The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  Harlin had excelled there.

  He was fed well with good meat, sweet oats, clean water. The others there had been boys and men from every corner of the world, places he had never knew existed. He had learned much from them.

  The fights that came after were harder. He faced opponents that had more training, more skill, opponents that knew their way around a weapon. But each of them fell in turn, and as the days had rolled by he was no longer a boy. He was a man, and had become a killer of men.

  He was well known, they said, in this town, a heaving metropolis called Parathet. His fights had become famous displays of bloodshed. Some even came from the outlying villages and settlements to see him slaughter the next warrior they gave him.

  He had slaughtered some kind of champion once, in that pit. It was just another fight to him, but the others in the training camp had said that the man was some kind of legend from another fighting pit in town, their owner’s main rival, apparently. He had been good, Harlin recalled, but that man died just like any other, after he had given Harlin the scar beneath his right eye. He couldn’t even remember his name.

  And so it was for years. How old had he been when things finally changed? Fourteen? Fifteen?

  His owner had been a vile little fat man named Khureg Na-Phameth. A gluttonous promoter of pit fighting and consumer of all that was luxuriant, rich or hedonistic, who always wore excessive, billowing, robes of bright colours and golden rings on his fat little fingers. He had paid good coin for Harlin that day when he had been fresh off of the slaver’s ship and forced into the auction house. And he had earned many, many times more in return for Harlin’s victories. He was rich beyond belief, men said of him, richer than most kings.

  It had happened that one day Khureg Na-Phameth had visited Harlin at the training camp. The fighters were locked in individual cells between training sessions, expected to sleep, so it had been with some surprise that Khureg had woken Harlin. It had been even more surprising when Harlin saw that he had white-skinned men with him. Men in mail and black leather, hailing from Caermark.

  He had thought it some kind of trap at first, had been distrustful when their leader had spoken to him, a man with silver hair and beard, tall and strong despite his age, clad in steel plates where his men wore leather. He had a cold glare, cold eyes, ruthless in their intensity. Harlin could recall that conversation word for word.

  ‘Do you speak our tongue, boy?’ their leader had said through the bars of that cell.

  ‘My father taught me,’ Harlin had said, ‘so I can insult your kind properly should I ever meet you.’

  ‘I see,’ the man had said. ‘And did he teach you how to fight, too?’

  ‘He learned here,’ Khureg interrupted smugly, rings sparkling, gut wobbling. ‘From our veterans.’

  ‘Quiet, fat man,’ the visitor had snapped venomously, turning back to Harlin. ‘Who taught you how to fight?’

  ‘I learned from my father,’ Harlin answered, making Khureg’s eyes flash angrily. The visitor nodded.

  ‘You hail from Luah Fáil, yes?’ he’d said. ‘The way you swing a sword speaks volumes about you, as do those braids of yours.’ Harlin nodded slowly. ‘I thought as much,’ the visitor went on, ‘you’re very impressive. It’s not often I say that. Tell me boy, what’s your name?’

  ‘He is a slave,’ Khureg had cut in, ‘he has no name, he simply is.’

  ‘I will not warn you to be quiet again, fat man,’ the visitor had snarled through clenched teeth. ‘Your name, boy.’

  ‘Harlin.’

  The visitor nodded.

  ‘And what, Harlin, do you desire above all else?’

  He had not needed to think upon that.

  ‘Revenge.’

  A moment’s silence had passed.

  ‘Come with me, Harlin,’ the visitor had uttered, ‘fight for me, like you fight for this fat idiot, and I will see you avenged against whoever has wronged you. Be they man, god, or whatever lies in between.’

  Khureg had gone ballistic before Harlin even had a chance to answer, screaming for his guards, screaming of deceit, of how much the pale boy was worth. The men in black leather had sprang then, cutting down men who had appeared brandishing curved swords with ease, and shoving Khureg up against a wall at sword point until the key to Harlin’s cell had appeared.

  Harlin had not been able to help it. His cell unlocked, he had torn the sword from one of the man’s hand and ran Khureg through where he stood. None had tried to stop him, and it was with grim satisfaction he had sneered the words, ‘For my father, fat man,’ in Khureg’s gurgling face.

