Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge)

by J. P. Reedman

  “Stop them, they’re getting away!” Bohrs roared in rage, slamming his heels into his pony’s side and spitting with fury as the frightened animal refused to budge.

  “Wait! Look!” Art pointed across the water. “Ba-lin and Bal-ahn! They have reached the boats!”

  Out in the dark a solitary tongue of flame appeared on the deck of each ship. It grew bigger and brighter, then whooshed upwards, following the line of riggings and folded sails. Fire! Sparks shot up into the air; smoke billowed in pale clouds over the river.

  The sea-pirates knew their game was up. Some threw themselves from their ships into the Gleyn and tried to swim ashore, but the men of Ardhu’s warband rode them down in the shallows, trampling them with their mounts or felling them with their huge, ancient axes. Bodies bobbed along the shoreline; the currents of the Gleyn turned a sickly crimson.

  And so was the first battle of Ardhu Pendraec, the Stone Lord, the Terrible Head, won in the West. His first battle as king and the first time he had spilled blood.

  It would not be his last.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ardhu sat within a hut in the riverside village, recovering from the events of the night. He drank from a beaker, slowly, reflectively, while Ka’hai fussed about him like an old woman, combing blood-clots from his hair, and rubbing ointments and unguents onto his bruises and scrapes. This killing of men… it was a nasty business. Ardhu wondered if he ever would grow used to it—the stink, the screams, the sensation of the dagger slicing through flesh, and then that strange, fearful emptiness as the adversary’s spirit slipped into eternity. He glanced at Ka’hai, himself newly-blooded that day, and wondered if he felt as disturbed and shaken as he— his foster brother who was so gentle with animals, but who had just killed five men. Ka’hai’s visage showed no emotion; he just worked on, finishing his ministrations of Art’s grazes, before wrapping a fine cloak around his shoulders and fastening it with a huge disc-brooch surmounted by a golden cross, the symbol of the Sun himself.

  Outside there were yells and cries as the rest of the war band danced around the fire, drunk with victory, drunk from the contents of their beakers. They had raided the stores of the sea-pirates and had found new drinks to imbibe, among other delicacies, and they were enjoying themselves tremendously.

  “Are you going to join the men?” asked Ka’hai. “They expect to go amongst them, praising the might of their arms.”

  Ardhu smiled wanly and got to his feet. He was bone-weary, his eyes gritty as if they were full of sand, but he dared not let go of his fragile hold on his warriors. “If they want me there, then it is my duty to go,” he said, and he walked stiffly from the hut.

  He was greeted by applause and joyous shouts from the men, who were dancing around a giant pyre made from the pirates’ possessions. Trophies of war surrounded them: kegs of drink and dried meats, strange foreign armour and weapons…and a dozen severed heads mounted on stakes of driftwood.

  The dead eyes of the heads seemed to glare balefully, reproachfully, at Ardhu as he approached through the smoky darkness. He avoided their blank gaze; he could not forget that although they were his enemies and deserved to die, they were also men who once breathed even as he did.

  “My men, I greet you!” he said to his warband. “And I praise you, the greatest warriors ever known. Such courage will be remembered forever.”

  Deep in his cups, Bohrs staggered up to his chief. “Will you reward one of us with the Champion’s portion?” he bellowed “One who was better than the rest!”

  Art took his arm and guided him back to his place by the fire. “No, Bohrs, there will be no one champion. You are all champions. As there is no beginning and end to the Great Circle of Stone, so there is no one higher or lower in my band of men. We are equals, fighting toward one goal—the freedom of Prydn.”

  Another cheer went up, and Bohrs plopped down drunkenly, splashing the heady liquor in his beaker across his ruddy face. He laughed and shook himself like a wet dog, to howls of mirth from his companions.

  Suddenly two warriors came through the smoke and river-fog dragging something between them. “My lord,” shouted one—it was Ba-lin, one of the twins who had fired the pirates’ ships. “We’ve found another man, hiding. He was unarmed and begged for mercy, we did not think it right to kill him. At least until we had your permission.” He grinned wolfishly.

  “Let me see this man,” Ardhu ordered.

