The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  It was with a much improved mood and impressively-cleaned armour and clothing that Harlin set off from the bathhouse in the morning. He was stiff, in most places at least, but felt utterly refreshed, the visit worth every bit of silver it had cost him. It would most likely be a while before he came across another girl who knew her way around a man so well after all, and he felt he’d gotten his money’s worth from the venture when they’d both finally collapsed in Aedri’s bed, sweating, sore and exhausted.

  It was a clear morning, the early sun promising a warm day as he came to Gethelin’s. The greasy little man almost jumped out of his skin when he opened the door to Harlin. He ushered him inside reluctantly, dark circles beneath his beady eyes belying a sleepless night. The medicine-reek of the place hit Harlin sharply after spending the night in a pleasure-palace of burning herbs, flowery scents and perfumed tits. He was shown upstairs to where Anselm slept in a bed more functional than comfortable. A great bandage was wrapped about his chest, his breathing laboured, strained sounding. He lived though, at least, and slept deeply.

  ‘I had to drain the blood from his lung,’ Gethelin was saying wearily, skinny hands rubbing his eyes, putting images of a rat cleaning itself in Harlin’s mind. ‘The procedure took me all night. I applied a poultice that will help his ribs to mend, strapped them up properly, and he will need to take esterman spice four times a day for the pain. He should make a full recovery, all being well – you brought him to me not a moment too soon. Any later and the wound could have turned sour within himself, or he may have drowned in his own blood.’

  Harlin nodded. ‘Can he ride?’

  ‘What?’ The healer looked at him as though he was stupid.

  ‘Can he ride?’

  ‘No, of course he can’t ride,’ the healer laughed, as though uncertain if Harlin was joking with him.

  ‘Well, he needs to,’ Harlin stated bluntly. ‘We leave three days from now, no later.’

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ Gethelin said with a snivelling little laugh, ‘I was under the impression that you wanted me to help your friend here, not consign him to a lingering death?’

  ‘You will fix him, or I will kill you, healer.’ Harlin stared at the man, hands balling tightly into fists. Gethelin winced, hands raising pleadingly.

  ‘A man’s body does not work in such ways,’ the healer stammered, trying to keep his voice level. ‘Injuries like this need time, they need care, they cannot –’

  ‘I can ride.’ Anselm’s voice took them with such surprise they both spun to face where he lay regarding them with dull eyes. Harlin bowed his head to his friend, awkwardly, off guard.

  ‘I am glad to hear it, Anselm.’ He looked at the healer next to him pointedly. ‘A moment alone with my friend.’ Gethelin left the room grumbling and shuffling. Harlin closed the door behind him and made sure he was not outside eavesdropping on them before he turned away and spoke with Anselm.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  ‘Like shit stretched out, rolled up, then stretched back out again,’ Anselm croaked, making a failed attempt to raise himself from where he lay. He looked terrible. His face was lined more deeply than usual, his skin still pale, and dark circles surrounded his eyes from where his nose had been broken. There was a faint smell of something about him, hidden by the medicines and other strong scents in the room. The esterman spice, Harlin thought, it smelled foreign, whatever it was.

  ‘You look like it, too,’ Harlin breathed. Anselm tried to laugh, but a fit of coughing took him.

  ‘Fucking knights,’ he wheezed. ‘So, what’s the plan then? Where do we go from here?’

  ‘You were right, Anselm,’ said Harlin. ‘When you search for answers, it is best to start at the beginning.’

  ‘You’re going through with it then.’ Anselm’s voice was more of a wheeze than anything else.

  ‘I am glad you’ve made your mind up at last,’ Anselm rattled. ‘Just let me get my strength back a bit and we can leave.’

  ‘Gethelin says you cannot ride.’

  ‘Fuck what Gethelin says. I rode here all the way from the Marrwood, didn’t I, and at speed?’

  ‘And it nearly killed you.’

  Harlin let the words sink in, looking out upon the market as a black tendril crept up his spine and into his mind, bringing images of his home afire and awash with blood. He closed his eyes, remembering his sisters’ screams.

  The silence between them stretched on into endlessness. Harlin didn’t turn to face him. He didn’t want to see the look of betrayal that would lurk behind his friend’s eyes.

