The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  ‘Cyneweld,’ he muttered, flexing a hand stiff from bashing hard surfaces in anger.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ The knight stood beside him still as a statue.

  ‘You have the latest reports, I gather, the day grows late, I would hear them.’

  The knight nodded, armour glinting. ‘More Imperial forces are reported towards the east, Your Majesty, raiding bands mostly. The latest report states they have burned a score of villages as of a week ago. The scouts say a large force has been sighted to the west, believed to be led by Kaethar Graxis. It is thought they were heading towards Harran’s Ford within the last ten days.’

  ‘A small target for a large force,’ the King mused, stroking his beard. Why Harran’s Ford? There was nothing of note to be found there, save rivermud farmers and inbred fishermen. Aenwald shook his head. It was a step closer to the south, though, a step closer to Great Armingstone. A step too far. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Scouts give an estimate of the force at some twenty thousand or more, Your Majesty. The raiding forces in the east are believed to number some four thousand in total, though it is difficult to give an accurate number due to their elusiveness – they are mostly regiments of rangers and light horse it would seem, and a number of these… Burnt Men, the Lord Garrmunt spoke of.’

  Aenwald sighed again, nodding.

  ‘We have twenty-four thousand mad bastards running rampant in our lands, Cyneweld,’ he breathed, taking off his crown and frowning at it between his hands. His reflection distorted across the metal as he turned it to and fro. ‘We lost our share of men defeating Garrmunt. We spend too many chasing shadows in the east. And while we grow thin and weak, a horned beast comes bearing down our western flank circling around our vitals, nipping off our extremities. What would you do, if you were me?’

  ‘Sire, it is not for me to presume as –’

  ‘Stow your etiquette and tell me, fuckwit,’ the King snapped, tossing his crown onto a table full of maps and parchment. He guessed Cyneweld was glad of his enclosed helm then, its deep shadows hiding his face that no doubt showed the struggle within.

  ‘Grab them by the throat and hit them in the balls. Sire,’ he hastily added, remembering his place. Aenwald laughed.

  ‘Hit them where it hurts,’ he chuckled, nodding. ‘Aye, so be it. I tire of this Graxis and his cunt of a god. We march against him in full once we have regrouped. Now,’ he rose to his feet, ‘tell me of my sons.’

  ‘Prince Aenwulf is in camp, making ready for the next march with our knights, Prince Aenfeld is overseeing the organisation of our heavy infantry and dealing with latecomers to the army, Your Majesty.’

  The knight finished. Aenwald grimaced. ‘And what of Paega?’ There was a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Prince Paega is… overseeing… the, ah, supply train and provisioning, Your Majesty.’

  Aenwald snorted. ‘Bollocks, Cyneweld,’ he shot, ‘do not lie to me. He is lackwit drunk amongst the wine carts, isn’t he? Or lackwit drunk in some whore’s tent on the edge of camp having his prick drained.’

  ‘Your Majesty, the Prince is –’

  ‘– a drunkard, lecher and all round useless fucking cunt, Cyneweld,’ the King interrupted, ‘and the greatest service he could do both to me, and Caermark, would be to die, preferably somewhere far away, and end the shame he brings on our House.’

  Another sigh. He knuckled his eyes, wrestling with his temper. ‘Have him sent back to Great Armingstone,’ he grunted, ‘he deserves no glory, and I won’t have the coward embarrass me by pissing his breeches when faced with the enemy and suffering a hangover.’

  ‘As you wish, Sire.’

  ‘Now, leave me. I will see my sons, my true sons, shortly. Let them know. Off with you, all of you, grant your king some peace. And drag that sack of shit out of sight while you’re at it.’ He jerked his head at Lord Rebacht’s still corpse. ‘Have someone take care of him, the bastard was family after all.’

  Aenwald paced the tent as Cyneweld and the other Red Cloaks left, hauling Rebacht’s body outside by the legs. Paega ran rampant through his mind. He had stripped his son of the royal ‘Aen’ distinction some years ago when it became clear what a failure he was. Paega was a weak name for an even weaker man, a peasant’s name with no meaning, no heritage, no power. Paega had once been called Aenfryd – it meant ‘royal strength’ in whatever forgotten tongue his ancestors had spoken.

