The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  Ceatha tried to scream as the effigy reached for her, voice failing her. It slammed its fists into the ground before her, punching deep into dry earth and throwing up clouds of dust, grunting as it leaned forward to tower over her shrinking form.

  Can you hear it, it groaned, voice rumbling through the earth. Fragments of stone showered Ceatha. Do you know of the wolf that stalks these lands?

  Cu Náith’s stone head tilted, regarding Ceatha as she cowered below it, Bodah Duhn rippling, skittering and scurrying up the effigy’s legs and over its body like overgrown, sniggering masked ants. They clawed and tore away at its face untill there was nothing left.

  It is all of black, the voice rumbled again, that final word drawing out into a groaning retch as the effigy’s shoulders heaved and a lipless crack of a mouth opened. Something wet and black hung from it like a thick, viscous tear drop, or globule of phlegm from the throat of a man possessed of foul humours. Ceatha felt her stomach clench, fought down the urge to vomit, and shrieked as she saw the end of the globule form into the head of a wolf, fur slicked and matted with black scum.

  The globule fell with a disgusting splatter of dark filth, a wolf lying motionless and dead-looking at the centre, plastered with ichor. With a yelp, the creature spasmed, thrashed and whined pitifully.

  It hurts, it suffers, endlessly, Cu Náith’s voice came again, fading, chuckling Bodah Duhn swarming over the effigy gleefully, their claws tearing it into rubble piece by piece, its outline vanishing like time sped forwards. There came a low growl.

  Ceatha’s eyes met with the wolf’s, no longer stricken with pain, now stood poised on all fours, strong and proud, black from nose to tail, eyes bright and blue. She trembled beneath that gaze.

  The creature reared with a snarl onto its hind legs, and Ceatha threw her hands before her defensively. But it stood there, limbs rippling, swelling, torso lengthening, snarl becoming a guttural roar, less bestial, more… indescribable. Black fluid seeped and ran from its body, pooling at the thing’s feet, until it seemed made all of liquid caught in perpetual motion, a being of ripples and undulating flow.

  In seconds the wolf was gone, and before her stood a thing shaped like a man, dripping foul, black slime from its fingertips as it stood and stretched, uncurling long limbs and flexing long-fingered hands. Its pale face was like an empty slate, mouthless and blank, save for leering, fearsome eyeholes.

  Ancu, god of death, tilted its head this way and that as it watched her tremble at its sight.

  It wears my face, it spoke, the sound of its appalling voice driving back the swarming Bodah Duhn with distant, hollow screeches.

  The god of death passed a dripping hand down its face, and two eyes suddenly burned cold and blue in the depths of its corpse mask, icy vapour trails rising from them into endless darkness above them.

  Hathad Camoraigh, it spoke, voice distorted like the howling of ancient wind and groaning of untold ages. It turned, reaching down into one of the holes Cu Náith’s effigy had punched into the earth, and produced from it, in still dripping hands, a crown wrought all of pale metal, tarnished and filthy with age, arches jutting like blades along its circlet. Patterns of vines were etched upon its surface beneath the grime, forming an eye at its forefront.

  Hathad Camoraigh, it said again, presenting the crown to her, the thing crumbling as she watched, metal pitting and corroding black, eaten away by some dark corruption from the god’s hands. A breeze swept it away from its hands as dust, a pale swirl trailing away into darkness as the god spoke again to her.

  We are all but ashes of an old fire, grown cold and dead beneath time’s uncaring hand.

  Ancu met her gaze then with those coldly burning eyes, and its melting hand shot out, taking her by the throat.

  It wears my face, it hissed, corpse mask running, oozing black, melting away, changing shape until it was the wolf again, muzzle dripping slime, eyes still burning. With a snarl, its lips curled, fangs shone and jaw snapped closed as it tore her face off.

  Ceatha woke with a start and felt the hand on her throat. Not one of seeping corruption, but one of sweaty, grasping flesh. Sour breath on her face made her grit her teeth as she scratched and tugged at it in fright, trying to prise it free. There were two eyes before her again, caught in the moonlight that streamed from her window, flashing angrily and devoid of spectral flame.

