The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  Arnulf stared out into a colossal chamber. The light rose from a cylindrical hollow carved into the flesh of the land, a mile or more across. The walkway they stood on ringed its edge, studded with empty doorways, and the remnants of a broken stone railing marked the sheer drop into the soft light below. Peering cautiously, Arnulf could see other walkways descending down the length of the hollow before they were replaced by raw rock and stone, the perspective dizzying. The light seemed to come from something in the rock itself. Soft blue stars glittered and twinkled throughout it in random clusters. It was beautiful, ghostly and somehow sinister. He stepped back from the edge, vertigo creeping.

  ‘Gemstones, Harr Arnulf,’ said Kellig, peering at him with a small smile. ‘They give off light in the dark, for some reason.’

  ‘Sorcery?’ Arnulf asked, men joining him at the edge to peer at the sight curiously.

  ‘No, it is quite natural,’ said the Gausseman. ‘This is a place of untold wealth, Arnulf, more than you could imagine. There are many, many treasures to be found here amongst the bones of its people. Both those made by men, and those found in the earth’s bosom. There are mines here that yield gold and beautiful stones as well as iron, ones we believe were never fully exploited. You begin to see now why we are here, I think.’

  ‘I do, Kynaz Kellig,’ said Arnulf. ‘Though, tell me, what did Lord Rebacht have to do with all this, why would he betray the King over wealth already within his lands?’

  ‘We were in talks, Rebacht and I, on my father’s behalf,’ Kellig said. ‘My father’s scholars have known of this place for some time, you see, and we wished to begin exploring and excavating it. It would be too big an undertaking for it to go unnoticed, especially so close to your accursed fortress, stupid as you nordlandtsers are, and so we approached Harr Rebacht in secret.’

  ‘You mean to tell me that Lord Rebacht betrayed King Aenwald so easily, his cousin’s husband, simply to share wealth with Gausselandt?’

  ‘No, you fool,’ Kellig sighed, ‘he betrayed him because had Aenwald known of this place he would have seized it and all its wealth as his own, leaving Rebacht with little more than a grateful handshake and empty ruins. We offered him much more than Aenwald would have done. It seems, also, that holding your land’s borders against us is a thankless, expensive task – Rebacht was more than willing to listen to us, and let us annex his lands as part of Gausselandt, so long as he kept his position and freedom, believe it or not. I have the paperwork to prove it.’

  ‘I still don’t see why he didn’t just have you hanged,’ said Arnulf, ‘and kept all this wealth for himself.’

  ‘Because, Harr Arnulf,’ Kellig said with a sly smile, ‘we are not interested in simple wealth.’

  ‘Then what are you interested in?’

  ‘Gausselandt has gold, silver and other precious things in abundance, Arnulf,’ said Kellig. ‘We would not have approached Rebacht over such a matter, not in a thousand lifetimes. This place is rich in metals and stones, yes, but it is also rich in something else, something far more rare and precious – knowledge.’

  Arnulf felt his mouth tighten, a realisation dawning upon him. He stared down into that soft, blue glow, its light suddenly seeming all the more sinister.

  ‘I told you, did I not, that this place is from a time of sorcery,’ Kellig went on, ‘a time before your gods – if that is what they truly were – forbade it amongst your people?’

  ‘You did,’ answered Arnulf, ‘you also told me that there was no longer any sorcery to be found here.’

  ‘That is true,’ Kellig agreed, ‘there is not. But there are relics of it to be found, regardless. My father has a… deep interest in them, as do his scholars, and of the knowledge they might hold. It is said that these people could trap the essence of such knowledge in things, in metal and gemstone. They could twist it and shape it, even, like the goldsmith twists fine wire to make his patterns. Their leaders were skilled in those arts we think, and they are entombed here, somewhere deep below us. It is quite the coincidence that you call this place the Valley of Dead Kings, is it not? More have died here than you would think.’

  ‘Aye.’ Arnulf shivered at the thought. The Valley was so named because old King Aenlaf of Caermark and Konung Eborig of Gausselandt had slain one other when their armies met at its narrowest point. To think generations of sorcerer kings lay buried beneath that same ground was… disturbing, to say the least. Who knew what taint lay in the earth of the Valley from their foul practices? It was a chilling revelation, even for someone who didn’t consider themselves particularly pious.

