It was dark inside. Harlin had barely entered and let the flap fall back into place when she was upon him, her lips roaming over his mouth and face, her teeth nipping at his bottom lip. He pulled her into him by her waist and let his hands explore her body, taking in every curve, searching for an opening in the fabric of her clothing. His left hand found it, where the skirt split along the thigh, and made its way up the smooth skin of her leg, her hips, stomach, till it found her breast, his thumb tracing a small nipple. She moaned slightly, biting his lip again, letting him lift her garment up and over her head and discarding it as she fumbled nimbly with the fastenings of his own clothing.
A wave of relief crept over him as she removed the layers of leather and cloth he had worn through the day, and another as he felt her trace a hand down his chest to his stomach to finger the taut muscle she felt there briefly, before it crept down further and gave his manhood a playful squeeze.
She moved away from him and in the dim light he saw her on all fours crawling to his bedroll. He moved down to his knees and ran his hands over her buttocks before she could lay down, tracing a hand between them to feel what lay between her legs, fingers finding wetness. She arched her back with a sigh and thrust her behind out at him.
‘Fuck me, you monster,’ she said. He really didn’t need to be told twice.
It was a heavy hand rapping on the tent pole that woke him at dawn. ‘Harlin, we march in an hour, get your arse out here!’ Anselm, he thought groggily, tiredness (and probably last night’s wine and ale) clouding his brain.
He felt a soft, warm body stir next to him, and grinned sleepily as he recalled last night’s events. She’d been a most keen lover, eager to please, and it felt like they’d been at each other all night before finally collapsing from exhaustion and letting sleep take them. He would loathe having to kick her out so he could take to the road.
He turned and laid an arm around her, his morning glory pressing into her and seeming to wake her up, as she ground her buttocks into it in a pleasantly deliberate manner. ‘You march this early?’ she yawned.
‘Aye,’ he muttered, dry mouthed.
‘I hoped you’d spend more time with me.’
‘We head north, to make for battle and glory,’ he muttered, the sleepiness of his voice removed any attempt at dramatic delivery.
She turned suddenly to face him and stroked his manhood. ‘Haven’t you enough glory in this tent?’ she smirked. She forced him over onto his back and sat astride him. ‘Or are you just looking forward to fucking all the northern girls with their cold, dry cunts?’ she ground against him.
‘Somewhat,’ he teased, smiling as she frowned.
‘They’re not like me up there, you know,’ she said by his ear, holding him down by his wrists. ‘The north is hard and cold, and so are the girls. I’m warm and soft and wet, and you can fuck me every night if it pleases you.’
There was still time before they marched. He let her guide him inside of her, where she was every bit as soft and wet as promised.
He laid back when they were finished and sighed. He hadn’t had fucked a girl like this in a while. Aedri was a professional for sure, she knew what she was doing, this one. He was an admirer of filth in women, it had to be said. He wondered briefly if she’d be coming along with the march. Probably not. The girls in the camp were most likely from the brothels in Farrifax. Still, it was a pleasant thought of having her warming his bed every night. And waking to this, he thought, as she sat astride him naked, a finder idly tracing the pattern of scars on his chest and arms.
It was with great reluctance that she got off of him, and that he asked her to move at all, and she sat watching him glumly as he dressed and began to pack his belongings away. He shooed her out of the tent, where she stood watching him break it down with a furrowed brow.
When he was done she went to him and put a hand on his chest. ‘Take me with you,’ she said. Her eyes were deep blue he saw, the daylight catching them. She was beautiful, almost too beautiful, he thought, feeling rather pleased with himself, last night’s troubles a distant memory.
‘A battlefield is no place for a woman,’ he said, turning away. ‘The one we march too is more dangerous than most.’ He fumbled in his pack and drew out his coin pouch. Taking her hand, he pressed six silvers into it, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open at the sight of such money. ‘And I am not a man you want to follow.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ she said. She sounded genuinely upset. Whores can sound like whatever they want for money, he thought doubtfully. She was worth the money though, he didn’t mind being generous with a girl who’d played her part so well. He had little else to spend it on, anyway.
