She was older than Hwalchmai, but good to look upon, not toothless or sagging from bearing children year after year. Straight nut-brown hair hung to her waist and her wide eyes were earth-hued. Translucent skin made her eyes appear even darker, and freckles dotted her small nose like flecks of gold. She was dressed all in green, with a red sash tied about her waist.
Green. He shuddered suddenly, and his heart started to pound.
The woman rose and approached him. She held out a sprig of mistletoe, a symbol of peace. “You, young warrior, are the one my husband has been waiting for,” she said. “The youth who serves Ardhu, High-King.”
Hwalchmai nodded. “If your husband is the green warrior who comes and goes like a being from Otherness, then yes, I am the one who swore to come to him.”
She smiled. “So formal. Please, be at peace. I have no quarrel with you. See! I have brought the sacred mistletoe, used in treaties between warring chiefs. Let us give each other the kiss of peace, and then, in trust, we will go back to my husband’s domain at Lud’s Hole.”
Hwalchmai dismounted, and the lady approached him. “What is your name?” he asked. She was tall for a woman, close to his height, and she smelt of the greenwood, fresh and woody, underlaid by slightly acrid tang. He noticed why as he saw that her necklace, which he had first thought was made of coloured beads, was really a string of poisonous, inedible holly-berries. They oozed, white and yellow.
“You may call me Rhagnell,” the woman said, and she kissed him soundly on both cheeks. He was all too aware of the proximity of her, the warmth that flowed from her supple frame.
She smiled and held out her hand to him. He marvelled at it, soft and white as if she had never worked in the field or skinned a beast for the pot. “Come, Hwalchmai of the court of Ardhu Pendraec. Come and face your fate, whatever it might be.”
*****
“Where, by the Sun, is Hwalchmai?” An’kelet whirled in circles in the mist, sure of nothing except that Ardhu was near him, a darker spot in the sombre sheet of greyness. “He was here one moment….”
“And gone the next.” Ardhu’s face loomed out of the fog, pallid but with eyes on fire. “There is magic here, An’kelet; I’d stake my life on it. Merlin can conjure such mists—he did once so that my father could carry off my mother—and I am sure he is not the only magic-user who has the skill.”
“What shall we do, Art?” Ka’hai broke through the fog-bank, brow furrowed with worry and nose red and dripping. “We can’t see a thing! We could run right into a hedge of daggers for all we’d know.”
“We must move forward,” said An’kelet. “If there is someone beyond this mist who has no love of us, they will surely try and hem us in at the valley’s exposed heart, attacking from all sides.”
“But which way to get back out?” Ka’hai scraped his work-roughened hands through his damp hair, his face red with frustration. “Should we retreat? Going back up will be difficult, the shale is loose.”
“Forward—and on foot.” Ardhu swung off Lamrai’s back. “If we ride about in the fog, the horses might slip and fall. We cannot afford to lose steeds or men in such a manner.”
The warband slowly dismounted and Ardhu began to lead the party across the valley floor, over the weather-washed rocks and twisting roots. All conversation died away, sucked into the swirling fog; the atmosphere seemed oppressive, unnatural, and surreal. The hounds, sensing something was amiss, whimpered and hugged the heels of their masters’ horses.
Suddenly they saw the cave, gaping like a monstrous mouth in the slate strewn valley side. A rust-hued stalactite hung down from the centre of its roof, the fang of some earth-giant ready to gnash the unwary, while evil humours drifted from its depths, reaching into their nostrils and making them gag.
“Pah!” spat Bohrs. “It reeks of death here. This must be a burial place!”
“Or a place of sacrifice,” said An'kelet solemnly.
As they drew closer to the cavern they could see that the place was indeed some kind of hideous shrine, though what spirit demanded such dark worship they did not know. Seven stumpy stones marched across the cave-mouth, forming a barrier against the profane world, and on them rested a line of tiny skulls—the crania of children. More children’s skulls could be seen in the gloomy cave interior, some stuck in natural fissures in the stone, others teetering on rotting poles. Lit tallow-cups illuminated the sad, bony faces.
“Truly this is a place of great darkness and despair,” Ardhu muttered hoarsely. “Surely this must be the cursed valley mentioned by Merlin, and this cave the abode of the Black Witch daughter of White Witch.”
