The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  Harlin smiled as best he could as Anselm embraced him tightly. ‘I did not expect to return so soon myself,’ he said, patting Anselm on the back, ‘but things have come to a head sooner than I anticipated.’

  Anselm released him and gave him a curious look. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This is not the place,’ Harlin answered, shaking his head. He eyed the two nearby clansmen pointedly.

  Anselm nodded slightly. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘you need good food and strong drink.’ He smiled broadly again. ‘And you must meet my wife, too.’

  Much had taken place for his friend, Harlin realised, as he sat in Anselm and Ula’s new house, accepting hot winter stew and cups of honey wine from his friend’s young bride. Anselm had been busy, it seemed – they were expecting their first child already. A son, Ula was sure, her smile bright and pleasant as she spoke with Harlin, but her round eyes betraying some wariness, as if seeing a ghost.

  Anselm talked animatedly of the joys of sparring with the clansmen, of new techniques learnt and old ones sharpened, of thrashings dealt and thrashings received. He looked every inch a clansman himself now, save for his bald head. He was growing the beard, he said, to braid and ring it in place of his long-absent hair. ‘You will look almost like Ogmodh himself,’ Harlin complimented. Anselm’s vacant stare told him he hadn’t quite got round to accepting the clans’ gods just yet.

  The two of them were almost ready to start living off the land, they said, already they had some hens and a few sheep to call their own, some of latter’s forebears were even included in the stew they were eating. Anselm had been teaching Ula the Marcher tongue, and had been learning the clans’ from her, and they laughed amongst themselves as they swapped languages clumsily. Harlin smiled quietly in the appropriate places.

  ‘But enough of us!’ Anselm said, laying his thick hand atop Ula’s as they finished laughing. ‘What became of you in Luah Fáil?’

  ‘You must have grand tales to tell,’ Ula said from beside him, her smile fading, ‘and dark ones, too.’ She rose, and poured them all more honey wine. He hesitated for a moment, and they eyed him with concern, thinking his memories of the place troubled him, no doubt.

  ‘It is a foul place,’ Harlin said with a shrug, biting into a heel of bread before mopping up stew with it. ‘The land is befouled by something ancient and wicked. I found my hometown in desolation, swarmed by creatures from our peoples’ oldest tales, ghailú, and flying things like the sluadh. Dark men move through the mists, and the dead rise from the swamps to do unending battle against one another. I am lucky to still draw breath, let alone return here with the answers I sought.’

  It was a half-truth at best, but a half-truth would be all they got. Harlin noted the look of sorrow on Ula’s face. She’d have witnessed the end of Luah Fáil as a child, his words must have resurrected memories of that time.

  ‘So who’s the bastard we’re going to kill then,’ Anselm said, chewing bread noisily. Harlin held back for a moment, wondering how to soften the blow he was about to deal.

  ‘King Aenwald,’ he said, unable to think of a way.

  Anselm’s face blanched. ‘Well, fuck my arse good and proper,’ he muttered, looking down at the table between them, beard twitching. Harlin saw Ula squint then frown at Anselm as she translated in her head. She slapped him loudly on the arm for his profanity.

  ‘You are sure of this?’ Anselm said faintly, rubbing the red mark left on his arm.

  ‘Beyond any doubt. It was his knights who took my family.’

  ‘It couldn’t have just been some lordling from the Middenrealms, could it,’ laughed Anselm, voice devoid of humour and face devoid of blood. Harlin shrugged.

  ‘There is little worth doing in life that is easy,’ he said.

  ‘There are challenges, Harlin, and then there is killing the King of Caermark.’ Anselm shook his head. ‘It can’t be done, not Aenwald. He’s the fucking Ironbrand, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘It will be done,’ Harlin retorted sharply, as Ula slapped Anselm again for swearing, ‘one way or another. I had hoped you would be with me on this.’

  ‘Of course I’m with you,’ Anselm frowned, ‘through thick and thin, you know that. Gods, Harlin, give me some credit, I feel bad enough for letting you go to that island by yourself. I shouldn’t have let you. ’

  Harlin sat quietly for a minute, lips pursed, swirling the dregs in his cup as he considered his next words. ‘Tomorrow I meet with the remaining clan chiefs and their Weavers,’ he said eventually, ‘a bunch of rich, landowning old cocksuckers who all hate each other, and will no doubt hate me when I tell them of what is to come of our meeting. Tradition demands that their chosen men attend them as an honour guard of sorts. I would have you attend me as mine, my trusted sword, lest one of their men thinks to cut my throat whilst we debate.’

