The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  ‘Harlin,’ Anselm said hesitantly, as he shrugged his hand from his shoulder.

  Something strange happened then as he stepped into the hallway, out of place with Harlin’s memories of that day, something new. The world seemed to tilt for a moment, to twist, distort and almost melt as he set foot into the hallway outside the lord’s chambers, reforming and shaping itself like viscous liquid as he watched, the wailing of Athelmer’s daughter changing with them.

  The world became solid again. He stood on the broken parapets of the Durestone, their crumbling stones scorched black with fire, the last traces of the lord’s daughters voice twisting until it became roaring wind.

  Harlin looked over Easthold’s lands as they burned below, yellow flame eating through field, hill, tree and scrub with something he could only describe as a lazy disregard as he watched them spread slowly in bright arcs, leaving blackened earth and wretched shapes behind them. The very earth itself burned, he saw. Towers of flame rose skyward, spewed from great cracks and hollow trenches in the earth that glowed bright as the sun, and embers drifted in flurries through the air, carried upon burning winds, glittering against the black sky.

  He saw the corpses then, strewn all about him on the keep’s walkways. Featureless things, burnt black as the stones they lay on, lipless, shrivelled mouths drawn in the pain of their ending. The air stank of burnt meat and fat beginning to rot, drawing an unpleasant twisting from his stomach.

  Harlin felt himself bend double to vomit, the air casting a heavy dose of the stench into his mouth, when a hand gently, delicately, gripped his shoulder from behind.

  He froze, foul odours and nausea forgotten as his eyes fell upon the hand that touched him so carefully.

  It could have belonged to a giant, so large it was, though its very form ran like putrid black liquid, dripping foul, thick ooze down his shoulder and chest to drip upon the charred stones beneath his feet. Had he the mind, he would have ran, turned to make his stand, yet he found himself unable to move, cry out or do anything other than stare as the hand sat sickeningly upon him, bubbling, running and melting ceaselessly, its discharge soaking him, freezing in its touch.

  Look upon me, little one.

  The voice that spoke groaned with an age unknown, like the howling of wind through ancient tombs and the dry bones of all things dead and forgotten. Yet there was something almost gentle and well-spoken to it against its fearsome, distorted noise, not unlike its touch upon his shoulder, soft despite its overt size and strength.

  Harlin did as he was told, turning slowly on the spot as the hand lifted from his shoulder, trails of black ichor stretching slimily from its palm as it moved away.

  He turned, and looked into the face of death.

  Ancu stood over him, towering, sickening, a rotten mass of seething corruption shaped vaguely like a man, face pale and featureless, like a sculpted plate of bone. In the depths of its sunken eyeholes glittered two blue lights, bright and ethereal like sapphires, yet distant as stars as they shone from within a fathomless depth.

  You are full of hate, said Ancu, resting its great hands upon his shoulders again. It burns brightly in you, and casts a shadow dark as an abyss over all that surrounds it. There is no hope for you, who would bathe in blood, no hope for you – you who would see the world burn so its fires might close the open wound of your existence.

  It seized him then and lifted him from the floor effortlessly, its grip becoming crushing, excruciating, squeezing the life from him. He felt his bones bend and snap, his insides rupture and burst as it closed its foul clutches about him. He screamed silently, blood filling his mouth, unable to make a sound as the air was squeezed from his lungs, his chest collapsing slowly beneath shattered ribs.

  I am death, little one, not you, it said. You will simply burn in the shadow of your own hatred, alone, forlorn, forever without hope.

  It cast him over the parapet like a ragdoll and he plunged downwards, the sheer, blackened walls of the Durestone rushing past him in a blur. He could see now, as he fell, the piles of corpses that burned everywhere, twisted kindling for malevolent flames that ate all they touched, their forms slowly mouldering into ashes. He sped downwards, faster yet, broken limbs trailing black slime, down into one of the burning cracks in the earth, molten flame wreathing his broken body.

