The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  Harlin nodded slowly, trying caress his ribs through layers of armour.

  ‘Then let’s go,’ he sighed, shaking his aching head, his helm weighing heavy like lead. ‘We should never have come here. This campaign was ill-fated from the first.’

  ‘Somehow, Harlin, I think you’re right,’ Anselm sighed, shouldering his shield and checking on a Shield Brother who still moved nearby. He shook his head after a moment, sighing as the man spasmed in his death throes. ‘What a fucking mess,’ he spat.

  They set off after Harlin found a usable sword and shield among the carnage, he had no idea where his own lay – they had been sent spinning from his hands when they had taken the charge and the Dogs’ gear was almost identical.

  They kept low and made for the edge of the camp, following a trail of their own dead who had been cut down or trampled trying to run, Anselm muttering quiet prayers for their fallen Shield Brothers, his face pained and solemn. The sight of their ending was ghastly, numbing – after so many years undefeated, ended in mere minutes. Harlin could not tell if it was irony dealing its embittered hand, or simply the folly of men.

  After some minutes they came to the perimeter of the camp, the stake pits choked with dead men who had fled and fell into their own defences or been knocked into them. Some wore the outfit of the Dogs. Beyond them in the looming, shadowed hills there were a few horses left tied to tree and stake alike.

  It seemed that a good few of the Dogs had escaped after all. Harlin’s mount Broga was gone. Taken, he hoped, and not killed. Broga was a good horse and he had been fond of him. He shook his head wearily and looked back at the burning camp, its flames tonguing the night sky greedily, and the sounds of battle more like the sounds of mass murder, the occasional scream carrying through the clouds of smoke that rose into the deep night. Away to the north the Marrwood stood ablaze. Fire ate away through its trees, spreading rapidly, casting the clouds above grey-orange. Dark figures were streaming from between the trees down into the camp, and Thegnmere stood in abysmal vigil over the scene beneath it, its broken towers and stonework picked out faintly by the glare.

  Five years wasted. Five years of nothing. Five fucking years, Arnulf.

  He felt his teeth clench and lip curl, felt nought but cold resentment for his Lord-Captain as he clutched at his injury and thought of their pointless sacrifice. And of his wasted time. Five years waiting for a promise to be delivered, five years spent waiting for his due, to be given a handful of ash and dust in return for unquestioning service.

  Anselm came to him leading two mounts who were whickering nervously at the calamity before them. ‘Let’s leave this graveyard as fast as we can, Harlin, it sounds like they’ve moved on to executing men instead of fighting them.’

  Harlin had to agree with him on that.

  They mounted up, slowly and painfully, both were aching from head to toe. ‘Anywhere in mind?’ Anselm said through teeth clenched against pain. Harlin was silent as he thought to himself for a while.

  Something cold twisted inside him as he tossed ideas over in his mind.

  Five years wasted.

  ‘Aye,’ he said slowly, his voice cold, almost bitter. ‘I have somewhere in mind.’

  They steered their mounts south, racing away from the destruction that lay behind them at a gallop, forgotten by all but themselves.

  Chapter 5

  Emerging Shadows

  They raced southwards over hill and rock avoiding the road, keeping from sight. In the dark this was no easy task, the hills were treacherous and the horses were scared. To his left, Harlin could hear Anselm curse his mount as it struggled to keep its footing descending rocky slopes at speed, bringing showers of stone and earth down with them. They were back in the Barrowolds now, remaining vigilant not to stray too close to where the land dropped away on their right– a death sentence, it was a long way down to the Pass in the dark.

  They rode as fast as their footing would let them, praying that the sun would rise soon to light their way through the wilderness. Harlin could see Anselm glancing back over his shoulder anxiously, as though expecting to see Garrmunt’s knights bearing down upon them at any moment.

  They made for Farrifax, there was nowhere else for them to go right now, they needed food, supplies and rest. Not to mention the company paymaster was currently holed up in the town, waiting for Arnulf to return triumphant. Harlin was going to make damn sure he got his last lot of pay for this job. He would need it. Anselm needed a healer too, his wounds were causing him serious pain on the ride and had him worried. Broken ribs. He had seen men take fever and die from broken bones when the marrow seeped into the blood. An unpleasant death.

