The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  A few moments passed of uncomfortable shifting on both sides and nervous glances being exchange, throats being cleared and hands edging closer to swords. Arnulf saw the man chew upon his tongue but did not break his stare.

  The man blinked at last, and relaxed, shrugging and looking away casually. ‘Far be it from me to tell free men what to do, I suppose,’ he said impatiently, his words drawing more forced mirth from his men.

  I win, thought Arnulf, smiling pleasantly at him.

  ‘I am Lord Ruric Eordain,’ the man said stiffly. ‘Councillor of War to King Aenwald of Caermark. Your face is familiar to me, warrior, though from where and when I cannot be certain.’

  ‘It is familiar to many, Lord Ruric,’ Arnulf said, reclining in his saddle. ‘I am Lord-Captain Arnulf Berlunt of the Blackshield Dogs, I believe we have fought alongside each other in days past. Easthold, perhaps.’ Ruric’s brow creased as he fought to keep his face passive, fighting back disgust, realising he had been outdone in the unseen battle of wills by a base sellsword.

  ‘I remember Easthold, a bloody affair if there ever was one,’ said Ruric, venomously. ‘Our reports had you all dead in the north, yet here we find you riding south, in greater numbers than ever, when all fighting men rally to the banner of the chained bull.’

  He indicated to where the Dogs still rode on south some way back behind Arnulf and his men, black shapes atop their mounts as the sun died.

  ‘And we find you riding east to Great Armingstone with a host of men at your back,’ countered Arnulf, ‘away from the Spear Hills, where my men and I saw smoke climbing skywards only yesterday.’

  Ruric’s eyes flashed, his lip curled sourly, his beard-braids twitched. An accusation of cowardice had been brewing, no doubt, before Arnulf’s retort.

  ‘We rode to Garr’s Cairn,’ he grated, hands tight on his horse’s reins, ‘and burnt that traitor’s roost to the ground in the name of the King, along with its people. His Majesty’s justice is swift and sweet.’

  ‘Long live the King,’ one of the knights grunted beneath his helm, one of those closed helms they wore in the south that reminded Arnulf of some strange insect, the unsettling way its eye-slits were sculpted in two slanted columns of six narrow gaps. He wondered briefly if his men could throw a knife into one of them from this distance.

  ‘Long live the King!’ the others about the knight echoed, clenching fists zealously.

  Arnulf nodded at them all. ‘Long live the King, indeed,’ he said dryly, raising his eyebrows. ‘I take it the King learned of Garrmunt and his treachery in the north, seeing as you have made good sport of his farmhands and labourers.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Ruric, his jaw set firmly. ‘The rats of Garr’s Cairn… they were collaborators and cohorts with our ancient oppressors, and filth such as they will not be tolerated in Caermark, especially not upon the very doorstep of Great Armingstone, not during King Aenwald’s great reign. His Majesty’s justice is swift and without mercy for traitors, sellsword. Something all men of Caermark know.’

  ‘And justice well-served it will be,’ Arnulf assented readily, masking rising contempt. He knew all too well the Ironbrand’s justice. Something about that last remark held a tart note of pointed vitriol. He could feel Balarin and Ceagga bristling at his side at the mention of it, too. ‘Lord Garrmunt cost us the lives of over one hundred our brothers when he betrayed Lord Callen at the Marrwood.’

  ‘His betrayal has cost much more than a handful of lives, mercenary,’ Ruric spat. ‘Though I see that you have… recouped… your lost flock, and then some, from this newly swollen procession at your back. There is more at risk here than a mere scuffle between noble houses. Haakon Garrmunt and his wretched traitor’s heart threaten all Caermark.’

  ‘Until we cut it out his bastard chest,’ one of the knights said scathingly, receiving mutual agreement from his companions, armoured necks clanking as they nodded eagerly.

  Arnulf sniffed deliberately at them. ‘I wish you well in your hunt, my lords.’ He wheeled his horse around to the left. ‘And I will listen for news of your success. But alas, my men and I must be away, would that we could join with you. I am sure there is much glory to be had for those who smite the Empire once more in the Middenrealms.’

