The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  ‘Punish my fool,’ said Aenwald, his lip curling.

  ‘At once, Sire.’ Cyneweld motioned to one of the other knights. Garan stepped forward and dealt the midget a swift blow with the back of his hand, sending him spinning to the ground with a yelp and bloody lip, where he lay sobbing, bells tinkling faintly upon his head.

  There were more pressing matters than the trifling needs of land holders. They could wait. Aenwald grit his teeth. This morning had been… concerning, to say the least. Troubling might be more apt a description.

  His head throbbed. His mind itself ached. Was there no end to the folly of these people? He had tried, these last twenty years, but there was no end to their foolishness. Gods, how he had tried. He had thought he was getting somewhere with this land at last, that his rule, his word itself, was absolute. Yet a simple piece of parchment tied to the leg of a carrier pigeon had shattered all that with the coming of the sun.

  Men know nothing, after all. And a king is still a man, when stripped of all else.

  ‘Summon my war council,’ he growled, rising and sweeping out from the hall.

  The Chamber of War was a room kept in the Keep’s northern tower, and it was here that the King sat with the members of his war council. Five distinguished men, experienced generals and captains, talented in the ways of war, or skilled tacticians. They all rose and bowed as Aenwald stomped into the room, Cyneweld and Hastan of the Red Cloaks following behind him in silence.

  He nodded to his council and bade them sit, taking his seat at the other side of the circular table they sat at in an opulently carved chair of ebony. He looked at each of them in turn, grizzled veterans, each with their share of scars and injuries from their time on the battlefield in their younger days. They had never led him astray before, his victories guided by their hands had been many over the years. They were the best. Unequalled. Unmatched. But now… the news he had received this morn had shaken his trust in their abilities. Just a little.

  Just a little, however, was unacceptable. Not in Caermark. Not while Aenwald sat upon the throne.

  ‘Men,’ Aenwald spoke, his imperious voice echoing through the quiet chamber. ‘I will spare with formalities for the day.’ The men sat around the table exchanged uncertain glances with one another, as though expecting something unpleasant to be sprung upon them. An astute assumption on their behalf.

  ‘I received, this morning,’ Aenwald carried on without hesitation, ‘a letter, by pigeon.’ He produced from his pocket a small roll of parchment, which he flung on the table before him and waited for them to react to.

  It was Councillor Ruric that showed boldness first in taking the letter to read. He unrolled the letter before him, his lips miming the words inked on its surface. Words that still burned in Aenwald’s mind as he watched Ruric’s long grey, braided beard twitching. Finished, the Councillor read aloud for those gathered there.

  ‘King Aenwald of Caermark,

  ‘I send word to warn Your Majesty that there has been battle waged in the north. Thegnmere has fallen in near silence. Farrifax has been set ablaze and both now lie as hollow ruins and barren earth. Before the great Marrwood, the fields are choked with the dead, and the crows grow fat and complacent. Look to your Middenrealms, for the fires of war are spreading south, and the north has fallen so very soon.

  ‘They have watched you from across the Parting Sea. Too long have you and your kind gone free along your path of ignorance and petty bickering, slumbering in your own idiocy and illusory liberty. A new day approaches your lands. One of sorrow and sword. A red day. A day of fire and of terrible scourge. The Red Handed Prophet has spoken, and His call will not be denied by those who have heard it.

  ‘I give you this warning in honour of my years wasted grovelling beneath you. Do what you will. Hide if you must. Fight if you have the backbone. But they have been here before, long before your kind dared raise yourselves so haughtily.

  ‘Behold the Ram’s Head and the Bloody Hand, and a king crowned upon a white horse like the Emperors of old, for they come forth to conquer, just as they have done countless times before. The Red Crusade comes for Caermark, a great cleansing, to wash away your sins with your vile blood. When next we meet it will be His banner my men hold aloft, and proudly so, as they trample all your workings into the dirt in His name.

  ‘Yours in faith of the Red Handed Prophet, Haakon Garrmunt, Lord of Garr’s Cairn and the Spear Hills.’

