The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  King Aenwald did not know about that. But what he did know was that when he got his hands on Haakon Garrmunt, the legacy of pain the man would endure would have chronicles written in its honour. Songs would be written of his unending torment, poems of his divine excruciation. The saga of House Garrmunt would be ended slowly, piece by bloody piece, upon the torturer’s rack.

  He sat there, in his field tent, fingers drumming idly on the arm of a carven chair as he waited for word from his lieutenants, mind wandering down dark paths. At the end of each was Haakon Garrmunt, skin flayed, flesh salted, tongue ripped out, eyes gouged, entrails spilled, fingers splintered, shins cracked. A thousand other things as well, as his mind wandered ever more deeply into black currents of hatred.

  There were ways to keep the man alive long enough to see all his limbs removed and eaten by pigs before him. Substances his alchemists could concoct that would heighten the man’s pain, keep him alert as the flayer’s knife did its delicate work.

  Dark vaults opened and closed one after another in his mind. In them he constructed a torture chamber without form or shape, ever-changing, ever-growing, thinking and adapting itself to the sweetest, most unique pain for the one placed in it. Darker and lower paths he trod, paths men should keep from he embraced and found in them a solace, warm and rewarding.

  You bring their men across the Parting Sea, he thought, and not for the first time that day. To land upon my shores, to bring your new god’s filth to my people.

  Men know nothing. Men who blindly follow gods know even less.

  A man cannot call himself King over a land like Caermark if he is made of anything less than iron. Those who are unworthy find themselves burnt by the fires that rage unseen in such places. Aenwald had not ruled here twenty years to be unseated by a turncoat bootlick and his new master – some pretender to the throne of the Old Empire, fallen to worshipping some blood-drinking demon.

  Aenwald would rule here until the very end. And if that end was to see the land burnt to cinders as he and Garrmunt wrestled in the Middenrealms, then so be it – he would rule a land of ash and bone.

  But he would rule.

  He could hear them now, the screams of the prisoners they had taken in the last skirmish, as his interrogators extracted every last detail from them. The findings thus far had been… interesting, to say the least. Fanciful almost, he had thought the reports a fabrication or mistranslation from their yammering, squawking eastern tongue by his scholars.

  We follow the new King…

  Most knew nothing. Most were slave-soldiers, it turned out, sweepings and gatherings fit enough to hold a spear and take an arrow. Rabble. Those he simply had beheaded, they served no purpose. The freemen among them knew more, being something akin to serjeants, or captains, it was not clear exactly, the definition seemed blurred somewhere in translation. Those he had his interrogators keep longer, those he had them hurt more.

  The eyes from the fire have fallen on a land once ours… the Red Handed Prophet demands justice, a Great Cleansing…

  Aenwald’s fingers drummed still, impatiently now. It was funny, truth be told, that during his reign he would see his ancestor’s oppressors return to this land, and have his opportunity to crush them – just as the Chainbreaker himself did, all those centuries ago.

  Crush them would be an understatement. These fools had no idea the man they were facing. When this was over the Royal Fleet would go on a little sailing venture out east, across the Parting Sea’s pleasant, clear waters, and see the heartland of the Ipathian Empire for themselves.

  And when they had ripped the land to shreds, and made whores of every woman and child there, perhaps then this Red Handed Prophet would show the Iron King of Caermark the respect he was due – and maybe it would then kindly fuck off back into whatever putrid arsehole had shat forth such a creature.

  The Red Handed Prophet… the eyes from the fire…

  It sounded like nonsense. Aenwald had laughed at first, had laughed long and hard. Until every report came back with similar, if not the same, stories again and again. His scholars in Great Armingstone had been useless – their book scrounging and searching had turned up nothing on this Red Handed Prophet. He’d almost had them thrown from the city walls for their time wasting.

  Their captives taken in the field, however… now that was a different story. Now they had marched out to the Middenrealms, and faced down the enemy’s outlying forces a good few times, the skinner’s knife had found more than the eyes of a dozen scholars with a thousand dusty tomes.

  And amidst the rambling, vague esoteric nonsense they all spewed forth, there was something at the centre of it all, Aenwald had found.

