Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge) by J.P. Reedman

Author:J.P. Reedman [Reedman, J.P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mirador Publishing
Published: 2012-10-24T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Welcome, Lord Ardhu, Terrible head, chief of Khor Ghor and the West.”

An old man, his beard white frizz and his rheumy eyes the colour of rain-wet slate, walked up to Art and bowed deeply. He wore a checked tunic with a sash tied over one shoulder; the dagger at his belt was of an ancient type with a handle of horn, and he wore an ancestral wristguard as a bracelet, its red stone pierced by three great studs of gold. “You may remember me from Marthodunu. I supported your cause.”

Ardhu nodded. “I remember. I wish we could have met here in happier circumstances. Your stronghold intrigues me; it should hold out many foes.”

“I pray you are right, young lord.” A shadow passed over Ludegran’s gaunt face. “Foe-men are on the march. I see Prince An’kelet has met with you already; I trust he has told you of Loth’s treachery, and of the threats he has made against my people. And against you too, of course. He resents that he could not lift the stone and take the kingly blade.”

“Yes, I know about Loth, and his twisted brother,” said Ardhu. “We will deal with them, and if the spirits will it, few if any of their men will return to their unfriendly, wind-blasted homeland! Do you have any news on their movements?”

“Nothing as yet. I have scouts in the villages along the coast, ready to send warnings when they arrive. But come, you look weary; news has come from the West that you have already been victorious in many battles. You will eat and drink with me and mine, and we will make a fitting reception for your brave heroes.”

Chief Ludegran led Ardhu towards a massive roundhouse that stood in the shadow of the fort’s retaining wall. Torches lit a path to its door, and the Westering Sun turned the thatching of its sloped roof to flame. Carved household deities with eyes of flint capered at the threshold, and a bull’s skull loomed above the door-lintel, horns poking the sky.

Following Ludegran, Ardhu entered the smoky darkness of the house. For a rural chieftain away from main trade routes, Ludegran lived in moderate opulence. Furs of bear, wildcats and beavers hung on the walls, making the room warm and cosy. Woven pennants bearing blue and red designs—the symbols of kingly clans—hung between the furs. Skulls of boar and horse lined the roof beams, and several human skulls, either enemies or Ancestors, hung suspended over the deep fire-pit, which was tended by ash-smeared women who continuously poked and prodded, and fed the flames with logs of ash and oak. At the back of the house, several screened off areas marked the sleeping compartments of the highborn, their floors strewn with rushes and mounds of goatskins.

An’kelet, who had followed Ludegran and Ardhu into the roundhouse, was peering around. “My lord Ludegran, where is your fair treasure, who brings joy to us all?”

Ludegran smiled. “When strangers are at the gate, I hide her away—as any man would do with such a lady of value.

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