The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  ‘What chance?’ said Rógadh, more humble than he had been a moment before. Harlin smiled, bid them listen close, and told them all he had seen, ignoring the feel of Anselm’s fearful, horrified eyes burning into the back of his skull.

  The next day was a blur of action. Radha and Ceatha had their men arrange a rushed gathering in the town square in the cold, frost-spun morning. Row upon row of confused, excited, scared and blank faces assembled around the spot where Harlin had killed Bradan months before. He fancied he could still see Bradan’s blood upon some of the stones. The clan chiefs had brought their sworn men to watch and listen, as they had promised they would. They stood about the perimeter of the square at the front of the crowd, forming a loose circle. Behind them, Harlin could make out some of Bradan’s former rangers, now under the command of Orin, with whom he had crossed the Muil Márda, and Dian, Ula’s brother. He spied Orin himself briefly through the crowd as he made a circle of those attended, the man giving him an acknowledging grin and nod from beneath his hood. Harlin returned it, turning away to stand beside Ceatha and Radha before the ashes of the previous night’s fire.

  ‘Clans of Tásúil,’ Radha addressed the crowd, ‘I have brought you here today to hear an announcement, the weight of which will affect each of us. These are dark days for us all, each day a struggle, but at last we might have found the light of hope. My kinsmen, I give you Harlin, of Clan Faolán, son of Cunall, returned alive and whole from his journey to Hathad Camoraigh, our fallen home.’

  Harlin stepped forward, taking in the folk around him. He was not one for speeches, he had no idea of how to truly inspire a crowd, but the clans were simple enough folk. A show of strength, a promise of violence and revenge that appealed to the warrior in them, and they would be his.

  ‘Too long have you hid in fear, kinsmen,’ he said, circling the dead fire, looking into each man’s face. ‘The gods made us to fight, kill, and spill the blood of our enemies, not to cower and hope they leave us be. Long ago we were united as one people. Strengthened by the first High King, we drove the hated Bodah Duhn from our land into the hollows of the earth, and took from them what was rightfully ours. But greed made us weak, and the High King’s last descendant was betrayed, leaving us easy prey for the Marcher scum.

  ‘For years beyond counting they came to our island, burning, raping, and killing, taking our women, our children, to be sold as slaves in a burning land at the edge of the world. I myself was taken as a child, and my family, my clan. They made a fighting dog of my father, and whores of my mother and sisters, and I carry the marks of those days still.’ He traced the scar beneath his eye with a finger, heard the fiery muttering begin. ‘We have all suffered loss for their gain, and I did not return from the ends of the earth to see my kinfolk cower in their shadow.’

  Ceatha and Radha stood stock still at the town centre. Ceatha held Túthal’s crown, hidden beneath a white shroud. The two of them looked out at the crowd hesitantly, uncertain if Harlin’s words would win them.

  ‘To the east, the Marchers face an ancient enemy they thought long defeated.’ Harlin pointed across the forested hills around Tásúil. ‘Their king cowers, licking the wounds of defeat, hoping for the winter snows to save him as he plans his final battle. There is no dog more dangerous when cornered than King Aenwald of Caermark. Should he emerge victorious, he will only grow stronger and beyond our reach. And I’ll be fucked if I see Aenwald, the man whose lapdogs took my family, and all of yours, raise himself higher than ever before. We were conquerors, once! And we will conquer again!’

  He breathed deep, watching as the masses muttered and whispered to one another of his words. They shared his sentiment, it seemed. Some of the older men giving voice to their own personal grievances, the names of lost loved ones, of children killed and children taken, of lovers, husbands, wives thrown into hollow, hungry ships. They wanted blood – that fact had never left them – it had just lain sleeping. Harlin nodded to himself, and continued.

  ‘I ventured out to the forsaken island and faced the dark men of legend, I sought answers from our gods and from our ancestors, and they lead me to this –’

  Ceatha unveiled the crown, and held it aloft to a chorus of gasps that rippled through the town.

  ‘The crown of the High Kings,’ Harlin declared, ‘I claimed it from Túthal’s grave and carried it across the Muil Márda to unite us once more, and united, I will give you blood, an ocean of it, so much you could drown. I will give you the head of Aenwald, King of Marchers, so we can mount it on a fucking spike and dance around it as we celebrate his fall.

