Graxis himself felt wrong. It was hard to picture him as a man, wearing that armour so twisted and helm grotesque it seemed almost to have transformed him into the beast it depicted. The monstrous ram of Ipathos. It was wrong, all of it. Something else was at work here, Arnulf was certain of it. It had to be.
‘My lord?’ He shook himself, realising he had slipped into a daydream and that Balarin was looking at him gingerly.
‘Forgive me, Balarin,’ he said. ‘The days are strange, my mind wanders of late.’
The latch in the turret door behind them clacked gently as someone opened it and stepped through.
‘Lord Arnulf,’ a voice spoke. They turned. One of Aenwald’s knights stood in the turret doorway, dark blue cloak and hood drawn about him to stave off the cold.
‘Yes?’Arnulf sighed as he recognised the etched brooch fastening the knight’s cloak at the shoulder. He knew what was coming. He was tired of Aenwald’s constant meetings, councils, debates and discussions.
Nine tenths of a king’s job are done with quill and ink, another three quarters of the remaining tenth done by sitting and talking to advisors, retainers and vassals who spin rhetoric and trade favours and arse-scratchery, and the last quarter of that tenth done by actually doing something. Usually that involved killing someone, in Aenwald’s case.
‘His Majesty the –’
‘– King of Caermark demands I attend a council of utmost importance,’ Arnulf finished for the knight, sighing. ‘On matters military, regal and of personal interest, and post haste, might I add.’
The knight closed his mouth with an audible click, a small crease of annoyance appearing on his frost-pinked forehead as Balarin snorted a quiet laugh, breath escaping as fog from his nostrils like a snorting, bearded bull.
‘As you say, Lord Arnulf,’ the knight said, bowing just enough to adhere to formality, but shallowly enough for it to still show reluctance. Arnulf let loose another sigh and slumped back slightly against the parapet.
‘I will be along shortly,’ he said, his own reluctance more than obvious.
King Aenwald had taken to holding his councils in the hall of the town’s small keep. It was a dreary, drab place, full of dull tapestries glorifying the town’s meagre history to loftier heights than it deserved. It was draughty, too, which made it all the worse to endure. The King himself seemed out of place as he stood over an ale-stained feasting table of modest grandeur, his large form swathed in furs and fine, bright cloth embroidered with his heraldry, thick finger tracing over a map spread before him and muttering to his captains and lieutenants. He looked up sharply as Arnulf entered and was announced, glancing over to Lord Ruric on his right and his two glowering sons opposite him.
‘Sellsword,’ he grunted in his usual greeting.
‘Aenwald,’ Arnulf grunted back in his, the collective frowns that ripped across the royal entourage’s faces providing a slight jolt of satisfaction for his weary mind.
He crossed the room and took a seat at the table, helping himself to a cup of wine from a nearby jug. ‘So what am I here for today then, Aenwald,’ Arnulf said after a sip, his disrespect and neglect of court formality causing a small wave of angry muttering, particularly from the two Princes. They eyed him darkly together, fists clenched upon the table.
‘Logistics,’ the King grunted, leaning forward over the table at him on both meaty hands, bushy eyebrows bristling in time with his beard. Arnulf grunted over the rim of his cup.
‘More logistics,’ he muttered, ‘and what for? Winter is upon us, logistics amount to about as much as a pile of frozen horseshit.’
‘I think you’ll find, Lord Arnulf,’ Aenwald said dangerously, face turning as red as his beard, ‘that even frozen horseshit has its uses.’ He straightened, looking down his nose, broad like the rest of him, at where Arnulf sat casually, sipping wine.
‘We’re marching for Great Armingstone to winter there,’ the King said, ‘forced, if need be. This… scattering of pebbles –’ he waved his hand blithely about him at the keep’s walls ‘– will not do against our enemy. We need defences, proper defences, supplies, and more men if we are to weather Graxis’s storm.’
His entourage voiced their collective agreement, nods and murmurs bubbling through the small hall. Arnulf nodded along with them, genuinely surprised the King had decided to act instead of talk, and so decisively. Though, as with anything Aenwald did decisively, there would be a trade off – efficiency for brutality was the usual rule with him.
