Stonehenge

by Bernard Cornwell

  Dancers escorted the visitors from Sarmennyn to some new huts specially raised for the meeting of the tribes and beyond the huts, on the grassland to the north of the settlement, there was a throng of shelters for the folk who had come to witness the meeting. There were jugglers in the crowd and men who had tame wild beasts: wolves, pine martens and a young bear. A larger bear, a great old male with a scarred pelt and claws the color of scorched wood, was imprisoned in a wooden pen and Stakis promised that when Lengar’s men arrived he would arrange a fight between the bear and his best dogs. A score of female slaves waited in the huts. “They are yours,” Stakis said, “yours to enjoy.”

  Lengar arrived that evening. Drums announced his coming and the whole crowd walked eastward to greet his procession. Six women dancers came first, all naked to the waist and sweeping the ground with ash branches, while behind them came a dozen naked priests, their skin whitened by chalk and their heads crowned with antlers. Neel, whom Saban remembered as the youngest of Ratharryn’s priests, now wore the large antlers denoting he was the high priest.

  Behind the priests came a score of warriors and it was those men who caused the crowd to gasp for, despite the day’s heat, they wore cloaks made from fox pelts and high-crowned fox fur hats plumed with swan’s feathers. They had bronze-headed spears and bronze swords and all looked alike, which made them oddly formidable.

  And in their midst were Ratharryn’s warlords, their battle captains, led by their renowned chief. Lengar was heavier and full-bearded now, so that he looked like his father, but his horned eyes were as sharp and cunning as ever. He wore his leather tunic on which the bronze plates gleamed, while on his head was a bronze helm like none Saban had ever seen before. He smiled slyly when he saw Saban, then walked on to greet Stakis. Drewenna’s dancers circled the newcomers, kicking up a fine dust with their feet. Behind the warriors came a score of slaves, some bearing heavy sacks that Saban guessed must contain gifts for Stakis.

  Lengar crossed to Saban when the greetings were done. “My little brother,” he said, “no longer a slave.”

  “No thanks to you,” Saban said. He had neither embraced nor kissed his brother; he had not even offered his hand, but Lengar did not seem to expect a fond greeting.

  “It is thanks to me, Saban, that you live at all,” Lengar said. Then he shrugged: “But we can be friends now. Your wife is here?”

  “She could not travel.”

  Lengar’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

  “She is pregnant,” Saban lied.

  “So? She loses a pup and you have the pleasure of whelping another on her.” Lengar scowled. “I hear she is beautiful.”

  “So men say.”

  “You should have brought her. I ordered you to, didn’t I? Have you forgotten I am your chief?” His anger was rising, but he shook his head as though forcing it down. “Your woman can wait for another time,” he said, then tapped the blue tattoo on Saban’s bare chest. “Only one killing scar, little brother? And only one son, I hear? I have seven that I acknowledge, but there are plenty of others.” He plucked Saban’s tunic, guiding him toward the huts set aside for Ratharryn’s people. “This temple,” he asked in a low voice, “is it really a war temple?”

  “It is Sarmennyn’s great war temple,” Saban said. “Their secret temple.”

  Lengar seemed impressed. “And it will bring us victory?”

  “It will make you the greatest warlord of all time,” Saban said.

  Lengar looked pleased. “And what will Sarmennyn’s folk do if I take their temple and keep their gold?”

  “They might do nothing,” Saban said, “but Slaol will doubtless punish you.”

  “Punish me!” Lengar bridled, stepping away. “You sound like Camaban! Where is he?”

  “Gone to look at the goddess’s shrine.” Saban nodded toward the high wooden palisade that surrounded the settlement and the goddess’s spring, and when he turned back he saw that Jegar was approaching.

  Saban was astonished at the upwelling of hatred he felt at the sight of Jegar and for an instant all the ancient misery about Derrewyn swamped him. It must have shown on his face, for Lengar looked pleased at his reaction. “You do remember Jegar, little brother?” he asked.

  “I remember him,” Saban said, staring into the eyes of his enemy. Jegar was wealthy now, for he was swathed in a cloak of fine otter fur and had a gold chain about his neck and a dozen gold rings on his fingers, but the fingers of his right hand, Saban saw, were still curled uselessly. His hair was streaked with red ochre and his beard was plaited.