  ‘I say that a new day dawns for the clans of Luah Fáil, I say that a new chance looms within our grasp, I say that I am Harlin, of Clan Faolán and I demand our people’s due – all I ask is that you follow me like the warriors you are when I don the crown, and I will give you war, blood and vengeance sweeter than any you could imagine.’

  The crowd roared their approval, fists raised, swords drawn. Cheers, bellows and whistles shattered the air over Tásúil at Harlin’s impassioned words. He impressed even himself, he’d never spoke publicly before in such a way. If I am to lead these fools, then I must become accustomed to it, he thought grimly, bowing his head humbly as the clanfolk chanted his name. Calls for vengeance begun, punctuating the chanting. Their blood was up at last. They were his, now. Radha stepped forward and raised a hand for silence, speaking loudly as the clamour dimmed slowly.

  ‘As High Weaver’ she said, ‘I vouch for the truth of his words, and for his claim to the title of High King of Luah Fáil, a claim already backed by the remaining clan chieftains and their Weavers. Harlin is the first of us to return from Hathad Camoraigh, and brings with him a relic from our people’s legends. He is descended from a line of great warriors, and I can think of no other more fit to bear this crown than he. Do any here object?’

  Silence greeted her words.

  ‘Then it is settled,’ Radha decreed. She motioned to Ceatha, who stepped before Harlin and lowered the crown slowly onto his head. She stepped back and turned away silently, glassy-eyed and stony-faced.

  ‘Chieftains,’ Radha called to the five elderly men who stood on the edge of the crowd, each man suddenly straightening to attention with a vigour that belied their years. ‘Offer your swords and oaths.’

  The clan chiefs knelt before Harlin, swords offered atop their palms, and spoke as one, ‘To the High King of Luah Fáil, I give my sword, my service and my life, to do with as he pleases, until the day I die, and share Cu Náith’s hearth.’

  ‘And I accept it, my lords,’ Harlin said, bowing his head humbly, ‘and give you my own – to defend you, your lands, your people and their rights, and to strike down your enemies wherever they might be, whoever they might be, so that you may live as free men and prosper.’

  The clan chiefs rose, and turned outwards to each face the crowd. Chief Hachan raised his sword aloft, and bellowed, ‘Hail, Harlin! High King of Luah Fáil!’ The other Chiefs took up the call, and in moments it was echoing over Luah Fáil, so loud that flocks of winter birds took flight from the forest’s trees. To his side, Harlin felt Ceatha’s cold stare raking him. He raised his own hands for silence.

  ‘A High King needs a Weaver at his side,’ he called out, struggling to hear himself above the roaring clansmen. ‘And after much discussion, Radha and I have decided to put an end to the feuding of our clans, and move forward together to ensure the future of our kinfolk. Ceatha has agreed to help share the burden of this crown with me, as my consort and soulmate, and tonight we shall be bound as one.’

  Ceatha stepped forward as the crowd’s cheers reached a new crescendo. Turning to face Harlin, she looked at him coldly, calculatingly. Emotions warred behind her green eyes. Hate, greed, lust. This was her moment, he realised, her dream made real. ‘Kiss me,’ she said so only he could hear. Harlin raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. ‘You want to be a king,’ she whispered, lips barely moving, ‘you must be prepared give your people what they
want to see. Kiss me.’

  The kiss was light, a peck, more than anything, neither’s lips truly moved when they touched. Ceatha was quick to turn away, a hint of revulsion in her movements. Radha attempted to quieten the crowd once more.

  ‘Tonight we will feast their bonding and the honour of the coming war,’ she called out to them, their cheering louder still. ‘Go home, kiss your wives and your children and make merry, for soon we will march into Caermark as the gods’ vengeful fist.’ Her head turned towards Harlin. ‘May you lead us only ever along the path to glory, High King,’ she said quietly in the Marcher Tongue, the look she gave him one of unending distrust.

  The night was one of good food and good drink in Radha’s hall, as well as false smiles and uncomfortable interactions. Harlin and Ceatha were seated together at their table near the hearth, wooden platters before them laden with roasted pig, goose and small woodland birds, bowls of buttered potatoes and boiled root vegetables. The smell of it all set Harlin’s mouth to watering after months of marching rations and plain Dhaine Sidhe food.