  ‘Stop wriggling, bitch,’ Genson seethed in the darkness. She stilled herself instantly.

  ‘Please, Genson…’ she whimpered, head faint from the pressure on her throat.

  ‘Shut up, whore.’ His considerable bulk shifted so he was on top of her. He stank of ale and old sweat. She gagged and coughed, trying to prise his hand free again. ‘Spread your fucking legs!’

  A great palm struck her face when she kept them closed, and she stifled a shriek, tears streaming down her face. She felt her lip start to bleed. She did as she was told. Her head began to feel fainter from lack of air. Genson grunted as he felt for her between her legs.

  ‘Please, Genson, I’m so sore,’ she begged, wincing as fat fingers forced their way inside her dryly. ‘I can’t breathe.’

  ‘I said shut the fuck up, whore,’ he growled by her ear, his beard scraping her neck. His breath stank of ale and that leaf he constantly smoked in his pipe, it disgusted her but she could not help but breathe it in unless she passed out.

  ‘Dry as a fucking bone!’ he declared, removing his fingers from her. She gasped in relief. ‘Do I not make your cunt tingle, you fucking red-headed bitch? Do I not get your nasty little red-haired twat nice and wet?’

  She didn’t know what to say, what he wanted to hear, fearing he would hit her again. She let out a quiet sob.

  ‘Fucking cry then, you little island slut,’ he said, spitting loudly in his hand, rubbing it into her aching mound abusively.

  ‘No, please, Genson, please don’t!’

  She felt the Weaving tingle within her defensively, raise its head as it felt her need. Her mind touched upon it unwelcomely in her desperation. She could cast him from her. Throw him to the wall. Kill him, if she wanted. Run, be free.

  Horror claimed her at its touch, images of fire, of burning hair and skin and the screams of young women seemed somewhere near to her ears. No, no! She fought the Weaving back down, turned her mind from it, cursed it, ran from it.

  The Weaving fell silent and retreated. She was left to her fate.

  Genson shoved his cock in her violently, ripping dry skin. She shrieked so loudly with the pain that he clouted her with open palm across the face left, then right, until she lay in a daze, mouth and nose bloodied, eyes staring out her window silently as he raped her.

  With a grunt that reminded her of the oinking of pigs, he came inside her. He withdrew, his cock limp and spent. Ceatha shuddered as she felt his load seep out of her like thick, hot scum oozing from a wound.

  Genson stood and laced his pants, his breath rattling in his chest with the exertion. He looked a giant, broad shouldered beast, silhouetted against the far wall by the moonlight. ‘Ever deny me again, bitch and I’ll break your fucking neck, understand?’

  He left then, slamming the door behind him. ‘Move!’ she heard him shout at either Hurn or Denner in the corridor outside.

  They never came to help when he raped her. They thought too much of the coin he paid them to put themselves out of work for the likes of her.

  Ceatha didn’t bother getting out of bed to clean herself up. She curled up and cried herself to sleep, shame heaped upon disgust, hoping never to wake up again.

  The next day was her day off. Which meant she was supposed to serve in the tavern instead of please the locals in her bed. She woke late that morning in a patch of dried blood and come, with hideous cramps in her stomach from the fluxleaf tea she had drank. A look in the mirror showed her the mess of a face Genson had left her with.

  Blood was crusted beneath her nose, her lips caked and stiff with it. Her right cheek was a purple bruise, the eye above it black
ened and bloodshot. She sighed.

  At least she still had all her teeth.

  Ceatha dressed plainly and went to the kitchen, expecting further punishment for being late on duty. She jumped with fright when she saw Genson leaving the kitchen, expecting another beating, though he merely snarled at her and shouldered past forcefully. Perhaps he knew she was used goods today, or that he had gone too far. Her sex burnt and throbbed woefully as she sat near the cooking stoves, hoping the heat would help.

  The kitchen girls said nothing, but she saw their glances. They knew all too well what had gone on in the early hours of the day. One of the older ones, a motherly Marcher woman named Minn, brought her a bowl of hot water and a clean cloth to wash herself with.

