Merlin paused, his brows raised. “Has he not told you? Has U’thyr, the brave and terrible Head, been too fearful to tell his own wife about the will of Merlin?”
Y’gerna whipped around to face U’thyr, her eyes darkening with alarm. “No, he had told me nothing! U’thyr, what is the meaning of all this?”
U’thyr’s face reddened and his lips moved soundlessly.
“I shall tell you if U’thyr cannot,” said Merlin. “When U’thyr first became enamoured of you, he asked for my help. He would have done anything for an hour in your arms. And so he promised me the fruits of your night together, Lady Y’gerna….he promised me your son.”
“No!” Y’gerna put Art’igen down and sprang to her feet. For a moment it looked as if she would attack Merlin, but instead, she turned on her silent, shame-faced husband. “You bastard!” she screamed, launching herself at him, tearing at his tunic and hair, biting at his neck like a crazed animal. “How could you do this to me? How could you keep this terrible secret from me? I despise you…”
“Shut up, woman!” U’thyr grabbed her wrists, holding her away from him as she spat and struggled, kicking out at him. "What’s done is done. The boy will come to no harm; you know the Merlin will treat him well. Many lads are fostered out to great men’s families.”
“But you didn’t tell me…” she sobbed, the fight suddenly gone from her. She sagged at the knees, looking faint.“How could you? He is so small, not ready to be taken away…”
U’thyr grabbed her as she started to fall, gathering her close. Tears were streaming down her face, hot, helpless, angry tears. “I promise you I will make amends. Gold, amber, garments and circlets imported from over the sea. I’ll put another six strong sons in your belly! But we must let the Merlin take the Cub—I cannot break the promise I made.”
His strained gaze flicked over to Merlin and he nodded, mouthing the word, “Go, now!”
The older man picked up the baby from the rush-mat on the floor, wrapping it in a fur, then tying it in a sling across his chest. Without a further word to U’thyr or the sobbing Y’gerna, he left the round house and walked back through the courtyard of the fort toward the sea.
As he reached the last hut of Dindagol, nestled against the ramparts, he suddenly sensed eyes upon him. Turning, he beheld a small girl child, no more than three, watching him from the entrance of the hut. She was black-haired and dark-eyed, her face a tiny, petulant heart. She was observing him intently, her thumb in her mouth. Merlin noticed she had copper bangles on her wrists; so he guessed she must have some status among her people.
“Where you going?” she asked, letting her thumb drop.
“Far away, to lands near the great temple of Khor Ghor,” he replied.
“You take baby?” She toddled over, and grabbed at the furs that wrapped the Cub.
“Yes. I am to foster him.”
A strange expression crossed the elfin face; a look too old for such a young child. A look of resentment…even malice. “Good…no like him! My da not come back, and new man is with mam…and baby. I sent to nurse.”
“Ah…” Merlin let out a long exhalation. He knew the truth now—this strange dark child was Morigau, Gorlas’s daughter by Y’gerna, replaced in her mother’s favours by U’thyr and the new baby.
“Would you not take Morigau too?” the child asked, hopefully.
Merlin knelt down, staring into her eyes. “No, you must stay and look after your mother. She will need you now that Art’igen is gone.”
Again that troubling expression of malice crossed Morigau’s face, making her look almost like some small demon. “Me should go to temple…not brat!” Her eyes glowed, green-brown in the wan Moonlight, and Merlin felt his heartbeat quicken.
It was as if she had a bad spirit within her. Perhaps her father’s ghost was angry about his death and had possessed her. Young as she was, she already exuded a kind of darkness, and he knew, instinctively, if she was left unchecked, she would attempt to bring all his plans crashing down in ruin…
He glanced at the seawall, the bright stars beyond. The sea was rumbling over pebbles on the beach. It would be easy to snatch her up, muffling any cries, and hurl her down into the waters. Mahn-an would take her, and her malignant spirit would no longer be there to threaten her brother and Merlin’s dreams.
But…he could not do it. He would kill when the spirits demanded their due, but she was no sacrifice, no Chosen One—the spilling of her blood would be cursed, not made sacred. Such an act would cause dissension, even war, in Albu, and he had no doubt U’thyr and the men of Belerion would hunt him down without mercy.
