**FREE** MOON LORD Excerpt

A shadow fell over the threshold, stretching inward over the great stone that was the heart of the house. Maheloas was there, a fox skull bound in the upper section of his hair and its bright pelt falling across his shoulders. Skulls of cranes and swans dangled from his cloak, making an ominous clack and clatter. In his hand he carried a great, antiquated crook made of stone, its front wreathed in jagged patterns. “Come, my guests.” He gestured with his thin, knotted hand. “You will eat with us and we will speak of the quest you have come upon and what you desire.”

   He led Ardhu and his warriors across the green vista outside the great Ancestor tomb. Even in broad daylight it was a magical place, all its features now clearly revealed. The grassland swept away toward the river, dropping in stepped terraces toward the foaming, frothing cauldron that was the heart of Boann, River of the White Cow. Birch trees tossed their branches on the far riverbank, silver dancers amidst more solemn alder and magic hazel, so beloved of shamans for their wands. Deer flitted amidst the trees, passing like shadows as they migrated towards the distant peak of Redmountain, the source of many streams and tributaries that merged their strength with the holy river.

     The group passed East toward the rising Sun, back toward the crematorial pit circle with its still-burning offerings. The vast entrance of the passage tomb came into view, clear now in the light of day, a place of power, of the spirits, of life and death. White quartz fronted the mound here, a wall that had buckled and slumped, fallen after uncounted nights of rain and wind and erosion. A huge stone blocked the way to the passage, an enormous prone block carved with art such as the men of Prydn had never seen—huge swirling spirals, locked together, looking to some like the orbs of the Watcher who protected the souls of Men, to others like a vast proud bull ready to charge, to yet others a vast sea with the waves curling and the bright stars that were the watching Ancestors above.

     Behind the portal-stone, above the dark womb-passage, was a stone box…the place where the beams of the Midwinter Sun would pierce the mound, lighting the holy of holies, drawing the spirits from the cremated ashes that lay in huge carved bowls in niches inside. Ardhu recognized the significance, even as he observed the box, for its purpose was similar to that of the Great Trilithon, which on the same day also framed the Sun, drawing its rays into the circle and bringing life to the spirits.

       Leaving the entrance of Spiralfort behind, the company circled the mound alongside its vast decorated kerbstones, partly hidden by the collapse of the heavy cairn material, which was already over a thousand years old.  In the East loomed the pit-circle with its many rings of posts, and by its entrance, guarded by the two flanking stones like grey needles, a small domed hut that they had not noticed last night amidst the flickering fires and the smoke of the cremated offerings.

    Maheloas guided them to the hut door. Inside, the beehive hut was dark and dank, the clay walls oozing moisture. Incense cups burned, the fragrance of herbs mixed with the ever present aroma of charred meat. Ivormyth knelt on the floor, her two attendants beside her. Her bowl stood before her knees, while the sceptre lay near her right hand. She had assumed a new robe, thin as mist, her flesh, painted with ochre, gleaming tantalisingly through the folds.

    Maheloas gestured for Ardhu and his band to be seated and they settled themselves on the floor. Ivormyth’s women rose and, as before, brought mead and bread and meat, which were consumed in silence. When the remnants of the meal were cleared away, Maheloas rose to his feet and gazed first at Ardhu then at each of his men in turn.

    “You have come many miles from Prydn to Ibherna to see the Golden Cup of Plenty, Blessed by the Good God, old master of all,” he said. “The Maimed King held it once but it passed from him when he became unclean and doomed. You wish to take it again, to bring hope and maybe more, for it is said all things of goodness flow from its depths. But not all may touch the Cup, and already once have hands not worthy enough held it, diminishing its power. Ardhu Pendraec, Stone Lord, you have already admitted the belief is not in you—you will not touch or bear the Cup of Gold. But of those who travel with you, your loyal companions, I cannot say.”

   The old man gestured to the warband. “Look upon what you see here before you…the Cauldron that is always Full, the Sceptre that a king bears, the Maiden that is the Land. Choose between them, warriors, and choose wisely. One may be He Who Sees Beyond to the true Nature of the Cup.”

    Bohrs pushed forward, ever eager, and grasped the bowl in his thick hands, lifting it above his head. “A full bowl of food and the full bellies of the people is always a good thing! Without food, where would we be? Dead!”

    The companions laughed, though Ardhu with unease. What if this game was played to deceive and the prize would be snatched away, with no real chance of winning it?

