‘Sounds reasonable,’ Harlin muttered, spitting into the mud. It was drawing late and the day was darkening, the sun dimming behind a screen of iron-grey clouds, staining them red. Night would soon be upon them, it would be easier to sneak past the guardsmen – or at least dodge a crossbow bolt.
‘Come on,’ Anselm said, ‘we’ll find a tavern, have us a drink while we wait, things will seem better when –’
A shrill clanging cut through the air from the north, both their heads spinning towards the sound. A bell rang urgently in the north of Farrifax.
Harlin and Anselm shared a glance, frozen. Dread crept prickling up Harlin’s neck like cold claws brushing skin.
Smoke was rising from the north. Distant cries flowed beneath the shrieking tone of the bell, too remote, too hysterical to discern.
‘It can’t be,’ Anselm muttered, head shaking slowly.
‘It is.’ Harlin gritted his teeth, reins gripped tight.
‘How?’
Something rose up against the darkening sky. A wall of speckling lights, like rising stars, shimmering, wavering as they climbed, leaving faint trails in their wake. Thousands of them. They slowed at their peak, arcing like a wave, descending and vanishing from sight. More smoke rose from the north, screams following not long after, smothering the sound of that clanging bell.
‘Fire arrows,’ Harlin commented, blinking their afterimages away. ‘They’re burning the town already.’
‘How could Garrmunt have mounted an assault so quickly?’ Anselm wondered aloud, spice-dull eyes wide as he struggled to chain thoughts together. ‘Less than a week after the Marrwood? How – how is he capable of something like this?’
‘Who knows,’ Harlin breathed, heart thundering in his chest, ‘but there is something ill about this. This can’t be Garrmunt’s work alone. We need to leave, Anselm, now.’
Anselm nodded dimly, watching smoke gather overhead. ‘You’re right.’
‘We’ll try for the western wall,’ Harlin suggested, trying to think. ‘If they’ve struck from the north the defences there might be lighter, we can try to slip past.’ He looked about. People began emerging from their homes into the street, drawn by the latest clamour to the north of town. Voices soon broke in panic nearby. ‘Be ready to fight if need be,’ he added.
They headed west, down roads hemmed by townsfolk watching the smoke rise from the north with scared, pale faces, pointing in bewildered horror. Some began to flee, scattering down roads and streets and alleyways, a handful of them heading west, trailing after Harlin and Anselm and the sight of their horses. Emerging into the town centre, they crashed through the empty market, their mounts clearing stall and stand with grace, racing down narrow clearings effortlessly.
Northward, flames leapt across rooftops devouring thatch and timber while smoke clouds roiled, tinged orange by fire within, spewing embers and sparks into the breeze.
They cut a path between homes and hovels alike, through muddied streets and filth-strewn alleys, finding a stretch of wall away from the gate and lightly manned. They reined their horses in atop where the road sloped downhill towards the wall, inspecting the walkway for any lingering guardsmen.
‘There,’ Harlin said, pointing to a single torch-baring silhouette that shuffled uncomfortably. To his side, Anselm grunted his agreement.
‘We need to find a way up,’ he said, ‘there’ll be stairs or a tower passage nearby we can use.’
Something boomed through the air then, silencing them both. Again. Deep, shuddering, metal on wood. A sound they both knew. They looked at each other and said as one, ‘Ram.’
The distant blow came again, rumbling through Harlin’s gut. Around them, fleeing townsfolk paused, horrified, listening, some falling to weeping, wailing, despair, confused children shrieking in their terror.
Harlin shook himself from the unfolding chaos. ‘Come, we’ll find a way –’ His words fell dead in his mouth as he looked up at the wall.
Something dark scrambled up like a spider from over the battlements, a shadow among shadows. It crouched atop the walkway some twenty or more paces outside the solitary guard’s torchlight. Tall, slender, draped all in black – it turned its dark head this way and that, observing its surroundings. Harlin felt its gaze pass over him like the brush of dampened, rotting cloth, his skin crawling. It headed off silently in a crouched stance, making for the guard, his back turned towards it as he strode off towards the western gate.
