The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  Harlin felt sluggish, as though his body was working against him as the fight drew on. He was unfit from weeks of idleness, had been out of action too long. He needed to finish the fight quickly before Bradan’s intensity became overwhelming and wore him down.

  He was skilled fighter, Bradan, but overconfident when it came to Harlin, his disdain overruling sense, making him too eager to capitalise on a clean hit and smell blood in the water. He came out too quickly, threw too many wild blows when he should have picked his shots more carefully and unleashed craft. Instead, he left himself recklessly open to each counter that Harlin threw, his shots having visible effect. He was tough though, Bradan, and more than willing to take the punishment Harlin dealt him. Both were cut beneath the eye from heavy hooks before long. Bradan’s face ran red from it, and Harlin could feel his own bleed freely, sticky upon his cheek.

  Bradan shot in as Harlin paused to draw breath and put distance between them. A jab landed between his eyes, made him wince, and Bradan dropped his level, right hand loaded for a blow to the gut, wide open. A left hook sent Bradan reeling onto his front foot, eyes dazed, and a right hand spun him across the ground to the other side of the ring, landing on his face, the sound of the impact drawing a collective gasp from the crowd.

  Harlin moved in as Bradan began to pick himself up, fighting back exhaustion and his body’s urge to rest, his bloodlust up, pulse pounding in his ears. He saw Bradan’s bloody face turn to him, and saw stars as the fallen man exploded upwards, the sky suddenly before him and the crowd roaring for the fight to be finished.

  Bradan stood over him as he blinked away dizziness. ‘I heard you were whelped on your mother by a wolf,’ he said, spitting blood and a broken tooth to his side, ‘and that there are no men in your clan – only mongrels like you who deserve no rings, no manhood, who dirty our people with your weakness and villainy. You make me fucking sick, mercenary.’

  Harlin hauled himself up to his knees with great effort, his head feeling as if it was split from chin to scalp, a cut inside his cheek pouring blood over his tongue. He looked up at Bradan, who smirked down at him, the crowd chanting his name.

  ‘Finish him off, Bradan!’ someone jeered.

  ‘On your feet, Harlin!’ Anselm’s voice cut through the wall of roaring noise. ‘On your feet!’

  Bradan lifted his leg for a finishing kick to the head, hips cocked, body turning with the momentum, the crowd wailing with their anticipation.

  Harlin shot to his feet, over to his right, catching the kick as it came and trapping it under his left armpit against the side of his torso. Bradan’s face dropped, dumbfounded, blinking as he realised the mistake he’d made.

  The punch took Bradan clean off his feet and broke his nose, a trail of blood following him as he slammed into the ground. Harlin let go of his leg and was on him in an instant, knees pinning Bradan’s body in place where he mounted him, stopping him from turning out of position. Harlin’s fists beat down on Bradan’s face, as Bradan tried to catch his wrists and protect himself, his knees thudding weakly against Harlin’s back, trying desperately to shift the weight on top of him to the side and break free. Harlin grabbed Bradan’s right wrist, trapped it against the other man’s chest with his weight, and punched around his free, defending hand as it alternately lashed out at him and retreated to cover his head.

  Harlin blinked away a weak punch that landed on his chin, grit his teeth, put more weight on Bradan’s struggling, trapped arm. Blood was pouring from Bradan’s broken nose, and a dozen cuts opened on his face from Harlin’s onslaught. The crowd had fallen to stunned silence, their champion’s image shattered as his resistance weakened.

  ‘No!’

  Two white-hot knives of pain rammed themselves sickeningly into Harlin’s temples, another white flash obscured his vision as if something hit him, and he was flung backwards from Bradan’s body.

  Harlin forced himself to his knees with immense effort, feeling as though an enormous weight lay upon him, his every muscle, every bone, was wracked with horrendous pain, the burning knives in his temples twisting, seeking to join one another. He wrenched his eyes open, the effort tearing a gasp from his throat, and saw Radha stood behind Bradan, her hand extended outwards towards him, eyes burning with green flames trailing skywards, face twisted with hatred. Harlin fought against her control, his teeth clenched so fiercely their roots ached in his jaw, a rope of reddened slaver escaping his mouth with the strain.