  An uncomfortable silence settled upon them all, as Ruric rolled the parchment up again and placed it carefully in front of him, saying, ‘It bears the seal of House Garrmunt, my liege.’

  ‘I know too fucking well what seal it bears!’ the King roared, slamming his ham of a fist upon the council table. The Councillors shifted nervously. ‘What I want to know,’ Aenwald seethed, eyes narrowed and moving from Councillor to Councillor, ‘is how this happened beneath our very noses, without one fucking whiff of it reaching anyone until now!’ Councillor Erling cleared his throat.

  ‘Lord Garrmunt has spent quite some time in the east, Sire. Contact has been undeniably sparse.’

  ‘And what of our eyes and ears posted in Garr’s Cairn?’ the king said, his furious eye turning toward Erling in a flash. ‘Did they hear nothing? Did they not suspect foul deeds? What use are our eyes in the holdings of treacherous men if they cannot even uncover treachery at hand?’

  ‘It would seem,’ said Erling, voice quivering, ‘that these men suspected nothing untoward occurring in Lord Garrmunt’s lands. The Spear Hills have been quiet for some time, ever since Garrmunt left to plunder the east. He took his knights and levies with him when he set sail from Carranport, some two years ago. Perhaps, Sire, this is something that has come to transpire since his voyage east?’

  The man had a point there. But still, it didn’t make one bit of sense that no word had been sent of a force in the north. To take Thegnmere would require a concerted investment, thousands of men, detailed planning. Such things just didn’t happen overnight and in such secrecy.

  Aenwald sat back, combng his fingers through his long auburn beard. He had faced treachery before today more than once. Various attempts at uprisings from ungrateful, greed-driven vassals. He had squashed them without mercy and made an ending of their bloodlines. But to lose the north of Caermark? So silently? Such a disaster had never happened during his reign. This had to have been planned in great detail. And by great minds. Scheming minds. And powerful men, most of all. Caermark had not faced invasion in decades, no one would dare try under Aenwald’s rule. They knew what would happen to them.

  But what was this nonsense about rams and bloody hands? Had Garrmunt lost his mind? It seemed likely, if he dared to face the Ironbrand in open betrayal. Yet something niggled at the back of his mind. Something that felt wrong. Misplaced. Like something forgotten, yet important, that prods at the back of the skull until recalled, and often too late.

  The Red Handed Prophet? It sounded like madness.

  The Red Crusade? His brow furrowed into a fearsome fold that unfocussed his eyes.

  The Emperors of old? There hadn’t been word of an emperor since the Old Empire went quiet over a century ago. What was he missing here?

  When Caermark threw off the shackles of the Old Empire, their reach had receded into their eastern homelands. A handful of failed attempts to retake Caermark had seen their overstretched resources frittered away, and there were those historians who said that they lost further territory in the east, as free merchant towns claimed their independence and rose up as Caermark had before them.

  They had fallen quiet. Become a shadow. A ruin of their former glory, descended into internal power struggles that saw the sun set over their lands, as the light of Caermark rose higher and ever more brightly.

  Behold the Ram’s Head.

  What had the Empire used as their sigil? Some say they had worshipped animals, and the ruins of their lost eminence dotted around Caermark often bore carvings of them, it was true. The King wondered briefly w
hat the banners of the Old Empire had once been decorated with. Had it been a ram’s head, or was his troubled mind simply making imaginary connections in its horror?

  Could it be? A chill crept down the back of his neck, cold sweat beading and dripping. The histories would know. He would have to investigate them, uncover their knowledge. But now was not the time for that.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, aware that his Councillors had been watching him sat brooding for too long. ‘What is this nonsense, of prophets, rams and bloody hands and emperors of old? What rambling madness is this that Garrmunt sends us?’ He saw them all exchange glances. He knew already that they did not know any more than he did, but a king cannot be seen to be sat idle in the face of contention or adversary, lest men think him feeble of the mind or slow of wit.