  ‘I told you I would go with you, Harlin.’

  Harlin sighed and faced him at last. The market reminded him too much of home. Anything, even an accusing stare, was preferable to what lurked in the shadows of his mind.

  He is a weakling, that cold, unseen tendril seemed to say as it slithered around his mind, his eyes taking in Anselm’s slumped form quietly.

  Be quiet, he snarled at it.

  ‘And I will go with you still,’ Anselm was saying. Harlin snapped back to attention. ‘I’m not dying here, and neither are you. We’re going to Luah Fáil, and we’re going to find your answers, Harlin. You selfish bastard.’ Coughing took him. ‘Give me a few days, just until my ribs stop hurting so bad, and we’ll make for the western coast together to find us a ship that’ll take us there.’

  How long would it take the forces at Thegnmere to march here? Maybe a week or more if they were still organising and provisioning for a siege. Less if they had already done so. Who knew – whenever they decided to leave, Harlin was certain that they would be cutting it fine.

  ‘Three days, Anselm,’ he said. ‘We leave in three days. If we linger, we will fail. I cannot let this chance I’ve been given slip from my grasp, not now, not when I have been denied it all these years. I won’t let it. Three days, Anselm.’

  Anselm looked at him differently then, as though for a moment he was seeing someone else, or no longer recognised the man before him. At last he nodded slowly. ‘Three days,’ he croaked, ‘three days and we will ride.’

  ‘Good,’ said Harlin.

  They spent the remainder of the visit discussing Harlin’s adventures with Aedri last night, Anselm cursing him good-naturedly for his luck, the mood between the two of them much lighter than it had been moments before, back to how things should be between them, all shadows of betrayal banished by the sound of laughter.

  His next visit was to the company’s paymaster, who was lodged at one of the town’s more expensive inns – called the Brass Taps – to collect his last lot of pay. He planned to collect Anselm’s too, as a favour. Though if he was truthful, it would be a necessity for them both if they were to make it to Luah Fáil. Anselm’s coin would be virtually gone once they’d paid that rat of a healer his due, even if Harlin could terrify him into a generous discount. A man’s good health was not cheap, unfortunately, not when the healing arts were so rare and valuable a skill. Harlin was not sure where a man could even go to learn such things.

  The company paymaster was a stout fellow called Berro, a burly, angry-looking miser of a man possessed of a great square jaw and head, who, instead of armed guards, kept two enormous northern wolfhounds to guard both he and the company coffers that were kept, with he himself, in the most spacious, fabulous room at the Brass Taps. The place wasn’t hard to find, he remembered the name from overhearing some of his Shield Brothers grumbling about how the paymaster got lodged at a nobleman’s inn while they got a tent in the mud outside the town walls. It turned out to be reasonably close to Lady Ethelwynn’s, the head of that morose, fire-wielding statue visible some distance away over the roofs of stately halls and homes.

  Harlin sat opposite Berro after being shown upstairs by a young maid, staring at him across a folding travel desk made of fine, dark wood, the edges of its surface patterned with gilt vines that trailed and collected at the corners.

  Berro studied Harlin coldly as he sat, his two wolfhounds, name
d Grub and Snag, sat either side of him, their keen eyes fixed on Harlin. It was easy to see why Berro chose these two to protect both him and the company’s money – they were terrifying creatures, something in between the wild, giant wolves that roamed the Silverpeak Mountains, eaters of men, and the fighting dogs that men here in Caermark bred, with the looks and temperament of both.

  Berro seemed to have these two trained well, as neither moved a muscle as Harlin had approached and sat. Perhaps it was this very thing that made Harlin feel so uncomfortable around them, for it almost felt to him as though they were sizing him up, perhaps considering which part of him to go for should he make a wrong move. Or maybe which part of him would taste the best, now he thought on it. Their strange, pale eyes followed every minute movement he made, their dark, wet noses twitching as they sniffed the air, and possibly a meal that still had legs. He grimaced at them to show he was not scared, but still they sat, looking contemplative and slightly hungry.

