The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

‘I can’t believe it,’ Balarin said, ignoring the paymaster. Arnulf looked at the Berro, scratching at his beard thoughtfully.

  ‘The boy is obsessed with revenge,’ he said distastefully. ‘Harlin nurses old wounds like a tavernhound nurses his ale. I once promised to help him in this matter, I failed, and the boy has resented me for it ever since. I always thought him petty and weak of mind. I have never pitied men their woes, especially those who refuse to let them go – for we all have our own, no matter their shape or make. Is our own company not built upon the very bones of our families and loved ones?’

  Balarin and Berro nodded in silence.

  ‘But now it seems as though he has finally decided to act, he must have seen the Marrwood as his opportunity once he was separated from us. If that is the case then the boy is lost to us, and will probably be dead soon enough. He seeks vengeance against one of Caermark’s lords, though does not know which one. It is a pointless thing, pathetic and childish, and there is no hope in this for him. They will have him strung up and bled for weeks should he dare move against one of them alone, the skill of his sword arm will not avail him. But I wonder… he said Anselm was with him, though?’

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ said Berro. ‘Injured, I think he said.’ Arnulf shook his head wearily.

  ‘If he spoke true then I am surprised that Anselm did not manage to talk some sense into him. He was a true-hearted man if ever there was one.’

  ‘I think you underestimate their bond, my lord,’ said Balarin, ‘those two were more Shield Brothers to one another than they were to the rest of us.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Arnulf admitted, ‘maybe Harlin’s stubborn ways have dragged Anselm along in his wake, if he thought the Dogs finished. But no matter.’ He shook his head. ‘I have no choice but to name Harlin as Oathbreaker for his actions.’

  Balarin looked at him then, a doubtful eyebrow raised. ‘Oathbreaker, my lord?’

  ‘Oathbreaker,’ Arnulf confirmed, ‘and enemy of the company.’

  Balarin stared, mouth open as Berro nodded eagerly from his bed, a vicious smile exploding upon his face. ‘With all respect, Lord Arnulf, are you sure that is wise,’ said Balarin, ‘the men will not take kindly to this – they were fond of the boy.’

  ‘He has attacked a member of the company,’ Arnulf shot, pointing to Berro’s face, ‘killed animals belonging to the company, and stolen company coin. He is Oathbreaker, and our enemy until the end of his days, or ours, that is my word as Lord-Captain of the Blackshield Dogs.’

  ‘A wise and just decision, Lord Arnulf, I thank you, deeply,’ Berro said, hands clasped as if in prayer.

  Arnulf’s word was law in the company, but it didn’t stop Balarin from giving him a look that seemed to say, you’re making a mistake.

  Regardless, Arnulf felt it was time to wash his hands of Harlin. This could not be forgiven.

  The master does not suffer the hound that bites him.

  ‘We have other matters to discuss,’ he said then, blinking as tiredness washed over him anew.

  The night was deep, the moon gone, he saw, as he looked through the window. He took a cup of wine Berro offered and drank deeply, explaining to him what had happened to the north. The paymaster poured himself more than a few cups of the stuff as Arnulf spoke of Lord Garrmunt’s betrayal and their defeat, mumbling prayers to Vathnir as he listened to how many they had lost.

  ‘We need to head south,’ Arnulf said, throat dry from so much talking. ‘The north is not safe for us any more, not while we are so weak and witness to such a betrayal. Garrmunt will slaughter us if we linger. We must flee and rebuild ourselves.’ Berro and Balarin nodded slowly at his words, sipping wine. ‘We will use this coin,’ continued Arnulf, gesturing to the coffers that were still in the room, ‘to recruit new men into our ranks, to grow beyond any numbers we have boasted before. Enough men so that the lords of Caermark will look upon us and tremble.’

  Berro stared at him blankly. ‘What do you mean to do with such a force, my lord?’ he said quietly.

  Arnulf regarded him for a moment. Berro had known about his original plan to betray Lord Callen and take Thegnmere, as had all of the Oathbound. But there were ideas he held that he had only ever shared or talked of with a select few. Even less than a select few when it came to certain ideas, sometimes only Balarin knew of what Arnulf intended. Some, he feared, simply would seem too foolish, too farfetched – too… grand, for the Dogs to accomplish in the eyes of his followers. Some things he kept even from Balarin.

