The Shadow of the High King

by Frank Dorrian

  ‘They are my captives,’ Harlin drawled, sounding bored, ‘I will do with them as I please.’

  ‘I can free you of their burden, if you like?’ Graxis laughed, the sound making Arnulf want to vomit. ‘The Prophet can always use a touch more blood in his fires. He is a hungry god.’

  ‘I have plans for them,’ Harlin defended, ‘how do your men fare against the Ironbrand?’

  ‘Poorly,’ Graxis sighed, the sound like phlegm gargling, ‘as planned. They will hold for a while yet before they break, and the Burnt Ones harry his flanks painfully. He hopes to draw me into the field, slay me, even.’ Another grotesque laugh. Harlin sniffed.

  ‘Then I must be away,’ he said, ‘time is of the essence to me here. My thanks for your assistance, Kaethar – it will not be forgotten.’

  Assistance?

  Two dull thuds near Harlin’s feet. Arnulf risked a glance, and saw the gagged, bound and protesting forms of Princes Aenwulf and Aenfeld, stripped of armour and weapons. Their eyes were wide with fear as they stared up at Graxis, drool forming at the corners of their mouths as they tried to scream. What is Harlin planning?

  ‘Think nothing of it, High King,’ Graxis chuckled grimly, ‘you have mine for spilling so much of these thralls’ blood. The Prophet will be pleased. Though he would be more so if you let me cut the heads from these wretched things here.’ Again, that terrible gaze fell upon Arnulf. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Harlin grunted. ‘They will live for today, Graxis. I will make certain of that.’

  The Kaethar was silent for a long moment then. Arnulf dared not look up to see what transpired between the two of them, but something told him something was happening. Something secret, unseen. Sorcerous. His temples prickled again, but he couldn’t summon the courage to rub at them.

  What has the boy gotten himself into?

  ‘Very well,’ Graxis said begrudgingly, a dangerous moment passing. ‘Be on your way then before your victory is in vain. I have a feeling the Ironbrand is about to show my men just why he earned that name.’

  The crunch of snow, a flash, a gust of wind so cold it bit into Arnulf’s bones, and Graxis was gone – the horror his visage inflicted along with him.

  When Arnulf opened his eyes again, he found Harlin kneeling before him. That steel face had once inspired courage in Arnulf in the midst of battle. Now it only inspired terror.

  ‘The High King of Luah Fáil?’ Arnulf croaked out after a moment. ‘What is this all about Harlin? What have you been dragged into? This cannot be your doing, this is not who you are!’

  Harlin unfastened his helm and removed it quietly. His face was how Arnulf remembered him. Lean, pale, hollow-cheeked – the scar that marred his youthful looks carving its way through a few weeks’ growth of road-beard. But his eyes… something had changed in them. They were older. Colder. Where once there had been the light of youth, stained by years of warfare and hardship, now there was something endless, something beyond his understanding. In those eyes were twin oceans of silent, fathomless madness.

  ‘Times change,’ Harlin said slowly, almost sympathetically, a trace of a smile on his lips. His eyes then burned with blue-white fire, vapour from them rising into the air, carried away upon the wind in glowing trails.

  ‘I spare you this day Arnulf,’ he said, voice massive and full of threat, reverberating through Arnulf’s body, his armour shaking and rattling. ‘I owe you that much, and I need you for what must be done. But remember the next time our paths cross, old friend – that the dog and the wolf do not play together.’

  Arnulf felt his brow knot in confusion. ‘What –’

  Harlin’s hand shot out and grabbed his face. Something slipped inside him through his skin, into his mind. His vision was swallowed by burning blue clouds. Images forced their way into his mind, one after another, faster, faster until they shot by in a flickering blur. Their meaning, though, was all too clear, all too vivid. Arnulf screamed, and in moments all was black.

  He was woken by a firm clout across the face that shocked him back into consciousness. Aenwald stood over him, his face smeared with blood and battlefield filth. His eyes blazed furiously in the shadows of his helm. One of his knights was behind Arnulf, propping him upright from where he had lain. Around them were gathered Aenwald’s surviving men – bloodstained, shoulders slouched in weariness. They had proved victorious, it seemed. The Empire’s men were nowhere to be seen. That thought held no comfort as he remembered Graxis’s words.