She cast her eyes to the ground briefly, her toes playing in the flattened grass. ‘I work at Lady Ethelwynn’s in Farrifax,’ she spoke, looking up at him as he towered over her. She was tiny compared to him, he noticed, barely coming over his shoulder. ‘If you come back this way after the fighting is over, come see me. I’ll let you have one for free.’ She smirked at that last suggestion, looking like her usual self. Harlin couldn’t help but smile back at her.
‘You have my word,’ he said, and kissed her gently. If I remember your name.
‘Harlin!’ came Anselm’s voice. The camp about them was being broken down, and he approached Harlin and Aedri mounted on his black hunter, his gear all packed and strapped up, leading Harlin’s own chestnut mount, Broga, by the reins.
Harlin strapped his own pack and saddlebag to his mount’s rigging, kissed Aedri one last time and swung himself up onto Broga’s back. ‘Hurry up, fuckwit,’ Anselm grunted, sounding as thought he was suffering from last night a bit, ‘the Black Dog’s waiting.’ He spurred his horse onwards, leaving Harlin alone with Aedri and a few straggling Shield Brothers, who had woken late after too much drink and were clumsily trying to pack their gear away.
‘Goodbye then,’ she sighed, stroking Broga’s muzzle, the horse whickering gently in enjoyment. Good with her hands in every aspect, eh boy? Harlin thought slyly to himself.
‘There are no goodbyes,’ he answered her. ‘Not for a beauty such as you.’ That made her blush and turn away to smirk bashfully. Quite poetic that line, he felt proud. ‘I will return, I promise you that. I hope to find you are still here.’ He bowed his head to her deeply, before turning Broga around and kicking him forwards into a trot. Looking back over his shoulder he saw her stood there still, watching him leave, a hand raised to say goodbye. He would have to come back for her sometime, if he could. Especially if the next one is free, he pondered mirthfully – a girl that could fuck that well was rare.
He could still feel her eyes upon him. Her smell clung to him and he found long blonde hairs tangled in his own and astray upon his clothes. Pleasant visions of her passed before his mind’s eye. It had been a good night for sure, he would have to thank that fuckwit Anselm when he found him for dragging him out of his solitude.
He joined his Shield Brothers as they formed a column for the ride on the open plain, sidling Broga into place beside Anselm, who greeted him with a grunt. The dark circles under his friend’s eyes saying more than he did himself. Arnulf was riding up and down the outside of their lines, eyeing them all coldly on a stallion as silver as his hair. Harlin was sure his gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than the others as he passed.
The captain’s words from last night echoed round his head again for a brief moment. He kept his face neutral.
The drone of a great horn sounded in the distance. Away across the plains he saw Lord Callen’s column of fighting men under their various banners begin to move like a long, sluggish beast. Some five thousand men were assembled, he reckoned, doing his best to count them. Hopefully they were up to the task when it came to it.
‘We ride north,’ Arnulf suddenly cried in his iron hard bark, ‘and make for Thegnmere! There is glory to be had! Men to be killed! Coin to be taken! Women to be fucked!’ The Blackshield Dogs gave a great cheer, and some clas
hed sword upon shield, others beat mailed fists upon armoured chests. It didn’t take a particularly rousing speech to get the men riled up and ready for war, as long as it promised them the three things they wanted most: blood, gold and somewhere warm, and preferably wet, to stick their cock after it was all over.
The company’s bannermen broke rank and joined Arnulf at the head of the column amidst the cheering, waving the company banners to encourage the men. Arnulf drew his bright sword and pointed it northward, crying ‘Forth! Ride, you Dogs! Ride!’
As one the company unleashed its battle cry, the howling of a pack of dogs, as they began to move over the plains to join the marching army, the Blackshield Dogs riding forth again, to their next battle, and next payday.
Chapter 3
A White Horse, a Pale Crown
‘Sound the war horn,’ Ainric grunted to his captain of horse.