  A name, one repeated at the climax of pain by a thousand men now dead.

  Aboroth.

  The more knowing said this Aboroth was some kind of being from the east. A being of fire, devotion, blood… and endless hunger. To speak its name was to suffer a drawn out death, they said, to have your blood drained from your body by your fellow man and fed to the flame to soothe Aboroth’s never ending hunger.

  The tortured said this Aboroth was a prophet bearing word of a new way, that in the spilling of blood, the cleansing of the world’s filth, its followers would find peace at last – though their hands may be as stained with blood as Aboroth’s own.

  Aboroth, The Red Handed Prophet.

  It all sounded like pathetic, heretical bollocks to Aenwald.

  Whatever the simpleminded wretches and pariahs of the fallen Empire believed, it all seemed to Aenwald like blind zealotry in the name of some whispering creature from the shadows. One with a taste for the blood of men. The sooner this frothing mob was put down, the better. The world, and Aenwald himself, could always do without another king whose foolish piety led him into folly. Especially if that folly was to test the mettle of one such as Aenwald.

  This upstart, this shadow of a bygone age – he would learn. Oh, how he would learn.

  And so Aenwald sat, and waited, in his regal field tent, fingers drumming a steady, anxious tattoo against carved wood. He hummed to himself in time to the beating of his digits, a soldier’s song often sung on the march.

  ‘One in the north, and one more due,

  Two in the Middenrealms, with a third in view,

  Four in the south, and all on cue,

  The whores of the Mark are waiting for you...’

  On either side of him, attentive in the shadows of the tent, Hastan and Baine of the Red Cloaks saluted, as Olan entered, casting a brief ray of sunlight into Aenwald’s eyes, his fingers ceasing their endless drumming, instead clutching the chair’s armrests so fiercely his knuckles popped.

  ‘What word have you for me,’ Aenwald muttered, leaning forward, blinking sunspots from his eyes. The Councillor of War went to his knee before him, plate armour rattling.

  ‘They come, my King,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘The knights of the Spear Hills ride at their head.’

  Aenwald nodded, lips pursed thoughtfully, eyes unfocussed.

  ‘It is time.’

  The horns sounded for the men to form up, sonorous across the low-lying slopes of the Mournlit Dales. Ten thousand Aenwald had his numbers at, ten thousand with which he would crush Garrmunt before the sun peaked at midday.

  The crows will grow fat before the morrow comes, he thought vaguely to himself, as Cyneweld fastened a pauldron to the shoulder of his outstretched arm. And tonight I will sleep soundly, as I have his knights boiled and fed to his men like sweet stew. He grimaced with effort as he forced his hand down into his articulated gauntlet, the leather lining inside snug against his skin. He flexed his knuckles as Cyneweld pulled the straps sufficiently tight, making a fist. He admired the craftsmanship of the thing briefly in the dim light of his tent, mind elsewhere.

  His armour donned, Cyneweld knelt before Aenwald, offering up the sword of House Darnmor in its gilded scabbard, head bowed low. He drew it, the blade ringing clear of the scabbard audibly even against the roar and s
tomp of the army outside the tent’s thin canvas walls.

  Even in the faint light the edge of the sword was bright and clear. Emancipator, it was simply called. Engravings of chains ran down the length of it from the tip, breaking before they reach the engraved, snarling face of a bull above the cross guard. Aenwald thought it a stupid name for something that was made to take men’s lives. A sword was a sword, no matter how old or supposedly glorious it was – but if it inspired his men to slaughter Garrmunt’s fools then they could call it whatever they wanted.

  Besides, it was just for show today, something to inspire the common men. Soldiers respond well to the sight of a raised sword, it is a regal-looking thing, especially when catching and reflecting light. Men sometimes take them to be enchanted from such moments, instead of just well-crafted tools. They inspire songs, invoke tales and sagas to be written and passed down, unlike other weapons.

  On the field he would wield his war hammer. He hefted it now, as Cyneweld handed it to him with a touch less ceremony than he had the sword. It was a simple, brutal thing. An oaken shaft with a steel hammerhead riveted atop it, a beaklike spike on the reverse. Smaller than most men would imagine, wielded with one hand, but no less deadly. It is difficult to kill a man wearing plate armour with a sword, the very nature of the stuff renders it immune to cuts. It takes an accurate stab through a weak or exposed area to penetrate it, no mean feat in a fight. Much easier to simply bludgeon or crush a man wearing it.