  The snow had stopped falling, and a cold wind whistled over a white expanse, littered with still, slowly freezing corpses, frosted with clinging flakes. A deathly quiet was settled over the scene, ominous and barren. Arnulf’s lip trembled as the memories of what he had seen came flooding back, his body shaking beneath the cold fire in Aenwald’s stare.

  ‘Sellsword,’ the King said quietly, dangerously. ‘What happened here – where are my sons?’

  Chapter 24

  A Reckoning

  Harlin climbed the stone-crowned hill. He moved slowly, it was still dark, the slopes were littered with scree. A broken leg would undo everything he had set in motion. He reached the summit after a good ten minutes or more fumbling and clawing his way upwards. He rested against a solid boulder, drawing deep breaths, legs throbbing.

  The sky above the hills to the east was beginning to pinken as the sun approached wearily. The land between where he stood and where the hills rolled gently lay low and flat, threaded with innumerable streams and soft-whispering brooks. They sparked gold as the first tentative rays of sun peered over the horizon, their surfaces half-frozen. Birds broke into song moments after the light touched upon the treetops at his back. A faint mist hung over the lowlands, and it promised to be a beautiful winter morn, if a cold one.

  Harlin summoned Weaving and flung the Sight out east, searching, seeing, speeding through grass, earth, water and sky, miles passing in seconds.

  There you are.

  He grunted, satisfied, and headed back down the slope to where his people awaited his return.

  ‘Did you find them?’ Ceatha waited for him at the foot of the hill. The sun had not risen enough to light the forest floor yet, but her outline in the dark was pale and visible, as she leaned against the trunk of one the woodland’s towering redbarks.

  ‘They come,’ Harlin answered, feeling her tension. ‘They must have ridden through the night, they will be here in an hour or so, given their speed.’

  She came to him, heaving a sigh, slipping her arms about his waist and resting her head on his shoulder. The scent of her would have been enticing had his mind not been so occupied. Cruel gears turned in depths he had not known before. An excitement inside him was barely held in check, as was a certain sadness. And apprehension. In truth, Harlin did not know how to describe how he felt, but whatever it was, there was no room right now for Ceatha and her needs.

  She was scared. He did not need his Weaving to know that. Her fear of him had abated now they were joined, now she knew her position of power was secured. Secured whilst he was alive, that was. She feared what was to come. What Harlin had created.

  Ceatha shifted and looked up at him. Her eyes shone in the dark, wide, watery. ‘How many are there?’ she said after a moment, more to break the silence than anything, it felt.

  ‘Three hundred at least,’ Harlin answered quietly. ‘There might be more of them further back. Hopefully this will be over before any reserves reach us.’

  He saw her nod in the dark, copper hair slipping loose beneath her hood. She touched his cheek. ‘If this goes wrong, Harlin, then…’ she trailed off, resting her head against his shoulder again.

  ‘Then the clans are finished,’ he sighed, ‘I know, Ceatha. You think I gamble, and I do, but Aenwald will not risk too much, not with what we have to bargain with.’

  ‘I know,’ Ceatha said, a hint of a sob at the end of her words. ‘I know, but still… the Marcher King is a dangerous man. They say he is made of iron, they say –’ />
  ‘Men say many things of other men,’ Harlin cut across her, brushing away a tear from her cheek with a gloved thumb. ‘Especially of those that they fear. In the end, men are just men. All of them bleed. All of them die. Even those made of iron.’

  ‘And what of High Kings?’ The emerging light showed a weak smile on her face. He tried to smile back, though his patience waned.

  ‘We are all just men.’ He moved her arms from him, and strode past her through the trees, her solemn footsteps following close behind.

  Today was not for Ceatha’s sentiment to dictate, regardless of what she thought, or might try. Her scheming would not rule the day here. No, no. Today was his, and his alone. Today had been years in the coming, a lifetime in the earning. Today had taken blood and sweat in equal measure. The thought of it had kept him putting one foot before the other, kept a sword in his hand, kept him killing, fighting, eating, breathing – though its burden had been a heavy one in his time.