  Ironic, really, that by his fifteenth year Aenfryd had become a drunken whore-rutter and reduced to being called Paega. Aenwald could only thank Vathnir that he was his youngest, and never – should the gods remain somewhat kind – to take the crown.

  He would not allow it. No weakling would sit upon the Shacklestone in his wake. He had not worked for twenty years to see his achievements crumble away in the hands of a drunken moron. Nor would he allow the pernicious mouths of the greedy and treacherous, the ungrateful and backbiting, to eat them away from within.

  He fished inside his pocket and produced a neatly folded square of parchment, opening it now he was alone.

  It was a legal document, detailing an agreement between Lord Duric Rebacht and Konung Axil dur Wassedrach of Gausselandt to jointly oversee the excavation of some place named as Mordelandt. It also detailed an agreement of sale, to the Kingdom of Gausselandt, of any and all artefacts believed to predate the coming of the Esserlor – what the Gaussemen called the Empire. Beneath the looping, flamboyant and completely unreadable signatures of both Lord Rebacht and Konung Axil himself were two perfect wax seals. One was white, showing the two-headed lion of Gausselandt’s royal line, the other ochre, showing a small, simplistic depiction of Celdarin’s Shield – the seal of House Rebacht.

  Aenwald’s teeth clenched painfully as he read it over yet again, the proof of Rebacht’s treachery. He stuffed it in his pocket out of sight again, glad his men were unaware of its existence. Arnulf had passed it to him before, when they had met in secret before their little… charade for the other, more ignorant, nobles to witness. In truth, though, he could not tell if the mercenary had done him a favour in highlighting Rebacht’s treachery, or laid a new worry upon his shoulders – if his wife’s own cousin could betray him to the Gaussemen for coin, how many others amongst the Border Lords, or those closer to home, even, were capable of doing the same? How many had the Gaussemen swayed into their clutches?

  He shook himself free of the thought. The Gaussemen, and any traitors, could wait. For now, the document would serve to quieten Ellewidd when she learned he had murdered her beloved cousin. It was justice in ink, no matter what taste she found in it. Though he would have to be clear for her to keep her mouth shut. If word of this got around the nobles… it wouldn’t bode well. Not after suffering the debacle of Easthold a few years ago at the scheming of that prick Athelmer. It might just encourage some of the other schemers in their ranks biding their time into action, give them an opportunity if they thought his situation had become precarious.

  No. Never. Not while Aenwald still drew breath.

  I will cast a shadow over this land until the end of days. He found his crown in his hands again, the arches digging into his flesh painfully as he seized it in frustration. Too much was happening at once, and all so unexpected. His grip on Caermark was as tight as his hands upon the crown, the pain of holding on to what was left just as sharp.

  He thrust it over his brow. There was work to be done.

  ‘The seams break, Arnulf,’ the Ironbrand muttered as he strode out into the camp, ‘but I am far from spent.’

  Chapter 18

  The Hollowing

  ‘You have a bad sprain,’ the Bodah Duhn said, wrapping a bandage around his outstretched arm. ‘No sword work until it is better. I’m surprised you didn’t break it, taking a fall like that.’

  Harlin looked at her next to him as she worked, wincing as she tightened the bandages painfully about his wrist and elbow to apply pressure to the joints. He caught her eye and she smirked, ashen hair falling across her grey-s
kinned face. Her strange eyes danced over his form quickly before she went back to work on his injured arm.

  He didn’t know whether he wanted to punch her or thank her.

  ‘Your ankle needs resting properly, too,’ she went on, her strong accent slurring the Marcher words, ‘so I won’t make you work too hard. For now.’ She smirked again, rising from where they sat and walking away. She stretched and yawned, her long back arching sensually. Harlin’s eyes followed the pattern of inked markings down her lithe arms. Vines that wove around, between and through one another, forming whorls and knots and other forms he was sure meant something to the Bodah Duhn but were meaningless to him. She was covered in them. They ran straight down her arms from her shoulders, down her back and to the length of her toned legs, her feet decorated with complex, fascinating symbols or seals, formed from the knotted weave of the patterns on her legs.