  ‘I am Arnulf Berlunt,’ the visitor had said then, watching Khureg die with a faint degree of interest. ‘Lord-Captain of the Blackshield Dogs. Welcome aboard, Harlin.’

  They had set sail for Caermark that very night, a ship having been kept ready for them in the harbour, the rest of the Dogs already aboard. It always baffled him why Arnulf had gone through such pains to free him, for the man would never discuss it, and it baffled him more why the gods would suddenly smile upon him in such a way after they had forsaken him for so long.

  Caermark. The place that had taken everything from him. Yet here he was. Fighting for one of them. Still no closer to revenge.

  He wondered daily what had become of his mother and sisters. He wondered just as much if he’d rather not know. The men who bought them would have been whoremasters, it was the usual fate attractive women from the island suffered, he had come to learn. From what he had heard of the brothels of Parathet, they were as death-filled as the fighting pits.

  Perhaps ignorance could be a blessing. But it still burned.

  A lord from Caermark had you taken as slaves and made your family a bag of coin. He killed your father, he made your mother and sisters whores that were lost to that shithole in the east, scattered to the wind and naught but dust. He made you a fighting dog for other people’s gain.

  Find him. Kill him.

  ‘Enough,’ Harlin spat through his teeth, sitting up and hoping no one nearby had heard him talking to himself. Sleep would not come tonight, not while these memories played out yet again with the cold thing stirring so viciously within him. He fumbled round in the dark of his tent for his clothes, deciding he needed some fresh air.

  Outside the sky was a blank pallet from the fires of Lord Callen’s host, the stars hidden. The embers of a campfire smouldered in the middle of the Dogs’ own little speck of land. Anselm and a few of their Shield Brothers sat round it, passing a wine skin back and forth and muttering to one another.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep either, eh?’ Anselm commented as he approached them. ‘Pass that wine over here lads, the wolf looks thirsty to me.’

  ‘My thanks.’ Harlin took it and sat by Anselm, watching the embers of their fire. Red Harry, Jorric and Torc were sat nearby, busy exchanging stories of some of the times they had gone plundering in the depths of young ladies’ under garments – which, now that Harlin thought on it, was all Jorric and Torc ever talked about with anyone.

  ‘I had this one girl,’ he heard Torc saying to the other two, ‘when we were fighting down by Easthold that time. The other girls there called her Clapper Thella. And I thought it must be because she had a rank twat between her legs. Turns out it was because her arse was that big she could clap the cheeks of the fucking thing like this.’ He promptly demonstrated for the others by clapping loudly with his hands, the fits of laughter receiving some reproachful shouts from nearby tents for them to all kindly shut the fuck up, a few inventive threats being hurled their way.

  Harlin himself was not in a laughing mood, no matter how much Anselm clapped him on the back and had him swig the cheap red wine that they were sharing.

  Easthold.

  That was another memory he’d rather not face right now. It was going to be a grim night. He needed sleep, they were to assault Thegnmere on the morrow and from what Arnulf had told them they were to be the first atop the walls.

  Easthold.

/>   The cold thing in him stirred angrily once more like a block of shifting ice in his centre, cold spreading outward in ripples.

  You thought you had him then. He felt his teeth clench, his mouth curl.

  You failed. All you did was make a name for yourself.

  The Black Wolf of Easthold.

  He saw briefly a man’s hands, clutching at the blade of his sword, the edge cutting the flesh of his palms as he struggled against it.

  And a girl. Pretty. Brown haired. Brown eyed. Her heart-shaped face tear-stained as she cowered naked.

  Sins committed in the name of vengeance. You would do it all again.

  We will find him. We will kill him.

  He felt his hands knuckling his eyes, a migraine suddenly rearing its head. This night was a foul one for sure. Full of memories, none of them good.

  Some men live in moments long dead. Something gone, done with, meant to be put aside. Some things are fleeting yet powerful enough to resurface, to drag themselves back from whatever recess of the mind, given strength by the one who holds them, their edges still sharp enough to cut as they are turned over once more in hands older yet still as fragile.