  They stopped after some few hours’ hard riding, sheltered in the cusp of two tall barrow mounds. The horses were exhausted, terrified and refused to settle, flanks lathered and shining as they were lashed to a stone archway. Harlin couldn’t blame them, the night had been long.

  Anselm collapsed on the ground with a grunt, looking like a black lump in the night. ‘I’m fucked,’ he complained, holding his side. ‘Why did we have to stop here, of all places? These tombs give me the jitters.’

  ‘Ride till your horse collapses then.’ Harlin sat next to him, exhausted and short-tempered himself. His armour weighed a ton, shoulders slumping and aching beneath its burden.

  ‘Would that I had something for this pain,’ Anselm grumbled, ‘my side feels like I’ve been under a smith’s hammer.’

  ‘Bite down, weakling,’ Harlin said flatly. He saw Anselm look at him in the dark. ‘There’s a way to go before we reach Farrifax.’

  ‘Fuck you, Harlin, I’ve strength enough to plough two whores and slap your arse one handed while I’m at it, you braided shithouse.’

  ‘I take it you’ll manage then.’

  ‘Course I will!’

  Anselm took to a fit of coughing that turned to stifled grunts of pain. ‘Southern arsefuckers,’ he cursed, letting loose a tirade of profanity and swearing oaths of retribution.

  ‘Quiet your mouth, will you,’ Harlin spat as his friend grumbled more about southeners. ‘If we make it to Farrifax alive I’ll get you an hour with two of the best whores in town.’ That seemed to placate Anselm for a time, the man did love whores after all.

  He did himself for that matter. A night with Aedri would be good, he thought – once Anselm was with the healers he would have to track her down before they moved on. It would help relieve some tension, at least.

  Nothing like the flesh of a woman to soothe the mind, he thought, his eyes closing.

  When he opened them again it was dawn, the clouds stained pink and dusted with gold. Anselm sat sleeping awkwardly in his armour, his hand still clutched to his side protectively. The faint dawn light cut a ghastly figure of him, he looked awful. He was covered with dark, dried blood and his nose had been smashed awkwardly out of place. He’d taken the worst of it out of the two of them. He looked sickly.

  ‘Anselm, wake up.’ He shook him lightly, trying to not cause pain. Anselm woke with a start and groaned, keeling over to his side. He was sweating slightly. ‘We can’t linger here – you need a healer.’

  ‘A few moments more, whoreson,’ Anselm said weakly, closing his eyes again.

  ‘No, awake now Anselm, get your arse in your saddle.’ Harlin stood and kicked him sharply in the thigh.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Anselm growled, getting to his feet.

  They mounted up and were on their way again not long after they awoke. Harlin felt rough, he must have only slept a couple of hours or more, as the ache of a poor night’s slumber ran through him like poison.

  The dawn gave way to a grey day as they raced over the barrows, the emerald grass seeming dull and lifeless under a steel-coloured sky. Looking back north Harlin could see a faint pillar of smoke rising to the sky, coiling like a black serpent. The camp still burned. He wondered briefly if the garrison at Farrifax had sighted it – the idiots would probably think Lord Callen had captured Thegnmere.


  Would Farrifax be next? More than likely – it was the only major town left in the north now, he thought, if this was an attempt at a land-grab. He hoped Anselm’s injuries would not keep him from the saddle, he did not feel like lingering in Farrifax with a treacherous band of knights running amok in the countryside.

  Not to mention whatever had made such a ruin of Thegnmere. He could still see the empty shells of its towers and broken walls, lit by the fire that had taken the Marrwood. A crumbling blackened ruin, like the bones a great, carrion-picked corpse. If Garrmunt had allied with something capable of such things Harlin had no intention of being caught in its path. There were things to do now, and this was his chance at last.

  But still, who in Caermark could have the power to topple Thegnmere so utterly, so quickly?

  Who knew. It was pointless to wonder, it was none of his concern. The schemes of Caermark’s lords against one another were endless. It was a land dying a slow death, one of miniscule degrees, as men of noble birth plotted, usurped, poisoned and knifed their way to ever higher station.

  And they called Luah Fáil a land of squabbling savages. They were followers, these Marchers – sheep led by pretty silken banners. Pathetic. He hated this land – always had – and its people too, for the most part.

