But how could the boy live? He had not been with them when they fled, nor had they seen any sign of him on the road. They had assumed him dead, killed in the charge like the others.
No, there was no chance that Harlin could still live, even if he had survived that charge, the knights would have come back looking for survivors eventually, Arnulf himself had even seen reinforcements from the Marrwood swooping down on the camp as they had fled. Harlin was probably still lying amongst the piled dead, throat cut, raven-pecked and lifeless.
There was a scraping and thumping at the gate and it slowly swung open, a group of ten spearmen standing ready within, spears and shields levelled, ready for a potential charge. They were serious about their serjeant being attacked, then, he could only assume. One stepped forward, spear held before him threateningly.
‘Any proof of who you are?’ he asked Arnulf uncertainly. Arnulf produced, from a pocket in his leather pack, a crumpled roll of parchment. It bore the seal of House Callen in blue wax. The sight of that eagle still made him sick, it was so similar to that of House Marreburg.
He kept his expression blank and handed it to the guardsman. It was a letter of passage, written for Arnulf and his men by Lord Callen as part of their contract of employment on the campaign to retake Thegnmere. He doubted the man could read, but he made a good effort of trying to look as though he could, his eyes on the blue wax seal primarily. He grunted in satisfaction after a few moments of pretending to read and handed it back to Arnulf with a stiff nod. ‘Seems in order, sir.’
Arnulf inclined his head in gratitude. ‘You should go to the Lord’s Halls, sir,’ he said, shifting from foot to foot and resting awkwardly on his spear. Arnulf nodded.
‘I plan to,’ he said, ‘I bear grave news for your town steward.’
The corner of the guard’s mouth twitched uncomfortably as he eyed the lines of injured men behind Arnulf. He swallowed.
‘What news, sir,’ the guardsman said, ‘is it to do with the smoke we spied to the north?’
‘It is for your steward’s ears only, do not trouble yourself, just let us pass.’
The guardsman waved them through.
Arnulf looked about at the town’s wooden walls as his men filed through the gates, noticing how flimsy they seemed to Thegnmere’s great curtain of stonework, and thinking upon how easily it had fallen. He felt suddenly nervous, watching its few defenders roam the walkways above, they seemed futile.
‘Keep your eyes northward,’ he said to the guardsman as he passed, ‘keep your spear sharp, keep it ready.’
The eyes of the men at the gatehouse followed him uneasily as he moved off.
The Blackshield Dogs made down the southern road through Farrifax at speed, through cobbled streets and muddy backroads, heading up east to where the Lord’s Halls sat looming against the violet sky, its dark masonry a stark contrast against the wooden walls of the town below.
Above the building’s arched entrance the sigil of House Callen was carved elaborately in grey stone, an ugly sight. It reminded Arnulf again of the how Marreburg’s banner had flown above Greylake as he looked upon it. The similarities of shared blood between the Marreburgs and the Callens did not end at a simple banner, they were schemers and traitors and self-serving sycophants alike.
Or were, rather.
The thought brought a smile to his face, though if he had been alone he would have gladly spat on that carving above him.
He dragged his eyes away from it as a Shield Brother hailed the guards posted outside in his name, he and his men dismounting as they approached.
A serjeant wearing the livery of the Callens led Arnulf and Balarin through while the men waited on the stone steps outside. They were shown to a hall that was lit brightly by many candles stood to attention in tall, silver candelabras and hung from great chandeliers. The arched ceiling stretched away before them and led down to a feasting hall headed with a noble-looking chair Arnulf assumed Ainric Callen would have held court from.
A long table was swarmed about by nobles and servants, the hall bustling even at this late hour. Nobles draped in rich-looking fabrics hunched over a large sheaf of parchment laid spread across the table, servants bringing them fresh jugs of wine while and platters of food, others stoking the roaring fires in the hall’s many hearths.
Busy and chaotic as the scene was, it was welcome reprieve from their flight from the north. Arnulf let the warmth wash over him, and breathed deep of the smells that met his nose as he was led by the serjeant to the table, his men clustering uneasily by the grand entrance doors under the watchful eye of household guards.