  There was something uniquely satisfying about blunt weapons, too, the King found. The feeling of an opponent crumpling beneath them, seeing the damage caused by something so simplistically brutal, it was… pleasurable, in some instinctive, primitive fashion. He could feel the memory of the sensation stirring in his fingertips as he slipped the heavy hammer into a loop on his sword belt. His fingers itched to swing it, feel steel armour buckle beneath its blows, the skull within crack and split.

  Soon. Very soon. It had been too long since he’d last killed a man.

  ‘Well,’ Aenwald said brightly, a smile creasing the corners of his mouth as Cyneweld rose to his feet, ‘let’s be about this, then. I want to be back here drinking that fine red we brought along with a whore’s mouth around my cock before the afternoon.’

  They took the high ground before late morning. A long, silver-edged line, on a north-facing slope of land. Their spearmen stood in the centre on the steepest part of the slope, many kite shields bearing the royal heraldry bright in the sun, others showing that of the lord who had marched them here, a dozen different banners rippling overhead. Archers were arrayed behind them in loose formation, taking advantage of the slope’s height, their longbows strung. Knights waited on each end of the line, awaiting orders, their horses stamping and chuntering softly as a breeze kissed their flanks.

  Over the northern ridge they came, their banners cresting the hilltops first. A dark, shivering line bobbing delicately where hill met sky, the stomp of their boots a distant rhythm like the beating of hollow drums.

  Aenwald sat atop his caparisoned warhorse, Eobar, on his vantage point behind their archers where their reserves of heavy infantry waited, crowned great helm tucked under his arm. The Red Cloaks were fully armoured and in attendance atop their formidable mounts, namesakes rippling softly, armour shining, accompanied by Aenwald’s bannermen. Olan sat to his left, brow furrowed as he watched Garrmunt’s host approaching. The banner of House Garrmunt was visible towards the rear of their left flank as it descended into the Dales and began forming up.

  ‘They number twelve thousand, Your Majesty,’ Olan said, ‘perhaps slightly more. The scouts have reported no reinforcements sighted.’

  ‘Good!’ said Aenwald cheerily, ‘now, let me show you how to crush a rebellion and invasion all in one, Olan, this business won’t last the morning. Send the spearmen forward, we’ll draw their centre down into the lowland and hold them there.’ Olan nodded and barked out the orders to the captains around them obediently, the spearmen beginning their steady tramping a few heartbeats after.

  To the west was a wooded knot of trees, running up and away over the northern slopes in a green sprawl. Aenwald eyed it with distaste as the spearmen marched out to meet the enemy line. ‘Burn those woods,’ he muttered to Olan, ‘flaming arrows into the centre of it, not the front, double time, before the lines meet – chop chop, Olan, we don’t have all day.’

  The order was sent out by runner. A regiment of archers set off at a sprint with their longbows in hand towards where the woods lay, Aenwald watching their progress idly. Their arrows lit and took to the sky, falling in a lazy arc where the woods rose following the opposite rise of the land. Another followed shortly after, some trees already beginning to spit flames.

  The first of the archers went down with a scream after the second volley, spinning to the ground, a faint trail of red following his descent. Another slumped forward limply moments later.

  ‘Archers in the woods, Sire,’ Olan reported.

  ‘Ready the knights on the left flank,’ Aenwald said casually to Olan, watching Garrmunt’s advancing formation. Heavy infantry on their right, he noted. His eyes roamed the nearing force, close enough now for him to make out individual soldiers in thick mail and pointed helms, bearing shields with the red ram’s head and bloody hand painted on them. Swordsmen of some kind, he decided, seeing no hafts or staves in their hands. Spearmen in the centre as expected. He caught Olan’s look of confusion in the corner of his eye. ‘Ready them, I said, Olan,’ he said to him, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

  ‘Yes, Sire.’

