‘But –’
‘I said shut your fucking mouth, Rebacht!’
Aenwald drew deep breaths, eyes burning from the effort of keeping them upon the mercenary’s. Gods, it felt like locking horns with a demon from one of Vathnir’s sagas. ‘You’ve got bollocks, Arnulf,’ he said with some effort, ‘stabbing me in the back while I fight to defend my land and its people from eastern fanatics.’ A long pause held between them, punctuated by the sounds of the war camp outside the pavilion. ‘It’s a good thing I like men who’ve got bollocks as big as yours, sellsword,’ Aenwald said, settling back in his chair, finally turning his eyes away. He shot the mercenary’s thugs a sharp glance as they sniggered noticeably at his turn of phrase. ‘It’s why you’re still breathing and not lying in the latrine trench with your throat cut.’
‘Your Majesty is too kind,’ Arnulf said, curtseying daintily. His thugs snickered again.
‘Stow your lip, peasant,’ Aenwald snapped, ‘circumstance has a habit of changing. Usually at my will.’
The two glared at one another for a time. The air was tense. Men’s hands crept towards sword hilts, others coughed uncomfortably, the sound betraying the collective nervousness within the pavillion. One wrong word and there would be blood here.
‘So what’ll it be, Arnulf,’ Aenwald barked suddenly, making everyone save the mercenary lord jump. He had to end the tension, lest everyone here began slaughtering one another without his consent. That would not be regal. That would not be becoming. He couldn’t be seen to be losing his grip on his people. Arnulf had already done enough damage in that respect to last a lifetime.
‘You must want something, sellsword,’ Aenwald continued when he received no answer. ‘So please, do tell me, I’m intrigued as to why you’d go so far.’
‘I already have what I want,’ said Arnulf, ‘my men, and a home.’
Aenwald barked a laugh. ‘The Shield. Your home. You’re still a vagrant in my eyes. Worse. A squatter. A thief. A traitor.’
‘And a murderer,’ offered the red faced lord at his side.
‘Shut the fuck up, Rebacht.’ Aenwald turned back to the mercenary, leaving Lord Rebacht to stew. ‘So that’s it, Berlunt? A home? Men?’
‘And justice.’ Arnulf’s words left a cold, ill-fitting silence over those gathered. Even Aenwald found himself stirring uncomfortably, his regal composure almost failing him.
‘Justice is what I say it is, sellword,’ he said with a frown. ‘I am King here, not you. Though you seem to be coming into lofty notions far above your station these days.’
‘All men have the right to justice, Aenwald,’ the mercenary said coldly. ‘Not just those for whom it is favourable for you to grant it.’
‘You will address the King properly, peasant.’ Cyneweld stepped from beside Aenwald, hand on sword. Arnulf did not even seem to notice him, and Aenwald waved him back to keep the fragile peace.
‘Justice, then,’ he said, nodding slowly, ‘against my wife’s cousins. What ills have they ever served you, dog – that is what I want to know.’
Arnulf shrugged insolently. ‘What ills did my house serve you, for you to turn me away when Deorwin Marreburg burnt Greylake and slaughtered my family?’
The King spat at his feet. ‘Do not dare question me, vagrant. I am King of Caermark. What would you have had me do, turn the north into a battlefield for the sake of one town, one man’s family? A town whose lord had grown as arrogant to call himself the Lord of the North? Your father was a fool. Marreburg did all Caermark a service that day, as I struggled to keep this kingdom from splitting asunder beneath its own weight and poison.’ He found himself smirking then. ‘Foolishness is inherited, it seems. The north burns as we face invasion from our ancient foe, and so you slink south, and swipe yourself a piece of the pie before it is even cooked and think yourself revenged against me. You could not even find the honour in you to stand and fight, so I hear, you cut throats and climbed walls and wet your swords with the blood of sleeping men. You are a coward, and your men are cowards. I should kill you where you stand, dog.’
Cyneweld stepped forward again and drew steel. ‘Allow me the honour, Sire.’
‘Save me his head,’ said Rebacht, face eager. ‘I’ll keep it above my gates until the last days of my House.’
Arnulf’s men all drew their own blades and formed up around him, shouting curses at the King’s assembly, who shouted fouler ones back to the chiming of swords clearing scabbards. Events were spiralling already, a bloodbath on the verge of being born.