‘Yes, milord.’
A hollow note droned out, and the army began its march, thousands of feet beating their tattoo. The column stretched almost back to Farrifax itself. Guards atop the walls of the town stood and watched as the fighting men moved onward, fists raised, cheers hoarse, and a dawning sky above threatened rain.
Lord Ainric Callen rode at the head of the army atop his grey warhorse, flanked by his bannermen and personal guard. To his left and right the great banners of his house caught in the breeze and streamed out behind him in a silken flurry. A split blue and yellow field, a black eagle in mid-flight. House Callen. The sight filled him with pride, and he touched a gauntleted hand to the surcoat over his armour that bore the same heraldry.
Four days to Thegnmere. Only four days. He forced down his eagerness, keeping his composure in front of the men.
It had been some four or five weeks since the smoke from Thegnmere had turned the northern skies grey. The scouts sent to the town had all gone missing, but the flood of refugees from the land around Thegnmere had been more than willing to tell of what they had seen. Fire. Ghosts with silver faces. He’d had more than a few of them beaten for their insolence during questioning. Yet they all said the same thing. Thegnmere burned, and then they had come for them – ghosts with silver faces, moving like shadows between the trees of the Marrwood.
Even a second beating hadn’t changed their story. It boggled the mind, but Ainric had already waited too long to act. He needed to move.
The banners had come in haste after riders had been sent out, and although the numbers were not as many as he had hoped for, enough had gathered to make an assault. Some five thousand had assembled at Farrifax from nearby fiefs, and now whoever had taken Thegnmere would suffer swift vengeance.
Behind him down the column he could see the banners of those lords and lordlings who had come to cut their own little slice of glory from Thegnmere’s fall. The assortment of banners made a long, patchwork harlequin of his army, morning sunlight flashing from more than a dozen different colours, shades and heraldic sigils. The broken spear upon a field of red, though, was the one that stood out the most. Lord Garrmunt of the Spear Hills.
It was odd that Garrmunt was here. Very odd. He was sure the man had sailed for the east some time ago. It was strange that he should have turned up in the north of Caermark of all places. But the reputation of the man’s knights was second to none, and, lacking sufficient numbers of his own, Ainric had not been fool enough to slap aside the hand of friendship when it was offered. It was odd though.
No matter – there were bigger things to think about than Garrmunt and his coming and goings.
Like his cousin, the lord of Thegnmere, and the mountain of gold he had squirreled away over the last couple of decades – never had there been a penny pincher of the like. For a military man Deorwin Marreburg had seemed more like a miserly merchant, a man to truly rub every last copper penny together that he could get his mitts on. Usually in the hopes that they would make a third. Or a fourth.
The poor fool was probably dead if what the peasants said was true. A shame. It had been convenient having a cousin in power so close at hand. The man had no male heirs of age, either, assuming they had survived. It would fall to Ainric to take the seat at Thegnmere, naturally, for the time being. Someone had to oversee its restoration. It would need to be rebuilt, resettled and garrisoned by strong men. The river Thegn would soon be brimming with trade once more. Ainric was sure Deorwin would have wanted his nearest surviving relative to have benefitted from it in his absence. Gold does wonders where grief is concerned.
From behind and to Ainric’s left there came a sound of thundering hooves and braying hounds. His head snapped round to where the sound came from, and anger suddenly rose in him. Away across the plains a mass of riders galloped towards the host, swords raised high, clad in mail and black leather. Two black banners bore the image of a white dog’s head.
His lip curled. The sellswords.
Between their banners rode a silver haired man atop a similarly coloured stallion, a round shield, painted black, bore the same icon as the banners and hung on the side of his saddle. Arnulf Berlunt. The morose bastard they called the Black Dog.
They came howling and hollering across the plain, banging sword upon shield, seeking to catch up with the marching army. ‘The Dogs,’ he heard a man whisper.
‘The hounds follow their masters,’ he heard another scoff, some laughter rippling down the lines as the men watch them draw close.
