The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  ‘I cannot stand this place anymore!’ Anselm snarled out of nowhere, bringing his horse to a stop. ‘I will not tread another step here!’ He turned to look at Harlin, what light was left glinting from eyes wide with fear. ‘We must turn back, Harlin – I do not like this place, it unsettles me, I can hear its sounds echoing in my head! It is like the scratching of claws at grave walls!’

  ‘Quiet, fool,’ Harlin snapped, pressing a hand to his face, head suddenly swimming. His own voice sounded distant and empty to him, as though spoke by someone else from afar.

  ‘Turn back!’ Anselm was suddenly yelling, his horse’s hooves thudding dully against stony ground as he spun it round and round on the spot. ‘Turn back! Turn back!’

  ‘Why?’ Harlin mumbled, eyes closing wearily. He shook himself alert – or tried to. His head felt as though it were stuffed with wool. This is not natural, he thought dimly. Anselm’s horse came to a stop, his face slackening as he stared at nothing. Behind him in the gloom, Harlin saw half of Ceatha’s face turned towards him, caught briefly by faint light, eyes bright as she watched him. They almost seemed to glow, two chips of emerald, bright against the gathering darkness. They hung there long after her face vanished in the murk, their soft light piercing all shade and resisting the drifting shadows that passed across them.

  A slow realisation came upon Harlin as he steadied himself in his saddle. Pressure built upon his temples. The same sensation as when she touched him that first night.

  She Weaves.

  ‘What have you done,’ he slurred furiously through a numb mouth, drooling on himself, a wavering hand pointing accusingly at what little he could still see of her.

  And he fell, off to his side, body suddenly limp, landing with a soft thump he did not feel, but heard echo around him for what seemed like an eternity, open eyes staring up into green-tinted darkness. ‘Anselm…’ he slurred through a mouth choked with spit. ‘Run… run… she does this…’

  Above him, as though the leaves of the canopy retreated or withdrew, there was emerging light. Slow at first it came, like pinpricks and distant stars, expanding until it chased away the darkness that retreated from the air like swirling, watered ink. Harlin blinked, mind slowly clearing, though his limbs still felt numb and heavy. Rage replaced fatigue as he realised what had happened, and he gobbed a mouthful of spit behind his head on a high arc.

  Ceatha’s face appeared before him, to the side. ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked him in their tongue, face troubled. With a snarl he sat bolt upright and made to grab her, his numb arms slow and wooden, missing her by a handful of inches and flopping onto his side. She shrieked and fell on her backside, scrabbling away from him.

  ‘You!’ he growled at her, trying to rise to his feet on wobbly legs, managing it and swaying drunkenly. ‘What did you do, Weaver?’ He spat another mouthful of spittle on the ground, tongue feeling swollen and useless.

  ‘Nothing!’ Ceatha trembled, picking herself up and dashing away and putting a large rock between them, mouth drawn tight. ‘I swear, this wasn’t me!’

  ‘Fucking liar.’ Harlin felt for his sword and moved towards her. ‘I saw you whispering, I could see your eyes burning through the shadows you brought on us. You were the only one of us who didn’t take ill from it – what did you do!’ He paused when he saw Anselm some twenty feet away, still astride his horse, face a vacant mask, a thick trickle of drool running from his chin down to his gloved hand.

  Anselm blinked stupidly, wiping his mouth and looking at them suspiciously as he came too, eyeing Harlin’s hand upon the hilt of his sword, and Ceatha visibly shaking behind her rock. He narrowed his eyes, seemingly having trouble thinking.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ he said dumbly.

  ‘Don’t feckin’ move, Marchers,’ a voice suddenly called out from above them, followed by the distinct creak of bows being drawn. Harlin turned as fast as he was able on his weakened legs, eyes searching the dense trees.

  A tall man stood some way back, atop the pass they had moved through not long before, his dark green clothing obscuring his frame against the forest behind him. Thick arms were folded across a broad chest, long braids of red hair trailing almost to his waist from within a green hood, gold rings adorning their ends.

  Through the trees Harlin saw shapes emerging cautiously, wielding bows fully drawn, cruelly-tipped arrows knocked. He slowly let go of his sword and raised his hands, glancing about him. Surrounded, he cursed himself inwardly, counting perhaps twenty dark-cloaked bowmen approaching in a loose circle.