‘Quiet! All of you!’ Aenwald leapt to his feet. ‘The next man who so much as farts will find himself mourning his missing cock! Stow those edges, sit yourselves down and test me no further!’ The clamour quickly died. Aenwald struggled to control his breathing, retain his demeanour before these lesser, petty men.
‘I did not summon you here, Arnulf,’ he began, teeth clenched, ‘to wax philosophical of vengeance with you.’
‘Then what for, Aenwald?’ The mercenary stood lazily, unperturbed and still surrounded by his men brandishing blades, his own hand resting casually on the sword that rode his armoured hip, its make distinctly northern.
The King paused for a moment. ‘You have committed a crime – treason,’ he said with a shrug. ‘You must – and will – be punished.’
Arnulf’s men formed up tighter, shields appearing on arms and overlapping with a clatter. A small shield wall stood before Arnulf, curving round him in a tight semicircle. Aenwald almost laughed at the sight of it.
‘So punish me then,’ Arnulf said then, spreading his arms wide and looking about. ‘You would call me to court in this tent in the Middenrealms to announce my punishment? And without trial? Is the kingdom so harried and wounded by its enemies that it cannot carry out its own due process upon its subjects?’ He shot Aenwald with that icy look of his again, and the King held himself still, the gaze making him want to cringe and slink away like a whipped dog.
‘Do the seams break so soon, Aenwald,’ Arnulf questioned dangerously, ‘that the Ironbrand himself is unable to stop the seeds of the end from spilling between his fingers?’ He cocked his head and regarded Aenwald coolly, a few of his silver locks escaping their leather thong and hanging in pale spirals across his shoulder.
The King harrumphed. ‘Your punishment, Berlunt, is active frontline duty for you and your men until the war is over. You will scout, you will scour and you will fight. You will be at the front of every battle, you will lead every vanguard and you will spearhead every charge, until every easterner lies dead in our fields, or we cast them back into the Parting Sea and set aflame their ships.’
A silence settled over those gathered. For a moment Aenwald thought that might have shocked even Arnulf, though if it did he showed no sign of it. He let the significance of the moment set in. Metaphor, suggestion – tools a king must know how to use to his advantage. The unsaid word can be louder than the fiercest roar. The subtle threat can make a man lie awake at night, sheets wet, stricken with worse fear than the brandished blade can induce.
Arnulf Berlunt though, Aenwald doubted, would be intimidated by neither veiled, nor flagrant, threats. How very vexing.
‘A death sentence,’ Arnulf spoke suddenly, as murmurs broke out amongst lords hovering to the back of the tent. ‘Judging by how poorly the war goes for you, Ironbrand.’
There was a sudden uproar at the sellsword’s words. The gathered nobles and officers did not seem to know whether to direct their anger at Aenwald for his lenience or at Arnulf for his insult. It was not long, however, before they chose the safer of the two options.
‘How dare you, dog,’ a voice thundered from the audience. Something was thrown towards Arnulf, the object going wide and landing with a thud against a shield. A silver goblet, its dark red contents spraying over the northmen.
‘Hang him! Hang the bastard!’
‘Bleed the northern lout!’
‘Skewer the pig!’
The hecklers were many,
their insults more so. Wine was a bad idea at these gatherings, it seemed. Raised tempers were ever a nuisance when trying to maintain order, especially amongst the noble or entitled. Aenwald sighed behind steepled fingers, resisting the urge to massage where his crown dug frightfully into his temples. The Red Cloaks were banging their sword hilts against their breastplates, trying to bring order vainly, serving only to add to, and encourage, the clamour.
‘Cut his fucking head off,’ Lord Rebacht was screaming beside him, face now turning purple, the deeper shades of red had long been used and seemingly deemed lacking in intensity. His voice beat upon Aenwald’s skull like a hammer striking steel. ‘Cut his fucking head off!’
It was time for the Ironbrand to act.
When you are king, as with all men, it is what you do, rather than say, that counts – that will have the greatest impact in your time. Talkers are the spinners of velvet, the makers of lies and cowards to a man, each and all of them. Never trust a man too skilled in the art of talking, be he king or pauper. Trust the men who act, who make their intentions clear to all. So Aenwald believed, anyway. There are some acts that demand a price be paid, some goals that can only be reached by standing atop the mountain of sacrifices you made to reach them. They command a trade. An exchange. Nothing comes for free, even to a king.