   Hwalchmai stepped forth next, reverently lifting the sceptre with its flashing pins of gold. “A peaceful land with a strong lord to rule over it is good land. When chiefs fall to warring, the land and its bounty is diminished.”

   Hwalchmai placed the sceptre back into its place and was about to sit back down at Ardhu’s side, when Mordraed shoved him aside, almost making him drop the holy relic in his hands. Mordraed’s eyes were hot as brands as he stared at Ivormyth, who sat head bowed, her hair pooling around her like black water. “It’s the girl, isn’t it?” he cried. “The other objects merely fool the greedy and the power-starved…the food bowl for Bohrs who dreams of naught but haunches of roast pig and beakers of beer, and the sceptre for Hwalchmai, a landless kinsman eternally basking in the glory of his betters! The girl is the key…She is Sovereignty, the Cup is her, and I will claim her here and now!” 

   Reaching down, he grasped Ivormyth’s slender wrist and yanked her to her feet, his expression one of triumph.

      Ivormyth glanced up, eyes flashing, and slapped him with full force across the face.

     “Bitch!” He dropped her arm and drew his dagger as Maheloas leapt up to pull Ivormyth away. Ardhu and Hwalchmai swung into action, grabbing Mordraed’s arms and pinioning them behind his back, while Bohrs ripped the knife from his hand and flung it upon the ground.

   “You dishonour me!” Mordraed screamed, incandescent with rage. “It was the true answer, the meaning of the Cup…but you have no intent of giving us the treasure, do you, Maheloas? Your savages probably want to cut out our hearts and give them to your god, Bloody Crescent!”

    “Enough!” Ardhu’s fist shot out, striking Mordraed in the mouth and drawing blood. The blow was strong enough to drive Mordraed to his knees, head reeling. “You will not insult our hosts. If you do not hold your tongue, I will give you to the spirits myself!”

    Maheloas walked across the hut and stared down at Mordraed. “You were wrong, boy. Wrong. As were the others. The Cup is bound with all you have seen, and yet none. Its true meaning remains locked from you, and none here is noble or pure enough to witness its brightness, the Sun bound in a Cup of Gold. I would ask you now to leave the Mansion of the Good God and his Son. Follow the river back to the shore, take ship and do not look back. We will not harm you if you agree to this, but if you do not go in peace, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

      “Wait!” It was Gal’havad who spoke now. Clambering to his feet, he faced the shaman. The light shining through the door at his back turned his hair into a halo of fiercest flame. His face was translucent pale, the face of one of the Everliving Ones who guarded the islands of the West. “I have not spoken yet. I beg you listen to me. I know the secret of the Cup of Gold.”

   Maheloas’s brows rose; his shrew gaze scanned the young, ardent face before him, lit by an inner light that was almost not of the world. “Speak.”

   “The mystery of the Cup is not in plenty, power or sovereignty. The secret is in here.” He laid his hand on his chest. “Its power is what is means to the man who holds it, who believes in its worth. It is nothing and everything.”

     Maheloas’s lips drew to narrow lines. “Who are you, boy, who speaks words of a priest but wears a warrior’s garb?”

    “I am Gal’havad, Hawk of Summer, prince of the Twilight.”

       A sigh slipped from Maheloas’s lips. Unexpectedly, he sank down on one knee and clasped Gal’havad’s hand in his own. “You are the one. Dark and light, youth and death, warrior and mystic. You have won the right to the Cup of Gold for your people.”

    Ardhu and his men stared, overjoyed at this sudden change in fortune, victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. Mordraed half-scrambled to his feet, snarling, and was slapped down to the ground again by Ardhu, who planted his heel upon his son’s wrist, pinning him to the spot.

   Ivormyth, with great dignity, collected the bowl and the sceptre. Gravely she bowed to Gal’havad and placed them into his hands. “These will you have, lord of the Golden Cup: the Bowl of Plenty, the Sceptre of Power…and I will also be yours if that is your wish.”

   “I wish it, lady,” he replied, blushing.

    Maheloas came between them and took their hands and clasped them together. “An alliance between our people. This is good. On the night of the third day the Moon is reborn and then will the Lord Gal’havad claim the Cup and all the other treasures he has won.”