  ‘Done,’ Anselm said eagerly, though frowning, ‘but what business do you have with the chiefs?’

  Harlin hesitated. ‘In time, Anselm. There are things you will soon see, and, I hope, understand.’ He knocked back the dregs of honey wine. ‘The winter winds bring change.’

  ‘I will be there,’ Anselm said, nodding, his face grave. ‘You have my word as your Shield Brother.’

  Harlin bowed his head humbly, gratefully, and for the rest of the night they made merry and spoke only of pleasant things.

  The following night Harlin found himself back in Radha’s hall sat at the hearth again, staring into its flames. Anselm waited close at hand, though he was, for the moment, distracted by the fare Radha and Ceatha’s serving girls were arranging on the tables lining the walls. Their platters were bare almost as soon as they were laid, though Anselm was heedless of the foul looks they dealt him from all angles, eating noisily. Ceatha herself lurked nearby in the shadows, the sounds of her pouring wine for herself came frequently from the tables.

  ‘If we do this, do you expect me to be your Weaver?’ Her voice pulled Harlin from his absorption in the fire. Ceatha stood across the hearth to his right, staring out an open window at the lights of Tásúil below, wine cup pressed to her lips. Sadness hung about her, outlining her every movement, no matter how small or subtle.

  Harlin narrowed his eyes at her coldly, she shuddered briefly as though she felt it. He wished she hadn’t drank so much before this meeting, it had loosened her tongue.

  ‘Well?’ she said, sipping, ‘that is what you intend, isn’t it, unless I misunderstood you somehow yesterday? You weren’t exactly clear about what you have in mind for me.’

  Harlin opened his mouth to answer her, when the doors opposite suddenly burst open and a gust of frozen wind drove the fire’s warmth from the hall. Two shadowed forms came blustering and stomping loudly into the light of Radha’s hearth, slamming the doors shut behind them and shaking off furs and cold both. They received warm greetings and blessings from Ceatha, suddenly all smiles and bright eyes. Two older men with grey braids, far older than he had thought they would be, and frailer-looking than he’d expected.

  They were joined shortly by another five figures who came through the doors in similar manner and were greeted in the same way by Ceatha. Three clan chiefs, two of them with Weavers significantly younger than themselves, but still edging towards their middling years.

  Harlin had to wonder, as his eyes moved across each wary, distrustful and disdainful face – was this all that was left of the clans major powers, these withered old men? Most, he assumed, had died at the Tiar Valley, either at the hands of the Marchers or the Dhaine Sidhe. Five former landholders, unquestionably more inclined toward cowardice than those who had died fighting. Harlin doubted any of them had ever held significant territories before Luah Fáil’s fall. He shook himself. It mattered not. All that did was that their sworn men followed, and fought well.

  The door opened again, and ten clansmen came trooping into the hall, armed and helmed, their shields slung upon their backs to show their intentions as peaceful, though swords hung visibly at their hips. The chi
efs’ chosen men. They spread out and lined the walls behind their respective chiefs without a word, and Harlin heard Anselm take his place behind him in turn, finally torn from ruining the small feast arranged for them. Radha appeared to Harlin’s side, her head bowing and raising as she greeted and introduced each chief in turn to the next. She and Ceatha seated themselves the same side of the hearth as Harlin, near to him, but just far enough away for it to be obvious they were still disgusted by him.

  ‘So what is this all about, then,’ Chief Rógadh of Clan Déoradhain said, tearing the flesh from a leg of chicken and quaffing ale from a silver mug. His eyes, dark and youthful in his sere face, betrayed a scheming look as he eyed Harlin across the fire. ‘Dragging us up here after sunset, and with such a cruel wind all about – doubt I’ll ever shake the chill from my bones, Radha, those steps get worse with every year.’

  ‘Aye, you must have good reason, we’re sure,’ said Chief Luwan of Clan Duhnglách, a collective sniggering from the other chiefs underlining his words. He set a hand on the leg of the woman next to him, some ten or more years his younger, his clan’s Weaver, Siobha. Her face was placid but her pale eyes lingered upon Harlin, and he could see how she weighed him, the prickle of her Weaving at his temples as she quietly tried to probe him. He raised his cup to her ever so slightly, with a knowing smirk that made her face tighten visibly, her Weaving scraping against solid walls it could not pass.