  Ceatha took it silently and pressed it into her face, letting its heat ease the pain in her aching jaw and nose, and hide the fresh tears in her eyes. Minn brushed her long red hair for her as she wiped dry blood from her face. When she cleaned between her legs the cloth came away bright red, and she stared at it in quiet horror before Minn took it from her and put it out of sight.

  One of the younger girls handed her a cup of strong black tea that she sipped slowly, it hurt to swallow. It did lift her spirits somewhat though, she loved tea. Proper tea, of course, not the shit-tasting fluxleaf she forced down herself. It always reminded her of winter on the island, of the fragrant yellow teas the islanders would drink, sweetened with fruit and spiced with cloves. So nice. It had been so long since she last had it she was grateful for anything even remotely similar.

  The kitchen girls here weren’t too bad, she supposed, not for Marchers, at least. She was grateful for the small kindnesses they showed her at times like this, ones so easily forgot. She thanked them, the words stumbling through bruised lips and her thick accent. Minn smiled, her face weather-beaten and matronly, and gave her some sweet bread and soft cheese to nibble upon.

  It wasn’t long before Genson came back, though, and the kitchen staff scurried away, fearful of the man. His ugly, brutish form stood in the doorway that led to the tavern area of the inn. He pointed at her with a thick, hairy finger, scowling.

  ‘Fix your fucking face up and get your worthless arse on the floor,’ he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, ‘the customers are hungry, and I’m hungry for their coin.’

  Ceatha did as she was told.

  It was a busy day for the tavern, and the customers were as rude as they were many. Ceatha floated about, taking orders and bringing food and drink. She always went into a trance on her days off whoring, tavern work was incredibly mind-numbing to her. It was thankless, unskilled and degrading. She found her mind flittering back to the horrible dream Genson had roused her from unintentionally, as though her mind craved any kind of distraction from the tavern drudgery. She hadn’t had a dream like that a long time, it felt quite unsettling to have one suddenly spring itself upon her, especially one so frightful and cryptic.

  But what did it mean, she thought, gathering up scummy mugs discarded on filthy rushes in a corner of the tavern.

  The Sí Druí said such dreams were guidance, whether from the Weaving itself or from the gods, it mattered not – they were there to be observed and knowledge taken from them. Ceatha wasn’t sure what she had seen had been gods at all, they had been so… weak and twisted. She had always thought they would be strong, powerful.

  She remembered Ancu’s eyes as it had spoken to her in that cryptic way. Those blazing eyes, burning coldly in their faraway depths… they had terrified her. What had all the talk of Hathad Camoraigh been about, and that wolf-creature?

  Probably nothing, she reassured herself. Fluxleaf sometimes could cause strange dreams when taken, it was probably just that and the trauma from Genson’s beating making her paranoid.

  Hathad Camoraigh, though, she thought disquietingly. Hathad Camoraigh was a dark land her people spoke of. An otherworld of strange creatures, ghosts, fell spirits and the tormented dead. The tales said it was the lair of the Bodah Duhn, the dark men who took their victims there to suffer the torments of their master, known by her people as Corrom Duhn, the crooked god. His name literally meant in their tongue ‘black crooked one’. They said he was a crippled, twisted thing that delighted in the suffering of men, as he himself suffered, being born so deformed and pained.

  She shivered. Silliness, Ceatha, she scolded herself. It struck a dark chord with her though, as she thought upon it. Bechú and Ancu had both spoken of Hathad Camoraigh in her dream. That in itself was disturbing, enough to make the hairs on her neck prickly unpleasantly.

  Hathad Camoraigh was what the clans now called Luah Fáil.

  It must have been seven years now at least, maybe more, since what was left of her clan had fled here to Caermark. It was not just hers that had fled. Most of those that were left had taken to their ships too. They had thought it was the end times back then. Perhaps it was, things certainly didn’t seem to have improved since they had come here. They felt as though they got worse everywhere she went and the clans were in a steady decline in their new home.