  ‘I tire of the ways of Caermark,’ Arnulf said, hand stroking his beard absent-mindedly. ‘I tire of watching the men under my command die in the schemes of repugnant nobility. I tire of honesty being taken as weakness, of justice served only in the interests of royal backscratchers and bootlickers. He made nothing of us, King Aenwald, did he not, in the wake of our grief?’

  Berro and Balarin both nodded in silence, faces alert, attentive, if confused. ‘I have told you,’ Arnulf went on, ‘that I want for us to settle, to have a stronghold we can call our own, somewhere we can call home.’ He rose, moving to the window and looking out over a darkened street, hands clasped behind his back as he thought.

  ‘I would have us take land and justice both,’ he said at last. ‘And we will.’ He turned back to face them. ‘We are going to capture Celdarin’s Shield.’

  The two men before him reacted much as he had expected they would. Berro rose, mumbling a prayer to Vathnir and fetched himself more wine, which he poured with shaking hands and a pale face. Meanwhile, Balarin’s eyebrows rose skyward into his rough hairline.

  ‘Celdarin’s Shield?’ he said disbelievingly. Arnulf nodded.

  ‘I would take it as recompense for our King’s denial of justice for Greylake.’

  ‘But… Celdarin’s Shield,’ said Balarin, head shaking frantically. ‘You cannot mean for us to take the Border Hold?’ Arnulf nodded. ‘The bastion of the Shattered Marches?’ He nodded again. ‘The seat of House Rebacht – cousins by marriage to King Aenwald himself?’

  ‘I had hoped you would make that connection.’ Arnulf smiled slyly as Balarin’s face plummeted beneath his beard.

  ‘My lord Arnulf,’ Berro suddenly quaked from nearby, wine slopping in shaking hands. ‘What possible benefit could there be for the company in trying to take Celdarin’s Shield? The Shattered Marches are a wasteland, completely worthless – they serve only to keep the Gaussemen at bay.’

  ‘More to the point, my lord, they say the Shield cannot be taken,’ said Balarin. ‘They say it’s impregnable.’

  Arnulf had heard those same stories, the ones of how the Shield could not be taken and of how it had been crafted by the hands of giants and a dozen other ludicrous tales. The only truth Arulf saw in any of them was that Celdarin’s Shield inspired fear in men.

  ‘There is no fortress built by men that cannot be taken by other men,’ he said.

  ‘Then why have none managed it before, my lord,’ said Balarin, Berro nodding fearfully. ‘The Gaussemen haven’t tried for decades.’

  ‘Because most men are fools,’ Arnulf said with a shrug. ‘The Shield is nestled high atop a rocky plateau that watches over the Valley of Dead Kings in the Shattered Marches and into northern Gausselant. No army can approach it unseen from that vantage point, and as far as I know, no one has ever shown an ounce of wit when it came to actually taking the thing. It can be done. It will be done.’

  ‘But still, my lord,’ Berro said, sitting back down on his bed with more wine. ‘Why would we want to? The Shattered Marches are… empty. There’s nothing there, save for bones and rock. They’re a No-Man’s land. Even food is scarce there.’

  ‘Because, Berro,’ Arnulf said slowly, ‘where you see barren land, I see opportunity. I see a chance for us to take glory, a chance for the Blackshield Dogs to be more than a band of snarling hounds the lords of Caermark throw at each other. And besides, paymaster –’ he smiled again, ‘– I believe there is more to the Valley of Dead Kings th
an most would imagine.’

  Berro blinked thickly, unused to it being suggested he was wrong in matters of coin, and looked at Balarin. ‘My lord –’ he started hesitantly, looking back to Arnulf.

  ‘Another time,’ Arnulf cut in, raising a hand to silence him. ‘I need you to begin preparations as soon as you are able. We will need to procure arms and armour for the coming recruitment, perhaps a smith or two to accompany us, and I will need you to have three extra baggage carts ready by tomorrow night.’

  Again, Berro blinked. ‘What for, my lord?’

  ‘To carry the injured from Farrifax while we slip away from the town.’