  You interfere with my blood right, you Weaving bitch, he screamed inside, release me.

  Bradan rolled over sluggishly where he lay, drooling blood as he managed to get to all fours. Harlin raged within himself, unable to move further, watching Bradan lurch unsteadily to his feet and turn towards him, fists raised, gore coursing down his chest from his battered face.

  He is my son, Radha’s voice whispered near his ear, my only son. I care nothing for your rights. You will not harm him further, you will –

  With a roar, Harlin was on his feet, Radha’s voice silenced, her influence gone in an instant. Across from him, she reeled as if struck, stumbled back, Ceatha catching her as she fell. Bradan stumbled towards him determinedly, if unsteadily, slurring words between swollen lips.

  Harlin charged, and Bradan swung a drunken punch. Harlin dropped his level, catching Bradan around the waist as the blow sailed an inch over his head. Arms locked, he gave another roar and hauled Bradan from his feet, slamming him down into the ground again on his back. Harlin mounted him as he had before, trapped Bradan’s arms beneath his knees this time.

  Do it, a cold little voice seemed to whisper, Bradan’s struggles ebbing away. Do it. Now. Now, now, now!

  ‘I should let you live,’ Harlin spat, ‘and have you watch me fuck your sister. Instead, she can watch you die with the rest of these fools, and know what comes from standing in my way. Farewell, Bradan.’

  Ceatha screamed.

  Harlin’s fists fell like two hammers upon Bradan’s face, the sound of their assault wet and gristly, cutting through the air over the silent audience.

  Bradan’s features disappeared, his cheeks split, bones broke, his flesh rent and tore apart and his skull bounced from the ground to the rhythm of his end. Harlin felt the skin on his knuckles split open, the scars upon his hands were speckled red, both his blood and Bradan’s. The battle joy, the bloodlust – it swelled inside him, swirled and raged like a frozen storm as it drove him on, kept his shoulders turning and his fists falling.

  Somewhere, he thought he heard faint laughter, distant and cold. The dark thing in his belly fed gluttonously.

  A final punch spread what was left of Bradan’s nose across his decimated face, and Harlin pushed himself to his feet with shaking, ruined hands. Bradan lay still and breathless, blood pooling beneath his head. Harlin threw his bloodied fists into the air, and let loose a raw cry of triumph from his burning throat, knotted clansmen edging away from the scene fearfully.

  He stooped, and patted down Bradan’s still body, pulling his braid rings from a pocket of the dead man’s breeches. Stuffing them in his own pocket, he went to the edge of the ring, setting a hand upon one of the spears marking it. He went to pull it from the ground, and a hand shot out and it firmly. One of Bradan’s rangers. Blue eyes considered him within their green hood. Harlin stared into them, waiting for some challenge, some new denouncement.

  The ranger pulled the spear from the ground, and offered it up to him in his open palms. Harlin frowned distrustfully, but took it with a small nod of acknowledgement that the ranger returned.

  Bradan’s slack mouth drooled splintered teeth and phlegm-strewn blood when Harlin yanked his head up from the ground. The crowd gasped as one, as he cut Bradan’s braids from his head with the spear’s point, one after the other.

  Insult for insult.

  Harlin stood on aching legs and held the red braids aloft, their rings glinting, letting their significance set in for those who watched. He made to leave the clearing, and saw Ceatha an
d Radha where they sat weeping silently into one another’s shoulders, eyes fixed on Bradan’s body.

  ‘The feud ends justly,’ Harlin snapped at them, ‘despite your interference. You will see that the terms agreed are met fully, or the feud will begin again. And I thank you for the pleasant imagery you gave me the other day, Ceatha,’ he added, tapping bloodied fingers to his temple, ‘I’m sure it will bring me comfort, come the lonely nights in Luah Fáil.’

  He walked away and didn’t look back, the crowd parting before him without a word.

  I warned you, Ceatha.

  He strode out of the town centre and made his way down towards the beach Tásúil was built upon and waded out into the small waves that lapped the shore. He threw Bradan’s braids into the sea. He watched their rings pull them under, and cleaned the blood from his body.

