Men that moved like ghosts. There, then gone, and in silence.
‘Men in the woods?’ he spat, ‘probably cow-shaggers from the farms on a night off from their missus.’ Even he could hear the uncertainty in his voice. Jerral smirked at the comment all the same, though he seemed distracted. ‘This why you came bothering me tonight, eh?’ Artim asked, frowning at him.
‘Maybe, serj, maybe,’ Jerral muttered, clearly having drank a little too much, his speech a tad slurred. Better put the hipflask away, Artim thought to himself. Best the captain didn’t find out they had been drinking as well as shirking their duties under the serjeant’s watch.
‘Maybe I just wanted to get out of the rain and your foul-smelling old arse was already shitting the place up?’ Jerral went on.
‘Pox-ridden little prick,’ Artim retorted, spitting in the brazier, a favoured pastime of his. Jerral sniggered to himself as Artim glowered at him. ‘If there are men in the woods I’ll throw you over the wall and let them have your arse instead of a cow’s,’ he snarled. Jerral chuckled at the threat and went to the arrow slit looking north.
‘Nothing out there, son,’ Artim said to the boy, eyeing him with concern. ‘Might as well come sit and be warm.’
It seemed stupid for the lad to be spooked by talk of men lurking in the Marrwood. But then, on a night like this, Artim supposed almost anything could give grown men the shivers. The talk Artim had heard of them had been concerning though, now he mulled it over.
Men in the woods that moved like ghosts. Watching. Waiting. Almost like they were scouting the land. But for whom? The borders of Thegnmere were secure – they had no quarrel with any other lord for the time being, as far as Artim was aware. Though, knowing how the lords of Caermark worked, that could change at any given time. Allegiances would shift, raids would begin, throats would be cut and the men would be marching out to settle the dispute in the field.
Even Lord Marreburg was aware of the rumours it seemed, as he did recall the captain mentioning something about mounted patrols heading out into the Marrwood. If he was concerned about a potential attack or land-grab, he didn’t show it – the watch had been staffed as usual. But then, Lord Marreburg was a penny-pinching bastard like no other.
Or was there something else? Artim had heard other rumours, a while back now, he recalled. Ones of strange ships sighted crossing the Parting Sea out to the east. Traders, or travelling merchants, he thought perhaps, had spoken of them in the markets of the town. Great ships, of unusual make, hundreds of them ploughing the waters with sails as black as night, as they made for Caermark from the east.
But what would the eastern lands be doing sending such vessels across the Parting Sea? It was probably a trading fleet that some backward fisherman had shit in his pants at the sight of. Nothing else it could be. The easterners did not meddle in the affairs of Caermark or its people. Not anymore. They were too far away, too weak.
Surely one of the towns on the coast would have raised the alarm if it was true?
Whatever it all was, Artim didn’t give one slack-jawed fuck, as long as his family were left alone and kept away from it. Thegnmere could burn, crumble away, its great and mighty walls slide into the river and be washed away, as long as his grandchildren were not hurt. They were all he really cared about, now his own children had passed.
He thought of them briefly. Gods, the night could still get darker it seemed, his heart heavy. Some grief never lessens with time.
Artim shook himself and found he had been somewhat in a daze for a while, on the verge of sleep. Jerral was sat back down warming his hands. The wind still battered against the tower walls, the rain still beat upon the door angrily. ‘Some watchmen us lad,’ Artim spoke at length, stretching, ‘me, scared inside by a drop of rain and you by a couple of rumours about men lurking in the Marrwood.’
‘For the pay we get we’re top notch, serj,’ Jerral replied with a smirk, the tension gone from his face and replaced with his usual smug grin.
‘Top notch in a pile of shit,’ Artim grunted, ‘could be worse.’
‘Aye, it could, could be Renn, or that fuckwit Fael, not a bollock between the pair of ‘em.’
‘True lad, true. Hire anymore like them and we won’t be the town watch anymore, we’ll be the town fuckwits. Now that I think on it, we probably already are.’ The two of them laughed quietly, the sound suddenly hollow and distant in the tower, something both of them seemed to notice. The light from the brazier seemed dimmer now, its glow more contained, duller, colder.
