The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  Arnulf turned his cold eyes south again, scouting, searching, thinking. Balarin was to his left, sat astride his own mount in watchful silence. Arnulf would owe him a debt for the work he and the rest of his Oathbound had done these last weeks. Their ranks were filled out once more, their numbers growing with each town or village they stopped in. Just shy of four hundred now they were, and by the time they reached Celdarin’s Shield Arnulf intended for them to have another two hundred to add to their ranks at least. More, if he could, but they would not be taking on anything less than the highest quality, or those who did not show the promise to be as such. The Dogs were not scavengers, or employers of street sweepings and arrow fodder.

  Rebuild. Balarin had seen to that. When they had fled Farrifax they had been so few, just a handful of injured men. They had come to rest in a small town someway south along the road. Arnulf had been to weary, too worried, to think of anything else but the fastest route to the Shattered Marches. That, and sleep. When Balarin had come to him the next morning in his tent to present thirty men, bloodied, battered but standing tall, defiant and proud, it had taken him a while to realise that they were their newest recruits.

  It seemed Balarin, Ceagga and a few others of the Oathbound had challenged some of the local men who reckoned they could fight to a trial of combat in the town square, the winners being offered money, food and work. Almost everything a fighting man could want, save for women. Their opponents had been those Shield Brothers who had still been able to fight. As it turned out, most challengers had lost. Almost all of them, in fact. One or two of unusual talent, or dedication to their craft, perhaps, had overcome the men set against them. Balarin had picked the best of them, even the ones who had failed, so long as they had shown their skill and bravery in the face of defeat. Only a fool would turn away skill, especially in such dire a need as theirs.

  Thirty men of strong and skilled arm – the start of their restoration. And most certainly not the end. At each village on their way south the trials were held, and men would fight, and fall, and the best of them would leave the next day with the Dogs. Those who had failed would watch with jealous eyes as the recruits rode off with their new brothers, nursing their wounds from what had begun to be called the Dogs’ Gauntlet by those who dared test themselves.

  It was within his grasp now. Four hundred men. He could probably take the Shield with them alone, if they handled things the right way. They were already being trained twice a day by the oldbloods. They were developing well already, their skills being sharpened, new techniques being drilled, their shield arms strengthening. They would be Shield Brothers in no time at all, the way they were progressing. Lord Rebacht had no idea what was coming for him. Or what he was about to lose, and what the Blackshield Dogs were about to claim. Arnulf already felt budding pride at the sight of them locking into the shield wall so efficiently.

  His own challenge had been arming them all. They had lost much of their equipment at the Marrwood, and with so many recruits it was becoming problematic to find them all a sword to hold, let alone armour and shields. Balarin had managed to recruit a couple of smiths willing to travel with them, who were working ceaselessly every night at their travelling forges, churning out swords, hammering rings of mail, beating helms into shape.

  Horses were another matter entirely, some of the men were riding old farmhand nags and doubling up in the saddle. They would have to search for a breeder soon, and new horseflesh would cost them a fearful weight in silver. They would manage though. Minor problems aside, things were coming together at last, if slowly. Ever so slowly. But Arnulf was in no rush. Not yet, at least.

  He spied ruins atop another ridge in the landscape, some miles away from here, not too far from their course. A perfect campsite.

  Arnulf wheeled his horse away, back down the ridge, hooves clattering and crunching on rock and stone as he cantered along the column of riders. Some hailed him as he passed, new recruits mostly, glad to be in his service and eager to be noticed. Some veterans he saw bow their heads to him silently. Dag, Torc, Red Harry. He nodded in turn and raised a fist as he passed his men, and their voices rose like the braying of hounds as he rode by, Balarin following in his wake.

  They rejoined the head of the column, Arnulf’s bannermen bowing their heads as he and Balarin took their places.

  They came to the ruins a few hours later, as dusk began to fall over the barren lands about them. What these buildings had once been Arnulf could only guess at – their architecture was not known to him. It was not of Caermark, that much was for certain. The largest of the ruins were the remnants of a crumbling curtain wall and keep that sat atop the plateau, something Arnulf presumed had once been a fortification of some kind, a fortress, or castle, perhaps – it was a perfect vantage point for whoever had held the land. His own men were already busy setting up watch atop the walls still able to be manned, others were driving wooden stakes into the ground where they could to fortify the position further.