  “Only one killing scar, Saban?” Jegar said scornfully.

  “I could have another if I chose,” Saban said defiantly.

  “One more!” Jegar pretended to be impressed, then shrugged off the otter cloak to reveal a chest smothered in tattoos. Each blue scar was a row of dots hammered into the skin with a bone comb. “Every scar is a man’s spirit,” Jegar boasted, “and every dot of every scar is a woman on her back.” He placed a finger against one blue mark. “And I remember that woman well. She fought! She screamed!” He looked slyly at Saban. “Do you remember her?” Saban said nothing and Jegar smiled. “And as she wept afterward, she promised me that you would have your revenge.”

  “I keep promises made on my behalf,” Saban said stiffly.

  Jegar whooped with laughter and Lengar punched Saban softly in the chest. “You will leave Jegar alone,” he said, “for tomorrow he will speak for me.” He gestured toward the big cleared space, marked by a ring of slender wooden poles, where the negotiations between the three tribes would take place.

  “You won’t speak for yourself?” Saban asked, shocked.

  “They tell me there is a bull aurochs in the forest north of here,” Lengar said carelessly, “and I have a mind to hunt it. Jegar knows what to tell Stakis.”

  “Stakis will be insulted,” Saban protested.

  “Good. He is Drewenna, and I am Ratharryn. He deserves insult.” Lengar began to walk away, then turned back. “I am sorry you did not bring your woman, Saban. I would have liked to discover if she is as beautiful as everyone says.”

  “I am sure she is,” Jegar said, challenging Saban. “Your last one was beautiful. Did you know she is now a sorceress in Cathallo? She makes spells against us, but you see that we both still live. And both live well.” He paused. “I look forward to meeting your woman, Saban.” He smiled, then walked after Lengar, both men laughing.

  The bear killed seven dogs, then died itself. Three men were murdered in fights caused by the fierce liquor that Stakis provided and the priests, fearing blood feuds, killed their killers, and then night fell and Lahanna looked down from a star-bright sky as, one by one, the drunken warriors slept and peace came to the valley.

  Camaban did not go to the tribal meeting. Instead he sequestered himself with Neel, the new high priest at Ratharryn, and instructed him how the temple was to be built. Camaban had brought slivers of wood, shaped by Saban to represent the stones, and he stuck them in the soil to build the double ring with its entrance corridor that would face toward the place where the midsummer sun rose. “In Sarmennyn the doors of the sun faced the setting sun,” Camaban explained, “but in Ratharryn they must face its rising.”

  “Why?” Neel asked.

  “Because we wish to greet the sun, not say farewell.”

  Neel stared at the small timber chips. “Why don’t you come and build it for us?” he asked petulantly. He was uncomfortable with Camaban, for he remembered him as a crippled child, pathetic and filthy, and Neel could not reconcile that memory with the confident sorcerer who now gave him orders. “I’m not a builder,” he complained.

  “You are a toad,” Camaban said, “who tells my brother what he wants to hear instead of what the gods really say, but if you do as I tell you then the gods will endure your stench. And why should I come to Ratharryn? You have builders enough without wasting my time.” Camaban wanted to visit the land across the western sea for he had heard
that their priests and sorcerers knew things that were still hidden to folk on the mainland, and he was ever bored by the practical business of moving or raising stones. “It won’t be difficult to build,” he claimed, and he showed Neel how the stones were to be planted according to height: the tallest by the gates of the sun and the smallest on the opposite side. Then he produced a leather bag containing a long string of sinew. “Look after that,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “The temple’s measurement. Secure the sinew at the center of the Old Temple, then make a circle with the other end. That circle marks the outer edge of the outer ring of stone. The inner ring is one pace inside.”

  Neel nodded. “What do we do with the present temple?”

  “Leave it,” Camaban said dismissively. “It does no harm.” Then he made Neel repeat all his instructions, and then repeat them all again, for he wanted to know that the new temple would be built exactly as it had been made in the high hanging valley in Sarmennyn.

  As Camaban and Neel talked the three tribes met. Lengar, as he had promised, went hunting, taking a dozen men, some slaves and a score of dogs, and so it was Jegar, swathed in his thick otter skin cloak despite the day’s heat, who brought Ratharryn’s men to the meeting place.

