The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  They found the south gate burning and thrown open, its housing littered with the corpses, black shapes moving across them. There were men marching through the gate, swarthy men wearing mail and clutching spears, their dark surcoats and shields bearing a mark Harlin had never seen before. A red ram’s head before a bloodied hand, fingers splayed.

  The men shouted in alarm as Harlin and Anselm approached, crying loudly with strange words, trying to form up, their formation lax and scattered after what looked to have been a brief, but fierce fight.

  Harlin kicked his mount ahead of Anselm’s and crashed through them, swinging low with his sword, taking one man in the face, splitting his helm, spinning him away with a red-mouthed scream, his charge scattering the rest to the ground and down side streets and alleyways as they ran for their lives and dropped their weapons. Black shapes lurked on the edge of vision.

  Harlin and Anselm burst through the gate, riding down more men that stood in their way, caught unawares and emerging from the dark southern road clutching torches above their heads. The alarm was raised, cries carrying back and forth from hundreds of voices stretching away into darkness beneath pools of distant light. Men surged forward to cut them off, fanning out across the road with spears braced.

  Harlin and Anselm yanked their mounts round, turned off the road, heading west, up into the steep hills of the Kennock Vales, disappearing into darkness, hearing furious, blustering shouts of confusion behind them as the men below tried to give chase.

  They rode westward through the hills, following the land upwards and winding away from the road, distant flickers of torchlight below them wandering and rushing in all directions looking for their trail. They crested the top of a hill that looked down over Farrifax, crowned by a copse of wild trees. Steering their mounts into the deepest of shadows, they hid and fell to complete silence, themselves as breathless and tired as their animals.

  Below, nearer the road, flickers of torchlight moved back and forth. Muffled shouts came from them, sounding frustrated, despondent. They returned to the road after some time, their lights heading towards the town. Harlin let go of the breath he’d been holding for countless seconds, chest deflating. Anselm did the same beside him in the dark, falling to coughing.

  ‘That,’ came Anselm’s croak, ‘was fucking close.’

  Harlin nodded, pointless in the dark, but too lost to himself to speak. He edged his mount forward from beneath the cover of the trees, looking out over the town, Anselm following close behind.

  Beneath them, Farrifax burned like a torch, the smoke of those dreadful fires blanketing the night sky, blotting out the moon. The sounds of the butchery taking place within its walls reached them even atop the hill. Anselm shook his head at it all next to Harlin, bent with pain in the saddle. He groaned faintly. Their escape hadn’t been kind to him, but he bore it well.

  Harlin stared down at the flames as they ate away at Farrifax, buildings tumbling, sparks rising in clouds from them. He felt almost as though that distant fire raged through him, consuming him, stripping back the layers of his being, eating away at him till it found his core – cold, hard, raw and hungering as it was exposed, craving its right, craving its due.

  Anselm rode up beside him. Harlin saw him regarding him quietly from the corner of his eye. ‘Who was she,’ he asked, his voice pained still and tone cautious ‘that waif of a girl you leapt from the saddle for?’

  Harlin considered silently. What could he say of her – what was there to say of her? Someone he had barely known, yet could feel the guilt of her passing edge cold and unwelcome into the cold expanse of his mind. She had been a fool. There was nothing to say of her, nothing that mattered as he looked deep and scraped back the pleasantries that cloud the minds of men too easily. Nothing mattered.

  ‘No one,’ he said eventually.

  They spurred their horses and headed west over the hills, leaving Farrifax to burn, leaving its people to their fate. Behind him on that hilltop, Harlin left everything other than the desire for what was his – scraped raw and bloody by fire, made pure and assayed in red flame and bleak shadow.

  There was nothing to say of those who are weak. Nothing to say of what can be discarded. Nothing to say when the animal within had been woken and found furious and single-minded.

  Nothing mattered. Home was calling to him. The Black Wolf would answer.