  Her name was Duana, and for a Bodah Duhn she was… not bad. She was made all of lean, toned, hard edges and sharp lines. Her stomach was impressively cut and defined, and not an ounce of fat seemed to linger anywhere on her, only taught sinews and tight muscle. Harlin was used to women being soft creatures, scared of exercise and made of pleasant curves meant for grabbing. Duana was an odd thing to him. She fought with the spear like a man and revelled in violence, where most women revelled in gentler art forms. As much as he wanted to choke the life from her, find her repulsive and disgusting, he found her fascinating in equal measure, being so profoundly unorthodox. She was strange to look upon, though, as were all the Bodah Duhn he had seen unmasked and unshrouded since his capture. Grey-skinned and pale-haired, her strange eyes mottled black and grey and their violet irises that held their own inner light at times and could pierce right through the very core of him… She was like nothing Harlin had ever seen before.

  Duana caught him ogling her. She frowned at him and hitched up the short roughspun skirt she wore. She grabbed her backside with both hands and smacked it loudly, shook it at him and hid it again. Harlin raised questioning eyebrows. ‘You can’t have it, slave boy,’ she sneered, ‘look all you want, but it’s mine. Except maybe in your dreams.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fuck you even with a belly full of ale, sow,’ he spat, aware how childish it sounded.

  ‘Is that so?’ Duana laughed, striding back to him. ‘What’s this then?’ Her hand shot out and grabbed his crotch, giving him a squeeze. He spun from the stool, slapping her hand away with his sprained arm, the pain making him wish he hadn’t. She stood before him, hand on hip, giggling to herself, her strange eyes roaming all over him.

  ‘You wear your scars like I wear my tattoos, slave boy,’ she commented, padding across the room to sit atop the furs serving as her bed. Harlin looked down at himself. Shirtless, the light of her room’s small central fire cast the sunken, scarred flesh like dark stripes and patterns all over him.

  ‘I am no slave,’ he said, trying to think of an intelligent, defiant remark and failing.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ Duana said simply, ‘I claimed you. You are mine now. He even declared it so before all present at your trial.’ Harlin had come to learn quickly that when the Bodah Duhn said He, they meant Corrom Duhn.

  The memory of that meeting sent a shiver through him once more. The stench of that being returned for a foul moment in his nostrils, pungent and lingering.

  ‘The cripple-king can declare what he likes,’ Harlin said, eager to defy her. ‘I am no slave, you grey-skin bitch.’

  Duana eyed him curiously from where she sat, chewing contemplatively on a piece of flat, dark bread. She shrugged, swallowing. ‘You’re lucky He didn’t kill you,’ she said, taking another bite. ‘He could have torn you apart into pieces so small the eye cannot see them, and without lifting a finger. Our people would have been glad of it, too, and maybe celebrated. You slew one of our best men, Gidhri. We have the right to vengeance for the blood you spilled. We don’t like your kind, anyway.’ She sneered sadistically. ‘It’s fun killing you Sea Children, especially when you give us reason. It adds sweet flavour to the kill.’

  ‘I defended myself,’ Harlin snapped, ‘after you tormented me for days in the wilderness and hounded me like an animal. I had no quarrel with you, but you forced my hand.’

  Duana shrugged and lay back, staring at the ceiling. ‘This is our land,’ she yawned. ‘Even if you hadn’t slain Gidhri it would still be right for us to kill you, Sea Children aren’t welcome here. Not anymore.’ She yawned and stretched her long legs in the air over her head, grey toes wiggling. Harlin tried not to look up her skirt. He failed, and a quiet little laugh told him she’d caught him again. Intentional, he realised too late – she was fond of her petty torments, this one. He scowled foully as he could at her.

  ‘Sea Child,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I am a clansman of Luah Fáil. You talk shit and riddles, shadow-bitch, and I tire of it.’ Duana let her legs fall and drag her into a sitting position.

  ‘Mhm,’ she hummed, cocking her head, ‘but your ancestors came here from somewhere beyond the waves. You are the Sea Children, born from the sea. We’ve always called you that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your ancestors. They came here a long, long time ago in their little boats and built their little villages. We thought they were funny at first. And stupid, like the cattle they liked to keep. Harmless too, like their cattle. Because they were so stupid. We felt sorry for them, the Earthbond didn’t even run through their veins like it did ours – how could they truly live if they could not touch the lifeblood of the land?’ She shuddered, as though the thought unsettled her.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Earthbond,’ Duana said, as if it should be obvious what she meant. ‘You call it the Weaving.’

