The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered by his ear, voice thick. And she planted a soft kiss upon his jaw where Bradan had struck him, the pain fading in an instant, her Weaving at work subtly. ‘Forgive me.’ And she pulled the sack back down over his chin, muffling his voice once more, leaving him where he was laid, his stomach rumbling audibly.

  For three more days they were led through the forest, thrown over their horses’ backs. At night they would be hurled upon the ground while the clansmen made camp and went hunting and foraging. Each night Ceatha would try and have him eat and drink, and each time he would refuse her with foul curses and threats and growl at her like a chained animal. More than once he earned himself a beating from the clansmen, Bradan, he thought it was primarily – the power and skill in the blows feeling too familiar.

  It was the fourth morning when Harlin thought he could smell something different to the air. The brine tang of the sea, the distinctive scent lingering with each breath until the inside of the sack smelt fouler than ever.

  He felt them head slowly down a steep hill, trying to keep his balance on the horse’s back, the animals whickering fearfully at the footing crunching beneath their hooves. A breeze caught his braids, loosening his hair, until it billowed as a wavy mane about his shoulders.

  Harlin felt disgusted with himself, made worse by the hunger and thirst that gnawed at him constantly. No man had ever touched his braids or his rings before now, not even come close, never dared – never even thought too. Only a clansman would do as such. It was a carefully measured insult, a disgrace, a mark of shame.

  He swore himself an oath then, picturing Bradan’s face, driving the image deep into his memory lest he forget who had done this to him.

  Lest he forget just why he’d make sure he would kill him the first chance he got.

  ‘Tásúil!’ one of the clansmen called out from ahead somewhere, his voice being met by cheers and song from the men around them.

  We’re here, Harlin thought bitterly as he listened, recognising songs from his childhood, the nostalgia bringing conflicting emotions as he thought of how his mother and sisters would sing those same verses, long ago. He tried not to think of it, the situation was hard enough to bare as it was without descending into retrospective misery.

  The clansmen took them down another slope, and now he could hear the sounds of hammers striking anvils, crowds of people chattering and yammering, smells of cooking food, fires crackling, music from afar, sounds of sparring, sword and shield clashing. Fish, meat, mud, burning wood, unwashed bodies, filth. All the usual smells of a town.

  The procession paused for a moment. The sound of heavy doors creaking and opening on their hinges meeting Harlin’s ears, his mind picturing tall gates parting slowly, and they were on the move again. Slower now, things brushing past him, shocked gasps coming from many voices all about them. Then the jeering, the shouting, the cacophony of noise in his mother tongue.

  ‘Marcher prisoners!’ one of the clansmen laughed loudly at the crowd. ‘Freshly caught from the forest! Soon to be skinned and hung out to dry for market!’

  The crowd went berserk then, roaring, clamouring, swearing, spitting. Harlin felt something hard strike him in the arse and he grunted in pain, the cheek going numb. A rock, he thought. Another clipped his shoulder, and a furious tirade of insults from Anselm somewhere ahead told him he was suffering the same. Their captors laughed jovially at their misery, leading them down winding streets on a winding path.

  Perhaps an hour more passed before Harlin was dragged by rough hands from his horse and forced to stand, a sharp prod in the small of his back telling him a sword lay in wait for him should he try anything foolish.

  ‘Forward,’ a voice he did not recognise spoke in their tongue. He did as he was told, stumbling up a set of steep steps and landing painfully on his knees, strong arms dragging him back to his feet.

  He counted a hundred and thirty-two winding steps before he stumbled again on the last, managing to keep his balance. The sword prodded him again and he shuffled carefully forwards, smelling strange scents as he bumped clumsily through a doorway into warmth, a fire crackling somewhere. Was it incense he smelled? Burning herbs? He wasn’t sure. The sack on his head stank from three days of wearing it, and his head was stuffy from lack of air.

  They were taken through many rooms, their captors snickering as Harlin bumped into doors and walls and they helped by shoving him through, his feet catching on rushes that felt and sounded freshly laid, judging by their crunch. He staggered over them, falling as a foot stomped painfully on the back of his knee. A grunt and thud came from nearby, and another stream of muffled curses followed in Anselm’s voice. Harlin heard many pairs of feet leave the room then, and more, far gentler in their tread, enter.