  Chapter 6

  Of Dreams and Deceit

  Arnulf Berlunt sat atop his silver mount, staring out from the Barrowolds at the pillar of smoke that turned the night sky a moribund grey. Some distance away Lord Ainric Callen’s camp still burned and Lord Garrmunt and his Knights of the Spear Hills would be massacring whatever was left of the army.

  He felt a fool.

  He was a fool.

  Too eager from so much waiting, he had snatched at a chance hurriedly, marched blindly forwards without regard. He was a fool. A fool for having taken this contract, a fool for having brought his men to this place, a fool for getting so many of them killed. He could not even say that he had been blind to the risk an uninformed, rushed march posed – it had been glaringly obvious, commented on by many. He had simply thought only of himself. He closed his eyes and hoped that they would forgive him, for he would never forgive himself for this mess.

  This was not the end, though. Not now. Not ever.

  The end comes only to those who let themselves be beaten down and crushed into nothing, to those without the strength to pick themselves up and move on against setback, pain and despair. There was still hope – there is always hope, no matter how vague or remote. There was time yet left for him, still a chance that things could be put right before the sun set on House Berlunt and enshrouded his family’s legacy in obscurity and falsehood. He had waited this long. He could wait a little longer. It was only time, and things had changed drastically almost in an instant.

  Funny, how one act of betrayal can cast new light on another. He couldn’t fathom whether or not that construed irony.

  The charge of those knights… his whole body still ached from it. It was a miracle he and anyone else had survived. Of slightly less than two hundred Shield Brothers, perhaps fifty had made it out alive after Garrmunt’s betrayal, some of whom had been seriously injured. Most were injured in some way, in fact – most were sporting bruised ribs and limbs from the charge that had broken their shield wall. Others, however, were suffering with fractured limbs or other trauma from bearing the brunt of the impact Behind him, where they were hidden amongst the Barrowolds, he could hear them groaning as they were tended to by their Shield Brothers. It saddened him to think how many more would succumb to their wounds before the night was through.

  Basic treatment of wounds in the field was something he made sure the men were capable of. It would save many Shield Brothers this night, he knew – they had to fall back to Farrifax, and quickly. Garrmunt’s men would be looking for survivors once they were done with the camp and the Dogs were in no shape to fight. He had lost some of his best men in that ruthless charge, warriors he would never see the like of again.

  Arnulf sighed and shook his head as he looked at that curling finger of smoke. They had to reach Farrifax soon and gather Berro and his team. They needed to uproot and be on the road again before Garrmunt came down like a hammer upon Farrifax and left it a smoking ruin like Lord Callen’s camp.

  There was work to be done, besides.

  The Blackshield Dogs needed to be rebuilt, rebuilt and made greater than before. It was time. Garrmunt had seen to that – he needed strong men for what was to come, skilled men, many such men. He would find them. He had an eye for talent at swordplay, and it had never let him down, not once, when picking out men to join the ranks of the Blackshield Dogs. Looking at the sorry state of them now though… perhaps he had been too lax in recruitment in recent years. Fighting men unfortunately had a tendency to dwindle in number over time, due to their career, regardless of individual talent.

  It burned within him sourly to lo
se so many good men. They had been more than just men, they were brothers. He had known each one of them, remembered how he had found them, approached them. Each one had been more than a sword arm to him, he had known their name, their story, their character, their strengths, their weaknesses. They were his men, his brothers. They had always proven themselves loyal to him and he had always rewarded them with capable leadership. Until now. The shame of it was… flattening. Humiliating.

  And still they were loyal to him, even after he had led them blindly into the maw of treachery. He was thankful for that, more than they could ever know. He was nothing without them. They would be rewarded, in due time. All in due time.

  They just had to wait a little longer.

  Arnulf turned his mount around, satisfied their location was secure for now, and cantered down the slope to where his men were resting in the hollow between two mounds. With what starlight and moonlight remained to them he could see one of the younger men, Jorric, strapping a splint to a wounded Shield Brother’s arm. Broken arms were the most common complaint it seemed, broken ribs too, and a few broken legs on men that had been trampled, or rode down, by Garrmunt’s knights.