  Ba-lin’s twin Bal-ahn kicked the prisoner forward; he fell on his knees before the young warlord. Art recognised him at once as the shaven-headed scribe he had first spotted in the village. He looked thoroughly miserable, covered in mud, his teeth chattering with fear. Close, he saw that the scribe’s features did not quite match to that of the raiders, and deduced he came from some other tribe.

  “What do you have to say for yourself, foreigner?” he asked.

  The man spoke slowly, in a broken version of the tongue of Prydn, “I beg for your mercy, young lord. I am but a slave; I had nothing to do with the injustices done to your people. My own suffered likewise many years ago, and I was spared only because of my skill with words—I can both read and write.”

  “A slave. I thought so by your cropped head. Well, you are a slave no longer. Your masters are all dead.”

  The man looked confused. “Do you take me for your own slave now, lord?”

  Ardhu shook his head. “In my kingdom I prefer my men to serve me of their own free will. I have no use for men with your skills, either—only those who can wield a bow or dagger.”

  “Then what are you going to do with me,” the man said flatly.

  “What do you think? I am not a monster, like the wretches you served. You are free.”

  The man looked up, amazed, his mouth hanging. “Young lord, you are too merciful. However can I thank you!”

  “In one way. I will give you safe passage across the Narrow Sea, and when you arrive on the mainland, I want you to spread the word far and wide that Ardhu Pendraec holds Prydn, and that he will tolerate no incursions from men who seek not lawful trade but thievery and murder. Take this message to the ends of the known world! But tell them too that Prydn is open to trade with all those who come with honest hearts, and that the King of Albu is stern but also just and fair!”

  “I will tell them,” said the slave, and suddenly there was a new light in his eyes. “My name…the sea-folk called me Pal. But I am Palomides. I was the youngest son of a lord who lived on an island called Delos. Years ago there were friendships between your Isle and ours, and much trade; two holy women of your race even settled in our land and their tomb is decorated and revered by local maidens even today. This was many centuries past, when these Pretanic isles were ruled by Brytto, who gave his name to them; and by his son, Blessed Brahn, big as a house, with a raven as his totem.”

  Ardhu clapped his hands and roared with laughter. “I like this, friend. A, man from far across the sea who knows more of our history than most native-born sons!”

  Pal gave a little bow. “As a younger son I was not desired as either warrior or statesman. So I became learned about the ways of men in the world around me. It was a good thing, lord. My learning probably kept me alive.”

  “And long may it be so,” said Ardhu, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Now go, my men will see that you have safe passage.”

  “Wait.” Palomides’ eyes darkened. “I must tell you. There are two more Sherdan ships further along the arm of this inlet. The pirates on them have treated the locals as harshly as here.”

  Ardhu frowned and his men muttered and felt the edges of their axes; but there was a note of despair in their voices too. They were weary from long travelling and hard fighting; they had more than their fill of blood and slaughter for one day.

  “And,” Palomides stared at his feet. “There is even worse afoot, I fear, my lord. One of the leaders, Husrubal, was in meeting with some of your own kind—men from the northern islands off the tip of the land called Kaladhon.”

&
nbsp; Fury ignited in Ardhu’s eyes. “Who? What are their names?”

  “Forgive me if my memory slips…I heard but whispers in the night…One was... Loth… Loth of Ynys Yrch, the other Orion…no, Urienz.”

  “The pig from the Isle of Pigs and his kinsman," grunted Bohrs, making a rude gesture. “Do you know what they wanted, foreigner? They were far from their homes.”

  Palomides swallowed. “They asked the Sherdan for help. Help to remove a boy-king of the West, who had become too powerful for his own good.” He looked at Ardhu. “I wager they spoke of you, lord. And it was with no love.”

  "Traitorous wretches," growled Bohrs through gritted teeth. “I knew they would turn way back at Marthodunu, even though they grudgingly swore to support you!”

  Ardhu wiped his arm across his face. He looked tired and drained, purple circles underscoring his eyes “This is ill news but not unexpected. Our thanks, Palomides of Delos. You may have been more valuable than you realise. Go now, and farewell—maybe we shall meet again. And if you do ever come to these shores again, I will make you a man of my warband—the different one, with different skills and much knowledge.”