‘And what of Redda’s Motte?’ asked Arnulf then, peering into his wine cup as he sipped at the contents again. Sour as vinegar. Probably the King and his men had swindled any decent vintage that had been lurking in this place.
Aenwald drew a long breath before answering. ‘The skilled chirurgeon must amputate the diseased limb before it corrupts the body in whole.’
Rhetoric was rare from the King, and Arnulf took a moment to respond. ‘You’re abandoning the town, then. That’s your plan.’
‘And taking their men, horses and supplies with me, yes, what of it?’ the King retorted, turning away to take up the wine jug.
‘Leaving the women and children to the mercy of Graxis,’ Arnulf mused, lips pursed and eyebrows raised as he stared off into the dark corners of the hall through the stream of wine the King poured. ‘Or father winter, whichever one takes them first.’
‘Such is life’s melodrama,’ Aenwald sighed dramatically, sinking down into a chair that seemed to sag beneath his large frame. He gulped wine.
‘Aye,’ said Arnulf, ‘that the people’s King abandons them to the enemy he supposedly protects them from.’
‘Yes,’ Aenwald nodded wearily, face pained, as though the weight of the decision brought with it great sorrow. ‘That he does.’ He sighed briefly, and drained his cup, throwing it to the floor lazily, an attendant scurrying for it.
‘I have an army and a war to consider,’ Aenwald elaborated, ‘we are on the back foot here, Arnulf, surely you can see that. We must retreat to safety and consolidate. When the spring comes we can begin our campaign against Graxis anew.’
Arnulf could see the underlying, harsh logic in the King’s words. He was unsurprised Aenwald would act so callously and leave such a large number of his people to their fate. The King had done worse before now. The men under his command perhaps had done even worse than he at his behest.
‘Such is life,’ Arnulf said.
‘Quite so,’ Aenwald grunted, sitting back. ‘The sacrifice of Redda’s Motte is essential to securing victory in the long run. Once the Empire are driven back to their hilly, sandy shitholes, it will be rebuilt along with every other town the scum have burnt since they landed. The crown shall release funds to help with the rebuilding, naturally, in gratitude for their contribution for the war effort.’
‘Making you the people’s hero once the dust has settled,’ noted Arnulf.
‘Could I be anything but to these cretins?’ the King laughed, ‘they have no one else who will save them.’
That was true, Arnulf admitted to himself, the entourage’s rippling chuckles grating in his ears. Only Gudrin, lord of Redda’s Motte, stayed silent, face torn between fear, worry and anger as he watched the King from his seat to Arnulf’s right. He was to be pitied, Arnulf thought, it was probably his first taste of the Ironbrand.
‘So when do we march?’ asked Arnulf after a lengthy silence.
‘Tomorrow at dawn,’ the King said briskly, leaping to his feet to pace the draughty hall. ‘Our men are already bringing in supplies and conscripts.’ He laughed then, a knowing gleam in his sidelong glance. ‘Do not think I have been idle since we took refuge here, Arnulf. A King must never sit completely still.’
Aenwald had been crafty about this, it had to be said. Even Arnulf had not noticed his hand at work in the town. The King must have been stripping the place of supplies stealthily since they arrived if he intended to abandon it on the morrow. He was a man never to be underestimated, in either h
is ruthlessness or his scheming. What else could Aenwald be plotting behind the screening hands he played?
It was a troublesome thought. It would have been more troublesome had Arnulf not felt secure in his own scheming to the south. He would need to write to Hroga soon, actually, come to think of it, it had been a while since he had heard from the Shield on their progress. Hopefully by now the garrison would be fully strengthened.
Heads snapped upwards sharply then, as a noise came from above. A hollow metallic ringing. Clang, clang, clang-clang…
‘Impossible,’ Prince Aenwulf said across the table, mouth gaping.
‘It cannot be,’ Lord Ruric uttered, his face drained pale beneath his beard. ‘Our scouts had them at least four days’ ride west of here. It cannot be!’
The bell kept ringing its warning as officers began yelling and running for the exit to assemble their men. ‘Perhaps, Councillor,’ the King hissed between teeth clenched viciously, ‘your scouts were wrong.’ He turned away, leaving Ruric flustered and blustering where he stood.