  Gifts were exchanged. Stakis was generous with his guests, and no wonder, for he intended to exact a high price for the privilege of moving Sarmennyn’s stones across his territory. He heaped Kereval with fleeces, pelts, flints, pots and a bag of precious amber. He gave him combs, pins and a fine axe with a polished head of greenish stone, and in return he received a turtle shell, two bronze axes, eight decorated pots of liquor and a necklace of pointed teeth that had come from a strange sea creature.

  Stakis presented Jegar with exactly the same gifts he had given to Kereval, and if he was offended that it was Jegar who received them instead of Lengar, he hid his anger. When his gifts were given, and after Jegar had made a flowery speech of thanks, Stakis resumed his seat at the southern side of the circle and two of Ratharryn’s warriors carried Lengar’s gifts to Drewenna’s new chief. They brought the offerings on a willow-plaited hurdle covered with a hide, and they placed the hurdle in front of Stakis then removed the leather cover to reveal a whole basket of bronze spearheads. Then they fetched a second hurdle and this, when it was uncovered, carried a bronze sword, a bundle of bows and more than a dozen stone axes. The watching men were impressed, for Lengar’s gifts far outweighed anyone’s expectations, but they were still not all given for the two warriors now carried a third hurdle which proved to hold six bronze axes, two aurochs horns and a pile of badger pelts and wolf furs. Stakis was delighted, especially by the largest of the aurochs horns that he took onto his lap, then watched, wide-eyed, as a fourth hurdle, even heavier than the others, was brought from Lengar’s huts. This last hurdle, though, was put on the ground in front of Jegar and its hide cover remained in place, suggesting that the final gift would only be given when Stakis yielded what Ratharryn wanted.

  Saban thought that for a man who had been reluctant to give gifts his brother had been remarkably generous. Scathel, for once, looked pleased – indeed he was beaming, for how could the new chief of Drewenna now obstruct the passage of the stones? And the sooner the stones were in Ratharryn the sooner Erek’s gold would be returned to Sarmennyn. But Stakis, despite his gratitude for Lengar’s gifts, wanted more. He wanted Ratharryn’s help in hunting down the man who had been his rival for Drewenna’s chieftainship. Melak’s son was said to be an outcast in the woods, but he had taken three score of warriors with him, and those men constantly raided Stakis’s holdings. “Bring me Kellan’s head in a basket,” Stakis said, “and you may move every stone in Sarmennyn across my land.”

  Haragg sidled across to Jegar and urged him to accept the offer, but Jegar seemed confused. He wanted to know where Kellan was, exactly how many men he had and what were their weapons? And why could Stakis not hunt his rival down?

  Stakis explained that he had tried, but Kellan constantly retreated before him into southern Ratharryn. “If your men come westward,” he said, “and mine go eastward, we shall trap him.”

  It seemed a simple enough proposition, yet still Jegar worried at it. How could Stakis be certain that Kellan had not gone south and west to the people of Duran? Had Stakis talked with Duran’s chief?

  “Of course,” Stakis said, “and he has not seen Kellan.”

  “We have not seen him either,” Jegar claimed. “We could search for him, but if a man has no wish to be found, then the woods can hide him forever. My friend, Saban” – here he offered Saban a mocking smile – “wishes to move the stones soon. Maybe he can bring some this very summer! But if he must wait while we search every tree and beat every bush then the stones will never arrive. Besides, Kellan may be dead!”

  “He lives,” Stakis said. “But it is enough for me,” he conceded, “that you will agree to hunt Kellan down. Give me that promise, Jegar, and I will allow the stones through my territory.”

  “With no further payment?” Jegar asked, leaving the matter of Kellan undecided.

  “A man deserves payment for the movement of goods across his land,” Stakis said, turning to Sarmennyn’s emissaries. “You must pay me a piece of bronze sufficient to make one spearhead for every stone you bring into Drewenna, and for every ten stones you will pay me one further spearhead.”

  “We will give you a bronze spearhead for every ten stones,” Saban offered. He had no right to speak for Kereval, but he knew Stakis’s price was exorbitant. He translated his words to Sarmennyn’s chieftain, who nodded his approval.

  “How many stones are there?” Stakis asked.