  ‘You are right, my lords,’ Radha said as she stood and looked down into her cup, eyes darting briefly towards Harlin. ‘I have brought you here for more than simple chatter and such plain fare.’ The serving girls bustling round the chiefs shot Anselm more foul looks while the chiefs chuckled again, some toasting her hospitality.

  ‘The days change,’ Radha continued, ‘winter draws in for us, and for others also. We hide upon this forgotten coast, thinking ourselves in exile, defeated, cowering like wounded dogs, whilst unknown to us our fortunes change imaginably.’

  ‘What do you mean, Radha,’ said Rógadh, frowning as he slurped ale noisily with a mouth mostly devoid of teeth.

  ‘Speak words, not riddles,’ said Chief Beadhan of Clan Cu Drógaid, rummaging through a plate of greens and cold meat, sparing the Ardas Druí only the briefest of glances. Harlin looked to Radha, who drew a deep breath and motioned to Ceatha, who set aside her cup and left the room hastily.

  ‘My lords,’ she said after a deep breath, ‘you may know of Harlin here, last warrior of Clan Faolán.’

  ‘I have heard the name in passing,’ Luwan said disinterestedly, though his beady eyes combed Harlin up and down. Siobha regarded him with renewed severity, fists clenched atop her dark skirts.

  ‘Killed your son a few months ago, didn’t he?’ Chief Dugo of Clan Balnach said cruelly near the end of the hearth, his elderly form sagging beneath layers of furs. ‘You break bread and share wine with killers of your kin these days, High Weaver?’ Radha’s eyes flashed.

  ‘Aye, I killed Bradan,’ Harlin said as she bristled quietly, standing, ‘he fought and died well, and gave me some new scars that day. It was I who called you here, chieftains of Luah Fáil.’

  ‘You mean to say we were summoned by a silver-ring boy barely grown into his bollocks, Radha?’ spluttered Rógadh, spitting ale into the hearth and staggering to his feet. ‘I’ll not be called here like a servant by some unblooded, hedge-born, Marcher-serving churl!’ He threw his cup down pompously. Behind him, his men thumbed their swords. Radha opened her mouth, but Harlin cut across her.

  ‘You were summoned by the man who found the lost crown of the High Kings in Hathad Camoraigh.’

  Ceatha appeared then from the rear of the hall as if on cue, bearing the crown in her hands as gently as a new born child. It had been polished beautifully, glittering almost garishly in the firelight, drawing all eyes toward it. The chiefs fell silent, the sounds of their gluttonous gnawing, chewing and slurping fading as Ceatha made a round of the hearth offering the crown for all to see. The muttering began within minutes.

  ‘Impossible,’ huffed Rógadh, ‘absurd.’

  ‘A forgery,’ Dugo proclaimed, snatching the crown from Ceatha. He quickly appraised it before shoving it back into her hands and calling for more ale. Luwan and Beadhan voiced similar doubtful sentiment, muttering suspiciously amongst themselves as Ceatha passed by, her face troubled as she looked to Harlin.

  Only Chief Hachan of Clan Tuilsan remained quiet, turning the crown over in his hands and examining it closely as it was offered to him, muttering something to his Weaver, Tacha. The two of them watched Harlin intently and said nothing.

  ‘It is possible,’ Harlin said, readying his prepared half-truths, ‘because I travelled to Hathad Camoraigh and took it from Túthal’s skull in the tomb beneath his fallen keep.’

  ‘You lie,’ Rógadh said dismissively, waving for more food.

  ‘I agree, you are a liar, silver-ring,’ Luwan chimed, gulping ale. Beadhan and Dugo grunted in agreement.

  ‘The island’s a death trap boy,’ said Dugo, ‘we all know that, we all saw what it became. Dispense with your untruths, you’ve insulted us enough tonight by daring to think you can summon us here.’

  ‘I did not bring you here to talk of truths or untruths,’ Harlin snarled, forcing down his anger. His raised voice made every head turn toward him. Anselm coughed awkwardly behind him, the clansmen around the hall edging closer threateningly.