  Balarin smirked at that as Berro looked between the two of them stupidly, mouth working wordlessly. Arnulf rose, stretching. ‘I will explain more soon, but for now, I am tired, Berro, it has been a difficult couple of nights. I’ll send word tomorrow with the detail of your orders.’ He made for the door with Balarin in tow, stopping as he reached for the handle. ‘Oh,’ he said, turning to look at the paymaster, ‘see about getting yourself two new pups. I know the last two were dear to you, and we’ll need them again to guard our finances. Take it from the coffers, think of it as compensation for your misfortune.’

  He left the room as Berro’s face lit up, stuttered thanks following him down the hall.

  He and Balarin spent that night in the barracks with the men, sleep coming almost as soon as they closed their eyes. In the morning they took breakfast with those who could move from their beds, the watery oats and salted eggs they were given seeming a feast after only a slice of fernroot passing as a meal the last two days.

  Arnulf took the opportunity to wander Farrifax that day with Balarin, under the guise of securing provisions for their journey south. In truth, he wanted to find Harlin. Or hoped to, rather. Farrifax was a large town, its streets and roads twisting, winding and cluttered with all manner of buildings. Balarin agreed with him that the boy would probably still be somewhere in the town, he would have had to stop and resupply himself, rest for the journey onward, let his wounds heal. Though where he could be was a mystery.

  Their search was fruitless. Harlin was no fool, he would be doing his best to keep himself hidden after what he’d done to Berro, and without the men to search for him properly, Arnulf gave up when the afternoon came. Perhaps Gaelin could have provided some assistance in the matter, but the Blackshield Dogs would not be remaining in Farrifax long enough for that, and with what he had in mind for the deep of the night, Arnulf dared not draw any further attention to his men.

  ‘What would you do with him,’ Balarin said as they made back towards the market square on foot, ‘supposing that we could find him?’

  ‘He is an Oathbreaker,’ Arnulf said with a shrug. ‘The law of Greylake would have me cut off his head and display it on a spike as example to others.’

  ‘And what of the law of the Blackshield Dogs?’

  ‘There is no difference,’ Arnulf said stiffly.

  ‘I thought Harlin was central to your plans for the company?’

  ‘He was. Garrmunt laid waste to those plans and Harlin laid waste to his future with us when he cut Berro’s face and stole our coin. Do not think I do not realise what a shame it is, Berro – Harlin could have been great, would have been great… if he’d have only let go of the past and seen what I had lay before him. A chance to prove himself, learn how to be a leader, instead of just a warrior. He had it in him.’

  ‘That he did,’ Balarin agreed softly.

  ‘The men admired him, they would have followed had he and I traded places. Had we captured Thegnmere and re-established ourselves I would have made him a captain of infantry, given him men to train, land to hold in my name, found him a suitable wife.’ Arnulf shook his head briefly. ‘Instead he chose the road of petty vengeance, and I choose to be done with him.’

  ‘Are we so different,’ said Balarin, as they approached a stall selling dried slabs of meat. ‘You say we move to take Celdarin’s Shield to take glory and make of us something greater. But I still see the stab at King Aenwald in this for denying us our right to justice.’

  Arnulf shot Balarin a hard look then, making him wince and look away. He shuffled uncomfortably for several moments as Arnulf kept a steady glare upon the side of his head.

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ Arnulf sighed, lowering his eyes. ‘You are in many things my friend, but I cannot tolerate such dangerous behaviour as to attack a member of the company. I would not tolerate it from any other Shield Brother, I will not tolerate it because it is Harlin. There are other men of talent we can recruit.’ He gave him that hard look again. ‘And do not presume to think I put my own desire for vengeance above the needs of the company, Balarin. We are all united in our grief, now more than ever.’

  They left the market shortly after, laden with sacks of dried meat and grain for the men. Though as they passed by where a woman was selling stew from a massive iron cauldron, Arnulf saw a rider pass them by on his mount the other side of the road, heading to the market square. Arnulf found himself stopping dead in his tracks as he watched the rider pass. A ragged black cloak jostled as it hung about their huge shoulders, dark hood hiding their features.

  ‘Arnulf?’

  He blinked, looking at Balarin, who stood watching him with open concern, bent beneath the sacks he carried.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, I…’ Arnulf looked to where the rider had been heading. They were gone, only a steady flow of bodies headed along the road, none of them mounted, none of them black-clad. He shook his head. I am seeing things.

  ‘Nothing, Balarin,’ he said, and moved on.