  And then he sighed, as Anselm opened his mouth and said something far too typically stupid, even for him.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Be quiet, idiot,’ Harlin snapped back over his shoulder.

  ‘No, fuck him, I want to know who this prick thinks he is pulling something like this on us, holding us up like we’re some perfumed merchants with an arse full of gold.’

  Harlin closed his eyes in frustration, forcing down a furious rebuttal just as like to get the two of them shot as Anselm’s lip. Opening them, he saw the figures were stood close now, standing still with bows still drawn and trained on them. Too many to fight, he thought, mind a blur and spinning with panic trying to see a way out, eyes darting, limbs still full of unnatural numbness. He frowned as something caught his eye. Beneath dark green hoods Harlin saw braids trailing, golden rings upon them like the red haired man’s.

  Clansmen.

  The red-haired man moved from atop the pass, hopping down nimbly from stone to stone and over a patch of thick brambles to land amongst fallen leaves. Harlin guessed his age at somewhat past his thirtieth year, though wasn’t sure. He walked slowly towards them, hand resting upon a sword that hung at his waist, a round shield and bow slung together upon his back.

  ‘I’m the last thing you Marcher arseholes will ever see, if you don’t shut your mouths,’ he said loudly, his accent distinctive and thick with the sound of the island. ‘Now get down off that feckin’ horse, afore the lads shoot you from it, you bald-headed shite.’

  Harlin heard Anselm grunt again, as though he considered a witty retort, but the sight of so many drawn bows aimed at them clearly, thankfully, made him think better of it, as the sounds of him climbing down quietly without complaint followed not long after.

  The red haired man narrowed his eyes as he came closer to Harlin, looking him up and down. He was a few inches shorter than Harlin, but that did not seem to bother him. He made a brief circle of him, taking hold of his braids and inspecting the rings at their ends. ‘Hmph,’ he snorted. ‘Took you for one of ours, for a moment.’ He let go of Harlin’s hair, a bit more harshly than was necessary. ‘But you’re just a silver ring galloglách.’ He spat at Harlin’s feet.

  ‘I am a clansman,’ Harlin seethed between clenched teeth. The man snorted a laugh again.

  ‘And yet you speak their tongue to me,’ he said, head jerking towards Anselm. ‘Galloglách.’ He spat on Harlin then, a thick globule of it running down the armour on his chest.

  Anger took Harlin. He saw red, reached for his sword, his limbs still slow, still stiff, whole body sluggish. The man moved like lightning, stepping in and left hooking him across the jaw as his sword came halfway from its scabbard. Harlin fell to his knees, seeing stars.

  ‘Bradan, stop!’ Ceatha was at his side suddenly, arm across his shoulders. She spoke in their tongue, as Harlin blinked away dizziness and sparking lights, rubbing his jaw. ‘He is one of us, Bradan.’

  ‘He wears silver rings, Ceatha,’ Bradan answered her. ‘He wears their garb, he travels with them and he speaks their dirty tongue to his own. He is nothing but a mercenary dog. What are you thinking, girl, bringing them to our borders?’

  ‘He saved me from them, Bradan, the Marchers would have killed me if not for him and his friend.’

  Bradan grunted dismissively. Harlin looked up at him, teeth bared in a snarl, red with blood from a cut cheek, his body shaking with rage as he spoke. ‘Touch
me again, you red haired prick, and I will rip your braids from your head.’

  ‘Stop, Harlin,’ Ceatha whispered to him as Bradan glowered down at him. ‘Don’t anger them further, I beg you.’

  ‘So you speak the tongue after all, dog,’ Bradan sneered. ‘Do not think having Ceatha with you will make us suffer the both of you. You are a Marcher to us, just as much as your friend there. Worse, you’re a traitor to your own kinfolk, throwing your lot in with Marchers and taking to their ways and accepting their coin like you’re one of them. Your kind make me sick, mercenary.’

  He reached down then, and took hold of Harlin’s braids once more. ‘You do not deserve these,’ he said with disgust, and pulled the rings from their ends. With a growl, Harlin went for Bradan again, hands seeking throat, but a knee found Harlin’s ribs, and he hit the ground painfully, coughing and convulsing as he fought for every breath.

