overseen the bringing of the black jet from the sea cliffs. I have seen the Antlered Man ride from Dark Dale and up the shivering slopes of Mother Mountain, and welcomed the Moon home in the cove of Ar-bar. I know the lore of all living things; I know the names of kings and chiefs who ruled on Albu’s shores since time immemorial!”
He stood up, cleared his throat and began to half-sing, half-chant reams of names of people long barrowed away, dust in the wind. The list was obviously pleasing to a few onlookers who doubtless fancied themselves the direct descendants of these ancient worthies, but Merlin grew bored and restive. Any decent storyteller could recite the annals of the Ancestors as well as fat Tyllion.
Uinious grinned savagely as the cumbrous man finished his litany with yet another slurp of honey-mead from the ceremonial Beaker. He tossed back his long, thin head, making the beads in his oiled beard clack like bones. “I have skills that can help us grow closer to the gods and gain their favour. I am skilled with herbs and plants; my knowledge of these is beyond comp
are. I know of plants that can make a man fly high enough to kiss the icy lips of Mother Moon—and others that, with a mere drop, could fell every living creature in this settlement. I will tell you their names: hemlock, henbane, deathcap…”
Merlin leaned forward, supporting his chin with his hand, eyes glazing over at the prospect of another lengthy bout of posturing. Uinious’s plant-lore was hardly new; he had learned the same years ago, when Buan-ann first took him to the woods to train him in the shamanic art. He was so bored, listening to the old ones’ flapping tongues, he half-wished the Sea-Raiders would attack that very moment, so that he could test his wits and powers against them.
As Uinious droned on, prattling about his amazing studies of Sun and stars in the wooden temples of the East, Merlin reached for the Beaker of Peace. In its depths he could see the Moon’s reflected eye, watching him. Careful to remain unseen, he dropped several mistletoe berries into the brew before draining it to the dregs. The Moon had called to him, with her white horns; he would commune with the spirits, not with these two fools, eaten up by a quest for their own glory.
A few minutes later, his head began to throb, one-sided, in the usual manner. His central vision became a spinning tunnel that guided him toward the spirit realm. The walls of the world fell away; Woodenheart’s posts grew huge, spiralling up into the starry sky. The heat of the fire vanished abruptly, the flames turning ice-blue, and the big sarsens that stood in the cove seemed to be rocking in their beds. Across from him, Tyllion had butted in over Uinious and was droning out some stale, ancient folk-tale, much to the annoyance of his rival, whose eyes had narrowed dangerously. Tyllion’s rumbling baritone seemed to have become unnaturally slow and deep, wobbling in and out of Merlin’s hearing.
Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge) Page 6