     The warriors of Ardhu Pendraec rejoiced, and so did the people of God’s Peak, the Spiralfort of the Good Dag and his Son. People danced around the stone circle throughout the day and night, and beakers were filled, and drunk and smashed. Offerings were given in the pit circle and to the maiden of the Holy Chalice and her chosen one, Gal’havad, winner of the Cup of Gold. The folk of Ibherna came from all around, climbing up the terraced hillside from the river to gift them with fruit and wheat sheaves and to give Ivormyth ancestral gifts to take to her new home in Prydn, the Isle of the Mighty—barrel-shaped beads and schist plaques of jadeite, a miniature axehead pendant and two polished balls for fertility.

    Ardhu relaxed for the first time in many days. He drank from the same beaker as Maheloas, as they would soon be kin with the joining of his son and Maheloas’s daughter. He vaguely wondered how Fynavir would react when Gal’havad returned from his travels with a bride as well as the holy vessel; shocked no doubt, but perhaps since Ivormyth was of her own folk she would come to be glad.

    As Ardhu drank to the health of the couple and the renewing of Prydn, Mordraed sulked, sitting in the blue shadows of the mighty God’s Peak, his back against a slab of intricately carved stone. He had been made a fool by the riddles and games of Maheloas and his haughty daughter, and by his own father, who should have stood up for him and not treated him like some miscreant. As for Gal’havad…envy gnawed at Mordraed. He could scarcely believe it. A mere few months ago, his half-brother had been just a boy, not even accepted as a Man of the Tribe, and now he was some kind of hero and about to wed the woman Mordraed desired for himself…

   Cold snakes of fear writhed in his belly and suddenly he felt deathly ill. Gal’havad was becoming too powerful, too popular, despite his physical frailties, his shaking illness. It was time to act, time to make an end as he had sworn to do. He had been weak, and too merciful, sparing his half-brother too many times. It was time to do the will of Morigau, and to take the destiny he was owed.

   He rose, heart hammering, gazing toward the cult-house where Gal’havad was ensconced with the girl, receiving gifts from the tribesmen of Ibherna. This deed had to be done; it was what he had been trained for, what he was sworn to do. So why did he feel so sick and shaken and sad…somehow so appalled and yet so intent on Gal’havad’s death?

    “Am I falling ill?” He brushed his arm across his forehead. He did feel slightly hot. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. He did not understand this; he was never sick. But it would make no difference.

     The deed had to be done.

   When the Moon was reborn, Gal’havad would claim the Cup of Gold as Maheloas had decreed.

    When the Moon was reborn, Mordraed would be waiting.

     For he was the Dark Moon, eclipsing the light, son of a broken taboo. Fingers trembling, he touched the scar on his face where Morigau had marred him, marking him as the chosen one of her malevolent lunar spirits.

   In the time of the Dark Moon, death walked.

Over the last year I've shared a number of excerpts from both of my Stonehenge novels to give people an idea of my writing style and where I am coming from.
The books have been described as thoroughly immersive.
I like to pay attention to setting up the mood, with vivid descriptions of the landscape, the people, the clothes and artefacts that they wore.

No black and white here. The bad guys are doubting, torn by conscience. The good ones are never your goody two shoes, impeccable heroes who always win the day.

The drama builds up subtly in ways one rarely sees coming. A roller coaster of a ride through an ancient and familiar landscape, the Arthurian characters are identifiable in their proto forms, their motivations hopefully a little more "human" than in the often broken, incomplete legends.

Here is a story of a possible older reality to the legends of a man with a higher destiny, guided by forces seen and unseen, to unite a peoples, in a turbulent time of warfare, stone monuments, gods and ancestral spirits. Just as Robin Hood, Arthur is an archetype ; a solar hero, and a 'title' which was given to any number of important leaders. This could be why so many places lay claim to him.

One of the strongest, undoubtedly, is Southern England which is where I chose to base my story, but it's not entirely bound to that area. Book Two takes us into unfamiliar territory to the Fen Lands of Eastern Britain, to the mountains of South Wales, and the magical and mysterious Boyne Valley - and the chambered tombs of Newgrange, Knowth and Dowth. 

Thank you for coming to my Blog. I hope you enjoy this sample of my work and hope that it tempts you to purchasing. I love to receive feedback. If you have any thoughts, ideas you would like to share, please get in touch. Don't forget to leave feedback on Amazon's site if you have purchased. Believe me, it not only helps me to know to keep writing, but also informs other readers who wish to know if the book is for them. 

J.P.R