  ‘Fucking bastard,’ Anselm cursed from somewhere behind, spitting loudly. ‘He’s done nothing to you. Why don’t you let him up, see if you can pull that one on him again?’

  ‘You shut your fecking mouth, Marcher,’ Bradan said, accent thick and voice full of hatred. ‘I don’t mind letting my men spill your blood if you make another sound, you’re nothing to me, and I can see how hungry they are for it.’

  Bow strings creaked.

  ‘Stop it!’ Ceatha shrieked, leaping to her feet, fists bunched tightly. ‘You have my word, Bradan, they mean us no harm,’ Harlin heard her say, still struggling for breath amidst dried leaves and fallen twigs. ‘Please don’t hurt them.’

  ‘I should kill the pair of them now,’ Bradan seethed, spitting on Harlin again. The sound of a sword being drawn sang unnervingly close by. ‘We wouldn’t let others of their kind that set foot here live longer than a heartbeat.’

  ‘That,’ a female voice rang out from the trees in the Marcher tongue, ‘is not your decision to make, Bradan.’

  Harlin heard several gasps, and the sound of bowstrings easing. He raised himself to his knees and looked about. The clansmen had all dropped to their knees, heads bowed deeply, facing someone behind him, Ceatha included. Looking over his shoulder, Harlin saw Anselm stood with hands raised, an eyebrow following suit as Harlin met his gaze, both shrugged at each other. Harlin struggled to his feet and spat blood upon the ground.

  ‘Turn around,’ the voice spoke again, something odd in its tone that made him know it was directed at him. He felt compelled to do as it said, some pressure upon his limbs, upon his skull at the temples again, a force of will set itself against his own. And so he did, hesitantly, eyes raking the forest until they fell on someone stood some twenty paces away in the shadow of a towering elm, hooded and cloaked in deepest green. In their hand was a staff, made of dark wood, a pattern of trailing vines carved along its length, weaving in and out of one another as they ran.

  ‘Weaver,’ Harlin breathed, eyeing the staff. One of considerable importance it seemed.

  ‘Kneel!’ Ceatha hissed from the corner of her mouth. He ignored her. The cloaked figure inclined its head.

  ‘That I am,’ it spoke, a slender, aged hand reaching up to draw back its hood. The face beneath belonged to a woman of middle years, a mane of greying red hair tied back at the base of her neck with a leather thong. A band of freckles played across her nose and forehead around green eyes.

  ‘These are our woods you trespass in, men of the Marches,’ the weaver said, casting her green-eyed gaze from Harlin to Anselm and back again, her stare carrying a sickening weight to it. ‘And we do not tolerate your people to set foot here. The penalty is death, normally without question. Had Ceatha here not informed me of your coming, Bradan and his men would have shot you without hesitation.’

  ‘Informed you of our coming?’ Anselm said, arms still raised above his head, a pained look of confusion on his face. ‘What the fuck are you talking about, she’s travelled with us for weeks, she’s not been out of our sight!’

  ‘Shh!’ Ceatha hissed loudly at him, a finger to her lips. The Weaver smiled coldly.

  ‘You did this to us,’ Harlin hissed at her. The whole thing had the rancid smell of Weaving about it. The Weaver ignored him.

  ‘Rise, clansmen,’ she said, eyeing Harlin strangely as the clansmen did as she said. She came close to him and tilted her head, examining his face. She was more than a full head shorter than him and he stared down at her icily, jaw and side throbbing in time, uncomfortably aware of his own heartbeat.

  ‘You have the look of us about you,’ the Weaver said finally. ‘But you are not of us.’ She moved away.

  ‘He’s from Luah Fáil,’ Anselm spat after her. ‘Do you treat all your own this way?’

  ‘He is from the island, yes,’ the Weaver agreed, nodding, ‘but our ways have left this one. He has not earned his manhood. He is not of the clans. He is not one of us. He is a Marcher.’

  ‘I am of Clan Faolán!’ He spun and snarled his words at her between blood-stained teeth. ‘I am no Marcher of Caermark.’

  ‘Quiet your tongue, galloglách,’ Bradan threatened, his blade suddenly free.

  The Weaver watched he and Anselm for a moment, considering, it seemed, what to do with them. ‘Bind them,’ she said eventually, waving her hand and turning away. ‘And blind them. We take them to Tásúil.’