‘What the fuck is that thing?’ Anselm uttered dumbly, following Harlin’s eyes as the figure crept up behind the spearman. It drew a narrow, single-edged blade from beneath its robe, held back along the forearm.
A silver hand reached out, took the guard by the shoulder and spun him about, that narrow blade slicing across his throat in one quick, precise movement. A shove, a tumble, a thump. The guard was hurled from the wall before he had even began to choke, the shadowed figure moving off towards the western gate.
Harlin and Anselm looked at each other in disbelief. ‘I think I might have had a bit too much of that spice,’ Anselm said, blinking heavily. ‘That can’t have been a man.’
Atop the wall more of them came scrabbling and leaping over the battlements like long-limbed spiders, drawing their slender, delicate-looking blades. They spread out atop the walkway, some heading north, some south, others swinging their long legs down over the inner edge of the walkway, dropping down into the streets.
Harlin saw Anselm shaking his head fearfully, face paling. There was some foulness about those creatures, something he could not describe, only feel. It reminded him of the Marrwood. A sickness in the air, pressure building at the temples, cold fingers trying to force their way inside his head. He blinked it back, screwing his eyes shut – it made it hard to follow the movement of the robed creatures, almost as though it hid them in blurred, pulsating shadows that throbbed in time with the pain growing in Harlin’s skull.
‘We can’t fight those,’ Anselm trembled, ‘not so many, not here, not like this.’ He turned his horse around and raced away back down the road, Harlin cursing and following after, the ram still pounding against the north gate.
There were screams coming from the west now, sounds of fighting as the creeping shadows went to work at the gate. The fire was sweeping through town, eating its way steadily southwards. Dead littered the streets, crushed by stampeding mobs and left forgotten, squashed into the mud.
From the north there came an ear-splitting crack and the sound of timbers being splintered and shorn, the screech of twisting metal tearing from its holdings. A great and fearful cheer came from somewhere beyond the northern wall, thousands of voices rising as the gate fell, the sound kicking Harlin’s heart into newer, more fevered tempos. There was a roar, some kind of battle cry, a far away ripple of noise as shields clashed.
They reined their horses in at the town centre, veering round peasants clustering to one another desperately. Smoke poured from burning homes, the fire spreading with visible greed. Townsfolk came in a steady stream from the north seeking refuge, the fight that raged there herding them onwards. Others came from the eastern end of town, rich and poor alike from the higher perches of Farrifax, voices bleating, shrieking of black ghosts. Harlin hesitated, uncertain where to run to. The mass of screaming peasants flowing through the market became disorientating.
‘They’ve surrounded the town,’ he said, disbelief colouring his voice.
‘What are they?’ Anselm said, coughing against the smoke. ‘Those things in black… never seen anything like them.’
‘Dark men,’ Harlin answered.
‘You know of them?’ Anselm looked at him oddly, paranoid from the esterman spice, he thought.
‘The clans have tales of them,’ Harlin said, eyes flitting across roads clogged by swarming masses. ‘They move like shadows, snatch children from their beds, cruel spirits.’
Anselm gaped at him, frowning. ‘They’re doing a bit more than snatching children from their fucking beds from wh
at I’m seeing.’
Harlin ignored him, his mother’s voice ringing in his ears.
Behave yourself, Harlin, the Bodah Duhn favour horrid little boys to take down into Hathad Camoraigh and sit on Corrom Duhn’s lap.
He shuddered. He didn’t know if that was what these creatures were, but the way they moved, that slinking, purposeful, silent creeping – it brought back the times his mother and sisters would scare him with the tale.
Anselm cuffed him across the shoulder, startling him. ‘Wake up,’ he growled, ‘we need to make a move.’
‘Where to, though?’
‘The walls are riddled with those things, it looks like they’re probably trying to capture the gates, maybe open them for the forces outside. We’ll make for the most lightly held, charge through and kill any cunt that tries to stop us.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ agreed Harlin.
‘South gate,’ Anselm suggested. ‘If not, then we’ll try the west again.’
The two of them moved off from the shadow of the building they had taken to, edging their mounts through the myriad of townsfolk clustering the market square and kicking out at any who came too close.