‘Perhaps it is Graxis’s sorcery,’ Arnulf suggested casually, ‘like how they came upon us at Harron’s Ford.’
Ruric’s eyes flashed towards him furiously, braided beard twitching. ‘What would you know of –’
‘Quiet, all of you,’ the King snapped, ‘to the battlements, let us see what has that foul bell ringing.’
Some ten minutes later Arnulf found himself and Balarin stood again where they had been before when Aenwald’s knight had brought his summons. The bell still pealed, deafening now they were so close. Men were yelling in the keep, and raised voices rose from the town below like a buzz as men darted through the snow-sodden streets below, like ants through fog.
Arnulf went to where the King stood flanked by four of his Redcloaks looking out west. ‘There,’ he said to Arnulf, pointing, snow catching upon his outstretched arm.
Arnulf peered out through the downfall, shielding his eyes. The flakes came thick and fast and had made the land outside of Redda’s Motte a white waste. The air was dimmed and hazy, but where the western woodlands stood Arnulf could discern movement. Squinting, he could just about make out the shapes of men.
Something streamed and twisted above them. A black banner, streaked with snow, flapping wetly in a gust that cut through the lowlands and struck the men visibly with its weight. Arnulf tried to count them but the snow made it too difficult. There were a great many, though, of that he was certain, a long black ribbon of them waited amidst the snow.
‘More of the bastards to the north and east,’ Aenwald spat through the snowfall, fingers turning white as they gripped the stones of the parapet.
‘And the south?’ said Arnulf, raising his voice against the din of the bell.
‘Nothing sighted yet,’ Aenwald said grimly, though his tone was doubtful. ‘Cyneweld,’ he said to one of his attending Redcloaks. ‘Go look south, see if we have a path of retreat open.’
‘This bodes ill, Aenwald,’ Arnulf muttered to the King.
‘That it does,’ the King muttered back, glaring westward, eyes burning over pink cheeks. ‘It seems we must abandon Redda’s Motte a little quicker than I first thought.’ He gave Arnulf a sidelong glance. ‘Be glad I had the men make ready in advance, sellsword.’
Archers were busy lining up on the walls below as serjeants bellowed orders and shoved men into position, some having trouble keeping their footing on snow-slick walkways. Cyneweld returned then as Arnulf and Aenwald tried to plan a hurried retreat through the snows. His face was grim and paler than when he had left.
‘Men spotted to the south, Your Majesty,’ he intoned gravely, head bowed. ‘They’ve spread out across the southern road.’
‘Fucking bastards!’ Aenwald roared out over the parapet, shoulders slumping in defeat as he gripped the stones again and turned his face to the ground. ‘How?’ he uttered.
‘Sorcery,’ Arnulf grunted, approaching him, ‘this Graxis wields the old powers of the world and brings them against us.’ He looked out then again at the faint line of men in the snowfield. ‘The land hides he and his army from our scouts at his will, and lends them speed and clear pathways to cut us off. That is how he took the north so quickly. Something has given him this power to use against us, this false god of theirs, perhaps.’
Aenwald said nothing, but raised his head and looked out again through the snow, his face carrying a dark look of acceptance. ‘Graxis,’ the King mumbled quietly, snowflakes settling briefly upon his chapped lips. The bell stopped ringing, leaving a rippling symphony of yelling serjeants and officers in the town below, while the wind howled and hissed over the battlements.
‘He is the serpent’s head in all this,’ the King said, straightening, ‘his army is helpless without him and his poison.’
‘He must die, Aenwald,’ said Arnulf.
‘I know.’
‘His magics will tear this town apart like they did Thegnmere,’ Arnulf went on, taking in the squat stone walls that ringed the keep and its buildings. ‘And this town is not half of what Thegnmere once was.’
‘I know!’ the King snapped, shoulders slumped again.
‘There is no escape for us, it seems,’ prodded Arnulf. ‘Relief will not be coming from Great Armingstone anytime soon in this weather, and it is too late to hope for it now, at any rate. We must act, Aenwald. What are your orders?’
The King’s eyes burned out westward in silence, the gravity of his decision etched deeply upon his face. Their war effort was balanced upon the razor’s edge here. If they stayed behind the walls of Redda’s Motte, Graxis would pull it down on their heads before the day was through. They had already moved to begin a siege, judging by their encirclement of the town, but it wouldn’t be long before an assault began, not if they followed their previous pattern.