‘Shouldn’t be dying,’ Artim muttered, jamming more wood into the embers and smiling contently as the flames began to creep back to life.
‘Weather’s trying to drown the fire,’ Jerral offered, noticing Artim’s distasteful glance, ‘what it feels like, anyway, our Arty. Can’t deny it to yourself, cold’s been creeping under the doors like a bastard the last few hours. Getting worse. Not known a summer night so cold.’
The boy was right, Artim realised. He draped his dried out cloak around him and fastened it. It had gotten colder in here without him noticing, the liquor had kept him cheerily warm on the inside. They were out of wood, too. Artim swore loudly when he noticed. Perhaps the liquor had been a bad idea after all. It had certainly dulled both their senses a fair bit.
‘How much longer have we, serj?’ Jerral asked him, as he watched him pace the dim tower room. Artim cast a gaze out of the tower into the night. No moon, it was past midnight. Probably quite a way past. The next watch started at dawn, but there was only darkness outside.
Darkness and that howling, tearing storm.
‘Few hours at least,’ Artim grumbled at the younger man, clenching and unclenching his fists. Through tension, maybe? He was not sure. Something felt off. Probably just the talk of men hiding in the woods, it reminded him of the ghost stories his siblings would frighten him with as a child, daring him to enter the woods on his own.
He shook himself again, more to shake off the tingling on his neck than to wake himself up. We’ll have to make do without, he thought. He was not risking a slip or fall or broken neck for a bit of sodden wood.
Jerral was not happy when he told him as such. ‘We’ll bloody freeze in here Arty, if that brazier goes out,’ he moaned. ‘There’s wood spare in the next tower, saw it on my way round. Renn should be in there, I’ll take myself over and grab a bundle or two for us.’
‘No, lad!’ Artim spat, glaring, ‘that wind’ll have your arse upside down and at the bottom of the River Thegn before the next stab of lightning.’
‘Don’t worry yourself, I’ll take the lantern. Won’t be long, I’ll keep the wood under my cloak, no sputtering fire.’
‘The bloody fire’ll be out by time you’re back!’ came Artim’s reply. ‘Don’t bother, we’ll live, a watchman should be able to take a lick of cold and not keel over from it.’
‘Aye and a touch of wind never made a watchman touch cloth either,’ laughed Jerral, smirking at Arty in his youthful confidence, as he fastened his own cloak around himself and drew up his hood. ‘Won’t be long, serj!’ He took Artim’s lantern and his spear from the rack. ‘I’ll see if Renn’s got himself any meat over there too, have us some of it over the fire we’ll have when I’m back. Save us some of the shitty stuff in that hipflask of yours if you don’t be minding please, serj!’ He walked to the door and grasped the iron ring set into the timbers.
‘You fall and get yourself killed and I’m telling the Cunt you were disobeying orders!’ Artim shouted over the wind as the door was opened, taking a shower of rain to the face and a cold shock as it burst through the doorway. Artim caught Jerral’s tell-tale smirk from under his dark hood as he helped him close the door, shouldering it shut as the boy heaved on it on the other side. Cocky little shit, he thought, bolting the door securely.
He sat back down by the brazier, annoyance at Jerral’s disobedience nibbling at the corners of his mind as he warmed his hands again. They were an undisciplined lot, the watch. H
e could hardly give the lad a reprimand for disobeying an order to shirk his duty further. But truthfully though, he was looking forward to not having to endure the cold for the rest of his shift. Even if he did feel some guilt at letting him go out in that weather.
Without welcome, his thoughts turned again to the rumours of men lurking in Marrwood and dark-sailed ships crossing the Parting Sea.
The men could be anywhere in those woods. Fat chance of Lord Marreburg’s patrols ever finding them, if it was true of the way they vanished so easily. Could one of the southern lords be spying for weaknesses? They didn’t trust those from the south up here. They were different stock. Two faced. Treacherous.
Or so everyone spoke of them anyway. Artim had met plenty of two faced, treacherous bastards here in the north, too.