An’kelet stared at the forbidding cave-mouth, face twisted with revulsion. “I think no other place is so accursed in all Prydn, my friend.”
At that moment a screech sounded within the cavern, a horrible, throaty sound that echoed on the dank, moss-furred stones. A torch flared, and a wretched, hideous figure shambled into view. It was a woman, old beyond any the warriors had ever seen, her back humped and her left leg dragging from some paralysing malady. Her face resembled a skull, gaunt and taut-skinned, the mouth open and yawing, foul with ulcerations that had eaten away one side of her lip and exposed the gnarled stumps of her teeth. Her eyes were red and rheumy, their unnatural colour made more striking by the blue face-paint she wore. A third eye was drawn in ochre on the centre of her forehead. Stinking rags fluttered around her like malodorous wings; they were dun-coloured and reeking…and looked suspiciously like strips of desiccated skin.
“I am Ahn-is, the Black Witch!” she cried, “servant of Kayagh, Old Woman of Gloominess, the Hag of Winter. Why have you come to my valley, you men of bow and blade? Have you brought an offering for my shrine?” She grabbed one of the skulls from its plinth and cradled it as she would a living child. “Long has it been since the little ones were fed to the Moon, under the wings of Owl-face, the Great Watcher with her wide open eyes! And so the land has diminished, the Old One grows angry, her winters grow wilder. Her Sun raises his head less freely; soon, he may remain in the dark underworld, defeated, and all the wailing of priests in Khor Ghor will not bring His Light to the world!”
“Blasphemer!” cried out Ka’hai from his position behind Ardhu and An’kelet. “You think the works of great priests like the Merlin of Prydn are less than the bloody sacrifices committed by a mad old hag!”
The Black Witch pointed a bony, crooked finger in his direction. “You mock me and recoil in horror, big ugly man, but do your deny your own Ancestors gave the best of their babes to the Moon, and that in those days the folk of our land were in the height of our strength and power?”
The warriors stirred uneasily. Many lives were given to the spirits in the Old Times, to encourage the Sun and make the crops grow, and please old Mother Moon with her bleak skull-eyes. The priests said that if the brightest and best were given to the Ancestors, the ancients would be pleased and ensure fine weather and fine harvests. These practices had dwindled over the years, with offerings of sheep and cattle being given in place of human flesh. Only in rare occasions, when there was famine or plague or war, would it be deemed necessary for the Great Sacrifice.
The hag hobbled forward, leering horribly. “You will fail, all of you. The land cries for your blood. It may not be given on an altar, but that sacrifice will you make.”
One of the lower ranks of warriors, Nerthac, gave a shout and swung his horn-fitted dagger at the crone’s midriff. A terrible shriek left her tumour-swollen lips and she leapt upon him like some grotesque, hopping spider, tearing at his face and throat with her twisted nails, snapping at his exposed flesh with rank green teeth.
Nerthac fell back, screaming, with the hag on top of him. Nerthac’s friend, Cacamuri, rushed forward and tried to seize Ahn-is by her matted hair, but she turned on him with startling agility and grabbed his own long braids, bouncing his skull off the valley floor until the blood rushed from lips and nose.
“Do not underestimate me!” cried Ahn-is.
“I am She who is in every Shadow, who guides the fatal arrow to its target, who judges the fatal blow. See me and fear me, men of the West! I will have what has long been due to me, blood and honour.”
The men were beginning to waver. Other men they would have attacked and hewed at until either they or their opponents were slain. But this creature, frenzied and hideous…they did not know how to react. She was a woman, but not just any woman; a priestess certainly, and maybe more. It might bring the wrath of the Ancestors if she was killed—a punishment of blighted crops and empty cradles. The risk was too great.
Ardhu saw the paling faces, hands reaching to clasp talismans, lips moving in silent prayer. Adrenaline pumped through his body. He had to act quickly, or the lines would break and the warband would break asunder, to become lost in the sorcerous mist in the valley.
Drawing Carnwennan in a flash of light, he suddenly urged Lamrai forward and hurled the dagger at the Black Witch daughter of White Witch. The blade took the crone in the throat, burying itself deeply. She stumbled back, releasing Cacamuri, who crawled away, moaning and clutching his shattered nose. Hands fluttering, Ahn-is collapsed against the stone stumps at the mouth of the cave, knocking over skulls and tallow cups. The flames from the cups caught her skirts of dry skin and they began to smoulder, releasing an awful reek that turned the contents of one’s stomach to bile.