  ‘Remove the shrouds,’ the Weaver’s voice said quietly in the clan tongue. Rough hands loosened and removed the sacks covering their faces. Both he and Anselm gasped, sucking in fresh air and blinking as light stung their long-shadowed eyes fiercely.

  Opening them slowly, his hand shielding them from an orange glare, Harlin let his vision focus gradually. Ceatha, Bradan and the Weaver stood watching them. Two dark-cloaked clansmen were on hand by a door in the wall across from where he and Anselm lay, eyes bright and alert in tense faces, hands resting on swords.

  They were in a dimly lit room, the walls wooden, devoid of furnishing save for a bed and chair, both filthy and unwelcoming. Windowless, he saw that the light came from many fat, greasy-looking candles stood in brackets on each wall, obscenely bright in light-starved eyes. Sounds came from behind the room’s only door, telling Harlin it was guarded from the outside, too. They were taking no chances with them, it seemed.

  Harlin glared up defiantly at those around them from where he lay, seeing Anselm do the same from the corner of his eye. Ceatha’s face was a mask of worry, brows so tightly furrowed he thought they would split, her pale hands wringing constantly in the folds of her cloak. Bradan sneered down at him, green eyes almost black in the dim light. The Weaver watched them both coolly, face blank, eyes passing from face to face and back again.

  ‘Your names,’ she said, her tone commanding, powerful though her voice was quiet. Harlin could not help but wince as he felt her Weaving at work, a prickle at his temples.

  ‘Sir Suck My Cock of the Shattered Marches,’ Anselm spat, ‘at your service, my lady.’ He bowed his head mockingly. Bradan’s lip curled and he volleyed Anselm in the leg with a solid kick.

  ‘Watch your feckin’ tongue before the ardas druí, Marcher,’ he warned. ‘Your name, now.’

  ‘Anselm,’ he grunted painfully, ‘of the Blackshield Dogs.’

  ‘And you,’ the Weaver spoke, eyes burning into Harlin’s mind. He clenched his teeth so hard they hurt.

  ‘Harlin,’ he uttered, ‘of Clan Faolán, like I said.’

  ‘That you did,’ the Weaver agreed, nodding solemnly. ‘Though I was interested to see if your story would change. One never knows the lies your kind are capable of spinning, unfortunately. And now, I must ask you, Harlin, Anselm – what is your purpose here? Why do you seek out our people? What brings you here to trespass upon our lands?’

  ‘She did.’ Harlin jerked his head at Ceatha, she cringed slightly at his gaze. ‘She brought us this way. And who are you,’ he said, shuffling into a sitting position, ‘that would tie up a clansman and his friend and treat us as base criminals without cause or implication?’ The Weaver smiled.

  ‘My name is Radha, and I am ardas druí to what is left of the clans of Luah Fáil.’

  Ardas druí, Harlin thought then, the words coming back to him at last.

  High Weaver.

  ‘You rule here, then,’ he muttered. She shook her head.

  ‘Weavers do not rule, galloglách, you should know that yourself. The clans answer to none save their own chieftain. We guide, we assist, we nurture. And so, I ask you again, Marchers, why you are here. I can draw the answer from you, if need be, though I would prefer if
you were simply truthful with us, it would do you well.’

  ‘What the fuck’s a Weaver?’ Anselm asked, looking perplexed, and earning himself another kick from Bradan.

  Harlin bit back rage at Radha’s use of the word ‘Marcher’ towards him, his teeth grinding audibly in frustration. ‘We make for Luah Fáil.’ Radha narrowed her eyes at him. He felt a prickle begin at his temples.

  ‘And what could two Marchers want from our island?’ she said, more to herself than to either of them. ‘Or what is left of it, I should say. There are no slaves for you to find on those shores anymore, I am afraid, and never will be again.’

  ‘My business is my own,’ said Harlin. Radha frowned at him then, and he felt the prickling at his temples intensify until it became the familiar sensation of two sharp claws trying to force their way inside his skull.

  Be gone from my mind, you withered cunt, he thought sourly, seeing her raise an eyebrow in response. She withdrew suddenly, as if cast from him by some force.

  ‘How interesting,’ Radha mumbled to herself. Harlin couldn’t tell if she’d extracted anything from him, or merely pondered her sudden ejection from his mind. He found she didn’t care if she had learned anything. The look of uncertainty in her glance was sweet poetry to him.