No, he had to leave her be… but he would remember the darkness in her, and try to make sure she was kept well away from the swelling rises of the Great Plain and her younger brother.
Turning from the child, he hurried out through the gate of the fort and down the hillside, slipping on the long sea-grasses with their crusts of glittering salt. In his arms the baby began to grizzle, his voice high and thin on the night breeze, the cry of a gull, the wail of a spirit out of the cold cairn.
“You’ll wish you took meeee, old one!” Merlin heard Morigau’s voice rise up like some malevolent death-spirit in the night. “Not him! Meeee!”
Unsettled by the vehemence of the fey dark child, the high priest of Khor Ghor hurried on toward the boat moored in the shadows of Mahn-an’s Maw and the safety of the lands he knew.
PART THREE: ARDHU — SUNRISE
CHAPTER SEVEN
The horse galloped across the green field, flanks rippling, nostrils flaring in the chill wind. Art’igen watched, taut as a bowstring, transfixed by the grace and power of the animal before him. He wished he had the same kind of fluidity, the strength of rippling muscles and powerful flanks, but he was still just a boy in training, in his own eyes ungainly and clumsy.
Just wait, his foster-father had said, and you will surprise yourself.
Wait! It seemed Art’s life was all about waiting, and he was growing impatient.
Art’igen was fifteen and had not yet been made a Man of the Tribe. He lived with his foster-brother, big, ugly but amusing Ka’hai, and his foster-father, Ech-tor, who was a smith. At one time, being a metalworker, Ech-tor would have been regarded as a magic man, just like the great Merlin of Khor Ghor (who often came to visit Art’igen, teaching him the magic patterns of the skies and many other things). Smiths knew how to make the sword come from stone, and how to turn dull base metals into the axes and daggers of kings.
Now, in Art’igen’s day, a smith was still a most honoured trade, if not thought to be of otherworldly mode. Ech-tor, however, was spirit-marked by another art unrelated to the forge—his love of horses, those fearsome animals who ran free in the wilds, some hunted for meat by tribes who wanted to ingest their strength, the rest being shunned by those who deemed them creatures that only the gods dared sit upon.
On Ech-tor’s little steading, a few miles from the important settlement of Marthodunu, lying between Khor Ghor and the stones of Suilven, the Crossroads-of-the-World, the Smith kept six horses which he had captured and tamed. Hence his old name of Tor had been changed to Ech-tor, Tor the Horse-Man. And men came not only to watch him make the daggers of bronze and serpentine armbands, but to watch him and Ka’hai slip twine bridles onto their horses’ heads and ride them up and down amid the frightened sheep and pigs in the yard.
Art’igen was considered too young and callow to partake of this sport, but Ka’hai told him that soon this would change. Indeed, it was almost time for his initiation into the tribe, and the time of choosing of a new name, his adult name. This was a fraught time for Art’igen, not knowing what would be expected of him when the priests gathered the boys of the tribe together in the Sweat Lodge of Marthodunu. What name would they give him, to identify him forever more? It could be Tall Spear or Stag-fleet, which would be honourable names to bear, but likewise it could be Scowling-Face or even something as grotesque as Pig-eyes. Art’igen knew a P
ig-Eyes, a fat, red-haired boy who puffed and grunted when he ran, hence the unflattering name.
“Art!” He heard a familiar voice, and looking around saw Ka’hai riding toward him on his horse, Hen-gron. He had rounded up the golden-maned mare that Art’igen had watched in her wild race across the Sunlit meadow, and slipped a twine bridle over her ears. "Art, come here, I have something for you.”
Art’igen ran over to his brother, a big bluff lad with sandy, rough-cut hair and light, light eyes that spoke of some strange northern ancestry. Despite his size he was quite a shy, gentle youth, who preferred horses and dogs to strutting around with boastful lads of similar age. “Here.” He grinned at Art’igen, “I have a present for you, since you are now fifteen summers old and about to become a man. My gift for your naming day is this mare, Lamrai is her name.”
"Mine?” Art’igen gasped, astounded.
