The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  It seemed though that Bradan had established a small group of rangers here, who possessed such skill, to guard Tásúil’s borders. The clans’ tradition of hit-and-run warfare leant itself well to stealth tactics, it seemed. Harlin could only assume that, given the town’s continued isolation and existence, Bradan had indeed done a good job, earned the praise lauded upon him, even.

  ‘Well, fuck me then, Harlin,’ Anselm was saying boisterously, ‘if your pretty little silver rings mean so much to you why don’t you just go and take them back? All you have done for weeks now is mope about like a limp prick, where has the man in you gone? I thought you were one of these clansmen here – not some cringing boy who weeps at the smallest of bruises to his pride.’

  Brow knotted, Harlin opened his mouth to unleash an angry tirade, and promptly closed it. ‘You’re right,’ he said shamefully, looking down at the contents of his tankard, eyes following drifting islands of foam. ‘My father gave me those rings the day he died, I’ve never let them leave my sight since then. They’re all I have left of him, or any of my family. My only ties to my clan.’ He looked up and saw Anselm nodding, arms crossed over his muscled chest.

  ‘The clans respect strength above all else, don’t they?’ said Anselm.

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Then show them how strong you are, Harlin. Earn your respect. Take back your rings.’

  Harlin was about to agree with him, when Anselm suddenly looked at something behind him and smiled, bidding someone greeting clumsily with newly learned words. Twisting round, Harlin saw a shock of red hair as a young girl came trotting past him, and for an instant his heart leapt, thinking it was Ceatha. He sighed audibly when he realised it was only the Alewife’s daughter, Ula.

  ‘I saw you training with Dian before!’ she said excitedly, completely ignoring Harlin and speaking in the clan tongue. Anselm frowned in confusion at her, his face pained as he tried to maintain a warm smile.

  ‘What did she say?’ he asked Harlin quietly, still smiling at the girl.

  ‘She saw you training.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Harlin saw Ula glance at him uncomfortably, taking in his loose hair. She was a pretty young thing with pale blue eyes and milk white skin, still in her teens, unattached and not promised to anyone as of yet. He had seen Anselm with her before, though neither understood what the other said, as Ula didn’t speak a word of the Marcher tongue and Anselm only knew a scattering of the clans’. It was clear though, that there was some attraction between them, despite the language barrier, and before he knew it Harlin found himself translating for the pair of them.

  Ula, it turned out, was going to the nightly gathering in the town centre and wanted Anselm to join her in the drinking, dancing and singing. Anselm, it turned out, was more than happy to oblige her.

  ‘Charming girl that one,’ he commented as Ula hurried away with a beaming face, ‘and not just the beddable sort of charming, if you get me. Kind of girl even your mother would be proud to know you’re rutting on, and bring a tear to your father’s eye while he shakes your hand and congratulates you on a fine conquest.’ High praise for a girl from Anselm, Harlin thought, watching him grin stupidly at what was in his hand.

  Ula had left Anselm with a white wildflower the clans had brought from the island with them – the leathinsil, the shieldflower. They were white blooms clanswomen gave to a warrior as a sign of affection or favour. They were thought of as a good luck charm, protect the one they were given to from the blades of their enemies.

  Anselm smiled when Harlin told him as such. ‘I like it here,’ he said.

  ‘I know you do,’ Harlin answered stiffly.

  ‘There is clean air,’ Anselm went on, ‘deer in the woods, fish in the sea, good men to fight, good ale to drink and girls with that fiery island hair for me to chase. If only I could grow myself some braids! Ha!’ He ran a hand over the dome of his head, the set of his face betraying a hint of longing.

  Harlin sighed. ‘And here I thought you Marchers all thought my people savages and barbarians.’