  Palomides bowed again. “If the Gods will it, it will be so.”

  Then Art beckoned to two of his men and they led Palomides away, toward the coastal settlements where sea-trade had been the lifeblood of the locals for over six hundred years and boats travelling afar with tin and copper were plentiful. Once he had crossed the channel safely, he could make his way across the continent using ancient trade-routes that led through the forests of the Middle-Lands to the mighty Rivers Rhinn and Rhon. With luck, and no attacks from hostile tribes or evil weather-spirits, he could then follow the rivers Eastward and be home with his long-lost family within two Moons.

  Art quietly thanked the spirits for the Delian man as he mulled the information the slave had imparted. He had to move quickly, before the other pirate raiders became aware of the destruction of their fellows…and before Urienz and Loth’s men arrived from the northern isles.

  Turning to his warband, he said in a voice that grated like stones on the shore: “No time for celebrating! No time for sleep! We must go on and cleanse Albu of these invaders and traitors. When that is done then may we rest-whether it is in our furs or in our barrows!”

  He raised the Lightning Mace to the sky, its white bone mounts shining in the dark; and above the sky suddenly answered, lightning flaring sullenly under the belly of the livid clouds that had been gathering in the North. The horses whinnied and skittered, frightened of the storm, and the men felt the energy in the air, the electricity crackling in their hair.

  “We ride on!” cried Ardhu, and he ran to Lamrai, vaulting easily onto her back. Just as the storm broke, and rain slashed down like tears of a tormented god, the warband galloped from the riverside, and toward the haunts of their enemies.

  *****

  The next two battles of Ardhu the Bear were harder won than the first. The Sea-Raiders had seen smoke curling in the air, and sailed into coves and sheltered areas where they set up watchful camps. This time there were no words spoken between the two opposing forces; the air instead was full of the sound of warcries and then with the screams of the injured and dying. Art’s men were, for the most part, young and unskilled, but their youth and strength gave them an added edge—that and their sturdy mounts, which they drove over their foes as they fell. As Ardhu had hoped, the Sea-Raiders were not expecting horsemen, and had no time to devise a way to stave them off.

  Eventually the fighting was done. Again, Ardhu sat in the dark, hair and skin bathed scarlet, his garb purple with dark, clotted gore and the stink of death all around him. On the river ahead he could see fires leaping as a ship aflame slowly sank beneath the waves to the jeers and shouts of his victorious band. He wiped his face, his burning eyes, wishing for nothing more than sleep and clean clothes.

  Ka’hai came to join him; he too was smeared with red blood and dark, his hair- knot crimson and his blue eyes startling and somehow almost monstrous against the scarlet-streaked mask of his face. “Art…you are hale?” he asked, hunkering down beside his foster-brother. “We have done it…no pirate is left alive; the warriors have taken their heads and hands and feet and placed them under boulders so they will never walk as spirits either here in Prydn or in the Otherworld.”

  “And our men?” Art looked at him grimly, leaning on the hilt of Caladvolc the Hardcleft. “What of our losses? This time, I know we were not so lucky.”

  Ka’hai sighed. “Lucky enough, considering that we are all green in the arts of war, save for Bohrs and Per-Adur. The main body of warriors from Marthodunu and Place-of-Light is unharmed save for scrapes and gashes. But some of the youths and new recruits picked up along the route to the Gleyn will not be going home to their green fields and forests. But such is the way of war, and they knew that. They are now riding over the Great Plain, young forever.”

  Art rose, gesturing to his torn, stained clothes with sudden anger. “This disgusts me…I reek of death! We have leather-workers amongst us… hunt down a deer and kill it, and have them make me a new tunic to wear. I am not such a savage I would rejoice in wearing my enemies’ blood!”

  Ka’hai glanced at him solemnly. “Wear your soiled robe with pride, Ardhu. From this day forward, garments of such hue will be the colour of royalty, of battle and sacrifice for the Land.”

  Ardhu shook his head bitterly. “Noble speech, but hiding the ugliness that is truth. I tell you, brother, although it may not be so honourable, the tilling of soil is preferable to the killing of men.”