  ‘We do not know, Sire,’ said Councillor Olan, a grey-haired man with a face so scarred people often though him a walking corpse.

  ‘Then have someone fucking well find out then,’ the king spat back at him. Olan bowed his head.

  ‘It shall be done, Sire.’

  Aenwald nodded, stroking his beard again.

  Now was not the time for uncertainty. Nor for hesitation. A king cannot hesitate, nor can he be uncertain of what he does. He must be precise, fly true and straight as the arrow. Hesitate and you lose to those who do not. Be uncertain and you will be trampled by they who are sure.

  The north had been lost. The Spear Hills was a den of traitors. This could be dealt with, and with surety. It was time for the Ironbrand to leave his mark once more.

  ‘Councillor Ruric,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ The Councillor stiffened, his slumped shoulders squaring beneath his deep blue cloak, awaiting instruction.

  ‘Take a force to the Spear Hills, however many men you need. You are to raze Garr’s Cairn to the fucking ground, do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, Sire.’ Ruric’s eyes were emotionless. The Ironbrand’s will was not to be questioned.

  ‘Take whoever minds Garrmunt’s seat for him. Find out what you can. If his family remain there I want them found and executed publicly before whatever is left of his people after you are done questioning them. The Spear Hills are to be rendered as naught but a crowded grave, a smudge on our maps and a distant memory in the minds of its people. I want no taint left of this betrayal in my lands.’

  ‘It shall be as you say, Sire,’ said Ruric, head bowed, face neutral. Aenwald nodded.

  ‘See to it then, I want it carried out immediately. The rest of you, tell my scholars I want to know what this nonsense is that Garrmunt has spoken of, this gibberish of emperors and rams and Red Handed Prophets, and I want to know now. They are to bring me the histories of Caermark, also, the most reliable, the most scholarly.’

  Each Councillor nodded, and accepted their orders vocally.

  ‘Now, be gone, all of you, I do not want to hear from you unless it is regarding your orders, I have much and more to think upon.’

  They all bowed in turn as they left the Chamber of War, leaving Aenwald alone with Cyneweld and Hastan, who stood in silent vigil over him at the Chamber doors.

  Aenwald ran one thick hand down his face to the end of his beard. He would manage. He had wise men at his command, powerful men, true souls all, loyal to his house and to his rule. As long as he stayed strong, as long as he kept his fist hard as iron. There would be victory and peace again at the end of this, that much was certain. But for now, he needed to know more. A king cannot be ignorant of his enemies, he must know them better than he knows his friends, or his own self.

  ‘Cyneweld,’ he said at some length. The captain of the Red Cloaks stepped forward instantly.

  ‘My King,’ he spoke, bowing.

  ‘Have riders sent north. We must know what awaits us and how far they have marched already, I would know how serious these threats of Garrmunt’s are before I declare war upon him and call the banners to our cause.’

  ‘At once, Sire.’ He disappeared from view with a swish of his lustrous cloak.

  He was left alone with Hastan, then. At least one of the Red Cloaks had to be in attendance of him at all times throughout the day, as tradition stated. Aenwald found it unnecessary, you cannot be king if you cannot fight, after all, but able hands were always useful to have nearby. It was an annoyance though, at times like this, when he wanted nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts and to construct his plans properly, let the fragments of ideas knit together in his mind.

  But then, a king is not entitled to the right of privacy, a right that even the commonfolk hold by law of the land, at least to a small degree. The Red Cloaks, though, were trusted men even before their appointment to that honoured station, privy as they were to many secrets and goings-on that could cause a veritable shit-storm should anyone hear of them. Particularly with the nobility, those scheming, squabbling, petulant little children were not to be underestimated, especially with delicate matters of state. A degree of lenience was necessary with them, as was a firm hand. So very, very like children, and just as trying.

  To be king over men is to suffer, after all.

  To suffer the men you rule, Aenwald thought bitterly.

  It was a sleepless night that awaited him after crawling into bed beside his queen, Ellewidd, weary, troubled and yet completely awake all at once.