  It was the Marchers’ fault, all of it. Ceatha had never understood the distinct hatred they bore for the clans and their pleasant little island. What had any of them ever done to have such searing venom poured upon them? They had no interest in the affairs of Caermark. Most had never even been there, before the dark days had descended upon them, at least.

  Luah Fáil was no more. That sad fact filled her with emptiness. And guilt. She missed her home.

  The day wore on, her cramps kept pace with it. Her face and jaw ached fearsomely from her beating, and if she was late with an order Genson would rag her hair in the kitchen and kick at the back of her legs as she left.

  It was early evening, the sun reddened, low and lazy in the sky, when the door to the inn slammed open, and two huge figures all dressed in black stepped over the threshold. Shadowed against the sun shining through the door, Ceatha could see nothing of them except for their powerful frames. She had nearly dropped a mug of ale in fright on a customer at his bench, catching it just in time, though not before some had slopped on his sleeve. The man cursed her for a barbarian whore, swinging a lazy backhand slap at her that she managed to evade successfully whilst apologising profusely.

  The tavern quickly fell quiet, conversation stopped in an instant, the wheel-lyre’s drone fading. All eyes, Ceatha’s included, were drawn to the two figures that stood in the doorway. Who were they? She tried, and failed, to keep her trembling in check.

  Around the hall she saw men shifting uncomfortably, hands going beneath benches and tables to grasp knives. She saw one of the figures at the door turn its head to the other, the taller of the two, and nod. The shorter closed the door behind them, boots thumping hollowly against the ground.

  The sun’s glare gone, she could see them for what they were, and she eased slightly, though not much. Her dream had disturbed her, put her on edge and drew her nerves tight as a bowstring. Two huge men, clad in mail and black leather. They wore swords at their hips and carried broad round shields on their backs. Warriors, clearly. But where from, for whom did they fight?

  ‘Mercenaries,’ she heard one man mutter nearby, an agreeable grunt answering it. ‘Don’t look at them. Knaves and bastards the lot, more trouble than they’re worth.’ Another agreeable grunt.

  Ceatha, against that solid-sounding advice, dared to look upon the two of them briefly.

  One was bald, his head and face scarred from what she could only guess was a lifetime of fighting. His nose was almost flat, broken countless times, it would seem. His dark eyes darted about the men in the tavern, looking for threats, she felt them fall upon her and give her an appreciative glance. She looked at the other, then, and squeaked with fright, spilling more ale as images from her dream seemed to flash into reality before her.

  He wore Ancu’s face.

  Ceatha felt, for a moment, that melting, oozing hand around her throat, saw those blue, flaming eyes burning into her own, and remembered th
e sound of that ancient, groaning roar.

  It wears my face.

  It was just a helm, she saw to her relief, breathing hard, one with a faceguard that cast shadows so deeply over the man’s eyes she had thought at first he was hollow, an empty mass of armour and leather. He was the bigger of the two. Broad of shoulder. Towering. Frightening. She tried not to think how he’d gotten hold of one of her kinfolk’s helms. She felt him look at her silently for a moment, though she could see no eyes beneath that steel face he wore. Ceatha turned away from him quickly and went back to serving the silenced tavern’s patrons.

  She heard heavy boots scraping over the rushes, mail rustling and buckles jostling. Please leave me be, she begged them inwardly. Had she not suffered enough? Who knew what these two mercenaries wanted of her. They did look dangerous. Especially the one with the steel face, something about him made her skin crawl. She hadn’t seen a helm like that since she left the clans and came out here. Where had he got it, though, she wondered, such helms simply weren’t seen in Marcher lands.

  ‘My dear,’ she heard one of them say as he approached. She turned slowly, forcing a smile. It was the bald one. He stood over her, gloved hands on armoured hips. Ceatha tried not to quake. She didn’t want to be beaten again.

  ‘Yes, milord?’ she said. They seemed to take that as a sign of respect here, milord, or so she had gathered, though she wasn’t sure what the word meant, having picked it up from the other women at the inn. If you weren’t sure of someone’s status, call them ‘milord’ and you couldn’t go far wrong. Not that it mattered to Ceatha. The clans didn’t have status here in Caermark. Slaves don’t have status anywhere. They were less than people.