Men called him the Ironbrand. He was the Ironbrand because he understood that simple fact, and lived by it.
Perhaps Lord Rebacht should have done the same. The look of surprise and betrayal on his face as Aenwald leapt from his seat, took him by his hair and jammed the knife in his gullet suggested as much to the King, anyway.
Silence finally came as Rebacht hit the ground coughing and gurgling, body twitching. Aenwald stood over him, feeling the eyes of those in the tent upon him, judging him, like the tiny feet of a thousand insects crawling over his skin.
He looked over his shoulder to where Arnulf stood. The sellsword’s face was impassive as ever, but was that uncertainty in his frozen eyes, or simply intrigue? No matter. Aenwald would break him before this meeting was over. Or at least leave his mark. No one came out of a fight with Aenwald Darnmor unscathed, whether with sword or with words.
‘Get out, all of you,’ the King growled. ‘I will deal with the sellswords alone.’
An attendant came to him with a cloth to clean his hands and face of blood, leaving as the gathering trickled outside into the camp. He took it with a nod, returning to his seat. The Red Cloaks were still in attendance, poised neutrally but ready to act should the mercenaries dare to move in aggression.
‘Betrayal is not above a king’s station, I see,’ Arnulf said coldly, eyeing the dead lord.
‘Consider that an act of good will, sellsword,’ Aenwald barked, throwing the bloodied cloth to the floor.
‘You honour me Aenwald, in finishing off a landless lord for me whom I had already defeated.’
‘Quiet your lip, vagrant. I saved us both a headache. Rebacht there would have been a thorn in your arse as well as my own. You took his lands and killed his son – it would have been a blood feud between the two of you until one of you was finally broken. And for the time being, Arnulf, you are of too much use to me to let you be tangled up fighting an arsehole like Rebacht when there are bigger things at stake for both of us. I cannot afford civil war as well as war with the enemy.’
‘Bigger things? Such as?’
‘Don’t play stupid with me, Arnulf. You know as well as I what we face. The Old Empire, reborn and made mad, looking to reclaim their old lands and set aflame to all of us for this new god of theirs, some blood-drinking demon. I have no intention of letting them do anything of the kind, not while I am King here.’
‘Sounds like a problem for the men of the Mark to me,’ Arnulf answered with a sneer. ‘The Valley of Dead Kings answers only to me, Aenwald. I severed my ties with you long ago, and the Valley is my land now, and I its sovereign.’
‘Celdarin’s Shield and all its holdings are mine, dog,’ Aenwald said flatly, ‘to give to whom I please. You planting your arse there no more makes you its lord than a mutt pissing against a tree and thinking it his.’
There was an uneasy silence, punctuated by the clacking of shields as Arnulf’s men shifted their grips, unwilling to lower them.
‘Fight for me, Berlunt,’ Aenwald went on, ‘and you can keep the Shield, and its lands, should we be victorious against the Empire.’
‘And if I refuse?’ the mercenary offered straight away. ‘My men and I are happy with our independence – I don’t see the benefit in fighting for you once more just to be enslaved in the end.’
‘Do you think the Empire will stop once it reaches the Shattered Marches, Arnulf? No. Gausseland, too, has felt their wrath in ages past, as much as they deny it. There were few shores in this world that were not graced by their ships in forgotten days. They will sweep south, through the Valley of Dead Kings, the Shield will be engulfed by a rabid, fanatical tide even it cannot halt, and you will find yourself being offered up to their Red Handed Prophet as tribute.’
Arnulf shrugged casually. ‘The Empire will break on its walls. Nothing can take the Shield by force.’
‘Perhaps not, but they can starve you out and grind you down, if they cannot crush you with force. The Valley of Dead Kings is not exactly a field of bounty, last I recall. They will burn what little there is to be had in your lands, and then surround and trap you in a prison you willingly put yourself in. And while they do that, they will march south, and rape Gausselandt – a shame their quarrel could not simply lie with them alone, I might provide them with extra men if it did, ha!’