  ‘No.’ Anselm shook his head, and looked at the ramshackle town about them as though in awe. ‘Whatever most may think, they are wrong. It is a good place, this, and its people fascinate me. I could be happy here I think, if I were to stay. A man could settle here, start a family, maybe.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Harlin snorted. ‘The place is dying, look around you. My kinfolk were not meant to cower in the shadows of woods in fear of enslavement or death. They were warriors who roamed free, they fought clan against clan and took honour and plunder. Now they wallow in a town beside the sea, while their homeland rots away out of sight and mind. This town is a graveyard, one whose corpses still walk.’

  ‘Oh, cheer up you miserable prick,’ Anselm muttered. ‘There is a future here for you, you’ll see.’

  ‘There is no future for one such as me Anselm, other than a sword.’ They finished their drinks in silence and left a scattering of copper for Ruri atop the barrel.

  After a significant amount of arm-twisting, Harlin found himself accompanying Anselm to that night’s merriment on the promise it would raise his spirits. In the town centre, a fire was roaring tall and fierce in the middle of the square, its light silhouetting the roaming crowd about it.

  Clansmen and women melded freely with one another about the square, strewn across it in a few dozen pockets. Some roasted meat over the open flames, though most simply swigged ale or passed around skins of honey wine while they laughed or sang together. Stocky gazehounds lounged near where there was meat cooking, eyes bright and hungry, stumpy tails wagging expectantly.

  Many men, Harlin saw, had golden rings and sat staring into the fire, drinking and smoking as they muttered amongst themselves solemnly of days long gone. Some amongst them were silver ring boys too young to remember the island, trying to match their fathers, elder brothers and each other drink for drink. Young girls wandered to and fro, fraternising with the younger, unattached men, the more bold of them dragging away inexperienced-looking boys to join in the dancing.

  The music of pipe and whistle greeted them as they arrived, and it was only moments before Ula appeared to grab Anselm by the hand and lead him away, leaving Harlin on his own. He took a tankard and helped himself to ale from an open barrel that had been brought for the congregation, receiving a few grimaces from older clansmen as he did so.

  Harlin kept to the edge of the masses, knowing his presence was unwanted, watching the festivities. It is always tedious to watch others become drunk as a sot and to not take part of their revelry. Though, watching Anselm stumble and bluster his way through a traditional Luah Fáil dance with Ula was amusing and he could not help but smile. Neither could understand the other, and the embarrassment on Anselm’s face – as Ula tried and failed to teach him complex, fleet-footed steps and how to keep time with the music – was worth showing for alone.

  The sky purpled and went dark steadily overhead as the clansmen danced and sang and drank and made merry, and atop the plateau that towered over Tásúil where Radha’s great long hall sat in glowering yet shadowed opulence, movement caught Harlin’s eye.

  Atop the steps, in the light of the hall’s windows, a green-robed shape stood watching the gathering. As Harlin looked up at it he felt something pass between them, the uncomfortable feeling of meeting an intense, hidden stare.

  Ceatha, he thought, snorting as he sipped ale and stared up at her unconcernedly. What scheme does that weaving bitch dream of now?

  The music quietened then, its tone changing, as laughter and chatter ebbed and breathless couples embraced and friends jested amongst themselves. The pipes and whistles picked up volume again, players caressing a solemn melody from their instruments. The tune wrenched Harlin’s eyes from where Ceatha stood for a moment, the sounds stirring sudden memory within him.

  A glance back up at the hall showed Ceatha gone, and so he listened to the pipers play and forgot her. The thronging clansmen settled arou
nd their fire to stare into the wavering flames with something that touched upon reverence as the tune carried through the night air, weighing face and heart heavy with its sorrowful meandering. And from amongst the crowd of drunken clansmen, someone began to sing.

  The Shadow of the High King the song was called by some. Harlin remembered it from his days in Bráodhaír, from times spent in the town, and nights when his father would let him attend the feasts old Chief Duhnóg held in his grand hall. Piecemeal, he recalled the words, the passages returning to him as pipes wailed and more voices joined the mournful song.

  As down the heights beneath pale sky,

  Rode they one foggy summer morning.

  As the sun climbed high and small birds cried,

  I saw the riders come calling.