Still. It was unsettling. Who could be so interested in Thegnmere? Could it be Lord Marreburg’s almost mythical wealth had inspired an attempt on his keep? It was possible, Artim, guessed. The man’s wealth was legendary, especially now that Thegnmere was the heart and soul of the north, high atop its rocky perch deep in the Marrwood. If it doesn’t make a copper penny, they said, then to Lord Marreburg it doesn’t make sense. Artim had often thought himself that the man’s title should include ‘merchant’ as a prefix.
Perhaps ‘robber’, ‘murderer’ and ‘bastard’, too. Those also seemed quite apt a description of him.
Some time passed as he mulled his thoughts and the fire began to die once more, the cold creeping closer. He swore to himself and paced the room. How long had it been since Jerral had left to fetch firewood? He couldn’t be sure. An hour perhaps? Far too long, even in this weather. Perhaps the young fool had come upon some misfortune after all.
The thought ate away at him. He could picture that idiot Jerral trying to jog across the wall in the weather outside, slipping and tumbling over the edge to snap his neck. Shouldn’t have let the fool go, he thought darkly, sighing.
He drew his cloak tighter round him, drew up his hood and fetched his spear. The idiot had taken his lantern too, he cursed bitterly as he realised he would have to fumble his way to the next tower. Why didn’t Jerral have his own? Hadn’t Artim taught the fool boy enough times to be prepared for his watch? It was a miracle the lad knew which end of a spear did the killing.
Artim sighed to himself and took a look through the tower door’s spy hole. Nothing, save the atrocious weather, and the dim light from the next tower in the distance twinkling in the rain lashed darkness.
He unbolted the door and steeled himself to step through. The rain and wind smashed into him the moment the door was open, hood flying back from his head. With a grunt he managed to slam it shut behind him and keep hold of his spear. He began his trudge along the wall.
‘Jerral!’ He called through the rain. ‘Jerral, you slow-witted bastard!’ He did not expect an answer of course, he could barely hear himself over the wind, he didn’t even know why he had shouted for him. Comfort? The rain itself seemed to suck all courage from him. The boy had probably got to the next tower and decided it wasn’t worth the trip back through the downpour, even for Artim’s hipflask and the promise of food and fire. He was probably feeding himself and that fuckwitted wastrel Renn over a scorching brazier.
He’d have Jerral’s arse for this. And Renn’s. Some hard sparring on their training days was coming, that was for sure. Wouldn’t be letting the pair of them stop till they were black and blue, see how much wenching the little bastards felt like doing then.
Artim made it across the wall to the tower, saying a small prayer of thanks under his breath, he beat upon the door with a gloved fist. ‘Jerral! Renn! Open the door, bastards!’ He smashed his fist against it again, so hard he could hear the sound echoing inside the tower. ‘I’ll have the pair of you fuckers, mark my words!’ Artim shouted as he shoved the door with his shoulder. It opened inwards aided by the wind with a crashing swing and he stepped through into the light.
Artim’s breath caught at what he saw and his rage turned to despair.
Jerral and Renn lay sprawled at opposite ends of the room to each other. Their blood covered the floor and ran down the walls.
Renn lay as a ragged, bloody mess near the far door, his spear unbloodied in his hand, his mail rent and made useless by great blows that had torn his chest open and lacerated the poor boy many times. His throat was cut for good measure.
Jerral had been pierced with his own spear through the gut. His face stuck in a rictus of shock, pale in death, his mouth open in a scream or yell that no one had heard, all his youthful mirth drained. His throat was cut also. A fresh kill, his blood still seeping from his wounds across the floor. The smell of it strong enough to be tasted over the smell of burning wood.
Artim stepped over it and into the room. ‘Bastards!’ he swore, his heart racing. For a moment all wit left him through shock, and he found himself trembling. Who had done such a thing? There had been no sightings, no alarms. What of the others, were they in the same state? Who was supposed to be patrolling this section with Renn?
Fael.
Artim felt a sinking feeling in his chest.
Gods help him, the boy was probably dead also, or not much better off. Whoever had done this had wanted it over with quickly and quietly. He needed to raise the alarm fast – they were under attack.
With a bound that surprised even Artim himself, he leapt for the adjacent tower door and yanked it open, the boom of timber on stone resonating behind him as he burst through the open doorway out into the rain.