  ‘Well trained animals you have, master Berro,’ he said to the paymaster without greeting. Berro inclined his head, his black tunic bulging at the seams with the movement. Money seems close kin with gluttony, Harlin thought.

  ‘So, Shield Brother Harlin,’ Berro said at last, his piggy, letter-writer’s eyes scanning every inch of Harlin’s form in a calculating manner. ‘What brings you to me today?’ There was an element of undisguised suspicion in the paymaster’s voice. Harlin oft found that people who are in charge of large amounts of coin are possessed of a certain degree of arrogance, a special, unique kind that their position seems to bestow upon them through the sole fact that they are in control of other people’s money.

  ‘Well,’ Harlin began, scratching his chin, ‘two things, Berro. Firstly, I want my due pay, and that of Shield Brother Anselm Teffen, as unfortunately he is incapacitated with a battlefield injury right now and is incapable of collecting it himself.’ Berro’s brow twitched the moment he asked for money.

  ‘Wages are paid on the thirtieth day of every month,’ Berro said abruptly, his hands clasped before him authoritatively. ‘As per Lord-Captain Arnulf Berlunt’s wage policy. Also, a company member’s wages are non-transferable to another company member, unless stated explicitly in said company member’s advanced statement of final will and testament, and then only to the named individual hitherto agreed upon and only in the unfortunate instance of death for the aforementioned company member.’

  Harlin paused for a moment.

  ‘So, you mean ‘no’, then?’ he said quietly, trying to keep his face expressionless, though his lip began to curl of its own accord.

  ‘That would be correct,’ Berro was saying. A small smile twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘It is only the fourteenth of this month, Harlin.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Berro,’ answered Harlin, nodding and pursing his lips thoughtfully. Berro squinted at him maliciously. There was a certain kind of oafishness to this man that niggled viciously at Harlin’s temperament. It was the exercise of petty power, the ability to say ‘no’ to someone and have them by the balls.

  ‘So,’ Berro went on, eyes narrowing at him maliciously, ‘why are you here then, seeking early payment? And why are you not in the north on campaign with the rest of the company? Am I to assume Thegnmere was taken so quickly your presence was no longer required?’

  ‘And that, master Berro,’ Harlin sighed, ‘brings me to the second matter I would discuss with you.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Lord Callen’s army was betrayed when we reached the Marrwood,’ Harlin said slowly, watching Berro’s eyes narrow further with doubt. ‘His men were taken by surprise and destroyed in the night from within, the Blackshield Dogs along with them. You may have seen the smoke to the north as the camp burned. We fought back, suffered a charge by Lord Garrmunt’s knights of the Spear Hills and our shield wall was broken. Anselm and I survived and fled back here. Anselm is currently quite fragile due to his injuries and unable to present his request personally, hence, I am here to collect his last lot of pay, as well as my own.’

  Berro regarded him with quiet suspicion for a moment, his wolfhounds still sat obediently each side of him. Harlin could see the doubt in Berro’s expression, the man made no attempt to hide it. He had always displayed a certain disregard or casual contempt for the fighting men, as though working with coin made him nobility.

  ‘You are lying,’ Berro said at last. His hounds began to growl, incited by the accusing tone of their master’s voice.

  ‘I feared you may think as much,’ Harlin sighed, unsurprised.

  ‘Then what proof do you have of such an occurrence? Surely there would have been other survivors? Five thousand men marched out of Farrifax, and only two make it back alive? And so quickly? The Marrwood is days away from here. What evidence do you have of this, Harlin, tell me.’

  ‘None, unfortunately, unless you wish to see the rather impressive bruise I earned in the shield wall when we took the charge. Though that would require me to strip, and I don’t really want to do that for you, Berro, not with your two curs here eyeing me up like a side of bacon.’

  ‘Then you are a liar and a deserter,’ piped Berro, almost cheerfully, as though savouring the moment. ‘Oathbreaker, I name you.’

  ‘I am no such thing, coin-counter,’ Harlin said coldly.

  ‘I would beg to differ, Harlin,’ said Berro, his eyes mere slits as he tried to bore through Harlin with them. ‘I will be sending word of this to the Lord-Captain immediately, you do realise?’

