Stonehenge (32 page)

“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.

“It is my fight!” Saban said.

“It isn’t wise to pick a fight with wolves,” Camaban said.

“I made a promise,” Saban said and he threw Lewydd’s hand off his arm to run toward the woods. Lewydd picked up his own spear and followed.

Dead and dying men lay among the trees. Like all those who had
attended the meeting of the tribes, Stakis’s warriors had worn their finery and Jegar’s men were now stripping them of necklaces, amulets and clothes. They looked up in alarm as Saban and Lewydd appeared, but most recognized Saban and none feared Lewydd for the gray-tattooed Outfolk were not their enemy this day.

Saban climbed the hill, looking for Jegar, then heard a scream to his right and ran through the trees to see his enemy hacking with a sword at a dying man. The sword was strapped to Jegar’s maimed hand, but he still wielded it with sickening force. “Jegar!” Saban shouted, hefting his spear. It would have been easier to have loosed an arrow from the golden string of his bow, but that would have been the coward’s way. “Jegar!” he called again.

Jegar turned, his eyes bright with excitement, then he saw the hunting spear in Saban’s hand and it dawned on him that Saban was not an ally here, but a foe. At first he looked astonished, then he laughed. He stooped, picked up his own heavy war spear and straightened to face Saban with both weapons. “Sixty-three men have I slaughtered,” he said, “and some had more killing scars than I did.”

“I have killed two that I know of,” Saban said, “but now it will be three, and sixty-three spirits in the afterlife will be in my debt and Derrewyn will thank me.”

“Derrewyn!” Jegar said scornfully. “A whore. You’d die for a whore?” He suddenly ran at Saban, lunging with the spear, and laughed as Saban stepped clumsily aside. “Go home, Saban,” Jegar said, lowering his spear’s blade. “What pride could I take in killing a bullock like you?”