Ten or more highborn-looking men, their various gaudy clothes showing their heraldry, were sipping wine from silver goblets as Arnulf approached. They were arguing over a large map of Farrifax and the Kennock Vales place on the table, he noticed.
‘Lord-Captain Arnulf Berlunt of the Blackshield Dogs,’ the serjeant announced in a precise, practiced way, bowing to the nobles as they looked up, stopping mid-conversation. They had been discussing, or arguing rather, over battle plans, from the snatches of it he heard.
One came to greet him, a tall fellow, blonde haired and pink faced. He looked quite boyish and inexperienced in Arnulf’s eyes, as did the others about him, now he looked properly. They were probably knights left behind by Lord Callen to see to the town’s defences while he was on campaign.
The boy stood before Arnulf, hands on hips, awaiting some formality that he did not receive. Arnulf waited for him to speak first, letting his eyes bore through the young man until he became visibly uncomfortable.
‘Sir Gaelin Callen,’ the young knight said, trying to mask his discomfort, ‘Steward of Farrifax in my uncle’s name while he is away. What brings you here, sellsword?’
Ainric’s line is not quite finished, then, Arnulf thought.
‘Lord-Captain Arnulf Berlunt,’ he said, with a slight nod. Beside him, Balarin eyed the lad with a slowly downward-curling lip.
Arnulf did not expect to find an appropriate level of respect here and he would give none in return. The name Berlunt was all but forgotten these days, even in the north where it had once been venerated by every man beyond the Middenrealms.
‘I bring news of the battle in the north,’ Arnulf said, dragging his mind back to matters at hand, making the young knight’s face drop by just a fraction for the briefest of moments.
‘You have news of my uncle,’ he said, voice not quite as steady as the set of his jaw. ‘Well, out with it, then, let’s hear it.’
Arnulf sighed, then told him everything as quickly and in-depth as he could, mindful his men were waiting on him outside. He and Balarin were grateful for a seat and a drink though, accepting both without hesitation.
Gaelin’s face paled as he listened to Arnulf’s tale, turning away and leaning on the table beside him, hands gripping its edges fiercely, eyes staring wide and haunted into the hearth across from him. The other young highborn about him fell to apprehensive silence themselves, casting uncomfortable glances between Gaelin and Arnulf. They sipped at wine with an almost open flamboyance, as though to mask the air of terror that slowly descended over the hall.
‘So he is dead then,’ Gaelin said as Arnulf finished talking. ‘Ainric, my uncle – he is dead.’
‘I believe so,’ said Arnulf. ‘My men and I were beyond lucky to escape ourselves, we lost many, more on the way here.’
Muttering ran through the hall, the highborn around the table shaking heads and mumbling prayers and offering condolences to Gaelin.
‘I had thought something amiss,’ Gaelin sighed, ignoring those around him. ‘We all saw the smoke to the north. He had told me he would send word by sparrow when he had arrived at Thegnmere, we have heard nothing from him since he left the town.’
He turned then, sitting back upon the table and crossing his arms over his chest, pink face troubled. ‘There have been rumours amongst our garrison of such things. One of our serjeants was attacked at the gate the o
ther night by someone claiming the same as you. I thought it the lies of some base knave wanting to slink his way into town, but apparently his shield bore the same markings as yours.’
Gaelin nodded to where Arnulf’s shield rested against his chair. Harlin. He needed to know, something, anything.
‘Have you found the man who attacked your serjeant,’ he asked calmly, ‘he will be punished if you give him to me, you have my word.’
‘No,’ said Gaelin, shaking his head, ‘I haven’t the men to spare for a manhunt. I thought it best to see to the town’s defences once we saw the smoke and received no word from my uncle, especially with such rumours flying about.’ He gestured to the parchment on the table, a map of the town, Arnulf saw, notes hastily scrawled across it in places. ‘My uncle took almost all our fighting men north with him, we’ve but a handful left here to man the walls, let alone enforce our laws.’