‘We sally forth,’ the King said quietly.
‘Your Majesty?’ the Redcloak called Cyneweld tentatively said, face paling to a shade most commonly seen in corpses.
‘I said we sally forth!’ the King roared in his face.
‘Is that the King’s word?’ Arnulf said, smiling discretely.
‘You fucking know it is, sellsword. Gather your men, we attack immediately. They think we will hide from them – we will charge across the fields and fuck them in the arse while they try to pull their trews up.’ Aenwald drew his blade then and stared into the polished steel. ‘And when Graxis emerges,’ he whispered, more to the sword than anyone else, ‘I will cut the forked tongue from his heathen’s mouth.’
Arnulf lead Balarin back to their men’s quarters. The men were already assembled, all two hundred that remained of the new bloods Arnulf, Balarin and Ceagga had marched north. They gripped sword and shield tightly, each face lined grimly.
They were brave men, and Arnulf was proud to call them his. Balarin had chosen well, they had not disappointed with their skill, bravery, or loyalty. They fought well, and died well, like men should. It saddened him to think now, surrounded on all sides by a foe wielding sorcery dragged up from the bowels of the old world, that this could be their last battle. But, as they quietly, dutifully, accepted their orders and trooped out of the freezing hay barn they had been lodged in, he knew that whatever Graxis brought down upon them today, the easterners would feel the bite of the Blackshield Dogs one last time – and suffer its scars forever.
‘We take the western front,’ Arnulf called over his shoulder to his men, heading for the west gate at a brisk trot. ‘The snow will cover our advance for a while, stay close, and be ready to form up when they come for us. Watch your flanks, lads!’
‘Aye, lord!’ the men cried as one.
Ahead of them, where the sodden road fed through the western gate’s open mouth, two men sat astride powerful warhorses wearing finely-crafted plate, the gilt inlays showing the sigil of House Darnmor. A steady stream of spearmen and infantry were funnelling through the gate to a torrent of shouts and threats of flogging for those that didn’t pull their weight f
rom the pair of them.
‘Looks like Princes Aenwulf and Aenfeld will be with us, my lord,’ Ceagga commented, returning Aenwulf’s dark-eyed glare as they passed them.
‘Capable warriors, though a pair of matching arseholes,’ Arnulf grunted, ignoring the two snarling Princes, as red-faced and vicious as their father. ‘Let us hope they inspire confidence in their men, this will be hard on us all.’
The Blackshield Dogs stomped through the western gate, making for the western woods, sandwiched between regiments of spearmen front and back, snow whipping over their heads, catching in hair and beard. The world outside they emerged into was a blank canvas, pure-white. The wind bit sharp and hard, and Arnulf soon found himself bent double against it. The snow came so thickly that the spearmen before him were soon a mass of dull shapes moving through a white haze, lumbering ahead, their formation staggered, drifts reaching up to their calves already.
‘Stay close!’ Arnulf roared over the wind, ‘keep the walls to your backs and make for the woodland! Press on!’ He thought the men answered him, but the sound was lost to the fury of the snowstorm. He trudged on into the wind, armour streaked white. Redda’s Motte was soon a dull grey giant in the white abyss behind them, a smudge against the landscape.
The snow pulled at Arnulf’s feet, the cold air burnt his lungs as he laboured forth, throat ragged and raw with each breath. A faint shape passed by at some speed to his left, too big to be a man. One of the Princes, Arnulf thought, and his knightly bodyguard, seeing the similar shapes plunging after it. More passed him on the right flank. Aenwulf and Aenfeld, for sure. They were brash, careless, racing too far ahead in their bloodthirst. Clearly, they hadn’t inherited their father’s forethought – their foolishness would betray the presence of their main body of men, perhaps cost them the battle.
‘Forward, Dogs!’ Arnulf roared, picking up the pace. The spearmen with them fanned out left and right, securing their flanks. They moved more sluggishly now, he noticed, the snow and cold seeming to worsen as they pressed on. Is this Graxis’s work again, Arnulf wondered. Had he called down the snows to conceal something else?
The Shadow of the High King Page 64