  Harlin woke beneath the stars to the howling of distant wolves, shaking himself from his dream, patting himself down, expecting to find broken limbs and black filth, his hands meeting only cloth and skin. He sighed quietly, laying back down, shivering slightly. Something from the dream lingered, the pain as Ancu had crushed him, the feeling of his bones snapping – the edges of it all still prickled, a faint ache in his muscles as he stretched them out. It had felt real. Everything had. It had been a long time since he had last dreamt of Easthold, though they had never come so fiercely lucid before. He’d never dreamed of Ancu before, either.

  He shivered again, remembering the god’s face and the feel of its hands around him as it squeezed, the sound of its voice still ringing in his ears. He remembered the feel of Athelmer’s daughter beneath him, most of all, the memory of it making him queasy. It was one of those memories that never fades, that leaves an ember softly glowing once its fires have died, waiting to be fed, waiting to sink its teeth into soft skin again.

  Harlin found himself blinking back tears as he lay on his bedroll, staring up at the stars above, framed by the black pines of the forest he and Anselm camped in. The rape of women had always been something he found disturbing. It upset him greatly, roused a terrible anger in him. It was a common thing to witness on the battlefield, he’d seen it often as he travelled with the Blackshield Dogs. Women were viewed as fair plunder in war just as much as gold or silver. His Shield Brothers had partaken of it just as much as any other fighting men, especially when they’d been contracted to raid towns and villages. He’d even seen men rape other men, in the twilight moments of a battle. Soldiers do inexplicable and terrible things when their blood is up, things they would normally cringe from or decry. Harlin had always kept out of it. He knew Arnulf frowned upon it, too, but their Lord-Captain knew something more pressing to his own position – you do not deny fighting men their spoils after a battle, not if you want to keep them fighting for you and not have them stick a knife in your ribs whilst you sleep. Especially if those men are mercenaries by trade.

  He wiped his eyes as he thought again of that girl in Easthold, Athella, he thought her name had been. He felt sick with himself for what he’d done to her. Briefly, he pondered what had become of the girl, probably nothing good, nothing in keeping with her noble blood. Most likely she was made a whore in some forgotten corner of the Shattered Marches, a punishment from Aenwald, perhaps. Or maybe she was dead. It would be a fate far kinder than life, a monstrous, empty thing.

  Harlin forced his thoughts away from it all. It dragged up thoughts of his mother and sisters in Parathet, if he was truthful. It made him furious, thinking of what they could have been forced into, made him shrink inside himself, to think he had abandoned them, not even tried to look for them, escaping with Arnulf instead.

  He hated Arnulf. He’d tried ever since that day at Easthold to blame Arnulf for what had happened in Athelmer’s chamber, tried to blame him for many things. But in the end, no matter how he turned it over in his mind, it always showed him his own reflection in every facet. He’d made a hypocrite of himself, a monster.

  They say that evil takes many forms, but, in the end, Harlin found, it always wears the face of a man. Some walk a gentle trail down towards it, a path they think is unstained, never knowing when or why, exactly, they have become cruel and hard. Others plunge headlong into it, embrace such ways and revel in them and the rewards they reap.

  Or so they say, anyway. The truth, Harlin thought, as with anything, was something that lay between the two. Something between black and white. Men are grey creatures, after all – some just bear a darker shade than others.

  Or a darker
coat, perhaps.

  Harlin’s own truth, was that he would unleash Easthold again, and willingly, if he thought the next man had been the one to take his family, or that it would extract his name from another’s lips. He couldn’t deny it. Men called him the Black Wolf of Easthold ever since the day of that battle, a name known across Caermark, though the tale of its making varied wildly. He’d heard it so many times now he could do little but embrace it, use it and the fear it inspired in men’s hearts, despite how its origin made him feel ill and wretched. It was who he was now, there was no escaping it.

  Perhaps it was who he had always been. All he had left behind him the last twelve years was a trail of dead men, a new body in the wake of each step. There would be more before this hunt was over, he knew, and found he didn’t care. All that mattered were answers, ones that brought an ending, whatever it may be.

  Harlin sat up, sleep beyond him. All about was darkness. He heard their horses whickering softly as they slept nearby. Anselm’s face was faintly outlined by the dying embers of their fire, also sleeping soundly. His ribs had healed well over these last few weeks on the road, though their pace had been slowed considerably at first because of the injury. They no longer pained him in the saddle and he was beginning to swing a sword again, though carefully, for the time being, a full turn with the hips still caused him pain. At least he was off that esterman spice that Gethelin had given them in Farrifax, though. It dulled the man’s senses and had made him shake something fierce when he ran out of it, all pale-faced, clammy and anxious. Horrible stuff.