“All yours, little brother,” replied Ka’hai, handing him Lamrai’s reins. “Now, let us see if you can ride her! Father and I have already taught you crafts of wood and metal, and the use of dagger and bow. Now, we will teach you how to ride—a feat seldom seen in Prydn. It may be of great help to you one day—or so said the Merlin.”
Carefully, Art’igen grasped Lamrai’s Sun-honeyed mane, and with the litheness of youth, vaulted onto her back. He yelped and slid about for a bit, while she snorted and danced at his unfamiliar clumsiness, and Ka’hai covered his mouth with a hand and suppressed a laugh.
But Ka’hai’s eyes were kind when his mirth was quelled. “Go on,” he said. “Touch her sides with your heels. Ride her up to the Hill of the Old People on yonder rise…” He nodded towards a distant round barrow that stood on the crest of a nearby slope, marking the territory for the past few hundred years. “You must become one with her, as you would with a beautiful woman…”
Kauai’s big, plain face broke into a grin as he saw Art’igen squirm in embarrassment. Youths of Art’s age were not permitted to dally with village girls, even if the girl was already marked as a woman of the tribe. That could come only after Art had a name and status; then he could take a wife or wives if he could afford more than one… But Ka’hai had seen him looking at the girls of the nearby settlements, and knew it would soon be time for him to do more than just look.
Art’igen querulously tapped his heels onto Lamrai’s flanks. With a toss of her head, the mare trotted forward. Another tap, slightly harder than the first. Lamrai broke into a canter.
“That’s it, brother!” Ka’hai yelled. “Ride like the wind!”
Face flushed with excitement, Art’igen slammed his heels into the mare’s sides. She leaped in fright at the sudden punishment, and Art’igen let out a strangled yelp as she suddenly bolted from the yard, heading toward the desired rise but at a breakneck gallop. He clung desperately to her mane, the coarse golden hair whipping his cheeks and stinging his eyes…while behind him Ka’hai stood, hands on hips, roaring with laughter.
After the initial panic, Art’igen became used to the hard beat of the gallop. He steadied his position, moving with the movements of his steed, raising himself up to see above her head. Trees flew by, a green blur, while up ahead the hump of the marker-barrow rose, a black blot against the cloud-strewn sky. It was a moment of magic—Art felt as if he were indeed one with the horse, a mythical six-legged man-beast that could fly over ground that would take an hour’s walk on foot. He almost fancied that Lamrai’s heart was beating in time with his own, symbolic of their joining on that day. Any chief who could learn this art, this communion with a beast of four legs and broad back, would surely become great beyond words, especially if he ordered his men to take mounts as well. They could ride hither and thither to protect their lands, fighting with bow and long spears from horseback…. Dreamily he thought of it—an army of men with himself at the fore, travelling the Four Corners of Albu.
His reverie was brought to an abrupt end as Lamrai mounted the slopes of the barrow. A rustling noise came from the bushes sprouting in its ditch, and the mare suddenly threw back her head and shied to the right, eyes rolling in fear. Art’igen was sent flying over her head, his arms and legs flailing at air, and landed in a hunched ball on the grass, bruised but unharmed. Lamrai, now seemingly calm, trotted off down the side of the barrow, cropping grass that grew rich and green from the nourishing bones below.
“Stupid beast!” Art’igen muttered petulantly, his pride wounded more than his flesh. In the distance he could hear Ka’hai bellowing with laughter. “What could have made her behave in such a way?”
He rolled over, groaning…and then he saw what had frightened the mare. A man was standing atop the barrow; lean and wiry, with grey-dark hair in long braids round a lean, sharp face. A hawk’s skull plated with copper hung round his neck, and a staff topped by a worn human jaw rested in his right hand.
“Merlin!” Art’igen shouted joyously, leaping to his feet. He was always glad to see the old shaman, proud that such a one, chief of the holy men of Khor Ghor, would take an interest in him. Despite the distance from Marthudunu to his abode at Deroweth, Merlin came at least once a year to see Art’igen, to teach him various lessons and to instruct Ech-tor as to what he wanted for the lad. Art wasn’t sure why Merlin was so interested in his education, but a boy his age did not ask questions of the great ones. He simply assumed that his closest kin had died when he was a babe and hence he was given to the temple, and that Merlin had placed him with Ech-tor to ensure he would grow up useful to the tribe.