  He lay awake in the barracks as the night drew on, looking through the window nearby, watching the moon slowly wax then wane behind furling clouds. He could hear the men in their repose, some awaking to relieve themselves or lurching awake with groans of pain or shook by fevered dreams. Arnulf whispered a thankful prayer to all the gods he could think of that no more of them had died.

  The rattling of wooden wheels and rapid-fire clatter of hooves came from somewhere, muffled at first through the wooden walls of the barrack, yet building steady. Arnulf looked to the sky outside. Black and endless.

  It was time. He rose quietly, already dressed, and went to where his armour lay nearby. Balarin emerged from nearby shadows as he was strapping a steel vambrace to his arm, already armoured, he looked like he’d been ready for some time.

  ‘You prepared the men as ordered?’

  ‘Aye,’ Balarin whispered, ‘the ones who can bear arms are ready and waiting to help the injured when Berro gets here.’

  Arnulf nodded. Some of the Dogs were already rising from their beds stiffly, silhouettes broadened by their armour. They set about immediately, quietly helping the injured rise from their beds. Arnulf was thankful that Gaelin had chosen to house them in one of the empty barracks left in the wake of Ainric’s march, it’d make this a whole lot easier.

  A voice cried out a challenge as the sound of wheel and hoof drew nearer. Arnulf gestured to Balarin, heading outside.

  Their enclosed baggage wagon and three carts stood in the barracks’ courtyard, their teams of horses snorting lazily as a guardsman wearing the Callens’ colours approached from another barrack holding a torch aloft.

  ‘What business do you have here at such an hour,’ the guard called out to the procession, approaching warily. Atop the wagon, a large figure shifted uncomfortably beneath a dark hooded cloak.

  ‘I – I come bearing… materials, for inspection by Lord Arnulf,’ Berro’s voice trembled from afar.

  ‘Materials? Materials my arse, why would you bring them here at this hour. Get down –’

  Arnulf slammed the pommel of his sword into the back of the guardsman’s helm. He hit the ground silently. He nodded over his shoulder to Balarin, who hung back at the barrack entrance and pushed it open at Arnulf’s signal. Shield Brothers hobbled through, limping and stifling grunts as they leant on the shou
lders of those still able to walk.

  Atop the lead cart, Berro breathed a sigh of relief, pushing back his hood. ‘Thank you, Lord Arnulf, I’m afraid I don’t have the stomach for fighting right now.’

  ‘Is the coin loaded and secure,’ said Arnulf, nudging the fallen guardsman with the toe of his boot. Unconscious, still breathing. Good. He’d feared he’d killed the man.

  ‘Aye, my lord, all three coffers, and well-guarded.’ Berro smirked. From inside the closed wagon at his back came the yapping and high-pitched snarling of two puppies straining at their chains.

  ‘Well done, Berro,’ Arnulf said with a smile, turning away to help the men climb into the carts.

  When the last of the man were seated, Arnulf signalled for Berro to move, climbing up into the seat of the nearest cart, dropping down next to the young apprentice of Berro’s that held the reins. The youngster eyed him nervously, visibly sweating even in the moonlight, unused to being put in the thick of something that wasn’t paperwork, administration or coin-counting.

  Berro led the way from the barracks to where the men’s horses where stabled nearer the centre of town. Shoddy buildings of wood and fraying thatch, far removed from the knightly stables near the Lord’s Halls. They were unguarded and untended in their darkened stalls, nickering nervously as those who could walk slipped amongst them, strapping saddles in place with care and whispering soothing words in the animals’ ears.

  Outside, Arnulf mounted up atop his own silver steed and led the way along the southern road in near darkness. Behind him, the men who could take to the saddle led the company’s riderless horses alongside their own. Arnulf spotted more than a few reluctant creatures amongst them straining against their reins. He had the feeling those stables would be found missing more than just their own horses come morning.

  Better to be stolen than whatever fate waited for them here, anyway. After the Marrwood, Arnulf doubted they would be missed for very long. It would be a waste of good horseflesh, and the company would need every one of them it could get.

  Arnulf called a halt as the southern gate came into view along the road, sparse torchlight twinkling atop its gatehouse and walls. Five men, Arnulf counted, dismounting and gesturing to those behind him. Two at ground level, three atop the gatehouse looking southward. Lightly manned, as he’d expected. Gaelin would have the majority of his men at the north gate, watching for any sign of threat coming from Thegnmere.