  The Knights of the Spear Hills, he thought bitterly, looking at the wreckage of his men. Many were laid out on dark grassy slopes, nursing their injuries sorrowfully or staring vacantly into the sky, numb with shock, like dead shadows.

  He would remember this. The Black Dog did not forget treachery.

  Their dead would be avenged and their names would not be forgotten. They would be honoured in time – theirs was a noble sacrifice, one not in vain, and he would see they were remembered for it, remembered for their fearless stand in the face of cold, sickening betrayal.

  After all, it was betrayal that first put them all on this path to begin with.

  Arnulf ticked off the faces closest to him as he recognised them in the gloom. Jorric, Red Harry, Elric, Dag, Torc, Dran, Boulder, Derven, Balarin, Aelwar, Ceagga, Hroga. All good men, strong fighters, veterans all. His heart sank, however, when he did not count Harlin amongst their number. Anselm was missing, too. They had few men left who were able to scout for survivors, and he was reluctant to risk more lives by letting them roam far. The handful of riders he had sent out had returned not long ago, empty-handed and ashen-faced. Harlin and Anselm were dead, most likely, dead, injured, captured – they were beyond any help now. Two of their very best, gone in moments. They would be missed sorely.

  Arnulf cast his mind back to the knights’ charge. It had split their shield wall in two and crushed those before it beneath the mounts of the heaviest, and best, knights in Caermark. Men had been flung aside like children’s toys before it, helpless, and the knights had rode off with the impetus of the charge. It had been so successful a charge that the knights hadn’t even bothered to stop and finish off stragglers, they’d rode over them and gone storming off through the camp looking for any other resistance. An arrogant maneuver, one Arnulf had been grateful for – it had given him the chance to lead the few survivors through the camp to their horses and escape. They hadn’t stopped to look back until they found the Barrowolds.

  Now here they were. Some fifty men, injured, unsupplied, broken. They’d lost at least a dozen more men in their flight, but they would fight on. The Blackshield Dogs were not done yet, he wouldn’t let it be so. But it would be difficult – it was only once they had stopped here to tend the wounded that Arnulf had realised the true cost of their defeat.

  Harlin had been the best of them. Arnulf had never met a man more talented with a sword, nor so ruthless, so efficient… so cold. He had been one of a kind, Harlin, whatever else could be said of him. And there were many things that could.

  Arnulf had gone to great lengths to acquire Harlin’s services. The boy had had been a slave in those rancid, child-slaughtering pits in Parathet when he had accepted a contract to protect a local merchant lord’s caravans from some desert-dwelling tribesmen. The generous payment and valuable experience for the men had been nothing compared to the prize that Harlin had been, a prize worth breaking their contract over, worth killing for. He’d watched the boy fighting in the pits, day in, day out, and knew he had to have him under his command – knew he could be destined for great things, with the right guidance, the right training. Harlin fought like how the preachers spoke of Dothmair the Warrior, one of the Old Gods – fluid, without mercy, moving like liquid around men’s blades, almost untouchable. There was so much potential in the boy – he had taken the company to new strengths from the moment he had joined. He had been more than worth breaking their contract for.

  The demons the boy carried with him, however… Arnulf wished that they could have been left behind in Parathet.

  He still remembered Easthold. All of Caermark remembered Easthold. And all of Caermark knew of the Black Wolf.

  Arnulf thought briefly of that day, three summers ago, of the siege, of Lord Athelmer’s betrayal, of the fight for the keep.

  He shuddered, thinking of what he had found that day in Lord Athelmer’s chambers. He had blamed himself for it, he still did, but he had not known then what had lurked beneath Harlin’s quiet surface.

  Had I only known.

  There had been something broken in that boy, something twisted, formless and odious. He had often wondered if it was that part of him that had made of him such a warrior. Perhaps death would be a kinder fate for the boy than to suffer the maladies and torments a man’s own mind creates. Perhaps it was better for them all, the boy had been either been unwilling or unable to move on and accept the past for what it was. It was childish, selfish. And dangerous.