A cry came from somewhere in the crowd, indistinct but soon carried like a wave to where Harlin and Anselm forced their way along until it was screamed back and forth by dozens of mouths.
‘Ghosts! The black ghosts have come for us!’
The crush of bodies swayed, driven to a desperate climax as man and woman alike tried to clamber over one another to escape. From the adjoining roads, Harlin saw the fluttering of black robes as shadows emerged into the light of burning houses. Long limbs reached, silver blades flashed and fearful screams were cut short in a wash of blood as men died.
Harlin bared steel and swiped it back and forth over the heads of those around him, feeling the hands trying to pull him from his horse retreat in fear. ‘Ride them down!’ Anselm roared, brandishing his sword at a group of men who came too close, catching one on the arm with a quick slash. ‘Harlin! Ride through them! Harlin!’
Down the eastern road came a figure in white, stumbling, clutching a wound to their side that bled freely.
‘Aedri.’ Harlin spurred his horse towards her, pressing through the mob.
‘Harlin!’ Anselm called from behind, ‘Harlin! Where the fuck are you going? Come back! Harlin!’
He pressed on heedless, his horse snorting and stamping in anger as bodies buffeted against it, lashing out with its back legs as he lashed out with his own, planting a boot in a man’s face and feeling his nose crunch beneath his sole. Aedri looked up as he drew closer, raising a beseeching hand to him as she hobbled towards the turmoil unfolding in the market square, her white dress clinging to her bloodied side. Harlin stood in his stirrups, gesturing wildly for her to hurry.
A shadow detached itself from the side of a building and moved towards Aedri with predatory grace and cold purpose. It straightened as it came, its long limbs unfolding like those of some terrible insect as it raised itself to its full height, its black robe and hood rippling gently and silently.
The Bodah Duhn descended upon Aedri, a gauntleted hand reaching for her, the other raising a cruel blade ready to strike. Harlin cried for her to run, tried to warn her, kicked his horse forward, but it protested, hemmed in, the barrage of fleeing townsfolk pressing in as shadows cut them down or dragged them to the floor and savaged them mercilessly.
A long-fingered gauntlet clasped her shoulder. Aedri stumbled to her knees as it caught her and was yanked her back by her hair when she tried to stand and flee, a blade held point-down above her. Harlin leapt from the saddle, sending bodies flying beneath his weight, stomping over them as he sprinted towards Aedri.
The blade plunged down, piercing Aedri between collarbone and shoulder, close to her slender neck. She convulsed in shock, frightened eyes frozen wide. The Bodah Duhn pulled its blade from her, dripping red, blood spilling down her chest and over her dress. It threw her to the ground face-first by her hair, its hooded head turning to regard Harlin.
Rage took him. His shield upon his arm, he charged straight toward the Bodah Duhn, heedless of Anselm’s protesting cries.
The creature took an odd stance as it sensed his challenge, crouched and waiting, its blade held back along its arm. Harlin feinted, seeing it move to parry an overhand blow, and slammed the rim of his shield into its side, knocking it clean off its feet. It recovered instantly, lashing out with its blade, its blows coming from strange angles as it stepped around him fluidly. Harlin caught took them on his shield, looking for an opening – its movements were so unusual they threw him off, made him cautious.
Suddenly it was to his right and swinging its blade upwards, aiming for his throat. He turned, shield raised, catching the strike with his own blade, sparks flying as metal ground against metal. Harlin swept the creature’s blade upwards, stepping through, sliding its sword up and over his head until it was too close to use, and trapped his opponent against him with his shield arm. Its sword arm caught and held tight, the flat of its blade trapped against his back, it struggled against him, kicking his legs, trying to trip him, a foul hiss emanating from somewhere beneath that dark hood, unseen eyes burning into his own as he lay the edge of his blade at its throat.
‘Die, you filth,’ it hissed like a snake in his face, trying to turn him to expose his side, to free its arm, heedless of his sword. ‘Lowly, foul worm! Die, scum!’ Its free hand suddenly grabbed the side of his face, cold metal stinging, its strength terrible, sharp edges biting into his skin.