  Beneath the walls of the High King’s halls,

  The Clan Murchaid did stride.

  One hundred men of the fair west glens,

  Whom traitors’ blades did hide.

  In fealty they knelt and proudly yelled,

  ‘For Luah Fáil we came!’

  And upon those stones the blood ran cold,

  Of the High Kings most noble.

  Back to the rise did treachery ride,

  For Túthal’s life they claimed.

  But no fair west glens did they see again,

  Those clansmen of Murchaid.

  As upon those heights beneath pale sky,

  A sight most dark saw I.

  The sun did fade whilst dread birds brayed,

  And I heard our end come calling.

  ‘For your treachery high shall all men die,’

  I heard Túthal’s great voice roaring.

  ‘And in ruin you will stand across these lands,

  In the shadow of the High King.’

  Harlin shuddered despite himself as the last notes faded. It was an old tale of an ancient High King of Luah Fáil, Túthal, of his murder, and the curse his vengeful spirit wove over the island, to see its people never again united as one. That, and to make Clan Murchaid vanish completely.

  Harlin’s father would tell the tale some nights to frighten him and his sisters around the fire. He remembered jumping at shadows while he listened, expecting to see Túthal’s dead, rotten face leering out at him from them, and it was enough to make him shiver once more. He sipped his ale and listened to the clansmen talk to take his mind off it, glad the musicians picked up again with a more merry number for the gathered to dance to.

  It seemed, from scattered chatter overheard, that Bradan was ranging Tásúil’s woodland borders again with some of his men, and would not be back for a week or more. That suited Harlin fine. He had something in mind for that red-haired prick the next time he saw him.

  In the corner of his eye he saw Anselm sat laughing next to Dian whom he had sparred with that morning, and Ula sat with her knees tucked under her and a drunken-looking smile upon her face, head resting on Anselm’s shoulder. He finished his ale and left, knowing his presence would not be missed.

  Harlin’s dreams came most lucidly that night.

  He walked through a forest of his homeland. The sun was fiercely bright above the trees but their dense canopy cast shadows over him, penetrating light dappling the skin of his arms, picking out their network of scars. The heat of the day made him sweat heavily beneath his light clothes as he walked, following a path he knew from the depths of memory. It led to a nemeton, not far from Bráodhaír

  In the deep green shadows of the forest, greener eyes stalked him from beneath a mane of red hair, a glint of gold sparkling every so often. Bradan watched him at every turn, and Harlin ignored him, though he could see him lurking behind every tree and bush as if there were a thousand of him. Once or twice he thought Bradan was rolling something small and silver between thumb and forefinger, an arrogant laugh echoing after him as he passed by.

  Harlin wiped sweat from his brow as he came to the nemeton, climbing the forest’s rocky slopes. The circle of carved stone effigies stood in solemn watch around an ancient, stout-bodied oak, reaching up with its wizened limbs to clutch at the sun.

  The eight stones stood, weather beaten and crumbling, slowly fading as time wore at and erased them. He passed them by without tribute, ignoring their slow deaths. Movement caught his eye as he strode past the carving of Cu Náith. Its face was that of his father’s instead of the god’s brutal visage, and it shook its head slowly at him in a disappointed way, stone braids clattering. He picked up his pace and moved on.

  A pool waited down another slope where the land caught the rainfall and kept hold of it, making of it a silver circle bright with life, ringed with tall flowers and surrounded by sweet scents. There were tiny fish in the pool, and Harlin saw them dart away like slivers of silver beneath its surface. Their passing made the water’s surface ripple as though disturbed by careless hands, the reflections in it swimming and breaking until they were distorted and unrecognisable. When they were reformed they were something else entirely.

  Scenes of war and fire played out beneath the water’s surface as though it was some diaphanous window into another place and time, rippling and bending now and then as the pool undulated. Clansman fought clansman in bloody field and burning town, on emerald field and grey mountain. The fighting was endless, eternal, the lives lost countless and ever-growing as it went on, and on.