  ‘Send word, then,’ Harlin scoffed, ‘your scribblings will be read by a corpse in a burnt war camp many miles north of here.’

  Berro seemed unimpressed.

  ‘I will be informing, also, the town guard,’ he said, as though he hadn’t heard him, ‘so that they may place you under arrest while you await punishment from the Lord-Captain for desertion, as per company policy regarding such an act of oathbreaking, which will most likely be beheading at the hands of the Lord-Captain himself.’

  Harlin laughed at that. It was typical of this kind of jobsworth pig to do literally everything by the book, even if it meant having someone killed.

  ‘Do as you will, bean counter,’ Harlin said in response, shrugging, mailed shoulders rustling gently. ‘But you will give me what is owed, and now, for I have no desire to linger any longer than is necessary in this shit-stained Marcher town.’

  ‘I will give you nothing, I am afraid,’ Berro said most matter-of-factly, beginning to rise. ‘Grub, Snag –’ the two huge dogs snapped to attention and rose in turn ‘– watch him, boys, keep him here, I will be back soon.’

  Again, that low growling came from the pair and they bared their teeth at Harlin, looking eager for him to try something. He ignored them, and placed his hands firmly upon the table as Berro went to fold it away, shoving it down out of the man’s grip.

  ‘I would give me what I want, scribbler,’ he said in barely more than a whisper. Berro looked at him apprehensively, his hounds edging forward, sensing confrontation. ‘I am in no mood to be trifled with, Berro. You will give me my due, and Anselm’s, or else I will lose my temper with you, and your two pups here, also.’

  Berro smirked. There seemed a touch of uncertainty in it however, as though he had finally realised how little control he actually had here, now things had moved beyond bureaucracy and ink and quill.

  ‘These two pups will be chewing on your bones should you raise a finger against me,’ the paymaster said, eyes fluttering as he tried to draw his face back into a mask of authority. ‘And you will be violating another oath,’ he continued, raising his voice, ‘to never raise your hand against a member of the company – another act punishable by death.’

  ‘There is no company anymore, Berro. The Dogs are finished, scattered or dead. There are no oaths left to be broken. You are just a lump of a man with a pile of money to me, who will not pay what he owes me. Not long from now this town will be burning, and I intend to be many, many miles away when
that time comes. There are things I must do, and I will not be stopped from seeing them done. I am sure you come to understand the situation a little more clearly now, Berro.’

  He stared into the square-headed man’s eyes. In their depths he saw the spark of realisation flicker, become a flame of desperation.

  It happened in a blur.

  There was a knife suddenly in Berro’s meaty fist. His two wolfhounds tensed, ready to spring. Harlin’s hands found the edge of the table, and he flipped it straight into Berro’s face, grunting as it knocked him backwards, knife spinning from his hand. A hound leapt for him first from his left, yellow fangs bared, drool flying from the corners of its maw.

  A swift left elbow took the beast across the jaw, felling it. The other hound came snarling for him, leaping to take his throat from the side, jaws finding only Harlin’s armoured forearm, teeth sinking into boiled leather instead of flesh. It ragged his arm down, trying to pull him to the floor.

  Harlin let himself fall, tumbling, his free arm wrapping around the animal’s muscled neck, flipping it on top of him as he lay on his back, grappling it tight to his chest, its jaws tightening on his forearm, desperately trying to find the flesh beneath leather. These hounds could break men’s arms with their jaws, the stories said, and his heart raced as he tried to choke the beast, forcing his forearm farther into its maw fruitlessly – it clung, paws scraping, trying to rag itself free, jaws locked painfully on his forearm.

  Nearby he heard movement. A glace to his left showed him Berro, on his knees, face bloodied, nose smashed, reaching for the knife where it lay not far from Harlin. His free hand shot out, grasping the hilt, and he swung upwards with it – a sloppy, awkward shot – the tip of the blade catching Berro across the cheek and sending him off cowering and crying aloud as it ran red.

  The wolfhound broke free of Harlin’s grasp, snarling and ragging his arm back and forth in frustration, almost pulling it from its socket before Harlin slammed the knife down through the top of its skull. It shuddered and died, body twitching limply on the wooden floor.