  ‘Witch,’ breathed Anselm, face turning pale. Radha smirked at the word.

  ‘So your people would call me, Marcher,’ she laughed. Anselm shuffled away from her as far as he could, to the amusement of both her and Bradan. ‘Why would you seek the name of another Marcher on our island of all places?’ She was talking to Anselm, Harlin noted. She shook her head, seemingly confused. ‘You’ll find nothing but bones and death there, mark my words.’

  Anselm stayed quiet, face drained of blood and still as a portrait. ‘No matter, I suppose,’ Radha said, ‘though it makes me wonder of your intentions. As long as whatever you have in mind stays clear of our people, and our town, then they are none of my affair.’

  The High Weaver turned her gaze back to Harlin then, her keen eye looking him up and down, weighing him. Her gaze lingered on him long enough for it to feel somewhat strange, making him want to stir or turn away uncomfortably.

  ‘I believe I have reason to thank you both,’ Radha said unexpectedly. Harlin and Anselm said nothing, breath coming shallow, eyes unblinking, wary of trickery and entrapment. ‘For returning my daughter to me.’

  ‘What?’ Anselm gulped dimly. Radha extended a hand towards Ceatha, who turned her face away in shame.

  ‘Ceatha,’ Radha spoke, ‘has been missing for quite some time. I understand she ran afoul of some of your kinfolk, and that she still breathes is a debt I shall owe the two of you to the grave. Thank you both.’

  Anselm sat in silence, mouth agape. I thought as much, Harlin thought to himself, looking between Ceatha, Bradan and Radha, examining their faces. The hair, the skin, the eyes – they even share the same freckles across their noses. Mother, daughter and son were all stood before him.

  ‘Oh,’ Anselm said thickly after some time had passed in awkward silence. ‘Think… nothing of it, I suppose.’ Radha smirked again. And then she sighed.

  ‘It is a debt I cannot repay,’ she said to them both, head bowing modestly. ‘Not now, not ever. My children are a treasure to me beyond any kind of wealth. Had I only known of what had become of her… her Weaving had fallen silent for the longest time, and I could not reach her. I had watched her try to forge her own path from afar, in a world that did not want her, and cursed her for trying be part of it. To have it suddenly snuffed out, to not know my own daughter’s fate… it was a torment I had never known the like of before, not even when I lost their father to the blades of your kinsmen. Thank you, both of you, dearly.’

  Harlin laughed. ‘And so she had you lay a trap for us in the forest,’ he sneered at them. ‘I wondered who I saw you talking to, Ceatha, just before the Weaving descended upon us.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ceatha said, eyes downcast.

  ‘We don’t suffer your kind, Marchers,’ Bradan said, ‘whether you saved my sister or not, it makes no difference, it does nothing to change history. You two are not welcome here.’

  ‘And I do not suffer the insults of fools, Bradan,’ Harlin retorted. ‘I want my rings back.’ Bradan snorted, smiling, and patted his pocket, shaking his head.

  ‘You’re welcome to try and take them back if you think you’re man enough, galloglách.’

  ‘Believe me, Bradan, I will have them back if it means pulling your throat out with my teeth.’

  Bradan stepped forward, fists clenched. ‘Tall words for a wee feckin’ silver ring,’ he snarled, ‘you forget the forest, galloglách? I’ll cut them bonds and we can have us a dance right now if you’re so sure of yourself.’

  ‘Enough!’ Radha suddenly bellowed, her voice echoing with a weight that threw them all into a deep silence. Her furious gaze made Bradan shrink back from her into a shadowed corner.

  ‘Harlin,’ she spoke, breathing deep. ‘Our laws says I should have you both killed for your trespassing. That alone is enough for our people to demand your deaths, which, believe me, they will. And there is some foulness about you, Harlin, which I cannot take to, which I cannot accept. The Weaving screams in me for you to be destroyed, it aches for it.’

  ‘Then do it, Weaver,’ Harlin spat. ‘Put an end to me here, perhaps you will do me a favour.’ Radha closed her eyes as though a struggle raged within her.