  Harlin rose quietly and rooted about in the dark around their campsite, gathering what dry wood he could find. He stoked the dying fire, jabbing into the smouldering remains, warmth rising again as ashes scattered into the air, drifting away.

  Harlin’s eyes followed the grey trail for a time, twisting away towards the forest canopy. It was a clear night, the sky a violet canvas for its pale stars. The wolves howled again, nearer now. Where the trees were thinner some way over to his left, the land rose and then fell suddenly as a sheer cliff. He caught sight of movement there against the skyline. Silhouetted against it were two prowling wolves, slipping past the trees on the cliff edge. A mating pair, he reckoned, pack leaders roaming their borders. Their sharp eyes turned upon him curiously, reflecting the growing firelight to his side.

  Harlin bowed his head respectfully to them. He had expected them to run when they caught sight of him, wolves being shy of men. Instead they lingered, heads tilting quizzically as they studied him, raising their noses to snuffle at the air. Harlin found himself smiling as he watched them. Beautiful things, they were.

  They recognise one of their own, he thought with a quiet laugh.

  The wolves flinched suddenly, slinking away into the darkness at the sound of snapping branches.

  Harlin leapt to his feet, grabbing his sword from where it lay. With a ring that broke the night, it cleared its scabbard and was in his hand. Where had the sound come from? Anselm stirred and looked up at him groggily from where he lay, watery eyes blinking with annoyance.

  ‘Who goes?’ Harlin called, turning slowly, eyes piercing the trees around them. More noise. Twigs and branches breaking beneath feet unaccustomed to stealth, leaves rustling as they were brushed and snagged. Anselm was up now, sword gripped along its blade, still in its scabbard.

  There was a thud and a soft cry of pain, followed by a curse. Something moved to Harlin’s right through the trees. A shrouded shape was tripping and stumbling over the forest floor as it came towards their camp. It fell again, face first, landing on outstretched hands with another cry of pain. ‘Shit!’ it said softly in a distinctive accent, picking itself up. Harlin felt his frown deepen fiercely.

  ‘You there,’ he called through the trees. It froze in its tracks. ‘Come here. Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.’ It came onward.

  ‘We’ve been followed?’ Anselm said, glaring from across the fire. Harlin shook his head. He couldn’t believe it.

  The redheaded girl from Haverlon stepped into the firelight.

  Her hands were raised by her head. ‘No need to get jumpy, I don’t bite.’ She smiled sheepishly at Harlin, eyes flitting to his sword. His mouth fell open, lost for words. How on earth had she found them out here?

  Behind him, Anselm barked a dumbfounded laugh. ‘Tracked down through the forest by a girl in a dress!’ he snorted. ‘The lads would never believe this, that’s for sure.’ The girl smiled awkwardly, staring at her feet, hands still raised.

  ‘I forget your name,’ Harlin snapped.

  ‘Ceatha,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry for scaring you.’

  ‘What are you doing here, then, Ceatha?’

  ‘Following us, from the looks of things,’ Anselm laughed. Harlin grimaced at the girl. They had left Haverlon behind three days ago. How had the girl found them? More to the point, why?

  Ceatha shrugged and looked uncomfortable, avoiding Harlin’s stare. ‘I… well,’ she began, shoulders slumping.

  ‘Come by the fire, girl,’ Anselm said, sitting back down on his bedroll and beckoning to her. ‘Warm yourself, the night is cold.’

  Harlin still stood, sword drawn, glowering at her. He did not take kindly to being followed, even by someone so unassuming. It grated upon every distrustful nerve in his body and sang a shrieking note that set him on edge.

  Harlin grunted after a moment’s hard glaring, relenting, unable to think of a reason to refuse her presence. ‘Sit, then,’ he said, turning away and dropping back down on his own bedroll, sheathing his sword. Hesitantly, the girl approached their fire, warming her hands over the cheerful flames. She looked exhausted, he thought.