  Ceatha touched nothing, save for the fine dark red wine Radha had brought from her stores. She knew what tonight entailed. It was marriage, of a sort, after all. Harlin partook a little of everything to appear festive, making small talk with the clan chiefs seated nearby, who hid their bitter gazes well as they toasted his name. He spoke with their favoured warriors, accepted oaths from lesser clansmen, the elders of minor clans without chieftains or land, some skilled craftsmen or smiths he could make use of. Dian and Orin came, too, offering the fealty of their rangers as well as their own. He made special note of them. Their skills would be needed.

  Ceatha, through it all, remained mostly silent, unwilling to make eye contact with Harlin, shuffling away from him slightly when his hand graced her thigh at passing congratulations of their union. She drank more deeply, her white cheeks flushing pink as the night drew on.

  The tables were cleared by tired-looking serving girls as the moon vanished in the night sky and the hall emptied of drunken clansmen and women. Harlin could still hear the music coming from outside in the streets of Tásúil, and, looking through an open window, saw the lights of fires and their silhouetted revellers dancing around them. Looking back, he found the table he had sat at empty, and caught the hem of Ceatha’s pale dress vanishing into the back rooms.

  Harlin followed her quietly down the corridor and into her dimly-lit chamber, closing the door gently behind him. Ceatha’s room was sparser than he’d expected it to be. A simple, yet plush bed, clean, fragranced rushes and a small dressing table with polished silver mirror. He’d expected something more exuberant from a girl so absorbed by her own grandeur.

  Ceatha herself stood looking through the slats of a shuttered window at the joyous fires in the town below. A cup of wine was perched at her lips. She swayed slightly at Harlin’s approach, refusing to look at him. His own head was a touch fuzzy from drink, forced to down several cups to maintain honour and civility.

  ‘I hate you,’ she said softly as he stopped at her shoulder.

  ‘I know,’ he answered, ‘I hate you, too.’ He moved behind her, wine-slowed fingers fumbling clumsily with the laces of her dress. ‘But if you want what is rightfully yours, then we must be seen to be close, the clans will expect it of us.’

  ‘I know.’ She downed her wine. ‘I do this for them. For Bradan. For myself. Always remember that, Harlin.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Ceatha shivered slightly as he slipped her dress down her shoulders, from his touch, Harlin knew, and not the room’s cold air. She set her cup aside with a resigned sigh and faced him, holding the loosened dress over her breasts with a shivering hand. Harlin pulled her close, the unconcealed repugnance in her eyes cutting through the gloom.

  She kissed him stiffly on her tiptoes at first, but after a tense moment passed, she softened and was against him, letting her dress fall and her hands slip up his shirt to the hard muscle beneath. She lost herself fully, all inhibition fading, her teeth nipping Harlin’s lip playfully between lustful kisses. Harlin responded minimally, mechanically, trying to think of something that would arouse him. She was dull compared to Duana and her forceful, violent affections. She pushed him away with a frustrated sigh as he went to pull her dress down past her hips.

  ‘If we are to do this properly, can you not even pretend that you want me?’ she snapped, arms folding over her exposed, modest bosom. ‘You make undressing me feel as if it’s a chore for you.’

  ‘Perhaps I could,’ Harlin said, annoyed, drink sharpening his tongue, ‘if you didn’t make me limp.’

  Ceatha’s face fell. ‘Limp,’ she repeated, scandalised, ‘I make you limp?’ Harlin opened his mouth to argue, when her eyes suddenly flashed green, and he was thrown backwards from the hand she laid upon his chest. He landed awkwardly on her bed and went to rise, growling, but found himself shoved back down by Ceatha’s slender hand. She sat astride him naked, her dress a crumpled heap behind her. She unfastened the laces of his pants, face furious as she felt for him.

  ‘I make you limp?’ she said, head cocking as he stiffened in her grasp. ‘You make me dry between the legs, you wee shite.’ He watched open-mouthed as she licked her hand slowly, her eyes full of a hateful lust as she rubbed it into herself. She guided him inside of her, slipping down onto him with a small gasp. She leant forward with a shuddering breath, her nails biting into his chest. ‘I… fucking… hate you, Harlin,’ Ceatha panted atop him, the bed creaking in time with her hips. The sound was soon drowned out, her back arching and insults turned to pleasured groans and sighs.