  ‘King Aenwald will need your sword arm, mercenary,’ Ruric said as Arnulf led his men away, ‘if we are to crush Garrmunt and these eastern mongrels he has brought with him. The north will need you, if it is to be free again.’

  ‘I tire of the north and all its troubles, Lord Ruric,’ Arnulf called over his shoulder, ‘and I find it’s warmer in the south. Give my regards to the King when you see him, your lordship, no doubt I will be hearing from him soon enough.’

  They broke into a gallop, heading back to the advancing column, leaving Lord Ruric and his knights behind, a glance over Arnulf’s shoulder showing them still sat there astride their mounts, watching their retreating backs coldly.

  Garrmunt marches further south with his new allies, Arnulf thought to himself, and the Ironbrand calls his banners to meet him in the field. This land finally tears itself asunder in the fires of war.

  All eyes will be upon the Middenrealms. The Shattered Marches will be empty.

  They retook their places in the column together, and pushed on down the southward road.

  Chapter 11

  Remnants

  It was a strange experience, Harlin found, travelling with a female in tow. Strange, and extremely aggravating at times. Most of the time, actually, the more he thought on it.

  Ceatha was a source of constant chatter and questions, for both he and Anselm. While Harlin found her a vocal nuisance, inclined to moaning and arrogant condescension between her persistent questions, Anselm seemed to find her a charming novelty. Her brogue island accent and, admittedly, sharp wit – Harlin having been on the receiving end of her razorblade tongue more than once – had him in frequent fits of laughter as they rode westwards.

  Part of Harlin did wonder how much of that was due to Ceatha’s slender, pretty face, however, now it was healed save for a lingering black eye. Framed by her fiery hair and adorned by the pleasant band of freckles across her almost artistically straight nose, she made for a distracting sight for them both. While Harlin rarely gave her more than a scowl when he looked upon her, Anselm almost fawned over her, all smiles, chitchat and witty banter like a besotted fool.

  Anselm was always a soft bastard for pretty girls, though, more than a man in his late twenties should be. He had barely even complained or questioned their judgement when they had changed course for this Tásúil she had told them of. Harlin doubted that would have been the case had she not been so eye catching.

  They had meant to head to a port town called Kerreck’s Point originally, and find passage to Luah Fáil there. But, Harlin had realised, perhaps if what Ceatha said was true, that there were surviving clanfolk finding refuge somewhere along the west coast, then passage to Luah Fáil would be more easily and safely found. There would be less questions asked he hoped, and more cooperation, than if they tried to hire a Marcher vessel to make the journey.

  So he hoped, of course. There seemed few things certain these days, now that word of open war and a great betrayal was on the lips of nearly all those they met on the road. Folk talked of towering fires raging through the forests of the north, of farms and villages in the Middenrealms raided, plundered and put to the sword, whole communities rounded up and butchered. They talked of dark ghosts that came in the night for the unfortunate, with their faces all of steel, as a great force stomped ever further southwards, leaving naught but ash, bone and utter desolation behind them.

  And so the Marchers’ works come undone at last, Harlin thought humourlessly to himself, handing a few coins over to an elderly man in a logging village they had stopped to buy food in. It reminded him all too much of Luah Fáil, and the lingering dreams he suffered of Bráodhaír. The irony will no doubt be lost on them.

  The man had told them more of the same r
umours, of war, blood, battle and betrayal, refugees fleeing in all directions but north, running from ghosts that sought to carry them off. The memories were beginning to become too much for him as he listened, images both old and recent resurfacing, and he was glad to have his dealings with the old man over and be back on the road.

  That was, of course, until Ceatha resumed her constant nattering. Anything was preferable to that.

  When she had first joined them on the road Harlin had allowed her to ride pillion behind him. That arrangement lasted a matter of days, as he found her never ending narrative of the scenery and their surroundings, as well as how hungry she was and how her arse was sore from the saddle, to be like the scraping of metal upon metal in his ears.

  The final straw had been when she had criticised his clumsy use of their own tongue one morn. Whenever she spoke to him it would be in the clan tongue, and while he did not mind using it, Harlin found that a lack of practice made the words come slowly and haphazardly to him, as the Marcher tongue had when he had first learned it from his father. Ceatha liked to make light of it, being possessed of quite a cruel, niggling humour, and had asked him, giggling, ‘Did the Marchers beat the words from you when you learned theirs?’