  ‘I cannot,’ she uttered eventually, shaking her head gravely. ‘Ceatha has begged your lives from me in return for your kindness to her, and honour demands that you live. Blood spared, is blood owed. No, I will not kill you. I cannot, though the Weaving begs for me to take your life. I owe you too much. Our people owe you too much.’

  ‘You’re… letting us live?’ Anselm spluttered, amazed.

  ‘I am, Marcher,’ Radha sighed. ‘Do not make me regret my softness.’

  Harlin caught sight of the look Bradan gave his mother. Sheer resentment. Spite. He wanted blood. He wanted Harlin’s blood, most of all. It was spoken in every glance, every sneer.

  Harlin would be more than happy to oblige him, when he could.

  ‘Understand though,’ Radha said, her tone warning. ‘That you are not a part of us, you are not of the clans. I grant you leave to remain here, as Ceatha’s wards. You are her responsibility, now you have been spared at her insistence. She will be answerable for your actions from this day onward. You must remain here, I am afraid, and never leave, lest you tell others of where we find our final refuge in your lands. Your lords and leaders will not tolerate us, just as we cannot tolerate them and their kind. Such a thing would be the last calamity for us. This is the twilight of our people, Marchers, and we are but remnants in a land that has nothing but hatred for us.’

  Radha motioned to the two clansmen stood to attention. ‘Release them,’ she said. ‘I tell you again, do not make me regret sparing your lives this day.’

  Their bonds cut, Harlin and Anselm picked themselves up off the floor, stretching limbs bound tight for days, rubbing at welts were the rope had bit into their skin and bruises from beatings taken. ‘My thanks,’ Anselm muttered wryly, eyeing the clansmen distrustfully.

  They were left then with Ceatha and Bradan, Ceatha thanking her mother constantly for her mercy as she made to leave the room, promising to be back as soon as she had seen to Harlin and Anselm.

  ‘Well,’ Anselm sighed, regarding Bradan warily, who stood in the corner still, eyes burning holes in them both. ‘Now what?’

  Ceatha led them out of the room and through the back chambers of a grand long hall whose ceiling and timbers arched majestically overhead, lit by burning braziers and strongly scented with burning oils or incense, decorated by carvings of weaving vines on every beam and wall.

  Outside, they emerged into the afternoon sun’s glare, and Harlin saw they were stood atop a grassy plateau, overlooking a town nestled in a forested bay. A sturdy palisade surrounded it, stretching
the full perimeter and descending into the sea. The buildings were a jumble of wooden shacks, roundhouses, daub and wattle huts, workshops, market stalls, fire pits that sent faint plumes of smoke skyward, smokehouses, piers, boardwalks, wooden harbours – the architecture all reminiscent of one thing alone.

  Bráodhaír, Harlin thought as his mouth fell open.

  The smell of the sea was thick in the air. Overhead, gulls called angrily to one another, tussling as a squawking racket of grey feathers and snapping yellow beaks. Out at sea fishing boats were hard at work, the men aboard them casting and dragging nets through roiling waters.

  Harlin stepped forward carefully, part of him thinking he was trapped in some sickly mocking dream of home. He looked down a set of narrow stairs carved into the rock face that looked almost natural in their crafting, heavily weathered, curving downwards until they met the emerald ground, their surface hemmed with fuzzy, bright green moss. His mother had told him as a child they were called fairy steps. Sidhe canna.

  He set foot on one as Ceatha touched his arm, finding she was smiling gently when he looked at her. ‘Welcome home, Harlin,’ she said in their tongue.

  He did not answer, and instead looked out to the west, where a steel-grey sea pounded upon rocks jutting from the bay, shattering into crystal plumes that glittered and sparked in the light of the dimming, pregnant sun.

  No, he thought then, his eyes falling upon where the sea and sky met as one in the west. My home lies beyond the waves, beyond the western sky. He ventured for a moment he could see something there, a dark line, ever so vague and thin, wavering on the horizon.

  Luah Fáil, I will see you soon.

  Chapter 12

  The Traitor Lord

  The north was burning, and now the flames had spread to the Middenrealms – just as Garrmunt had said they would.

  The first town to fall silent had been Ostermoor. The scouts had reported it was now just a blackened ruin filled to bursting with its dead. The next had been Bellom’s Crest. They said that when Bellom’s Crest burned, the fires could be seen across its lands for more than a week, the screams from behind its walls heard even longer.