  “Oh, I agree, Art—I’d rather be with my horses that here, stinking of gore, but that is not our lot, I fear. Wear the royal purple blood-robe, my friend, and remember its colour comes not just from the wounds of your enemies but from your own blood.”

  The two youths walked down to the water’s edge. The fallen of the warband lay in rows, curled into foetal position by their fellows, their sightless eyes turned, as was tradition, toward the rising Sun in the East.. There would be no barrow-burial for them, nor cremation with urn-burial, for women were the ones who moulded containers for the ashes of the dead, and they were far away. No, the fallen would be burned, and their ashes given to the waters, the air and the earth.

  “Gather the wood,” Ardhu commanded, and Ba-lin, Bal-ahn, Betu’or and others went out into the darkness and came back bearing as much dried kindling as they could find. They stacked it around their fallen comrades and packed the crevices with chunks of dried moss and lichen. When the pile was heaped high, Ardhu used his flint-strike-a-light to kindle a torch. He thrust the brand into the driest part of the pyre and the flames leapt up, twisting and turning, illuminating the faces of the living and giving the false glow of life to the faces of the dead.

  “There is no time to linger and mourn,” Ardhu said as the flames spiralled. “The kings of the North are coming… We have no time for grief!”

  Leaving the pyre burning brightly in the night, the warband of Ardhu the Stone Lord rode on toward the gathering forces of Urienz and Loth.

  *****

  The warriors made camp in a little valley of pleasant aspect, with a winding stream and rocky ground scattered with rowan trees. The valley lips were high and ridged, making it an ideal place to pitch camp in safety, for it would be easy to spot any unwelcome visitor silhouetted against the backdrop of the vast, open sky.

  “We’ll rest here for a few days,” said Ardhu. “Get some decent food into us, if the hunt is good, and tend our wounds. Ba-lin, Bal-ahn, you scout ahead and see what you can find out about the movements of Loth and Urienz and their followers.”

  The band set about making camp, some throwing up temporary shelters while others took their bows and headed into the deeply-wooded valley-side to hunt for game. Ba-lin and Bal-ahn, like two eager pups, grabbed their bows, and went bounding up and over the lip of the vale, their war-whoops echoing through empty spaces broken only by the cries of hawks and
other passing birds until that hour.

  Ardhu pulled off his ragged, bloody tunic, freeing himself at last of the sight and smell of bloodshed. He yanked on a long, baggy, yellow-brown kirtle his men had looted from one of the sea-raider’s troves; it hung on him almost like a woman’s dress, and he snorted in derision, and pulled his belt tightly around his waist, cinching the garment up an inch or two. Hah…in his eyes it looked fair fit for a girl, but at least it was clean! Thrusting Carnwennan into the top of his felt-lined leggings, he walked away from the camp and followed the stream, seeking a place where he might bathe and sit away from the noise and clamour of the others for a while.

  Gradually he noticed the stream widening, fanning out toward a line of gnarled trees that ran up to a wall of grey, slate cliffs. The cliff tops were stark, ridged with fangs of wind-battered stone round which the wind made eerie moans. Above this piteous keening he could hear the rush of swift-flowing currents, and a churning roar, like a giant’s grinding teeth, as that water poured into an unseen basin.

  “A waterfall,” murmured Art, picking up speed as his curiosity deepened. He had never seen water falling from height before; Abona ran smooth and deep, save for a few eddies round the weir when the river was full after winter storms. But Merlin, whose ancestral lands had held such wonders, had told him of the white foaming hair of the water-spirits that fell over the bones of the land, and the deep green tears they shed into the fathomless pools below them.

  Ideal places for mortal men to wash away the cares of the world…

  Hastily he entered the trees, splashing in the stream’s shallows, savouring the coolness on his bruised and blistered feet. Sunlight dappled a carpet of deep, drenched moss and flickered on the little crests of water that played round his ankles and slapped the slime-streaked boulders in the swell.

  The trees suddenly parted and there before him reared the falls: a frothing spout of water that jetted over a tongue of dark green stone before falling, ringed by rainbows, into a pool where bubbles broke over pebbles worn into fantastic shapes by the ceaseless pounding of the torrent.