  ‘Then what for, boy?’ said Hachan, his raspy voice cutting through tense air. There was authority in his tone, Harlin felt, something lacking with the other clan chiefs, all withered, petty little selfish men. They were weak things, undeserving of respect. It was Hachan’s gaze that Harlin held as he spoke.

  ‘I gathered you here so you could acknowledge me as your new High King.’

  A storm of laughter followed a moment’s shocked silence. The clan chiefs shook and bellowed with mirth, knees and backs slapped heartily. Harlin had expected as much, and he smiled and chuckled along with them. Only Hachan and Tacha kept quiet, he noted, sipping at their drinks.

  ‘Who gave you the right to rule us?’ said Luwan, shaking his head and trying to keep himself from laughing as he looked up humorously at Harlin. ‘I will not follow some silver-ring child that I do not know.’

  ‘Nor will I,’ said Rógadh, firelight shining from the bald patch atop his head as it shook slowly.

  ‘You are no one to us,’ Luwan finished, ‘and you give us nothing. The time of the High Kings is over. We will not follow you.’

  Angered shouting and insults soon followed, their humour becoming rage. Again, it was Hachan and Tacha who remained silent, watching Harlin intently. Tacha muttered something to Hachan, adjusting her heavy woollen cloak, her dark eyes fixed upon Harlin. Hachan nodded at whatever was said, the ghost of a smile playing upon his aged lips.

  ‘I do not recall saying, Luwan,’ Harlin said over their jeering, ‘that any of you have a choice in this matter.’

  ‘You want to die, boy? I –’ Luwan began, red-faced with rage and making to stand, only to be cast back in an instant. Harlin’s Weaving roared through the hall like thunder rising from the ground. The wooden walls shook and groaned furiously, the clan chiefs falling from their perches as dust and debris tumbled from the ceiling, their men toppling over behind them. The fire roared upwards in a tower of flame, clouds of sparks erupting from it. The room fell dark as Harlin’s shadow grew and loomed across them.

  ‘I did not come here to suffer the threats of old men.’ His voice shook the hall’s timbers. ‘I came to lead you to vengeance against the Marcher King. You hide like rats and make your people weak – I will make them strong, I will give them blood, I will set them loose upon our enemies and have them tear apart their souls with the sorrow they will unleash. They will be a storm of steel faces and broad shields, ghosts bearing sword and death as they fall upon them.’

  ‘How,’ Rógadh trembled fearfully cowering behind his fallen bench, ‘how can you do this?’
r />   ‘What are you,’ said Siobha, shaking, ‘no man has Weaved since the days of the High Kings.’

  ‘I am the Black Wolf, the High King of Luah Fáil.’

  Chief Hachan was first to rise as Harlin’s Weaving faded, helping Tacha to her feet, the pair brushing themselves off. He cleared his throat. ‘I remember your father, Harlin,’ he said. ‘Cunall was a great man, and a greater warrior. I always respected him, even if he did steal three hundred cattle from me for that fat bastard Chief Duhnóg. It pleases me to see his son has surpassed him, even if you lack a man’s rings. If you can best Hathad Camoraigh, then you can best the Marchers’ King. Clan Tuilsan will follow you, silver rings or no.’

  ‘The Marchers took our daughter from us many years ago,’ Tacha said, the two of them dropping to their knees in supplication across the hearth, ‘whilst she was journeying to become Sí Druí. They came in their ships to the town she had stopped at and took everyone, even the men we sent with her. We have heard tales of what becomes of those young girls they take. Tíbha had seen only thirteen summers.’ She halted for a moment, swallowing, blinking back pained tears. ‘I felt the Weaving in you the moment I saw you. Give us vengeance, and we will give you swords, High King Harlin.’

  ‘Are you mad, Weaver?’ Dugo cried feebly from the other end of the bench.

  ‘You shall have it,’ Harlin answered Tacha, ignoring the protesting chiefs picking themselves up and eying him with flagrant fear. ‘The rest of you can follow me, or die now, it makes little difference. I will either lead your men willingly, or I will subjugate them like the first High King did. I would rather you chose to follow, free men fight better, and my enemies are strong. Tomorrow I will don the crown before the people, then I will lead them against the Marcher King and give them justice. I have no time to waste, you follow or you die. We must strike true, strike quick, or our only chance will be lost.’