Arnulf nodded, disappointed, patience wearing thin on the matter. Harlin was not a priority right now – the men that were waiting for him outside needed tending to. He had dallied here too long.
‘Sir Gaelin,’ he said humbly, ‘my surviving men are waiting outside your halls. They are injured, hungry, exhausted. I would beg hospitality of you, if you would grant it, many need healers if they are to live through the night.’
‘Of course,’ Gaelin said quickly. Arnulf held his face in check – that was unexpected. ‘On the condition they help defend the town, that is.’
There was always a condition with men like the Callens, always something they wanted, always seeking gain, seeking profit. Though in truth he had expected that Gaelin would demand payment, not service. Balarin huffed nearby in disbelief. Arnulf swallowed his distaste and answered, ‘Defend the town? Some are unable to grip a sword.’
Gaelin huffed himself, tone suddenly threatening. ‘In case you didn’t gather, Arnulf, I’m rather short on men at the moment, and that bastard Garrmunt is but a stone’s throw away at Thegnmere. I’ve been recruiting what I can from the men that are left amongst the townsfolk, but they are untrained and barely know which end of a spear you do the killing with. Either your warriors help defend the town or they can be on their merry way and die for all I care, you along with them. Or am I not Lord of Farrifax now in my uncle’s passing?’
He looked about at the other nobles about him, earning himself a rumble of agreement and a couple of snivelling laughs.
‘So be it then,’ said Arnulf, staring into Gaelin’s eyes until he looked away. ‘As long as my men are fed, watered and tended to, we will fight for you.’
‘A wise choice,’ said Gaelin, ‘I’ll send word to the barracks to have your men seen too, my own will escort you there when you are ready.’
‘My thanks,’ Arnulf said begrudgingly, rising. He could feel Balarin’s eyes upon him intensely as they left.
Outside and on the move with the men, Arnulf rubbed his eyes with thumb and index finger, tiredness weighing heavy upon him. His body ached for sleep but there was still something to do before the night was through. He needed to speak with Berro before he could allow himself to rest.
Balarin leaned towards him as they followed Gaelin’s men away from the halls. ‘You can’t be serious in agreeing to this, surely?’ he whispered.
‘Do you think me a fool, Balarin,’ he whispered back sharply. ‘Do you think I would end us here for that fop of a boy? I said what I did so he would tend to our men, nothing more.’
‘And if he comes calling for them to man the walls?’ said Balarin, beard twitching as he mumbled.
‘We will be long gone when that time comes.’
‘You have something in mind?’
‘I always have a plan,’ said Arnulf with a sly smile. He did have something in mind, but that was a lie of course. Arnulf had come to learn in the long years of his career that being in a position of leadership entailed an ability to improvise, think on your feet and disguise it as preparation and forethought for the benefit of the men who follow you.
‘For now though I must speak with Berro,’ Arnulf sighed, seeing Balarin relax. ‘We will need him for what I have in mind, I will need him to act immediately.’
Arnulf left Ceagga in charge of the men and broke off with Balarin, winding down dark streets and heading into the richer locales of Farrifax, where stately houses rose like royalty over the hovels that clung to their shadows.
An inn called the Brass Taps was here, itself towering over the other buildings around it like an emperor amongst kings. It was an expensive place, but one with respectable clientele – far removed from the likes of the dives and shitholes found elsewhere in Farrifax. Berro and his two ferocious wolfhounds were housed there, those two animals had bitten the fingers from more thieving hands than Arnulf had cut with his sword over the years. Even Berro himself, for a man who did not fight, had proven himself capable when it came to security, he’d stuck a knife between the ribs of a few thieves over the years.
Lights were glowing in some of the windows of the inn’s upper floor, despite the late hour. Arnulf’s heavy pounding upon the carved, oaken front door was answered by a tired-looking serving girl that led them inside as a young lad went to see to his and Balarin’s horses.
Inside, the serving girl led them through dimly lit hallways and up narrow, darkened staircases by the flickering light of an oil lamp. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on an expensive wooden floor as they came to a room at the far end of a corridor, Balarin rapping on the door smartly with gloved knuckles as the girl disappeared with a bow and stifled yawn.