  Harlin’s gaze hardened. Duana rolled her eyes at him and sneered again.

  ‘Oh come now, slave boy,’ she giggled, ‘is it such a surprise to find your people were ignorant of it? Did you think your forefathers were so smart or so great that they could unlock the secrets of something the earth itself denied them in their making? We gave it to you.’ She stuck her tongue out at him like a child.

  ‘You lying –’

  ‘Shush now, slave,’ she said suddenly, and he felt the pressure at his temples as her Weaving worked upon him, making his jaw slacken stupidly. She raised an eyebrow briefly, studying him from across the room, almost hesitant as she spoke again. ‘I am tired,’ she said, ‘you led us on a lively dance over the island. No more talk now. Sleep. And don’t try to run away, your ankle’s too bad, you’ll hurt yourself again. I’ll know if you try, and I’ll find you, then I’ll have to kill you.’ She lay down again, yawning as she turned her back to him, appearing asleep in moments.

  Harlin found himself sitting down against the curved wall of her room, eyes closing, the pain in his arm and ankle fading to a dull throb as he nodded off. His last thoughts before he slept were of the strangeness of the day, and of Corrom Duhn’s court, of the cripple-king’s questioning. Of the untold power that wretched, stinking, ill-formed thing held within it. The memory of it all taunted him on the verge of sleep, lucid and rotted through with terror, scenes playing back over and over, yanking him back out of half-dreams with fitful starts.

  ‘Why are you here, Harlin,’ Corrom Duhn had rumbled while Harlin lay twisted with agony at its useless feet. ‘Tell me, Harlin, now – or I will pull the bones from your body, one after another, until you do. Why are you here, Sea Child.’

  Every bone, every sinew and muscle, felt as if it would snap. Pain of a kind Harlin had never known flooded his body, twisting and undulating as he fought against it. And all the while dread claws, hooked and malign, felt as though they would pull apart his skull by the temples. He had fought, and fought, until sweat poured from him and his face was pressed into a puddle of his own blood-streaked vomit.

  He had spilled out his story like a dead pig spills guts from its cut belly. He told them everything, and the Bodah Duhn had laughed cruelly at him while he suff
ered, unable to move, unable to do anything but scream his hatred of them into the spew-covered stone floor against his face.

  ‘You would come so very far for revenge,’ the cripple-king had spoken, its tortured voice pressing down harder yet on Harlin. ‘You would suffer so much, shed so much blood, and all for yourself, all to sooth your own petty, inconsequential hurts. What a pathetic creature you are, Harlin, of Clan Faolán. For it is in vain, there is nothing for you here, nothing for you to find other than death. I will not tolerate you here, Black Wolf, I will not tolerate your race, or your ilk, just as you did not tolerate us. You came to these shores seeking blood and nothing else. The blood you took was that of my kin, my children. Another of them claimed by your hateful kind, one less of our forgotten legacy, and one more to that of cruelty which your kin forged in our passing. I cannot forgive it, I will not forgive it. You are a sad, sickly thing, but you will make good sport, I think, before you die. Make your peace within yourself. My children may have you now.’

  An argument had broken out then, a dozen or more voices each putting forth their right to end his life. Gidhri had been a friend, a brother, a warrior, a loved one – each of them wanted Harlin’s end to be by their hand, and theirs alone. They begged it of Corrom Duhn, beseeched him on bended knee for the honour, and when no name was forthcoming from the groaning cripple-king, taken by sudden pains, the first blows were thrown.

  The court erupted into a scene of violence, spear, sword and fist flying, dark shapes tussling and wrestling through shadow and pooling torchlight. The pressure on Harlin lessened, the pain receding to a dull ache, Corrom Duhn’s attention turning toward his brawling minions, his tormented voice ringing out through the cavernous court-chamber like strangled thunder.

  A boot took Harlin to the chest while he struggled against his bonds, flipping him onto his side. A Bodah Duhn stood over him, masked and hooded, raising its spear to skewer him where he lay, booted foot holding him in place.