Merlin nodded toward the youth. “I did not expect to see you rolling in the grass like a babe,” he said dryly.
Art blushed. “I was riding, Merlin. Riding a horse! I fell off…but that won’t happen again! Ka’hai is teaching me! Just think, would it not be a great war-tool, to ride horses…”
“Indeed,” said Merlin, with a taut smile, “but not if you dream away so much you fall off and are trampled by them!”
Art’s blush deepened and he stared at his feet. “I will learn…I will not fall again!”
Merlin grinned again. “You will fall. We all do along the long, hard paths of our lives… but you will rise again as all strong men of Albu must!”He stretched out a veiny brown hand to Art’igen. “Come, rise, young Art, I have news for you. Exciting news!”
“And what news is that?” asked Art’igen, excitedly. Few diversions came to Ech-tor’s holding, with the exception of the occasional traders or warriors seeking new weaponry. Art had only been to the great henge of Marthodunu once or twice, despite it being only a few miles hence. As a boy, he was not entitled to join the rites and had only viewed it between festivals, when it was empty, its huge banks covered in mist from the nearby river.
“It is the time for your manhood rite,” said Merlin. “I have put your name forward and the priests there have said to bring you.”
Art’igen’s eyes gleamed; he tried to control his excitement, and not look childish and over-eager. “This is great news, Merlin! I had not expected the call till the autumn, after harvest fest, at earliest. “
“The priests listen to me—I am the Merlin,” said Merlin. “I want to see you made a man-of-the-tribe as soon as possible…because much is afoot in Albu, and it is men the tribes need, not sheltered boys. After some years of peace, the Sea-Raiders have been harrying the coasts of Belerion and Duvnon again. Some have even sailed down the rivers, making paths inland. The chieftains are uneasy, and in their fear they may grow some common sense at last, and stop fighting petty quarrels amongst themselves! They have agreed choose a high chief, the supreme Head, as we had of old; he who will be Stone Lord, Master of the Great Trilithon and Son of the Sun. This event is something I want you to witness.”
Art was nearly jumping with excitement. He’d heard the tales of chiefs and warriors around the fires, of men who painted themselves blue and men who spoke different tongues, of some who pierced their noses with bone, and some who were tall as giants, their great arms a-clatter with bangles of polished shale. He had o
nly seen the few travellers, cloaked and dusty, who sought smith Ech-tor’s wares, and as a boy, he had not been allowed to speak to them. He had watched them from afar, men with Sun-bronzed faces and scars, all the while burning with impertinent youthful questions that went unanswered.
“Ah, Merlin, my friend, I thank you for this gift! It is a great honour,” he cried. “When do we go?”
“As soon as possible.” Merlin glanced at the Sun’s position in the sky. “The chiefs of the Cantrevs and their wains are on the move even as we speak. Go collect Ka’hai—he will also want to witness this great day—and gather whatever possessions you need. And bring the horse; it will make you look good!”
“If I don’t fall off,” said Art’igen sheepishly, with a small grin.
“I will pin you on there with my magic if need be,” said the Merlin fiercely. “Just that one time!”
*****
The Merlin, the two youths and their mounts departed the Ech-tor’s holding and headed across the downland of the Valley-between-Hills. It was arable land and they saw farms dotted about and lone shepherds driving their flocks of woolly brown sheep. As night fell, they came into a thin grove of silver birches, their branches whistling and whipping in the wind like the hair of a dancing maiden. Merlin stopped and sat down in a little rounded bowl formed by the roots of several ancient trees that had lashed themselves together, strangling each other as they fought for purchase in the rich, deep earth. He scraped together some dry twigs and lit them with his flint strike-a-light, murmuring a short prayer to the flame to keep it bright and warm.
Ka’hai tethered the horses to a tree, and then slumped against its trunk, wrapped in his piebald cowhide cloak. Almost immediately his head drooped and he started to snore; the day was warm and he wasn’t used to walking so far from the smithy. Ignoring the big lad, Merlin handed Art’igen some strips of dried meat from the bag at his waist, then stretched out his thin legs until they were almost in the fire. He chewed a mouthful of jerky in thoughtful silence, his sharp eyes locked on the dark-haired youth across from him.
Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge) Page 12