  A man without braids was not a man at all, the clans believed. A deep insult, emasculating, to inflict it upon someone. Perhaps it was unnecessary to defile Bradan’s body in such a way, but no man is crushed by the gentle touch. Mercy breeds only contempt. It would not have had the same impact, had he been respectful, it would not have made them fear him. And fear is ever the safest path to walk, where men honour strength above all else.

  Two days later, Harlin stood waiting atop one of the town’s piers. His shield was slung over his back and his sword was at his side, his armour and provisions in an oiled sack to spare them the sea. His braids trailed from amidst his dark mane once more, his silver rings shining at their ends. His body and face ached from the fight frightfully, but for the first time in weeks he felt good. Better than good. He felt himself again.

  A small longship of sixteen oars was moored to the pier, a fishing vessel drafted for his use in agreement of his terms. Radha wanted him gone, out of sight and out of mind – he and its crew had been supplied almost overnight. Even from where he stood now, with her hall glowering over Tásúil upon its rocky seat, he could feel her hatred burning, every ounce of it turned towards him.

  Footsteps behind him made him turn around. It was Anselm. Harlin almost laughed, his friend had begun to dress like a clansman, wearing a loose-fitting tunic that ended in a knee-length skirt, and a dark cloak patterned with light-coloured criss-crossing bands, fastened at his shoulder with a silver brooch. Harlin could only assume Ula had had some hand in the change of dress.

  Anselm grinned reluctantly beneath his stare. ‘You look like shit, Harlin.’

  ‘Aye. But at least my face will heal, brother, unlike yours.’ Harlin’s jaw ached as he smiled. His fight with Bradan had left his features and torso an assortment of cuts, scrapes, multi-coloured bruises and throbbing lumps, with a headache that could split rocks to top it off. It was the feeling of a good fight, to ache so cruelly after, something to be savoured as much as the victory that earned it.

  Anselm’s smiled slipped away gradually. ‘I told you I would go with you, Harlin,’ he said, looking down at the planks of the pier. ‘This was my idea to begin with, wasn’t it?’ He made an annoyed noise and turned away, face darkening with shame.

  ‘Your road ends here, Anselm,’ Harlin said softly as he could. ‘Mine leads on over the waters of the Muil Márda, to Luah Fáil, and from there…’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows where it will take me.’

  ‘And you expect me to just let you go alone, unaided? Who’s going to watch your arse if not me? You don’t know what you will find on that island, Harlin, not from what I have heard of the place.’

  For a moment Harlin thought that there were tears in his eyes, the mid-morning sun shining wetly from them, Anselm blinking forcefully. Harlin said nothing, but paced up to him and laid his hands upon his broad shoulders.

  ‘We have fought long together, you and me,’ he said, ‘but I will not lead you into darkness and death, not now. Not when you have so much beginning here.’ He smiled as best as his face would allow, spying Ula waiting at the far end of the pier. ‘You’ve found something to hold onto, I think. Wherever my road might lead me, Anselm, this is not the end. I have come too far. We both have. We have spilled blood together, bled together, and we will fight together again, some day. I will see you soon, Shield Brother.’

  They embraced then, thumping each other heartily on the back, and Anselm stalked away quickly, grumbling, walking from the pier to where Ula waited for him, watching the scene with curiosity along with a few others. She took Anselm’s hand and squeezed it softly when he reached her.

  Harlin made to turn and board ship when someone stepped from the small crowd and approached him. Ceatha. The two of them stared at one another in silence. A wind caught her black mourning shroud and it streamed out behind her, unveiling her pale, beautiful face, drawn thin and hollow with grief. She swayed briefly on the spot, and her eyes, normally so vibrant and alive, were dull and bloodshot. Her lip twitched after a heartbeat had passed between them, and Harlin wondered if she were drunk.

  ‘It is the way of things, I ‘spose,’ she said in the Marcher tongue with a faint slur, accent thicker than ever. She looked away from him, her eyes filling. ‘It is our way, after all. Strength. It decides everything. But now I wonder if I hate such ways because of you.’

  Harlin said nothing. She didn’t use their mother tongue with him as she normally would. He could only assume it was a sign of hate, some small, passive method of insult. He found he did not care.