  ‘We would gladly have let Rebacht keep the material wealth of this place,’ Kellig was saying, drawing Arnulf’s attention back to him. ‘We do not need it, after all. But now, Harr Arnulf, it seems as if Rebacht has been… replaced… for the foreseeable future, seeing as you have slaughtered his garrison and claimed his fortress while fights in the north.’ Kellig eyed him sidelong and curiously then, as if weighing him properly for his worth. ‘So I ask you, what are your intentions here, nordlandtser? What will you do with Celdarin’s Shield, now it is in your hands? Surely you realise Aenwald will take this as an act of high treason – we all know he is not a man to be provoked. He will demand your head and those of your men. As will Rebacht, I imagine, though he will no doubt still cede to Gausselandt rule once it is back in his hands.’

  ‘I intended high treason all along, Gausseman,’ said Arnulf, seeing the inquisitive, curious light in the young Kynaz’s eyes. ‘What I want is my right, my blood right, as Lord of Greylake, Kellig. If my King will not give me what is mine, and insult me and my men in doing so, then I will take something of equal worth where I can, and hurt him for it. He is nothing to me. This land is mine now, free of Caermark, and free of Gausselandt.’ He gave Kellig a meaningful look.

  ‘Your Konung,’ Kellig said carefully, ‘is a dangerous man to have for an enemy. Especially if you are all alone and without allies, Arnulf. Celdarin’s Shield or not he will come for you, and he will crush you eventually, even if he has to sit outside your walls and starve you.’

  ‘I know that, Gausseman.’

  ‘And surely you know by now what comes for Caermark, nordlandtser.’ Kellig’s eyes caught the light viciously as he smirked beneath his moustache. Arnulf raised an eyebrow. ‘Come now, Arnulf,’ Kellig chuckled, ‘do not play the fool, we have our spies as you have yours. We know how the Empire ravages Aenwald’s lands. We also have no intention of letting them do the same to ours. You however, Arnulf – what will you do, when they come knocking at your door, alone and forsaken as you are?’

  ‘I will sit in my fortress and let them break upon its walls,’ said Arnulf, knowing how weak it sounded as soon as it left his mouth. Kellig smirked again.

  ‘You know what they are capable of,’ he said, ‘but I do not think you understand just what you face. They are changed since last they were upon your shores, Arnulf, more than you could know. Something new drives them, something most foul. A red hand, our spies tell us, of some new god or demon they have fallen to worshipping. You have seen it, I think. They are fanatics and zealots Arnulf, worse than yourselves, and this time I hear they are not looking for slaves. Our reports have them pressing ever further southward, and quickly. Even now my father makes ready for their invasion, should Aenwald fall. So I ask again, what will you do?’

  Arnulf was silent, all too aware of the eyes of his men upon him, waiting for his answer. He stared into the soft blue light, not wanting to admit his fears, not wanting to say what he must, hating the sudden power the Gausseman had summoned to his voice.

  ‘Will you stand alone and fall,’ Kellig said, breaking the terrible silence, ‘or will you stand on the path of reason and foresight Arnulf, and like you said, herald a new beginning for our peoples?’

  He presented his bound hands to Arnulf then, palms open. Who was this young man, with his fierce tongue and compelling manner? He did not seem the same Gausseman they had brought into this dreadful
place. Fireheart, Arnulf thought, perhaps he does deserve that name after all. He stared at Kellig’s bound hands for a moment, before he took his knife and slipped it beneath the bonds, where he hesitated. The men uttered soft gasps around him.

  ‘Know that I will not bow to Gausselandt, Kellig,’ Arnulf said, meeting the Kynaz’s stare. ‘We are free men, and this is my land now. Here it is my word that is law, not your father’s, not King Aenwald’s – mine. You may keep your trinkets from this place, and do with them as you wish in your own lands – I will not trifle with sorcerous artefacts, nor permit them on my land, the sooner you can remove them from this place the better. The other riches I’m afraid I will be keeping. Capturing the Shield was not a cheap manoeuvre you see, and my coffers are a bit lighter than I would like. And be aware, Gausseman, I will not hesitate to kill you, should you prove to be as untrustworthy as I think you are.’