Ardhu threw Lamrai’s reins to An’kelet, and leaping from the saddle raced towards the thrashing figure of Ahn-is. He grabbed her hair and dragged her up, plucking his dagger from her flesh with his free hand. “Whatever you are, it is time for you to meet your gods,” he said. “You have been too long living in your past. You will seal this place of dread with one final sacrifice—yours.”
The witch grinned at him, light already dimming in her eyes. Blood bubbled on her lips as she grated, “So be it, it is as the Owl-faced one decrees. One cannot live till Eventide whom the Old One has touched at dawn! Remember this well, man. I can see Her behind your shoulder, looking with her wide-spiralled eyes. The land cries out for mighty sacrifice, and my old flesh will not suffice.”
A shiver went up Ardhu’s spine at all this talk of death and the ancient spirit-mother, whose plaque he knew so well on one of the five trilithons inside Khor Ghor. All men met her, eventually, for that is the fate of men, but it seemed that the hag was cursing him, bringing evil in where there was none before.
“Be still, you monster. If ever you served this land’s good, it was long ago, and now you are nothing but a blight.” He brought Carnwennan down again, glittering in the fog, and clove the witch’s skull near in twain with the might of his blow.
The fear that had taken many of his men evaporated. They circled back round and crowded into the cave, casting down the pitiful skeletal remains in every nook and cranny, turning over the witch’s big bronze cauldron and sending its rank, gelatinous contents spilling across the cave floor. The liquid mingled with Ahn-is’s blood and a hissing went up like a thousand serpents.
At the back of the cave, Ardhu came across the Black Witch’s sacrificial altar, a block of sandstone with a natural dip in the top. Livid stains marred its surface, and shrivelled offerings he did not want to begin to think about lay scattered at the base. On top, in the hollow, lay an ancient bronze razor, green with age, the surface decorated by ancient patterns. Old as it was, the blade was honed to sharpness; its edge winked wickedly in the dim light.
Carefully Ardhu picked it up and held it out to show his men. “The Razor of the Black Witch. Surely this will be the tool to shear the bristles of T’orc …though an evil thing it seems.”
An’kelet gazed toward the entrance of the unwholesome cave. “It is—so let us fare forth and use it, then break it to make it dead. We must waste no more time; the mist is lifting.”
Sure enough rags of fog were sailing by, shredded on a rising breeze. Feeble sunlight played off the pointed white stones that littered the bleak valley.
Ardhu grinned and ran out into the burgeoning sunlight, swinging lithely onto Lamrai’s back. “Come, warriors of the West, raise your bows and keep your hands close to dagger-hilts!” he cried. “We go forward now to finish the task that has been laid upon us—to slay the boar from the North that plagues our land!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A hard ride of several days brought Hwalchmai to Lud’s hole, the abode of the Green Rider and of Rhagnell, his wife. It stood in an area of ancient woodland, with a row of great natural rocks rising up behind it like a row of black fingers clutching at the skies. Clouds scudded over their tips, dappling their flanks with light and shadow, making the landscape truly look like the abode of gods and giants.
Lud’s hole itself lay in a slight dip surrounded by dark trees. Serrated rocks stuck up, the bones of a fallen god, forming a natural barrier. At one end, the boulders gaped away revealing a dark cleft that plummeted straight down into the earth. Above the lightless entrance hung great wreaths of mistletoe and holly.
Rhagnell dismounted and beckoned for Hwalchmai to do the same. She led the horses to a ramshackle pen beside the cavern and hastily fed and watered them. Then she approached Hwalchmai, her brown eyes solemn, her long straight hair swinging in the breeze. “Do you still dare to set your head on my husband’s block?” she asked.
“I am a man of my word,” he said resolutely.
Rhagnell went to the cave mouth, beckoning for Hwalchmai to follow. The entrance was dark and gloomy, lit only by small flickering pots of tallow in crevices on the walls. Incense-cups were billowing, filling the air with the exotic scents…but they did not hide the underlying reek, sweet and sickly, of decay. Of rotten flesh.