  ‘Enough!’ he had roared, reining his horse in. ‘Off! Off with you!’ She had clambered down reluctantly, looking hurt. ‘Anselm, she rides with you or she stays behind, any more and her voice will make my ears bleed.’

  Anselm had laughed loudly and helped her climb up behind him, where she sat with her pale brows furrowed, glaring at Harlin, lips pursed and looking thoroughly insulted. ‘Heed him not, my dear,’ Anselm had snorted, trying to stop himself from laughing again. ‘Harlin is always at his worst of a morning, think nothing of it.’ She had said nothing as they moved on, though he could feel her staring furiously at him.

  ‘Bodh,’ she had eventually snapped at him from behind Anselm.

  It meant ‘prick’.

  Ceatha’s directions led them ever more to the south and west, out from the wild forests on the edge of the Middenrealms, through the rocky foothills of the glowering Dothmair Mountains, named after one of the Marchers’ putrid slaver gods, down again through low-lying woodland nestled in the Stoneman’s Basin.

  The summer was growing late now, autumn was lying in wait, spoken on every whisper of the wind that caressed their faces as they rode for the coast. They made their crossing of the mighty Sothorin River as the nights began to draw in earlier, summer’s light retreating. Harlin remembered having been here before, as he watched the river following its gushing, sputtering course to the south.

  It had been one of his first real battles with the Blackshield Dogs, he recalled, entranced by the water’s rhythm. He had been but sixteen years of age, his second or third time stood in the shield wall, perhaps. It had been winter then, the river sapphire-blue, and the ice it carried down from the mountains hemming it with silver. The trees on the banks had been lined with snow. He still remembered it falling softly, dusting his armour as they stood waiting on the far bank, defending the ford against a raiding force from the south, another mercenary company, the Hammers of Vey it had been – in the employ of none other than Lord Garrmunt.

  They waited there now, the bank where the Southridge Hammers had dismounted, stretching and laughing as they saw the small shield wall across from them, not knowing what they faced. The Hammers had been swept away like the slowly tumbling leaves above when they were forced from the far bank back into the river, stumbling, tripping and drowning in blood and rushing water. The river had carried away their dead and dying like mailed driftwood, pulled the injured below its surface with formless claws and left only a ragged, sodden band fleeing on the other bank.

  They crossed, the river lapping at the legs of their mounts, the late summer heat still cloying in the air. The horses whinnied and protested at first, the river’s current causing them some alarm, but they eased by the time they were half way across.

  On the opposite bank they called a halt, Harlin and Anselm dismounting. Not far from the bank were four stone cairns set a little way off from the road. Atop each pile sat an orange, rusted helm, with a sword and shield resting against their bases. The shields were overgrown, weathered and rotten from exposure, their paint flaking and boards crumbling within their corroded steel rims. Climbing plants were using them as convenient footholds to work their sombre way onto the stones they rested against, small yellow flowers blooming along their slender vines.

  Harlin and Anselm both knelt before the stone mounds, bowing their head in reverence, for each shield bore the fading sigil of the Blackshield Dogs. Ceatha sat and watched them from afar silently, as Anselm spoke quiet words of tribute beside Harlin.

  ‘Shield Brothers Tollo, Fodal, Morret and Keff,’ he said softly, touching his brow in respect, Harlin doing the same. ‘Your fight is over, your bones at rest, you stood strong with your brothers in life, now you stand strong with Vathnir in his marble halls as he toasts your valour.’ He produced four copper coins, kissing each and placing them on the stones beneath the four helms. ‘For your ale, brothers,’ he said, ‘may your merrymaking be forever. Stand strong.’

  They rose then, mounting up and riding on, a reverent hush descending upon them all. Even Ceatha, Harlin noticed, was quiet for once.

  That night they camped amid the woods, the canopy above sparse enough for them to watch the stars emerge, as Anselm recited tales of their days in the Blackshield Dogs for Ceatha, who sat beside their fire listening intently, especially to the more animated bits where Anselm would leap to his feet dramatically, draw his sword and show her how he had felled an opponent.