  It made him sick now to think he had spent the past five years serving one of them. Taken from one form of slavery and thrust into another, bound by a debt of honour, promises soiled, emerging as lies. Never again.

  They came to the basin they had camped in but a few days before as the morning wore on. They risked the road, letting their horses and themselves drink deeply. Anselm was grateful for the break, laying almost crippled with the pain. Hours in the saddle were not doing him a bit of good. His eyes were beginning to blacken from his broken nose, giving him a thoroughly ill look. He was quiet too which was unusual for him, as he was a blustering, vulgar loudmouth by nature.

  ‘I think something inside me got bashed up,’ Anselm said quietly. ‘I don’t feel quite right.’ His breathing was shallow, his skin pale and sweat beaded upon his brow. A rib has stuck his lung, maybe, Harlin mused. He had seen it before, a few times. Anselm had a feverish look about him. Harlin forced down his concern.

  ‘Not far now to Farrifax,’ he said. ‘You’re straight to the healers when we get there, they’ll put you back together.’ Anselm nodded dimly, his eyes closing.

  ‘Southern cunts,’ he muttered, chin on his breast. He coughed, the sound sending a chill down Harlin’s spine.

  They moved on, sticking to the road now, the country open and flatter, making it difficult to hide properly, especially on the move. Anselm struggled even to get into the saddle, yelping and swearing frequently as they rode, following behind Harlin like a foul-mouthed shadow.

  Perhaps it was his anxiety, his exhaustion, or maybe just impatience or frustration, but he felt that cold, black thing nip at his insides.

  A little bump has made him an invalid.

  ‘Be silent,’ Harlin uttered between teeth clenched painfully, glad that the thunder of hooves masked his voice, lest Anselm think he was following a madman.

  The sky had begun to darken again when they broke through the rocky hills that ringed the northern plains around Farrifax. South of them the town sat quietly, enclosed safely by its wooden walls. Torchlight twinkled atop the walls like distant candles where watchmen roamed in the fading sunlight, towers stained red like blunt, bloodied speartips. Harlin thought he’d never seen something so ugly manage to look so beautiful, as hunger gnawed at his stomach.

  Beside him Anselm was slumped forward in his saddle, motionless, his horse veering uncomfortably and protesting at the weight on its neck. ‘Wake up, fuckwit,’ Harlin snarled, shaking him by the shoulder. ‘Anselm! Anselm! Wake up!’ He was burning with fever still, sweat poured from his brow down his face.

  Anselm’s eyes flickered open slowly. ‘We here?’ he asked dimly, squinting at Harlin. ‘I feel like death, Harlin. Have to tell the whores to wait till tomorrow, feels like I’ve been drinking shithouse grog all night.’

  ‘We’ll be in Farrifax shortly, Anselm, unless you fall from the saddle and break your neck, in which case I’ll be leaving you here and having all the whores to myself.’

  Anselm straightened and gripped the reins properly. ‘Not while I’m still breathing you won’t, boy.’

  ‘Can you ride still?’

  ‘Horse, beast and woman,’ Anselm grunted stiffly.

  They found the town gates shut and barred, two tall doors made of sturdy timbers, weatherstained and grim. A guard atop the walls spotted them as they drew close. From the glare of the torch the man held Harlin could see five of them at least, bundling together in bland curiosity to watch them approach.

  ‘Hail!’ one cried down at them, trying to cast his torchlight over them, though its flame was too weak to do more than cast a faint orange glow on them. Harlin could see him squinting at them from under his iron cap, trying to make out any heraldry or markings on their armour. A sinking feeling set in as he realised they might not be allowed to pass if they were identified as mercenaries.

  ‘What brings you to the town at this hour?’ the watchman shouted at them suspiciously.

  ‘Hail, watchman!’ Harlin called back at him, hoping that pleasantries would open the gates. ‘We have ridden here in haste from Lord Callen’s host with news of great import! My comrade here was injured gravely on our way and needs the attention of your healers! Please, unbar the gate that we might pass!’ Atop the walls the guards shifted and muttered amongst themselves, seemingly displeased by what they saw below.

  ‘You have a foul look about you both,’ the guard shouted to them, ‘you especially. Why do you wear such a grotesque helm? Who are you?’