  Maybe memory was all he was. Old moments and feelings. Few of them happy, stained dark with time and grief and made morose. A shade of himself, of the man he should have been, chasing ghosts. Chasing past pain. A being of brittle symmetry and bitter ashes, carrying the spitefulness of a child, wielded with the power of a grown man.

  ‘Harlin.’ An amiable yet hefty nudge from a thick forearm roused him from where he sat staring at the embers of the campfire still. Anselm eyed him, his scarred face showing concern. He was soft like that, Anselm. Throw the man in a melee and he would cut the heart from every living thing that crossed swords with him in a second, even with a grim kind of enjoyment. Yet stick him in a situation like this with men he spent time killing, drinking and fucking whores with, and you got a man of smiles, jokes and brotherly warmth.

  Men like that are too easily won, Harlin thought. Too loyal, some of them. Men like that would follow their friends to whatever end, even one not of their own choosing. Honourable, certainly. Weak, most definitely.

  ‘Your mind wanders again.’ Anselm offered him the wineskin again, nearly empty now.

  ‘I plead guilty, Anselm, it does.’ Harlin finished the last of it. He saw Anselm stroking his permanently stubble-blue chin contemplatively. He had a distinct older brother look and quality to him, Anselm, and seemed to view it as his responsibility to take the younger men under his wing and counsel.

  ‘My usual advice would be tits and drink,’ he said, his stubble making a grating sound against his leather gloves. ‘But I don’t think those will cure your particular ailment. Look forward to tomorrow then, Harlin. A bit of sport for you, eh? They let us loose atop Thegnmere’s walls before any other lucky fuckers, hopefully there will be some big bastards waiting for us when we get up the ladders, I already put ten coppers in the pot with Jorric that the first kill will be yours.’ He laughed and slapped Harlin hard on the back. A heavy handed man, even Harlin’s large frame was rocked forward by the weight of Anselm’s meaty hand.

  Anselm’s chuckling died quickly, sounding oddly hollow, and he looked anxious then for some reason. It seemed he was not the only one who felt that way. Jorric, Torc and Red Harry had all fallen to silence, staring at the embers, faces all drawn and troubled. An odd mood had settled over the camp and the air seemed close and clammy. It felt like it was clamping down on Harlin’s head, driving itself into his temples. He had thought it was his imagination at first, as there had been word of the army’s outriders finding more dead men along the road, the ones missing from Lord Callen’s numbers. Such things always set soldiers on edge, kicked them into instinctive paranoia, it couldn’t be helped, but tonight… it wasn’t that. Something just felt wrong.

  ‘I need answers, Anselm.’ Harlin threw a few small branches onto the embers. It felt cold now. He felt Anselm looking at him, contemplating. It did not come easy to him this, Harlin realised, this talk of feelings. It didn’t come easy to Harlin either, he was inclined towards quietness more often than not. They all knew of how he had come to be a slave in Parathet – hell, they had been the ones who rescued him – but to discuss such things with others… it just wasn’t done. Rancid things, feelings. A burden to carry, and as like to make a weakling of a man as woodworm is of a warship, and harder to get rid of, to top it off.

  ‘Why don’t you go find them then,’ Anselm said at last, ‘and quit your fucking belly aching?’ Harlin did laugh at that and spared Anselm a glance, seeing that wicked grin that always accompanied the man’s rough humour.

  ‘Would that I could, Anselm, but how could I leave you bunch of fools and cravens to fend for yourselves against the kind of odds we face each battle?’

  ‘Aye, Torc here would shit his pants and run if you left us,’ Jorric piped up, receiving a heavy blow to the shoulder from Torc and Red Harry’s odd guttural, grunting laugh – a bit like a bull with something stuck in its throat.

  ‘How about I come with you then?’ Anselm said quietly, as Jorric and Torc descended into a small roughhousing session, trading both blows to the body as well as insults to each other’s parentage, while Red Harry sat by laughing and grunting out bets on who would win.

  ‘Come with me?’ Harlin said, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Yes, come with you, fuckwit, why not? You mope every summer about how you need to see justice done – why don’t you do something about it, make a move?’