A yelp came from within and light outlined the door in its frame. Balarin raised an eyebrow at Arnulf, who pursed his lips thoughtfully. He’d expected a warning growl from Berro’s wolfhounds, at least. He fingered the hilt of his sword, listening as bustling sounds came from within as someone moved around in the room. Something felt amiss.
A key suddenly scraped in the lock and a sliver of Berro’s face appeared as the door opened an inch, the light catching on the edge of a blade protruding at waist height. Arnulf coughed and looked pointedly at it. Berro’s one visible eye widened in surprise at the sight them and he flung the door open, beckoning them to come through with an unusual anxiousness and urgency in his words.
‘My lord Arnulf,’ Berro said with his block of a head bowed, voice trembling as he stowed his blade. ‘I am so glad you have returned! There is much to tell you!’ Arnulf’s eyes found the three coffers of coin he had amassed over the last few years and felt slightly more at ease, though still confused. Where were Berro’s animals?
‘Calm yourself and speak, Berro,’ he bade the cringing paymaster. ‘I also have much to tell. Firstly though, what happened here, where are your hounds?’
Something on Berro’s face suddenly caught his eye, and he tilted his head to get a better look at it in the dim light of the room. A cut, quite deep from the looks of it, stitched recently, blood drying at its edges.
‘Your face,’ Arnulf said, gesturing. ‘How did you come by that scratch?’ Berro glanced around the room nervously. This was not like him at all, he had always been a very solid man, inclined to patience and a stern manner, now he was but a shambles. Arnulf noticed the dark stains on the floor then, following Berro’s eyes.
Blood. It was everywhere.
Arnulf’s brow creased in dark realisation.
‘What happened, Berro,’ Balarin said from beside him, ‘speak, man.’
Berro gripped his knees as he sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast.
‘Harlin,’ said the paymaster. He shuddered, as though the name gave him the chills. Arnulf’s stomach leapt into his mouth.
‘What?’
‘He came here,’ Berro trembled, ‘demanding early payment for both he and Shield Brother Anselm, spinning tales of some betrayal to the north, saying you were dead, my lord. I refused him, took him for a deserter. He attacked me when I had Grub and Snag keep an eye on him – I was going to have him clapped in irons.’
>
There were tears in the man’s eyes suddenly. ‘He killed my two pups, Lord Arnulf! Knifed them both, like they were nothing to him! Grub and Snag, the poor little things – I’d raised them since they were but whelps!’
The man heaved with a sob as Arnulf and Balarin stood, stunned into silence.
‘I tried to stop him, my lord, but I am no match for a creature like Harlin, he cut my face so badly, threatened to kill me.’ Berro pointed to where his wound had been stitched, tears streaming freely now. ‘He took bags of silver from the coffers!’
Arnulf felt cold trepidation slither through him like a worm.
‘How much did he take, Berro,’ he asked, keeping his voice steady against a sudden feeling of weakness. He needed to sit down.
‘Three months’ worth of pay for both he and Anselm,’ said Berro.
‘You are certain that’s all he took?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Berro said with an eager nod, ‘I counted every last coin to make sure.’
Arnulf breathed a sigh of relief. No major damage to their finances, then. Had the boy robbed them completely they would be truly undone – too much rested on that coin, far too much.
‘Why would Harlin do such a thing?’ Balarin said, head shaking. Arnulf fetched a chair from Berro’s desk and sat, massaging his temples.
‘I’m amazed he survived the Marrwood,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t sure the men here were speaking the truth about who attacked their serjeant. What else did he say, Berro, did he explain himself?’
‘He said he had things he must do,’ Berro said, after a look of painful effort gripped his face. ‘And that nothing would stop him from seeing them done.’
The room fell to silence. Berro glanced nervously from Arnulf to Balarin and back as the two shared a knowing look.
‘So the fool’s finally gone and done it,’ Balarin huffed, looking at the bloodstained floor between his feet.
‘Done what,’ asked Berro.
The Shadow of the High King Page 19