  He shoved it from his mind. Now was not the time.

  ‘Ceagga!’ Arnulf called from atop his horse, the long-haired man appearing a moment later, face bloodstained beneath his helm. ‘Have the wounded been tended?’

  ‘As best we can for now, my lord,’ Ceagga said, ‘some will not last the journey to Farrifax, I fear, their wounds are too grave. They’ve had to double up in the saddle with those who can bear them. The rest should be able to ride, though their wounds will need the attention of healers before long, if they’re like to fight again.’

  Arnulf nodded grimly. ‘So be it,’ he said, ‘give the call to mount up, we ride south with all haste.’

  They rode at speed over the burial mounds beneath their horses’ hooves, the countryside a black blur around them, the southern sky pure violet. The men were quiet as they kept pace with him, they told no jokes, nor conversation made nor did songs sing. The rolling rumble of galloping horses was punctuated only by the groans of the wounded.

  They stopped for a while on the edge of the Barrowolds as dawn came, Arnulf watching solemnly while the men gathered stones and made cairns for the three men whose wounds had claimed them on that brief ride. Arnulf allowed Ceagga to say the words for them, the prayer to Vathnir, the Great Father, as those who could kneel did so before the three cairns.

  ‘Be at peace, brothers,’ Ceagga spoke, placing a battered, bloodied helm atop one of the mounds. ‘Stand strong with Vathnir in his halls, as you did with us in life, so he may toast your valour as we toast your memory, and stand strong in your absence.’

  ‘Stand strong,’ the Dogs all spoke as one, their voices weighted with grief. Arnulf felt his own voice thicken as he watched the hurried ritual.

  Ceagga stood and rested a cracked shield against one of the other cairns, the only bit of gear the fallen Shield Brother had kept hold of, and placed a copper coin atop each pile of stones. A dour scene, though Ceagga had performed admirably given their situation. He was a man to be proud of, a man worthy of respect.

  They moved on as soon as the brief funeral rites were over, setting a sluggish pace, slowed by both injury and lack of sleep, and camped that night in the sheltered basin they had passed through on their way to Thegnmere. A watch was set, but Arnulf allowed no fires for fear of hidden eyes. There was clean water here and the men drank deeply and washed their wounds with it. S
ome who were able went foraging for roots and shoots they could eat but found little, Lord Callen’s army having stripped the area bare when halting here previously. They would be at Farrifax tomorrow, though, and Arnulf took some small comfort in that at least.

  Balarin came and found him as the night drew in and the men settled to sleep beneath watching stars, dropping down beside him with a sigh and reclining amidst flattened grass.

  ‘We make better time without Callen’s horde before us,’ he said, offering Arnulf a narrow slice of a fernroot one of the men had found in the hills. Foul stuff when raw, bitter and starchy, but Arnulf’s stomach growled fiercely as he looked at the dull wedge dripping its distasteful juice.

  ‘Have the wounded been fed?’

  ‘As best we can with what we found,’ said Balarin, ‘we’re all of us injured, after all.’

  That was true. Balarin was sporting a splinted arm, Arnulf noticed. His own arm and side were aching fiercely now he was at rest. He nodded, grimacing as he bit off a piece of fernroot. Disgusting.

  ‘I’m sorry, Balarin,’ Arnulf said quietly after a moment, swallowing reluctantly.

  ‘What for?’ Balarin looked at him, nonplussed. He was one of the few Arnulf would let dispose of formal address in private moments like this. He was a friend, first and foremost, as well as a loyal subordinate and warrior.

  ‘For this,’ Arnulf sighed quietly, gesturing at the shadowed forms of their few men, ‘for doing you all wrong, for abusing your trust in me. Forgive me.’ He spat a mouthful of bitter juice into the grass.

  ‘Your men, Arnulf,’ Balarin whispered, ‘would follow you into death’s open palm, if you ordered it. I would follow you, if you asked it of me. I would do no less for you than I would have done for your father. I know the others think the same.’