  ‘Yes, yes, nordlandtser,’ Kellig drawled, his usual acidic tone returning, ‘we can work out the details later, now, if you would be so kind?’ He glanced at his bonds, eyebrows raised. Arnulf grunted, and cut them a bit more harshly than necessary. Kellig shook them off, rubbing his wrists for a brief moment before offering his hand. Arnulf took it, uncomfortably aware of his men watching, silently disturbed. He felt no better about it than they.

  I do what I must, brothers. He tried not to feel their accusing eyes.

  He looked away, to stare down that hollow gullet in the earth one last time. It sent a shiver down his spine, that spectral light from within the earth’s stones. That, and who knew what else lay in the forgotten corners of this horrid ruin.

  ‘Tell me, Kellig,’ Arnulf said, a thought coming as the Gausseman turned to walk away. ‘What happened to these people? Who destroyed them so utterly?’

  Kellig stopped in his tracks, and looked at him over his shoulder with another conceited smirk on his face. ‘It was your gods, nordlandtser, who else.’ He walked away.

  They travelled back through the night, unwilling to stay in that gargantuan tomb, though Arnulf ventured Kellig would have been more than willing if they’d have left him behind. It was almost dawn by the time they arrived, yawning and exhausted, to the rooms they had commandeered in one of the Valley’s scattered villages. A ramshackle inn, its owner compensated with a palm full of silver. A few new bloods were stationed in the village’s streets to maintain a presence and spread word of their new lord. So far there had been no dissent from the outlying settlements. Or rather, there had been no dissent that the sight of a few armed and armoured fighting men hadn’t quickly put an end to.

  One of the new bloods knocked on Arnulf’s door as he stripped his armour off to take a few hour’s rest before their journey back to the Shield. It seemed though, that rest would be beyond him, as he heard the man’s news.

  ‘A rider from the fortress, milord Arnulf,’ said the Shield Brother, ‘a messenger has come baring word from King Aenwald himself – he demands you present yourself for the King’s justice, milord.’

  Chapter 16

  The Ghosts of Luah Fáil

  The Muil Márda was a cruel road to take. Its waters held no sympathy for those who were unused to them, and as the oarsmen sang and laughed and Giomach the helmsmen cracked lewd joke after lewd joke, Harlin sat at the prow, damp, cold and miserable. Waves broke and fountained white water high above the ship as she butted them head on like a goat, the deck shuddering with each wave. His cloak was sodden through, and, no matter how he tried to hide behind the carved prow-beast, sea-water rained down upon him constantly, soaking him through time after time.

  Giomach set him to bailing water, the scum that drifted up from the bilge making him retch as he threw it overboard. The smell brought back the bleakness days spent in the belly of the Marcher slave-ship. His wrists and ankles itched for a moment, remembering the chafe of their irons.

  He wondered how these men enjoyed sailing so much, especially upon a ship as rough and rickety as the Sea-Ram, whose hull creaked and groaned against the assault of the grim waters it slogged through, and felt apt to break apart at the next angry-looking wave it came near. He wondered if Radha had intended for the Sea-Ram to sink before it reached the island. It wouldn’t have surprised him, schemer as she and her daughter both were, if she was prepared to sacrifice the ship and its crew to see him die.

  ‘This is freedom, Harlin,’ Giomach called over from where he held the steering oar lazily, hearing Harlin’s grumbling. ‘In Tásúil we hide and huddle together, our remoteness keeping us safe, but out here upon the waves we are free. No Marchers, no nagging wives, only one great, blue mistress who lets us plough her as we please, so long as we grace her with a touch of skill!’

  Odd, Harlin felt, as metaphors went.

  Harlin’s turn at the oars came, and was harder than he had imagined it could be. His hands, calloused already as they were from years of sword work, and left stiff and sore from the fight, blistered painfully. His entire body ached after a short while, as though he had spent a day sparring hard with his Shield Brothers in the Blackshield Dogs. He still thought of them, now and then, pondering what the survivors were doing with themselves, if they had in turn survived the fate dealt to them, though the thoughts left his mind quickly, and seemed a distant thing. Relics of another time, one long gone.

  Tásúil was far behind, arcing waves all Harlin could see around the ship for miles. ‘Where on the island are you headed too?’ Giomach shouted from behind.

  Back to the beginning.

  ‘Bráodhaír,’ he shouted back, between the roar of waves breaking, a shower of salt water drenching him.