  When Túthal died at the hands of Clan Murchaid, heirless and unsupported, the clans fell back to the old ways, to fighting one another again, as we had done for centuries, before the first High King showed us how great we could be as one.

  Ceatha’s voice seemed to come from somewhere over Harlin’s shoulder, or so he thought, but a look showed nothing save murky forest and shifting shadows. It came from elsewhere, then, and again from somewhere else, until it seemed everywhere, and nowhere, and Harlin could do nothing but listen, and watch the fighting rage beneath the water’s surface.

  When we landed here, Tásúil lost many of its settlers to old blood feuds gone long unsettled, and the greater and more powerful clans refusing to share land with their enemies, even if it meant death at the hands of Marchers. We don’t even know what happened to most of those that chose to leave.

  We were never great in number, and now there are but two thousand of us left at my last count. Those who remain here have no will to work together, no desire to expand and establish ourselves once again. My mother tries, but no matter how tight she clenches her fists about the remaining clan chiefs and their Weavers, nothing changes, nothing moves forward. So we stagnate and die in exile, leaderless, under the watch of a High Weaver too scared of failing further to make the hard decisions necessary for us to survive. So I left like the others, and ended up in Haverlon. I couldn’t bear to watch it anymore. It was like watching someone you love, someone you had held close for so long and had so much hope vested in, die over ten lifetimes from a poisoned wound.

  The scenes of war escalated. One man fought a score of others atop a hill, the sun setting over a bloody battle below, silhouetted forms falling and crumpling as his blade did its butcher’s work amongst them. He stood triumphant as the last of them fell, and hoisted something above his head, held in a shaking fist as he roared out his victory.

  I told you, Harlin, that our people need strength, that you could unite them again if you stood with me.

  The red sun glinted from a band of pale metal in the man’s hand, sharp arches jutting from its circumference like the blades of swords. A crown. Below, the fighting stopped, and men, injured, murderous, bloodstained, and maddened alike, all knelt to the man upon the hill, as his roar shook the valley and sky.

  I would see the High Kings return.

  ‘And what has all this to do with me?’ Harlin said aloud to the forest, his voice seeming quiet to Ceatha’s echoing chorus.

  I knew the moment I first touched you that first night we spent together. It was why I followed you from Haverlon. Your coming made me dream of gods, gods that spoke of you and our homeland. C
u Náith and Ancu unearthed a crown like none I’d ever seen, and Ancu spoke of our old glories, long dead and forgotten. When I saw you it all made sense, and I knew – I knew – I could dream of the future again, that our people could dream of it. That I had a responsibility to them still. I cannot let them fade away, Harlin, and nor can you.

  The scene within the pool shifted again, focussing on the crown still clutched in the man’s bloody hand.

  ‘You dream of no one but yourself, Ceatha,’ said Harlin. ‘You are an arrogant fool who covets power and dresses it in selflessness. You would use the clans, and you would use me to control them. I will have no part of whatever it is you scheme.’

  You are cruel. Her voice carried an edge of hurt, Harlin thought, as it rebounded and echoed about him from all directions. And you are too quick to spurn me.

  Again, in that serene pool before him, ripples shook the surface, distorting and warping the scene until it was unrecognisable, swimming and shuddering in a thousand colours until it resettled.

  It was not just the Weaving I learned from the other girls in the nemeton.

  The scene showed a nemeton, similar to the one that lay behind him, but bigger. Its clearing was wider, its soft lawn and stone effigies well-kept. Carved by skilled hands and richly detailed, the gods they depicted almost looked alive. The great oak in the centre of the nemeton was huge and gnarled by the passing of centuries, a grandly twisted mass of limbs and leaves. It roots, so swollen and bent with age, rose from the ground in knotted bunches, broad and tall enough so they looked like the woven foothills of a mountain.

  There were shapes amongst those dark roots, he could see, as the scene closed in upon them. Pale shapes, writhing and twisting together in the hollows of the trees roots. The sounds of moaning met his ears, groans of pleasure and delight, ones of sheer ecstasy.