‘Fuck you, creature,’ Harlin spat back at it. He twisted his body left, bending the thing backward, dragging his blade down its throat in a pull-cut, the hood falling away from its face as blood flowed.
There was no face at all, just a steel mask sculpted into the plain, elegant features of a man. Somewhere, in the depths of the eye holes, a very real pair of eyes burned out at him with a fury and hatred he had never seen the like of. Mottled brown, red, yellow – wild pupils glared at him from the centre of irises no man could possess and a hiss gurgled in its open, leaking throat. Something tightened on his head as it glared at him, claws forcing their way into his temples.
Harlin’s lip curled. He angled his blade, twisted the opposite way, making it spit in pain, and heaved upwards as he bent his opponent double, driving the point of his sword under its chin, the tip sprouting from the eye of its mask in a shower of dark blood. The creature gurgled, spasmed, dropped its weapon – its gauntleted hands gripped the blade that pierced it, trying to yank it free, then slackened. Legs buckling, it hit the ground, dead and bleeding.
He went to Aedri, kneeling and turning her onto her back, numb as he looked over her. The wound ran deep, blood spilling from it as she fought for breath. She was beyond saving, beyond any hope, her life spreading steadily about her, and he could do nothing other than shake his head. He tried to think of something to say, something wise, something gentle, but nothing came. She looked up at him, fear writ plain on her face amidst tears, still beautiful, still radiant as her bloodied hand, shaking, reached for him.
Aedri tried to speak, her mouth moving as Harlin took her hand. She choked, coughed blood and twitched, back arching, eyes unfocussing, becoming vacant as her hand went limp and slipped from his.
It was strange, to find death so chilling after a lifetime spent in its midst, that after taking so many lives without remorse, to see one slip away before him and find only hollow guilt left in its wake, dragged up from hidden depths with cruel barbs.
It twisted inside him, that cold centre of being, that hard thing that lurked in places unknown and desolate. It twisted in anger and its tendrils crept through him.
Weak, it whispered. You are weak.
Chaos reeled about Harlin as he knelt, fire raging through the market square, men lying dead, pierced through and cut open, and shadows encroached upon him from all sides. He closed Aedri’s dull eyes and stood slowly, sword trembling in his fist.
>
About him crept phantoms, wary in their approach. Their silver faces caught the inferno’s red light, flames towering and twisting away beyond all sight, their heat blistering. Empty eye holes studied him patiently, their plain, sculpted features fixed and unknowable.
They came as one for him. The nearest slashed at his face. Harlin caught the blow on his sword, the creature’s blade grinding down to his cross guard, parrying as he pivoted away, a swift cut laying its back open through its robes.
Claws pierced his skull, stabbed viciously at his temples. His vision swam, a wall of black rushed for him. Something huge came crashing from his right, sweeping it aside, scattering it into a dozen dark fragments, silver flashing, voices hissing and snarling as they withdrew.
‘Harlin!’
Anselm rode before him, face drawn with pain as he swung low with his sword, driving back dark men, Bodah Duhn, with desperate fury.
‘What are you doing?’ he roared at Harlin, horse rearing and lashing out with its front hooves at a silver-faced shadow. ‘Fucking mount up!’
Harlin blinked back the pain in his skull, rushing to where his mount cowered fearfully from the flames, leaping into the saddle against its braying objection. He wheeled it about, forcing it to turn and kicking it into a gallop towards where Anselm fought relentless shadows. Harlin rode down a handful sneaking up on him, high shrieks flaring as his mount’s hooves drove them into the ground, shattering bone. Anselm spared him the briefest of nods, turning aside a silver blade, plunging his mount down the southern through cloying black robes and silver faces, Harlin at his side.
Black shapes came at them as they fled, and Harlin cut them down without thinking as they thundered past. They raced through burning roads together, the streets filled with death and the town crumbling about them. A building collapsed as Harlin and Anselm surged down the southern road, its wreckage aflame as it blocked their path. They veered their mounts, the beasts tossing their heads fearfully as they skidded so close to the flames, turning and plunging down a back street to circle around past the western wall.
The Shadow of the High King Page 16