  Harlin paused, considering. He was right, Anselm, of course – he needed to do something, but what could he do? He needed to find out who had conducted the raid on Bráodhaír that day, the question had gone unanswered for too long now. He was tired of the constant question – who? But would Arnulf let him take leave from the company? He had never even thought to ask, they had gone from battlefield to battlefield constantly for the last five or so years, they had never stopped, war had literally been Harlin’s life. But the man had promised him revenge, that day in Parathet.

  Instead he had given him five years of nothing. And told him to forget.

  Arnulf was a liar. He owed Harlin blood.

  ‘I would not even know where to begin such a search.’ He said at some length, swallowing his anger. He heard Anselm spit into the fire before them.

  ‘That’s not like you,’ he grunted. ‘Not the Harlin I know. The Harlin I always knew was as tenacious as a southern whore that could hear a pocket full of coin.’

  ‘Fuck you, Marcher,’ Harlin laughed. It was a common name for people from Caermark, Marcher, at least for those that hailed from Luah Fáil like himself. Their word for Caermark literally meant ‘the Marches’.

  ‘Why do you not go home then, if you can’t think of where to start?’ Anselm offered.

  ‘Go home?’

  ‘Aye, I always think the best place to start is at the beginning, myself.’

  He hadn’t thought about that. Go home? Back to Luah Fáil? Back to those ruins and charred bones? What would even be left there for him? More memories? More pain? Or just the skeletons of Bráodhaír and its people?

  Still… it was logical. Luah Fáil was the beginning. Perhaps there he would find his end.

  Harlin shook his head. ‘Even if I did, the Black Dog would never let me up and leave the company for such a length of time. It would take months. I would have to investigate. Who knows what is even left of that island now?’ From what he had heard over the years clansmen of the island were cropping up more commonly in Caermark, something which, while not unheard of, was definitely unusual. Perhaps the slave taking had finally reached a pinnacle, or perhaps there was just nothing left for the people there anymore, he had no idea.

  ‘Answers, maybe?’ Anselm threw some more wood to the fire himself. ‘Mayhaps a fine red headed Luah Fáil girl, one with great, big tits and a matching arse? Who knows, Harlin! Whatever you find over there I’m sure there will be at least some o
f those lovely young girls waiting to be ploughed by a red-blooded warrior, and that’s something at least.’

  Harlin laughed quietly. It was always wenches, whores, lasses and girls with Anselm. ‘I’ll come with,’ Anselm was saying. ‘I can’t let you go over there and get all the women to yourself, can I? They’ll have had their fill of the island’s men even before you get to them, they need a bit of Marcher in ‘em, get a taste of the high life if you catch my drift.’ He made some obscene gestures with his hands. ‘And besides, you’ve saved my arse more times than I care to remember. Half the lads in the company owe you at least once for your sword arm. Once we are done here, with this shithole Thegnmere, we’ll ask Arnulf for some leave. And I promise you, we’ll go find some answers over in Luah Fáil. It’s the least I can do for you, Shield Brother.’

  They clasped hands, the way they always did when swearing an oath as warriors. He meant it then, Harlin realised, Anselm actually did mean to go with him out west to that dreary little island. He felt odd. He had not thought he would ever return to that place.

  He was frightened, truth be told.

  It was just then, as they returned to watching the fire before them slowly die and Jorric emerge victorious over Torc, who sported a furious look and nursed sore ribs, that one of their company came into the light of the fire, looking furtive. It was Elric, and something about the way he approached made them all look up at him uncertainly, and made Harlin all too aware of the building pressure on his temples again.

  ‘Come for wine and fire, boy? Only got fire left for you, Harlin’s polished off all the fucking wine we had for tonight.’ Anselm laughed briefly, before the isolated, echoey sound of it made him stop awkwardly. Elric just shook his head. Even in the night and dim firelight he looked pale.

  ‘Something’s amiss lads,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s trouble.’ Harlin frowned.

  ‘What trouble?’ he asked quietly, curious to hear. Elric frowned in turn and crouched by the fire opposite them all. He looked gaunt and drawn, as though something had put some dread fear in him.