  Harlin and Anselm were stripped systematically of their weapons by the clansmen then had their hands tied securely, and forcibly, behind their backs with strong hempen cords. Before a sack was finally pulled over his head, Harlin locked eyes with Ceatha and grimaced at her.

  I’m sorry, she mouthed, hands pressed to her lips, eyes round and fearful.

  They were slung roughly over the backs of their horses, their captors leading them on by the reins. Muffled slightly by the sack over his head, Harlin could hear Anselm grumbling and muttering to himself, promising revenge and a thorough beating once he was released. He wished desperately that the man would shut up. His jaw throbbed where he had been punched and he could feel it swelling, his pulse boomed in his ears and a foul headache was slowly gaining pace amidst it all.

  The clansmen took them on a slow, winding route through the forest, one that seemingly made no sense. They doubled back on themselves more than once, and several times went in circles or pointless loops, Harlin gaged by the feel of the horse’s movement beneath him. He could only presume it was so complex as to make sure he and Anselm could not remember it should they escape. Though it didn’t stop him trying. He soon lost it though, as it became too drawn out and too confusing to keep track of.

  By the time they dragged him down and threw him upon the stony ground with a painful thump – Anselm being manhandled in the same way, though his roaring, thrashing protest earned him a kick in the ribs, judging by the sounds coming from nearby – his whole body was sore from being slung face-first all day over a horse.

  The clansmen were making camp from the sounds he could hear, pots scraping, flint being struck, water pouring, the early crackles of a fire. Some scattered laughter, chatter in the clan tongue, men taking their rest after a long march. There were the sounds of men leaving the camp quietly, tramping through undergrowth. Similar ones announced their return an hour or two later, the smell of cooking meat penetrating the sack on his head not long after. His sore mouth watered painfully at it. Venison, he thought, shoving it out of his mind as his stomach rumbled and gnashed at him.

  Harlin sat there silently, patiently, a root or rock jabbing into his back mercilessly as he tried to shift for more comfort, straining at his bonds. No use. Bound tight, he sagged, stomach rumbling as he listened to the clansmen chatter amongst themselves and eat noisily.

  Gentle footsteps nearby made him tense, ready to spring. A soft hand touched his face through the sack, and he roared and snapped through the material at whoever it was, hoping to inflict any kind of injury he could manage.

  ‘It’s Ceatha,’ the whisper came.

  ‘Leave me be, whore,’ he growled at her, his trapped breath
making his face sweat.

  ‘Don’t be so foul,’ she said reproachfully. ‘Are you hungry? They won’t share their kill with you, but I brought you food from your packs.’ The sack was loosened as her nimble hands fussed with it and lifted it up just enough to expose his mouth, though it dug into his top lip annoyingly.

  ‘Here,’ the girl said, and pressed something to his lips that felt like bread. He turned away.

  ‘Do not humiliate me, Weaver,’ he snarled, though was inwardly thankful for fresh air. He heard the girl sigh.

  ‘I’m sorry, Harlin,’ she whispered. ‘I really am. But things will be alright, trust me, they will, they’re just distrustful of outsiders. I’ve spoken to the ardas druí. You don’t know what it’s like living in secret, they –’

  ‘Ceatha,’ Bradan’s voice boomed threateningly from some distance away. ‘Come away from him, sister.’

  Sister? Harlin thought, sweaty brow creasing beneath his shroud, mind latching on to anything he could use against their captors, though a cold sense of betrayal was beginning to set in, the taste sour in his mouth. Had Ceatha planned this?

  Ceatha pressed the bread to his lips again. ‘Please eat something,’ she sighed. ‘It’s a few more days until we reach Tásúil.’

  ‘I said leave me be,’ Harlin snarled at her, craning his neck to avoid the food. ‘Now go to your brother, before I bite your fucking face off, whore. I should have let the Marchers have you in Haverlon.’

  A small gasp, barely perceptible over the sounds of the clansmen’s camp. That hurt her, Harlin thought with a grim, petty satisfaction. Her cool fingertips touched his swollen jaw, tracing the line of it, lingering softly at his chin, almost affectionately. He bared his teeth at her, a low, lupine growl in his throat.