“What is that smell?” Hwalchmai grimaced, raising a hand to his mouth.
Rhagnell’s lips turned up at the corner. “Can you not guess? It comes from the others who have played—and lost—the beheading game.” She took one of the tallow cups from its niche on the wall and held it aloft. On a little ledge near the roofline sat a dozen human heads, preserved by drying or by rubbing them with unguents and oils. Their eyes were gone but had been replaced by coloured stones; their skin was like tanned leather, brown and ropy.
Hwalchmai winced and glanced away, his hand instinctively going to his dagger.
A flight of stairs descended from this gallery of death, leading to another antechamber. Rhagnell went down them, solemn, stately, and Hwalchmai followed, cautious, unsure of what he would find.
When the young warrior reached the room below, he was amazed at how welcoming it seemed. A fire roared in a hearth, the smoke funnelling through a channel in the rock to reach the outside. The floor was strewn with sweet rushes, and herbs hung from above in woven nets, their fragrance, mingling with the scent of the incense cups, blotting out the reek of the preserved heads. A bench ran along one wall, and at the end of it sat the Green Man himself.
He was not in full ceremonial dress, although his shaggy robe was dyed green. He wore no verdant stain on his face and Hwalchmai could now see that he was old, over forty summers by the deep lines round his eyes and the grey streaks in his beard. So, he was not a man even in his prime…and yet he showed no sign of weakness, his legs sturdy as tree-trunks, his belly broad, and his shoulders wide and straining against the material of his tunic. He did not glance up as Rhagnell and Hwalchmai entered the chamber, but toyed with something that lay across his knees, hidden by the fall of his clothing and the shadows in the cave.
He looked up as Hwalchmai drew close, and he grinned. “So you have come, boy! Good, I need some sport to pass the winter. See…I have prepared for your coming!” He lifted the object on his lap, and Hwalchmai saw that it was his magic double-bladed axe. The Green Man had been honing it, sharpening the blade with a whetstone until its edge shone like cold fire.
Hwalchmai shuddered.
The Green Man hauled himself to his feet. He was a big man, taller than most in Albu, perhaps due to some ancestry from the Men of the Ice Seas, who were often tall as trees, or s
o it was said. “Don’t look so stricken, lad,” he rumbled, still grinning in his unsettling way. His teeth, for a man his age, were very white and even, with long canines that gave him a wolfish demeanour. “I’m not going to eat you. Indeed, I am going to give you a fair chance. I will not ask you to lay your head on the block tonight—it is not the auspicious time, the act must be done when the Moon is dark. That time will be in three days, and until then you will be fed and given a soft bed and well taken care of by Rhagnell. You can even leave if you wish…that’s if you could bear the shame of such cowardice. What is your name, boy?”
Hwalchmai held his head high. “I am Hwalchmai, Hawk of the Plain, cousin to Ardhu, chieftain of Prydn, and of the High-clan of Belerion.”
“A noble heritage. I would be glad to have your head decorate my hall. I am called Bresalak…the Contentious.”
“A fitting name for you, for so you are,” murmured Hwalchmai.
Bresalak ignored his comment. “Tell me, Hwalchmai of the high-clan of Belerion… what gift did my wife Rhagnell give you today?”
Hwalchmai stirred uneasily, ill at ease with this unexpected line of questioning. “Nothing that would bring you dishonour.”
“Did I imply that I thought it would?” Bresalak roared with laughter and smote his knees with a hand. “By the gods, you are a strange fellow, Hwalchmai. But come, I ask a question. Show me what Rhagnell gave you.”
“Do as he bids…” Rhagnell, standing near his shoulder, pushed him forward. "He will know if you lie; he can read men’s truth.”
Grimly, Hwalchmai leaned toward the green warrior and gave him the kiss of peace on his cheek. “This token of peace was the gift of the lady,” he said. “I trust you will honour it…until the time when the beheading game must take place.”
Bresalak laughed again, but there was a strange, strained note in his laughter. “Of course. Now I must go hunting in the woods and leave you here in my domain. Rhagnell will feed you and show you to your sleeping quarters. We will speak again tomorrow. Have a restful night, lord Hwalchmai.”
Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge) Page 29