  He lay staring at the canopy above them, as Ellewidd slept soundly next to him, her breathing a gentle ambience in the dark. Aenwald let his hand trace over her form as she slept. She was still desirable, even as she approached her thirtieth year. Supple and youthful against her slowly advancing age. He considered waking her briefly to rut upon her, thinking he would be able to sleep after, but doubted he could perform properly with the way he felt. A churlish wife the next morning would not help matters.

  His mind raced with troubled thoughts, a storm beneath his calm exterior. He had worked hard, these twenty years. He truly had. He had strove to make this land united, as patchy and vague an allegiance it was. It felt as though it was held together with fraying string, at times. Yet it had held, the odd split or breakage aside, nothing that could not be mended or patched. A swift hand and hard heart had seen all its ills smoothed over and set right as best they could be, eventually. He had done well for this land, he thought. Yet now it felt as though all his work was unravelling before his very eyes. Caermark was a land that could swallow kings whole and spit them out as pale bones, sucked clean and hollow.

  Like it had his father.

  A weak, simpering fool of a man, he thought to himself. A king cannot be anything but strong, anything less than iron if he wishes to maintain his station, or he will crumble. The people had laughed at his father, old King Aenryd, the nobility had rebelled frequently against him and he had nearly bankrupted the crown in giving in to their demands. His father had given over too much, let slip an absurd amount of power from his own hand, from that of the crown, directly into the hands of the ungrateful, the greedy and malcontent.

  He had deserved the dagger in his heart.

  It had been a mercy, in truth, for Caermark would kneel before no weakling king. Cowardly wastrel, it was all Aenwald could think of when picturing his father. Cowards did not deserve noble deaths. Royal cowards most of all.

  He still remembered the look in his father’s eyes as he had died. Confusion, hurt, betrayal. Twenty years and the image would not fade. He would be punished for it when his day of judgement came, he knew. But still… better a dagger from his only son than to be strung up by those rabid nobles, hungry for the last scraps of flesh that still clung to the crown. They had even been clawing at the door to the throne room as Aenwald had pushed the blade into the old man’s chest.

  Now was the time of iron, and it was Aenwald who had made it so. He had put those lesser men back in their place, taken back what was his birth right, shown this land and those fools in Gausselandt what it was to have a true king sat upon the Shacklestone.

  Only iron could tame this la
nd. And only an iron king could rule it. Only the Ironbrand. Only Aenwald.

  He had rebuilt this land from the ground up, nurtured it from the seed, watered it with the blood of countless, and it was a throne of skulls upon which he sat, his own father’s being the first of many laid in its making. Now Haakon Garrmunt would see all his work undone. And so be it. It was time to add a few more skulls to his throne.

  The morning came unwelcome and searing, the sun bright even through the drapes around the royal bed and the air stuffy. Ellewidd had risen before him and was absent, though his breakfast waited for him as it did every morning at his writing table.

  A king’s work starts from the moment he wakes after all, a country does not sleep.

  Accompanying his usual breakfast of sweet bread, honeyed oats and dry fruit, however, was a large and weighty looking leather-bound tome with a note placed on top of it.

  Your Majesty King Aenwald,

  please find here Malforen’s History of Caermark. I had my novices search for this title in particular through the night, for it is the most in depth accounting of our land’s noble history that we possess. I hope Your Majesty finds it meets your requirements. If not, please let me know and I will have them search for one more aligned with your most discerning and regal tastes.

  Your faithful servant,

  Librarian Turlan.

  The king set the note aside, stuffing bread into his mouth. His worries from the previous day, forgotten during short hours of fitful sleep, rose up once more. His hand hesitated over the worn cover.

  Surely it is just the ramblings of a mad man, he thought groggily, reaching for his morning cup of light ale instead. They say the ramblings of mad men are often dangerous, though. He stirred chunks of dried fruit into his oats, the book hovering in the corner of his eye. He could smell the age-old musk of it as he breathed, that particular scent old books hold. The scent of knowledge, understanding and revelation. The scent of power, some would say, perhaps.