  Harlin hadn’t removed his helm since the Marrwood, he’d even forgotten he was wearing the thing. Marchers were ever being unsettled by the sight of it. Normally he would’ve found it amusing, but now, exhausted and hungry, it was extremely irritating. He lifted it from his head with a huff.

  ‘Who is in charge here?’ he asked them, shaking his hair free.

  ‘I am,’ came the answer from above, it was the spokesman of the group. He had thought as much. ‘Serjeant Falland, if it please you.’

  ‘Hail, Serjeant Falland of Farrifax,’ Harlin answered the man civilly, who looked down on him and Anselm grimly – having something to do that resembled work had probably not been on his agenda tonight. ‘I am Harlin, of the Blackshield Dogs fighting company.’ He unslung his shield and held it aloft in both hands to show the men atop the walls the mark it bore. He heard them talking amongst themselves – the white dog on a black field was notorious through Caermark.

  ‘So you are deserters then!’ the serjeant called down at them with a humourless laugh. ‘Last we heard you were supposed to be fighting in the north. Why should I open my gates to a couple of craven dogs?’ A ripple of laughter sounded from his men.

  Harlin hoped sorely for one of them to fall and break his neck.

  ‘Lord Callen’s host is destroyed,’ Harlin said flatly, ‘slaughtered in an act of betrayal at the Marrwood. We fled here to safety when our company fell. Unbar your gate and let us pass, I beseech you – I would not see my friend die.’

  That caused a stir amongst the guards and Serjeant Falland’s face fell – they hadn’t expected that. He wondered if they had seen the smoke to the north and assumed it meant victory.

  Anselm tapped him on the arm and shoved his fist at him. ‘Give it to him,’ he wheezed lowly, ‘and your own while you’re at it, you tight bastard.’

  It was Anselm’s coin purse, fatter than his own, Harlin noted enviously as he took it, he must have been scrimping since last payday.

  ‘How are we to pay for your healer then, fuckwit?’ whispered Harlin, keeping the purse out of sight.

  ‘We’ll figure it out,’ Anselm said, falling to a coughing fit. They needed to hurry.

  ‘Serjeant,’ Harlin called, ‘if our wo
rd is not good enough, how about some coin?’ He held the two coin purses up for the men atop the walls to see. ‘Silver,’ he enticed. ‘Like my tongue. A month’s worth of it from both of us.’

  Serjeant Falland licked his lips greedily.

  ‘Are you trying to bribe me, sellsword?’ he growled at them, jabbing his thumb into his chest. ‘Me, one of the lord’s men?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I am trying to do,’ Harlin said plainly. You fucking shitehawk, he added mentally. Serjeant Falland blinked stupidly.

  ‘I could just get my boys here to shoot you and come take that money off your filthy corpse, what do you say to that, dog?’ The man spat over the edge of the wall. Harlin smirked to himself with some satisfaction – nothing like making someone lose face in front of their underlings to really get on their tits. He sneered up at the serjeant icily.

  ‘If a single bolt or arrow comes over that wall at me and my friend here, serjeant,’ he said slowly, letting the meaning of his words sink in, ‘I’ll climb up that wall and break your scrawny neck with my bare hands. What do you say to that, Serjeant Arsefuck?’

  There was some small part of him that hoped the serjeant would rise to the challenge, just so he could throttle the life from him.

  ‘You wait right there, sellsword,’ the serjeant snapped at him after a moment’s consideration. ‘Boys, if he moves, shoot the fucker. I’ll be down in a minute.’ Harlin saw the men gathered with him exchange a few confused glances. Not an archer amongst you, he thought to himself, an empty threat, as he’d assumed.

  ‘Hurry, if you please, Serjeant Arsehole,’ he called as the man turned away.

  ‘Nicely done, Harlin,’ Anselm groaned.

  Harlin heard scraping and thudding from behind the gate. With a strained grunt and a groaning of metal hinges they slowly opened outwards, torchlight spilling out onto the road. Serjeant Falland emerged from between the gap and stood leaning on a worn spear before them, trying to look menacing and hide the fact he was short of breath. He eyed the pair of them suspiciously as he set his torch in a wall bracket.