He had to get to the Eagle’s Keep, rouse the garrison, seal the town.
It was not far from here. He could make it. His boots slipped and splashed through rainwater. His breath ragged gasps, chest burning from sucking in air cold as ice.
There it was, the keep – it loomed ahead, a great turreted, towered stone beast reaching into the sky. Not far, not far, he told himself, his feet pounding against stone.
With an almighty crack, Artim found himself hurled from his feet, seeing stars as he landed painfully on his side, his spear clattering across the walkway away from him. Night briefly became day and a great roar tore across Thegnmere, and through dizzy, stunned eyes, Artim saw a cloud of fire and stone erupt from above him, from the Eagle’s Keep.
Artim lay still for several seconds trying to take in what was happening, great jagged boulders and splintered masonry crashing down upon the town below. Flames belched from the Eagle’s Keep so brightly that they lit the sky and its swollen clouds.
Done my job for me, at least, he thought slowly and stupidly.
‘Fael!’ he called, rising to his feet, his vision blurry and head swimming from the explosion. ‘Fael!’ He shielded his eyes and looked to where the keep joined onto the wall. The door was open. Inside was black as pitch but a figure had emerged and stood on the walkway.
A man, tall, slender, hooded and cloaked, his face hidden.
‘Fael?’ Artim called, his head swimming still, unsure if he was seeing things as they were. ‘Come here lad, we’re being attacked! Fael! Are you deaf or an imbecile? Come here!’
The figure stepped closer, but said nothing. Was that the dark cloak of the watch? Artim could not tell, his vision still a miasma of after images of fire, but something told him otherwise. His vision swam again before it settled.
No. Not Fael. The way they stooped, the figure looked more like a creature than a man. Its limbs were too long, too slender, almost spider-like.
Artim drew his sword. ‘Was it you that killed those lads?’
The figure made no response other than a flick of their hand, a spindly thing coated in silvery steel, and Artim felt something hit him square in the left shoulder, thrown with such force it tore through the rings of his mail and the leather beneath, lodging shallowly in his flesh.
A slim-bladed knife, bright as silver with a razor edge. He cried aloud as he pulled it free, throwing it to the ground, a trickle of blood wetting his clothing. He raised his sword and m
oved in for the fight.
A silver flash in the rain as another knife was launched his way. It struck his gut, his velocity and mail causing it to rebound but knock the wind from him all the same. Artim closed the distance.
His enemy drew a thin, single edged blade from beneath its cloak and met his attack calmly as it came, parrying the blow smoothly, stepping around him and away from his sword arm. A strange stance, one Artim had not seen before, almost a crouch, the blade in his enemy’s hand held downwards and back along the arm. Artim stepped in, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder as he attacked, coughing as he fought to reclaim his breath.
He rained blows down upon his enemy, each stroke met by his opponent’s blade, like a whisper of silver through the rain. Artim feinted, aiming for his foe’s neck then dropping his blade to take their leg from them, their crouch making them heavy on their front foot. He thought the blow was true, but his opponent changed stances so quickly and their blade met his in such a flash that he could not believe his eyes. No man could be so fast, so sharp with their skill – he had finished many men with that move and still did in sparring. Had the years of training with talentless louts finally slowed his sword arm?
He stepped in to attack again, his left arm beginning to numb. Head, body, head, leg, body – he swung his sword at all angles with ferocity, trying to catch the cloaked thing off guard. Not one stroke got through his opponent’s guard, each one met with that thin, silver blade, the clash of steel ringing through the night, above the roar of the flames, cutting through the sound of the wind.
Artim fought on, stroke after stroke, till his sword was heavy in his hands, his left arm dead, side now tacky with blood. He stepped back to catch his breath. Something wasn’t right. There had been no counters after his opponent had parried his blows, no aggression, just those infuriatingly sharp reflexes and parries that stopped his blade teasingly close.
Artim panted, his breath coming as clouds of steam. It was cold. Terribly cold. ‘Did you kill my men, you skinny fuck?’ he bellowed. They gave no reply save to ready their sword.
The Shadow of the High King Page 2