Arnulf remained quiet. He knew as well as Aenwald did what would happen when the Empire reached Celdarin’s Shield, why else would he answer his summons and come willingly, let alone arrive in such haste as he had?
‘Feel free to refuse then, mercenary,’ Aenwald finished with a wave of his hand. ‘Either die fighting for what you want, or die like a coward. If you fight for me you may yet live and keep what you have taken.’
He could see the gears turning in the sellsword’s head. I have you now, Berlunt, you smug bastard. Arnulf was a practical man. That had to be admired. Aenwald would rather it had not cost him his most stout fortress, nor driven him to kill his wife’s cousin, but he knew how minds like Arnulf’s worked. He would see the value in his words, he was a man of reason.
Arnulf suddenly shook his head, and Aenwald’s smirk fell from his face.
‘No, Aenwald,’ he said. ‘I will not fight for you.’
‘Then you are mad,’ the King snarled.
‘Celdarin’s Shield and the Valley of Dead Kings are free lands,’ Arnulf went on, ignoring him. ‘We are our own nation now, a new land. We fight for no king. We fight for ourselves.’
Aenwald lost control and felt his rage boil over. He opened his mouth to unleash a tirade, and then stopped as Arnulf’s next words caught him off guard.
‘We will fight alongside you in allegiance, on the condition you let us remain free men once the Empire is defeated.’
That stumbled Aenwald. The clever bastard. A mind as sharp as his sword. Here was a man not to be taken lightly, even by a king. It was no wonder his men afforded him such respect. Did the shrewd fucker know how hard pressed Aenwald was to halt the Empire’s advance? How thinly his men were spread? Most likely. He knew far too much for Aenwald’s liking. He would need taming, like any wild dog, but for now, Aenwald needed his support.
‘So be it then!’ Aenwald rose to his feet and clapped his hands loudly, a beaming smile breaking out on his face. ‘If you survive, you can keep your rocky shithole and its pox-pecked people.’
The sellsword looked somewhat satisfied, though expectant, he knew there was more. Aenwald must have been getting predictable as time went by.
‘While you fight alongside my banner,’ the King went on, all traces of good will leaving his face, ‘it will be known that it is a punishment, and that I intend for you to die, which you m
ay very well do before this is over. I must be seen to act, lest schemers take it to mean I am a limp prick that dribbles empty words.’
The mercenary nodded. ‘So be it. It will be easy for my men and I to keep up a pretence of hatred and disdain for you, Aenwald. It comes naturally to us, you could say.’
‘Excellent, see that you make it so.’ The King returned to his seat, hand on chin. ‘Now get out of my fucking tent.’
The northmen lowered their shields, sheathed their swords, and trudged out of Aenwald’s pavilion murmuring amongst themselves. Something nagged at Aenwald though. Something left unsatisfied that demanded its fill.
‘Arnulf,’ he called, as the sellsword’s hand made for the entrance flap. The silver head turned to regard the King icily. Aenwald bit a knuckle.
‘Your father was a fool,’ he said bluntly. ‘He was a fool, and greedy with it. A traitor of coin like yourself – the worst kind. He deserved his end. It was I who had Deorwin burn Greylake and put an end to your father’s little merchant empire. And I will do the same to you, if I must. What I give I can take away. I am King here. I am the Ironbrand.’
For a moment Arnulf looked as though he was about to say something, but he turned, plain-faced, and left Aenwald alone with his Red Cloaks.
Aenwald sat there for a while, unsure of how to feel. Had he lost that final exchange? He could not tell. Perhaps he should have stayed quiet instead of letting his temper speak. Perhaps he should have just had the northmen killed. Celdarin’s Shield would be easier to reclaim if they were leaderless. His spies had told him how the mercenaries were digging in already. Stockpiling food, recruiting more men and reopening long-neglected iron mines – the land’s only remaining source of wealth. They were making ready for his backlash, no doubt under Arnulf’s orders. Fucking smug little shit, he seethed silently, lip curling.
Aenwald sighed. What else could he do? He needed more men. Arnulf had ridden to the Middenrealms with some three hundred and fifty of his most capable at Aenwald’s behest. A paltry sum, but they would be needed, and their reputation was undeniable. He was glad the charade of punishment was over. It was time to plan for what was to come.
The Shadow of the High King Page 51