  It must have been an imposing sight, back in its day, Arnulf reckoned. All four hundred of his men had pitched their tents within the rubble-strewn courtyard with an absurd amount of space to spare. The walls towered some thirty feet overhead, where their battlements and walkways were still intact, that was. Time, and perhaps war, had seen a great part of them erased.

  The keep stood as three and a half hollow, looming walls, its interior piled with dusty blocks that had tumbled from above, tough grey-green grass sprouting from between them. The corner towers and gatehouse had long ago collapsed in upon themselves, proving as much an obstacle now as the walls themselves to any who would enter this ground. Something that must have been a keep, once, was crumbling slowly away where it joined onto one of the sections of standing wall. What was left was almost a wide, hollow tower, its roof and upper floors having caved in long ago, though there was enough clear space within amongst the rubble for dozens of men to shelter.

  ‘Empire,’ Arnulf grunted, as he made a round of the inner walls with Balarin and Ceagga. He pointed to carvings of authoritative-looking eagles, faded with age, that were set above the dilapidated keep’s empty doorway. Ceagga nodded and muttered agreement.

  ‘This place must be ancient, then,’ he said.

  ‘As ancient as the Old Empire itself, perhaps,’ said Balarin, sounding impressed. ‘They were men of great craft, no doubt, the place still stands for the most part.’ Arnulf had to agree with him. It would keep them safe for the night, could probably even be easily fortified with proper palisades and ditches if they wanted to hold ground here for a time. He fancied that maybe it could even be made a permanent stronghold once more. He ran a hand over the stone of the former keep. Smooth, sturdy.

  ‘Superstitious men would avoid this place,’ he said quietly, ‘knowing what ravages the north.’ He saw the two of them glance at each other nervously. Balarin muttered an oath under his breath to one god or another. Arnulf smiled.

  It was odd though, he realised, that they should find shelter in the ruins of those who had returned to conquer or destroy them. He wondered, briefly, how far south the Empire had come since their skirmish outside Farrifax. It mattered little to them, the Dogs – Arnulf had no intention of taking part in the fighting that would come. But when the conflict did start in earnest, and was not just the burning of two northern towns, he intended to be in his new seat at Celdarin’s Shield – safe, isolated and unreachable. Aenwald and his enemies could fight until all that was left in Caermark was bones and the crows that picked at them. Behind those walls, Arnulf and his men would outlast them, while they clawed and raked at each other’s throats outside like starving animals.

  ‘Have the men pitch my tent,’ Arnulf said, his hand tracing the weather-beaten carving of a man spearing some strange, savage beast from eastern lands. ‘And gather the Oathbound, there are things I would discuss with you all.’

  His tent was raised in less than an hour, and furnished from the supply wagons to his usual specifications for meeti
ngs on the road. He and his Oathbound sat around the small central fire that had been lit for them.

  There were twelve of them left, Arnulf thought with some sadness, looking at the aging faces about him. Twelve of his Oathbound, from the three hundred that had founded the Blackshield Dogs. They sat around him now, passing bread and cuts of salted beef to one another, cups of wine and mugs of ale. Half had been injured at the Marrwood, broken arms mostly from bracing against the charge, and he saw them flexing newly healed limbs stiffly in the firelight, as they joked and talked and ate. He noticed suddenly how old they all seemed, their faces lined, their hair greying and scars sunken and faded with age. Some of the new recruits were in attendance tonight, baring plain pewter jugs of wine and ale, stood silently nearby in shadows. The difference between the two groups was absolute, and with some sadness, he wondered how much more time he had left with his old friends before this was through. They were sure to lose many. They already had, more than their share.

  Arnulf mourned in silence for those they had lost.

  For those they would lose, in days to come.

  He rose to his feet, his half-drained cup in his hand. ‘Brothers,’ he said, voice neither loud nor quiet, letting his tone of command silence those gathered to him. They raised their cups to him almost as one, rising to their feet as they did so. He looked about him, meeting each man’s gaze in turn, nodding in respect to them.