  ‘The men talk about your fight and how glorious it was,’ Ceatha laughed humourlessly, ‘as if it was spun from some saga. They respect you now, you’ll be happy to know. They call you warrior, fighter, and praise your… skill and courage. I hear them say that there will be songs of the day the last champions of Clan Seabhac Eirga and Clan Faolán fought for their honour on the fair streets of Tásúil. To me, and my mother, you are just a murderer, the man who ended our line.’ Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, her bottom lip trembled, twisted as if she fought for what to say.

  ‘We give him to the fire tonight,’ she slurred, swaying again and steadying herself. ‘If I could take his place, I would. Though I’d rather it was you who burned. I hate you, Harlin, I wish you’d never set foot in Haverlon, I wish you’d let those Marcher shite have their way with me instead of this. I hate you!’

  She spat at his feet, those gathered behind her gasped, appalled at her behaviour. Two girls of an age with her pushed their way through, both taking her by the arm and laying theirs soothingly around her, making hushing noises, stroking her hair and trying to move her away from the scene.

  The ship’s crew were busy, eager to leave while the day was young and the helmsman was beckoning for Harlin to be aboard. ‘We find honour in blood,’ Harlin said, eyeing the spittle between his feet. ‘I warned you not to corner me. You brought this on yourself, Ceatha.’

  ‘You’ll die on that island,’ she snarled, the girls hushing her and trying to bustle her away, though she fought to stay where she was. ‘You’ll die there, alone and terrified, while beasts chew your bones, and then I’ll be happy! I’ll be happy, Harlin!’

  The girls dragged her away forcefully, though not before she managed to turn, scream ‘Aitáhn!’ and spit at him again over her shoulder. It meant cunt.

  Those present murmured among themselves at her behaviour, heads shaking in disbelief, some sympathetically. Some of them passed comment about the shame of women too deep in hooch, how it made hags of maidens. Harlin turned away from it all, and climbed the gangplank to the ship.

  They set off when the helmsman gave the cry for the men to heave. The vessel was called the Sea-Ram, and as she slipped from her moorings and skimmed across the waters of the Muil Márda, the Marcher’s Sea, Harlin could see why. She broke through waves like a blunt axe, the deck lurching with the water’s swell, making his stomach churn. He wondered briefly if the name was a sailor’s joke of some kind.

  As the ship cleared the harbour and set out to sea, Harlin heard Anselm call his name from the shore. Pacing back between the rowing benches towards the aft, he climbed up into t
he stern where the helmsman held the steering oar, squinting against the wind. Anselm stood at the pier’s end, his hands cupped about his mouth. Harlin heard the howling of a dog. It was faint over the rush of the wind and sound of the oars biting water.

  He stared for a while, Anselm growing smaller with each stroke. He felt he should return the cry, but refrained. Too much had changed, and the sentiment felt a shadow of what it once was, a relic of something vital made meaningless. If you cannot cast such things aside, they pin you, hold you, make you weak.

  So instead, he turned his back on Anselm and looked away westwards, as he crossed the Muil Márda to Luah Fáil.

  Chapter 15

  The Valley of Dead Kings

  ‘Lead on, Kynaz Kellig,’ Arnulf said, striking the torch and birthing a glaring star in the darkness. The young Gausseman looked at him contemptuously, pursing his lips and ruffling his bushy black moustache. A fading purple bruise still discoloured the skin beneath one eye from a blow taken in his capture, which, combined with the moustache, made him look very much like a walrus wearing a dirty white tabard.

  ‘As you say, Harr Arnulf,’ the walrus seethed between grit teeth and copious facial hair. His thick, foreign accent drew unashamedly overt snickering from some Shield Brothers behind Arnulf, and a sharp glare from Kynaz Kellig in their direction. His moustache ruffled irksomely again for a moment, before he turned away and led them down the narrow pass in the Valley wall.

  The Gausseman moved awkwardly as he led them, his hands bound before him, a few minor injuries he had taken in the fighting lending themselves to a slight limp. Arnulf kept stride with him to his right, baring the torch aloft to light their way. Behind followed Hroga, sword drawn, its point pressed into Kellig’s back to keep him moving. Five Shield Brothers stood about him loosely, their torches helping to push back the night.

  ‘How far is it?’ asked Arnulf.