A fucking rabble of louts, he seethed to himself. How much had these fools demanded of him? A fortune, no less. And how many men had this hollering lout Arnulf brought him? Two hundred, if that. It was an insult, highway robbery. He had been promised professional killers, but watching their noisy, clamouring approach they looked more like arrow-fodder than anything else.
Arrow-fodder… there was an idea.
‘Enmar,’ Ainric called over his shoulder. His gaunt-featured captain of infantry appeared to the sound of clattering hooves. Dark eyed, draped in a dirty white tabard, Ainric had to admit he was an unsettling sight. Like a corpse riding a horse.
‘My lord,’ Enmar uttered, bowing his head, riding level with Ainric.
‘The sellswords embarrass us with such a display,’ the lord spat from between clenched teeth. ‘Bring me their captain, this Black Dog. I would have words with him.’
Enmar nodded silently, careening his horse away and breaking into a steady trot across the plains toward the whooping mercenaries. He was unsettling, all sunken cheeks, harsh lines and dead-eyes.
But he was capable. Ainric had use for capable men, especially ones who didn’t mind getting their hands dirty. He could make good use of men like that.
It was a few minutes before Enmar returned to his side, Arnulf following behind him. ‘Arnulf Berlunt, my lord,’ he drawled, Arnulf eyeing Ainric coldly with something that was a little too close to disdain.
‘Your men, captain,’ the lord spoke, trying to match the mercenary’s harsh glare. He felt his own falter under those eyes, cold and hard like two slits of iron, and turned his face away.
‘What of them, my lord,’ Arnulf stated more than asked. Ainric could still feel the man’s eyes burrowing through his skull. What manner of men do I force myself to be surrounded by? he thought uncomfortably, shifting in his saddle.
‘Must they holler and howl like fools?’ Ainric grunted, unable to turn his eyes to meet that dread gaze again. ‘You make a mockery of this army.’
‘It is our battle cry, lord. We begin each march with it as tradition, I would not deny it to my men, it brings us luck.’
‘My men laugh at you, captain,’ said Ainric, receiving a few chuckles from those gathered about him. ‘The braying of hounds is for the hunting of animals, not for the marching of an army.’ More laughter. He felt those eyes upon him still, and fixed his own upon the path ahead of them. It would not do to be seen to flinch before someone so beneath him, but it seemed an age before Arnulf spoke again.
‘All men are animals,’ he said. ‘And war is our hunt.’ The chucklin
g about them ceased and Ainric rounded on the captain in his saddle, meeting those grey eyes, looking away instantly.
‘I asked for killers, Arnulf, not yapping hounds,’ he hissed at the grey haired sellsword, sparing him only sidelong glances.
‘Dogs are killers by nature, my lord,’ Arnulf said quietly.
‘And rhetoric is the mewling of cowards and boy-fuckers, sellsword,’ Ainric shot, straightening in his saddle and fixing his eyes forward. ‘I hold war council tonight, your presence is expected. Now away with you. And see no more of this yapping meets my ears, or you will be given the honour of guarding the baggage train.’ His threat received a pleasant ripple of snickers from his men, becoming belly-laughs as Arnulf rode away to find his men.
Louts, Ainric thought. Baseborn, lowly, pig fucking louts. ‘Keep an eye on the sellsword captain,’ he uttered to Enmar, who remained nearby. ‘I do not care for, or trust one so insolent. See to it he does not stir up any discord amongst our own men.’
‘As you wish, my lord.’ Enmar vanished like a drab spectre. Ainric grunted his approval, and set his mind back on their march.
The army made its steady way northwards, following the road that lead out from Farrifax, across and over the plains, leading up squat, rocky hills crowned by sparse trees and shrub. The men were singing and jesting as they went despite the rain that began to fall. Spirits were high – it had been some time since the men of Farrifax had marched to battle, he could tell they were eager to earn some glory. And Ainric was eager to earn his own prize. He smiled pleasantly and vacantly at the thought.
The Shadow of the High King Page 5