  ‘We have come far,’ he said slowly. ‘And you have accomplished much since our defeat in the north. I am proud, more than ever, to call you my brothers.’ They cheered at that and toasted him in northern fashion – downing their drinks in one fat gulp and casting their cups upon the floor violently, fists beating on chests as they roared their approval. He downed his own drink, raising his hand for silence, speaking as their cheers quietened.

  ‘Never have we had so much new blood amongst us,’ said he. ‘So much raw talent, waiting to be sculpted by your craftsmen’s hands. We are greater now than ever before, and we will become greater still, given time, thanks to your efforts.’ Another cheer. His Oathbound called for more drink, and Arnulf waited till their cups were filled again before he continued.

  ‘I feel I owe you answers men,’ he said, ‘as to why we ride south, why we take on so many new Shield Brothers.’

  ‘You owe us nothing, my lord,’ said one of them. Hroga, Arnulf saw, wiping his ale-wet beard on his sleeve. A grunt of agreement passed through them all. He smiled.

  ‘On the contrary, my friend,’ he answered the man, ‘I owe you everything. Each of you. It was you who stood by me when the fall of my House came, the ending of my name. It was you who stayed with me when the Ironbrand cast us from his halls, empty handed and without justice. It was you who followed me time and time again into the maw of death, whose skill at arms has given us the fame we know today.’

  ‘Our oaths were sworn until our deaths,’ another of them spoke, Sweyn, one of the younger of their number, his craggy faced lined sharply in the firelight. ‘And we still breathe, my lord.’ More cheers. More drinking. More cup-slamming. He silenced them again.

  ‘And it is for that loyalty, my brothers,’ he said, ‘that I will see you rewarded before long.’ They watched him curiously, uncertain of what he meant. ‘I told you all, many years ago, that I would see our people restored. That I would reclaim what is mine by right of blood.’ There were grunts and nods of remembrance from the men. They had not forgotten any more than he had, he knew.

  ‘It has taken time,’ he continued, ‘and the road has been hard. And cruel. We have lost many to the knights of Haakon Garrmunt. But now we stand renewed, with fortune on our side, and it is time for me to fulfil my promises to you all.’ He glanced at Balarin, who stood with arms crossed across his broad chest, listening intently. ‘The north is lost to us, and to the Ironbrand, though he will be too stubborn and pigheadedly foolish to realise as much. And so be it. The men who built this very fort have returned from their exile, and it is they who burn the north as we speak. It won’t be long before their fires spread through all Caermark.

  ‘We head south, to the Valley of Dead Kings. To Celdarin’s Shield. To the seat of Lord Rebacht, to kick his arse from it and over the fortress walls.’ There was a noticeable hush that followed his words.

  ‘And for whom do we do this, my lord?’ said Garric, running a hand down his braided beard, so long it almost touched the belt around his waist.

  ‘For ourselves,’ Arnulf answered him, seeing the uncertainty written on his face. ‘We are mercenaries no more, my brothers. We are the Blackshield Dogs, and we come to take Celdarin’s Shield as our due for all the ills we have suffered.’

  There was some scattered guttural agreement amongst them. More shared nervous glances, their eyes dark before the fire. He waited, listening to them.

  ‘They say the Shield cannot be taken, my lord,’ said Ceagga, his face pale. ‘Not by any force. We are but four hundred, most of us yet unblooded.’ Murmurs rippled around the tent, heads nodding, faces troubled.

  ‘And they speak true, brother,’ said Arnulf, walking to him and resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘But do you think I would lead us into something from which we would not return?’ He cast his gaze about at them all. They each met it with their own, but he knew what they thought.

  The Marrwood.

  The memory of that night burned in him just as fiercely as it did in them. A sickening note of guilt resounded within him, and he forced it down with sheer discipline.

  ‘The days are dark, my brothers,’ he said at last, a fist clenched before the flames he gazed into. ‘And they grow darker with each one that passes. The rulers of these lands have grown stagnant and lazy in their ages of freedom, and they look more to what their neighbours have that they do not, rather than what looks to them from afar with bitter hate. If we are to survive the storm that falls upon us, we must do the unthinkable. The impossible. The foolish. I ask you to trust me, brothers, this one last time, to do for me the impossible, and take the glory I owe each of you with your own hands, as we carve out our true legacy in this dying land.’