  ‘To the north then, men!’ Giomach called, spitting over the side. Harlin felt the ship lurch as the helmsman adjusted their course.

  ‘Why do you want to go to the island, kinsman’ the oarsman in front of Harlin asked, looking over his shoulder as he finished a heave. ‘Nothing to find there but monsters these days.’

  ‘I have business there,’ Harlin answered him between heaves.

  ‘Business with monsters?’

  ‘Of a sort.’

  ‘He speaks true, wolf child,’ Giomach called as the ship shattered another wave, her hull groaning ominously. ‘You’ll find only beasts there, and spectres of the past.’

  Harlin said nothing, heaving on his oar thoughtlessly. Giomach said after some time, ‘You know we cannot wait for you to finish what it is you are about? We must leave you there.’

  ‘That is fine,’ Harlin said between heaves, shoulders numb and rubbery.

  ‘Radha’s orders were to ferry you to the island in one piece,’ Giomach went on, ‘not to bring you back. The return journey is yours alone, I am afraid.’

  ‘I will manage.’

  He said no more on the subject. Of course the ship’s crew would not come ashore with him, he had never expected them too. Getting to Luah Fáil was all that mattered, the ship could strike a rock and its crew sink with it for all he cared, so long as it was after he made landfall. What came after could be dealt with as and when. When he finally found his answers he would return. It was that simple. Even if he had to swim.

  ‘I saw your fight with Bradan,’ the oarsman in front of him grunted as he heaved. Harlin didn’t answer. ‘Fucking poetry, it was,’ the man went on, smirking over his shoulder, blonde braids dripping water. ‘Not seen a fight like that in a long time, not since before the island fell. You were taught well, kinsman. Earned your gold rings that day ten times or more, no doubt about it. There was much honour in the blood that was spilt between you, he died well, Bradan, a man’s death.’

  ‘I have no father or chief to grant me manhood,’ Harlin gasped after a heave.

  ‘Are there no others of your clan left?’ the man asked.

  ‘Maybe some,’ said Harlin, ‘from the western highlands. I never knew them, though. Of my father’s line, I am the last.’

  ‘Then you are a gold ring in spirit, boy, despite what others might say. Any who have seen you fight know othe
rwise and there were many there, as I recall. You’re all they talk about in the town, and will be for some time.’

  He had gone from scorn to admiration in a matter of moments amongst his kinfolk. Even though he had expected more respect from them, he couldn’t have foreseen at all how favourably they looked upon him in the aftermath of the fight. All it took was a show of strength, Harlin thought, and the ending of another man’s life.

  He remembered then, Ceatha’s words, spoken that night at the pier, the night her mask had truly slipped and shown the spider beneath.

  Now more than ever – we need strength above all else.

  His almost lost his grip on his oar as he suddenly pondered something, his mind linking unpleasant possibilities – had Ceatha planned this? Or at least for this eventuality? How far did her scheming go?

  Strength – the ideal that the clans respected above all else. He had shown them his now, as she had wanted, even though it had cost her brother his life in the process. Was she so callous and self-serving she would spend Bradan to potentially further her own ends? Surely not. The idea was ludicrous, yet it nagged at him relentlessly. Could even she be so cruel? Perhaps, he thought bitterly, I would have spent Anselm to be upon this ship, had it been the price.

  It is odd how time and events shape people into something so very different to what they were once. Though, he had to wonder whether Ceatha had always been such a scheming puller of strings. Did such ways come with being a Weaver, or had the fall of Luah Fáil and her abuse at the hands of the Marchers shaped her into such a creature?

  It had shaped him into what he had become, after all.

  They hoisted sail at midday, and Harlin sighed with relief as they finally drew oar, battered hands trembling. His body felt like it was as likely to break apart from so long sat at the oar as the ship itself was from the waves that slammed into its hull.

  Giomach laughed heartily as the sail caught the wind and swelled. ‘You should stay with us, Harlin,’ he bellowed as the Sea-Ram actually managed to crest a wave instead of just butt one and shower them all with foam and salt-spray. ‘Nothing left on the island, like we said. You should stay in Tásúil with your kinsmen, the girls there will look favourably upon you now you have bested Bradan and taken back your honour. Plenty of young pretty things left who aren’t promised to anyone. You could find yourself a young wife to have sons with, refound your clan, and teach them to fight like you do.’