  “Ten times seven,” Saban answered, “and two.”

  There were gasps from Drewenna’s men. They had thought that perhaps Sarmennyn was giving two or three dozen stones, but not twice that many. “I shall want a spearhead of bronze for every stone,” Stakis insisted.

  “Let me talk to Kereval,” Saban said, then leaned over to the chief and changed to the Outfolk tongue. “He wants too much.”

  “I will give him ten spearheads,” Kereval said, “no more.” He looked across the circle at the gifts. “He already has a basket of spearheads! Will all his men be armed with metal spears?”

  “For every ten stones,” Saban said to Stakis, “we shall give you one spearhead. No more.”

  Jegar was watching this altercation with amusement. Before Stakis could respond to Saban’s offer a horn sounded in the wooded hills just to the north of the meeting place. Stakis frowned at the noise, but Jegar smiled soothingly. “Lengar is hunting,” he explained.

  “No aurochs will be this close to Sul,” Stakis said, staring at the trees.

  “It has been driven, perhaps?” Jegar suggested. “As you wish us to drive Kellan onto your bronze spears?”

  “Which you will do?” Stakis asked eagerly. Just then the horn sounded a second time and Jegar leaned forward and plucked the hide cover from the fourth hurdle. This one did not have gifts, but weapons. Men always came to a meeting unarmed, but Ratharryn’s warriors now ran forward and picked up spears and bows and suddenly a host of spearmen were running from the trees and the first arrows were whipping overhead to fall among Stakis’s men.

  “Back!” Jegar shouted at Saban. “Back to your huts. We have no quarrel with Sarmennyn!” He had thrown off his cloak and Saban saw that a bronze sword was in his crippled right hand. It was lashed there with leather strips, explaining why he had sat so uncomfortably swathed in the otter skin cloak that had hidden the weapon. “Go back!” Jegar shouted.

  Lengar had not been hunting at all, but had met the rest of his spearmen in the forests north of Sul, and now he attacked the unarmed men of Drewenna, and with him was Kellan and his renegade warriors. Stakis had been betrayed, tricked and surprised, and now he would die.

  Saban ran to the huts with the rest of Sarmennyn’s unarmed warriors. He snatched up his bow and a quiver of arrows, but Kereval put a hand on
Saban’s arm. “This is not our fight,” the chief said.

  It was no fight at all, but a slaughter. Some of Stakis’s men had fled to the river where they tried to launch boats, but a group of Lengar’s archers assailed them from higher up the bank and those men only stopped loosing arrows when Ratharryn’s spearmen reached the river and killed the few survivors. Dogs howled, women screamed and the dying moaned. Stakis himself, with most of his followers, had fled toward the settlement of Sul with Jegar and Lengar hard on his heels. A few, very few, of Drewenna’s men ran toward their assailants, slipping between the attacking parties to reach the trees and when Lengar saw those men escaping he shouted at Jegar to hunt them down. Lengar then jumped, caught the top of the palisade that ringed the settlement and lithely hauled himself over. A flood of his spearmen struggled to follow, then one thought to split the palisade with an axe and yet more men widened the gap and flooded through to the thatched huts surrounding the sacred spring. Kellan and his men joined the slaughter inside the broken wall.

  The men from Sarmennyn watched uneasily from their huts where Camaban had joined them. “It is Lengar’s business,” he said, “not ours. Lengar has no quarrel with Sarmennyn.”

  “It’s shameful,” Saban said angrily. He could hear dying men calling on their gods, he could see women weeping over the dead and the river swirling with streamers of blood. Some of the attackers were dancing in glee while others stood guard over the gifts that Jegar had so treacherously given to Stakis. “It’s shameful!” Saban said again.

  “If your folk break a truce,” Scathel said scornfully, “then it is not our concern, though it is to our benefit. Kellan will doubtless let us carry stones through his land without any payment at all.”

  Jegar had vanished into the trees with a dozen spearmen, pursuing the last of Drewenna’s fugitives. Saban remembered the promise Derrewyn had made on his behalf and he remembered his own oaths of vengeance and so he picked up a spear. “What are you doing?” Lewydd challenged him and, when Saban tried to pull away, Lewydd gripped his arm. “It is not your fight,” Lewydd insisted.