  She was quite the sight as she writhed atop him, red-haired, pale, wanton and beautiful. Another time, Harlin would have drank deep of the scene, locked it in his memory, savoured every moment of the conquest. But his eyes that night were fixed upon a dark corner of the room behind Ceatha, near her dressing table, where he had glimpsed, for a hair’s width of a second, a shadowed figure, slim and feminine, its violet eyes glowing gently as it watched them.

  Harlin lay awake sometime later when Ceatha had finally had her fill of him, sober and unable to sleep. Ceatha lay beside him asleep, her silhouette a pleasant landscape of gentle curves in the dark and her soft breath a warm backdrop to the silence of the deep night. He rose, stepping quietly towards the shuttered window and opened it, the cold air raising goosebumps over his flesh instantly.

  The clans alone were not enough for what was to come. A thousand men would be crushed all too swiftly by Aenwald’s forces when what he had in mind came to pass. He summoned the Weaving, and cast his Sight out into the east across Tásúil’s forested borders, over darkened, empty land. He roamed far, for what felt like hours, until at last, he felt the faint, distant pulse of another’s Weaving. He stopped, focussed upon it, listened to its whispers and the monstrous potential it held. He headed towards it, a smile creeping onto his face where he stood naked in Ceatha’s chamber.

  Chapter 23

  The Dog and the Wolf

  ‘This winter will be a bitter one,’ Arnulf sighed to Balarin, looking out across the barren fields before them. Snow was beginning to fall lazily from a woolly sky, already speckling the lands about Redda’s Motte as it collected.

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ said Balarin, leaning forward on the keep’s parapet on folded arms. He shook snowflakes from his beard. ‘Still, we have some respite from it here, at least.’

  ‘True,’ said Arnulf, throwing up his hood against the downfall. ‘But I fear what it will bring. The town was unprepared for our coming, our supplies won’t last long, nor the townsfolk’s, not with so many to feed, and forage has been poor.’

  ‘Has Aenwald sent messengers out?’

  ‘He has,’ said Arnulf, joining him against the parapet and blowing a flake from the end of his nose. ‘But now that the snows have come, I fear they are a futile measure. We don’t have enough grain to feed the horses on a march to Great Armingstone, and any march through the snow will
see many perish, especially with the Empire snapping at our arses.’ He sighed then, resting his forehead on his arms.

  The weeks since their defeat at Harron’s Ford had been hard. Winter had come quickly as they had been chased by their enemy across the empty landscapes and rugged passes into the east. Arnulf still shuddered whenever he thought of that day. When he thought of him.

  Graxis, the last Emperor of Ipathos, the one who had broke the skies above Harron’s Ford. The Kaethar, Aenwald said his official title was. Whatever he was called, it was clear that Graxis was no man. Arnulf had seen many things on the battlefield in his years, horrid things, frightening things, but nothing like what Graxis had done.

  The Kaethar had stood atop the hill overlooking the battlefield, hand raised, and had pulled lightning from the sky. He had wielded it like a sword, and there were stories of how it had split men wide open like sacks of grain.

  The fact that they had been taken by surprise so easily, with no sign of Graxis heading south at all, or lying in wait so close at hand... that disturbed Arnulf more than whatever the creature had wielded as a weapon – the scouts had reported seeing nothing in the south before they had been attacked. Literally, nothing. No tracks, no signs of camp, footstep or forage. And they had come upon them in so great a number.

  Arnulf shuddered. It was plain to see there were sorceries at work here, Graxis’s more flagrant displays making that glaringly obvious. Vathnir’s laws warned men against the evils of sorcery. The priests in their temples said that it offended the gods, who had kept it from men to keep them safe. To wield it was to spit in the face of their protection. It was the domain of savages and their false gods, like the clans of Luah Fáil. Arnulf was ever a cynic, and never did he put too much stock in the word of gods – they had done him no great favours in his life – but what Graxis had done… it was unnatural, it felt wrong.