  ‘Hungry, dear?’ Anselm said charmingly at her. Ceatha bit her lip as if thinking to refuse, then nodded. Anselm smiled, and rustled about in his pack for a bite of bread and dried beef for her, which she took gratefully, thanking him as she stuffed her face and plopped down by the fire. Harlin saw her glance at him nervously, sidelong, hoping not to catch his eye.

  ‘So,’ Harlin said eventually, watching her intently, ‘what are you doing here, then?’ He saw her pause mid-bite, continuing as though not caught off guard. She shrugged, still avoiding his gaze.

  ‘The Marchers chased me from the town.’ She went back to eating. Harlin nodded. He could believe that, expected it, actually, when he’d left her.

  ‘And why did you not head south, as I suggested?’ That got her. She paused halfway through biting into a piece of hardbread, eyes flickering.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, swallowing. She still would not look at him. ‘They chased me the same way you left, I just kept going. They called me witch when they saw the bodies, named me a murderer. I didn’t want them to burn me, like they did the poor girls who they called witch last time. I was scared.’

  It was possible, Harlin guessed. That didn’t mean he believed her. He and Anselm had camped far from the road. It would have taken more than happy coincidence for someone to find where they were camped. It wasn’t possible. There was something she was not telling them, that much was blatantly obvious to Harlin. Something about this all spoke of purpose to him.

  He watched her eat in silence. Across from him, Anselm yawned and lay back down. ‘How did you find us then, Ceatha,’ Harlin said. ‘We are not exactly camped on the roadside. We took pains to hide ourselves from unwanted eyes.’

  ‘I got lucky,’ she said quietly, smiling and shrugging.

  ‘Liar,’ said Harlin. He rose and paced over to her, standing tall over her. He saw her cringe inward upon herself as he approached, hugging her knees and staring downward at his boots to avoid his glare. ‘It’d take a lot more than blind luck for you to simply stumble upon us out here, or find us at all, not unless you had help.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ Ceatha said feebly uncomfortably, edging away from him. ‘I came alone, I swear.’

  ‘Leave the girl be, Harlin,’ said Anselm, yawning and scratching his bald head. ‘I doubt she
means us harm.’

  ‘Not until I know why she followed us here, and how. I do not trust her.’

  Anselm paused. ‘Good point. How did you find us?’

  ‘I was lucky is all, I swear, I walked day and night,’ Ceatha said quietly, voice trembling. The girl looked up at Harlin then, with fearful eyes.

  Her face was a mess. She had been beaten, and quite badly. Her right cheek was a vicious bruise, her eye blackened, lips split and scabbing, jaw swollen from heavy blows. Her dark eyes showed only fear. When he had seen her last he had not noticed such injuries, he supposed the powder that she had worn to pretty herself had hidden it.

  ‘Who did that to you?’ Anselm said from where he lay, propped up on an elbow. Ceatha shook her head slowly. She eased noticeably, holding his gaze.

  ‘No matter,’ she said. ‘You killed him.’

  ‘That fat innkeeper?’ Anselm snorted. She nodded, a smile gracing her lips. ‘Well, he won’t be troubling you anymore, that’s for certain.’ Ceatha smiled up at Harlin, showing straight white teeth.

  ‘I wanted to thank you,’ she said. Harlin turned away from her.

  ‘No need,’ he said, lying down, keeping her in the corner of his vision.

  ‘They had it coming,’ Anselm said with a yawn. ‘If not Harlin, then someone else would have put them in the ground at some point. Can’t carry on like that and not expect a knife in you, someday.’

  ‘Is that why you followed us,’ Harlin asked, ‘to thank us?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Ceatha, eyes downcast once more. He stared at her, as she turned away from him and warmed her hands over the fire again.

  Anselm nodded sympathetically, that brotherly concern of his seemingly not just reserved for his Shield Brothers. Or maybe he was just a soft bastard when it came to women, many fighting men are, after all. He spent a while talking with her of her time spent in Haverlon, nodding along emphatically where appropriate, clucking his tongue at her hardships and offering her his protection. Harlin rolled his eyes at the sight, the man was late into his twenties and fawning over a girl like a boy with his first sweetheart. It was worse than cringeworthy.