  The woods began to blaze as their archers fired volleys of burning arrows into them, cut down in turn by unseen opponents from between the trees. Aenwald glanced at them briefly, seeing about a quarter had been killed already, the rest beginning to fire back hesitantly, their courage wavering as they ducked and threw themselves to the floor.

  ‘Sire, our archers die in their scores,’ Olan reported. Aenwald turned back to where the two lines were rapidly approaching one another. ‘They are outmatched.’

  ‘Thank you, Olan, that I can see.’

  ‘Sire… should we not pull them back? We will need them again before long.’

  ‘Did you ready the knights as I ordered?’

  ‘That I did, Sire.’

  ‘A few moments more, then, Councillor Olan, my spirits are high this morning, do not ruin them with your soft-hearted concern, especially not before my plan comes to fruition.’

  Olan stared for a moment. ‘Yes, Sire,’ he said.

  The blaze tore through the dry woods like a beast all of red flame and crackling sparks. Trunk, bough, bush and undergrowth swirled within a violent conflagration, the roar audible over the stomping of thousands of booted feet, drowning out the staccato snapping of bowstrings.

  Another sound then came from within the woods – screams. Shrill, fearful, pained. Figures came running from the woods in clouds of smoke, driven onto the plains by the growing flames behind, many cloaks smouldering or flaming as they fled the cover of the trees. Arrows tore through them, loosed by Aenwald’s longbowmen, and dozens fell clutching at shafts or lying limp and dead. Yet more, hundreds even, came running clear over to the western edges of the trees, still clutching their bows, green cloaks flapping through billowing smoke, beating a disorderly retreat.

  ‘Excellent,’ Aenwald commented happily as he saw them emerge. ‘Have the knights on the left flank run them down, Olan.’

  ‘At once, Sire,’ said Olan, bowing his head and then bellowing orders to his runners.

  The knights charged down the slope with a resounding cry, lances couched, sunlight sparking from their armour, tabards and surcoats streaming. Aenwald watched with a wry smile playing upon his lips, as the green cloaked men pointed and gestured to his tearing knights. Some turned and ran, sprinting flat out through the Dales and dropping their bows, others carelessly loosed shafts as they fled, one or two managing to take knights’ mounts from under them.

  Hav
e your new king’s sneaking, skulking rangers pepper my men’s arses from the trees will you, Haakon? I think not, old friend.

  The impact of that charge was horrendous, the sound of the impact thundering through the Dales. Aenwald laughed heartily as he saw green cloaked bodies cast a dozen feet or more into the air, the majority simply skewered or crushed and pounded into formless, bleeding shapes strewn amidst grass and rock. He slapped Olan on the shoulder, now bent double as far as his armour would allow, laughing long, laughing fiercely.

  ‘Devious fuckers!’ he roared, wiping away tears. ‘I told you, Olan, a few moments more! Didn’t think you would fancy an eastern ranger’s arrow up your shitter, Councillor, ha! Never trust an easterner to fight fair, Olan, they’re tricksters and knaves and spice-stinking footpads to a man. Only the Gaussemen are worse than these lot. Their infantry would have retreated to the high ground to let their rangers shoot us from behind while we were engaged, and now look at them!’ He gathered himself, breathing deep and sighing. ‘Bring our archers back then, let the dogs lick their wounds here.’

  ‘At once, Sire.’

  Olan gave the order for their archers to return. As they came, pelting thankfully back up the slope, ragged, sweating and injured, perhaps half the regiment of longbowmen were left behind, dead or wounded. Aenwald had heard too many reports of the shadowy bowmen their enemy employed so effectively to even consider it anything less than an acceptable toll. They were fond of their subterfuge and surreptitiousness, these men of the Empire. Aenwald had lost too much to it already. The whole north, as a matter of bitter fucking fact. That would be rectified soon though, very soon. He found himself smiling.

  ‘And now, Olan,’ Aenwald drawled to the Councillor, eyebrows jerking upwards suggestively, ‘comes the entertaining part.’

  Horns sounded for the charge. The two lines clashed past the perimeter of the woods with a shuddering boom, echoing across the Dales like a thunderclap song of steel upon wood. Then came the shouts, the scrapes and thuds of spearhead on shield rim and mail and helm, the snap of breaking bone and cries of pain.