  ‘Then how will we take such a thing as the Shield, my lord?’ asked Hroga, to a muttering of confusion, interest and disbelief. Arnulf let himself smirk as he locked eyes with the aged warrior, seeing the man falter slightly, realising he had just questioned the judgement of his lord. He knew the stories men told of his fearsome glare. They always said the gaze of the Black Dog was like the falling of a hammer to the skull of those it was turned upon. Perhaps they were right, Hroga descended into humility quickly, begging forgiveness and blaming ale for his loose tongue. The looks he received from the other Oathbound did more than any chiding from Arnulf could.

  ‘The Shield is not a fortress that can be taken by strength, brothers,’ said Arnulf as his men silenced, pacing round the fire to stare into each man’s eyes in turn. ‘The Gaussemen tried that tactic more than enough, and all Caermark knows how far it got them over the years. No, brothers, we will not storm those mighty walls, there will be no glorious charge, nor cry of war. We will take the Shield as thieves in the night.’

  As he had expected, a ripple, or perhaps more of a wave – and a tidal wave at that – of dissent ran through the tent.

  ‘What do you mean, Lord Arnulf?’ one of them asked as he passed by.

  ‘I mean,’ Arnulf said slowly, ‘that this all began with deceit. And with deceit, it will end.’

  ‘Deceit carries no glory, my lord,’ said Sweyn, his tone reproachful. With a flash of anger in his stride, Balarin was stood before Sweyn, his finger jabbed in the man’s startled face.

  ‘Hold your coward’s tongue,’ he roared in Sweyn’s face, ‘you speak to the Lord of the North!’

  Sweyn’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him close, their foreheads grinding against each other bitterly. ‘Do not slander me for my concern, Balarin,’ he seethed between his teeth. ‘We are warriors, not burglars!’

  Arnulf motione
d for the others to separate them as they began wrestling with one another, promising them both beatings should they continue. With a sigh, as the two of them calmed down, he motioned for his men to follow him to the map table set up in the darker reaches of the tent.

  Atop it was a large, unrolled sheaf of parchment, weighted at the corners, showing countless lines in black ink drawn by a skilful hand. As the eye followed them, it could be seen that they formed walls, towers, stairs, a huge and many turreted keep of several levels – a fortress. Notes in places to the side indicated doors, gates or areas of particular deadliness in the surrounding terrain. At the top of parchment, inked in delicate, flowing script, read the words, Celdarin’s Shield.

  ‘My brothers,’ Arnulf said, sweeping his hand across the parchment, ‘the beast that we hunt.’

  Beast was the word. The Oathbound surrounded the table, voices muttering in awe or dismay of the keep’s considerable, almost absurd, defences.

  The fortress sat, according to both widespread knowledge and the map before their eyes, atop a high plateau overlooking the Valley of Dead Kings. Its very position alone was formidable, as the only approach was up the slope of the plateau towards the gatehouse – a constant uphill slog where the Shield’s height would allow missiles to be rained upon the heads of those stupid or brave enough to attempt it. The only other way to reach the keep was by climbing up three hundred feet of the plateau’s cliff face, the drop below onto a bed of shattered, sharp stones, whilst being assailed by defenders above.

  Daunting, it could be said.

  And as for the fortress’s absurd defences… two curtain walls, an outer wall and a taller inner wall protecting the keep, allowing two levels of defensive fire from archers and light artillery. A dozen towers, a ballista perched at the top of each, angled to give a line of fire into both the Valley and down the approach from the slope, wherever a large iron bolt was needed the most. It all seemed excessive.

  Arnulf saw his men shaking their heads as they scanned the drawing of the Shield. ‘This cannot be done, my lord,’ Garric said, his brow so furrowed his forehead seemed to have trenches dug in it. He straightened, his eyes wild pits of disbelief. ‘This is not a fortress – it is an abomination of rock and stone.’ Again with the murmurs of agreement, their lack of confidence in him was hurtful, like needles under his nails.