  She is bloodthirsty, Harlin noted, seeing her smile and clap with girlish enthusiasm at Anselm playing out an elaborate finisher he had unleashed on a skilled enemy, who had not been quite skilled enough in the end. The island ways are strong with her still.

  The clans’ womenfolk were drawn to great warriors, it was the way of things there. Strength was prized above all else. Every young girl’s ambition was to marry a champion of their clan when they came of age. Ceatha, it seemed, at twenty-five years of age, still found warriors an exciting prospect, even if they were a Marcher.

  ‘She is unusual, that one,’ Anselm said appreciatively of the girl later on, as she slept soundly by the fire.

  ‘She is a clanswoman,’ Harlin said with a shrug, ‘our women are not like yours.’

  ‘I know that!’ Anselm retorted with a wave of his hand. ‘I mean something truly unusual. How did she find us after we left Haverlon? And how does she know the land here so well?’ He shook his head, wide-eyed.

  Harlin felt his lips purse, and he chewed his tongue as he tried to think of how to answer that. He and Ceatha had not spoken of her… ability… with him. Harlin knew as well as she did how Marchers reacted to such things. It offended them because it offended their craven gods, and he knew that Anselm was distrustful of magic or witchcraft, whatever they chose to call it, despite not exactly being devout in his beliefs. He was a regular blasphemer, actually.

  But still… he did not want to think what might go through Anselm’s head if he told him that Ceatha was leading them onward by her use of the Weaving. It was one of the few things he’d seen unsettle the man in their days together.

  ‘Skill,’ Harlin said casually in the end, unable to think of a better explanation, ‘and a bit of island luck, our women are more than housewives, Anselm.’

  ‘So it would seem!’ Anselm said, whistling between his teeth quietly, impressed. ‘And a looker, too. She even offered to teach me some of your tongue for when we get to this… Tasswill, is it? She grows comfortable with us, I think.’

  Harlin considered. ‘She fears me at times.’ Anselm squinted at him with some confusion.

  ‘Fears you?’ he asked incredulously. Harlin nodded briefly. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘My eyes,’ said Harlin, off-handed, laying down and yawning, mind growing fuzzy as sleep began to take him.
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br />   ‘You are a man of few words these days more than ever, wolf,’ he heard Anselm mutter disgruntledly, lying down to sleep himself.

  The next week was spent heading slowly westwards, off the roads and trails. ‘The clans have no roads leading to Tásúil,’ Ceatha explained as she pointed out the way for them to take. ‘No one knows we’re here, really. We’ve kept to ourselves mostly, apart from the ones who left, like me. If the Marchers knew we’d settled here, they’d come and burn it to the ground and do who knows what with what’s left of us.’

  Harlin could agree with that.

  Her route took them far from the river, up craggy, moss-carpeted hills and deep into forested highlands, where the canopy above was so dense it plunged them into a green-tinged gloom.

  They worked their way slowly on, their horses finding the footing treacherous and uncomfortable, cruel brambles and briar thorns lining their way with every step, scratching and scraping mount and rider alike. There was a heaviness in the air that Harlin could not help but notice a few hours in, a thickness to it that made each breath feel laboured and the mind feel weary, thoughts coming slow as though restrained by something.

  ‘I do not like this place,’ Anselm muttered as he led the way down a narrow pass between two limestone ridges in the earth.

  ‘Nor do I,’ agreed Harlin, voice barely more than a whisper. The trees stood tall and dark around them, looming and leering as they passed. They almost looked angry. ‘This forest seems… ancient.’

  ‘It is,’ Ceatha said quietly. Harlin had almost forgotten about her, she had been noticeably subdued the last week since they had crossed the river. He looked at her. She was sat huddled in the cloak she had bought the last time they had stopped for supplies, eyes closed, face downturned. Was she muttering to herself? He squinted through the gloom, the light fading though it could not have even been more than late afternoon yet.

  Ceatha’s lips moved rapidly, mouthing what Harlin thought were words in their mother tongue, though he could not tell what they were. Her brow creased gently after a moment, as though concerned by something. Harlin looked around him. It was almost pitch black now, nothing to be seen, save for the silhouettes of trees and the haunting echo of the sounds of the forest, almost oppressively loud now he paid attention.