  Such burdens are the killers of men. Slow, insidious, like thick venom that works itself into the being of a man, its effects subtle but powerful. Such a poison breaks men in years, not days. Softly, gently, their life is taken. Piece by piece, inch by inch, the flesh of their being falls away, until all that is left is bare bones and exquisite agony that burns until they finally die. There are some who say it is only time that heals those poisons of the soul. They are fools, or weaklings. In truth the only thing that heals a poisoned soul is the cold extraction of blood by steel from whichever bastard inflicted it upon you.

  In the pit of him, that cold thing bristled, excited, alive, tendrils taut and gripping fiercely, anxious, eager.

  Today is the day it ends, it whispered.

  I know, he thought, hiding a smile.

  There is a place in the middenrealms that lies somewhere south and west of Redda’s Motte. A shaded wood of giant redbark trees, walled by stony hills to the north and east, unsuspecting and quite secluded. The lands around it are a place men call the Sombrewine, a lowland of crisscrossing brooks and streams that stretch for miles. They say that in the summer months it is a beautiful land, and perhaps that is one of the reasons why the wooded area has gone unnoticed so often. Though some say that there are other reasons.

  In the centre of that shady patch of woodland, there is a clearing. In that clearing there are a circle of rough stones, shaped by the hands of men but so worn by time and weather that their image and meaning is unfathomable. Few men know of their existence, fewer still have studied them. Of those that have, there are some who say they predate the coming of the Empire and the Old Gods of Caermark – a relic of something that came before, and now was lost. There are a few such places, scattered through Caermark, those with knowledge tell. And of the many different opinions of their origin, meaning, use and age, all agree that the area in which they lay seems almost separate from the world outside of it. Like time slows in their presence. Like there is something ancient and serene about them, pulsing slowly with life.

  Harlin stood there now, in the centre of that circle of stones, Ceatha at his side. The clansmen of Luah Fáil were dotted around, most encamped in the woods. In that silent place the sounds of a man sharpening his sword, another tending his friend’s wounds, seemed to echo loudly, brightly – yet dully, too, distorted by the air of this place, itself seeming alive.

  Harlin breathed deep. The Weaving was strong here. Very strong. But old, and weary. It reminded him of the nemetons of Luah Fáil, and he wondered if the Dhaine Sidhe, or something like them, had planted these stones. This was an ancient place. It felt good to be here. It felt right.

  The lights of cook fires rippled and shone pale between trees, the men about them solemn silhouettes, grey and black shades beneath slumbering giants. They mourned their dead, he knew, now that they could rest for the moment. But it was not these proud, serene figures that interested Harlin so much as the two shadowed lumps in the middle of the stone circle. He gave one a sharp kick, a muffled yelp coming from it before it turned its face toward him.

  Prince Aenwulf was a bloody mess, his nose broken, one eye closed and blackened, the other staring up at Harlin fearfully, watering as he whimpered through a bloodstained gag. Harlin had given no order other than they were kept alive and mostly conscious. Some of the men had been a tad rough with the two of them on the road here, but that was fine. They were still fit for purpose.

  ‘Good morning, sweet Prince,’ Harlin said sweetly, ‘you and your brother best get up, there’s work to be done today. You know how your father feels about shirkers and layabouts.’

  The Princes of Caermark squirmed and protested as Harlin had two clansmen haul them to their feet. ‘Take them to Dian and Orin,’ he bade them in the clan tongue, ‘tell them to make ready, the enemy comes.’ He smiled at the looks on the Princes’ beseeching faces, red drool trickling from beneath Aenfeld’s gag, his blackened eyes watering.

  ‘It’s time for your father to understand the true price of slavery,’ he said so the pair of them could understand, finding his voice falling cold. He watched them being dragged away by steel-faced warriors between the shadowed trees, muffled cries fading quickly in the thick air.

  He breathed deep again, steeling himself, picturing the look that would be writ on Aenwald’s face as he thundered across the Sombrewine.

  And the other one that would be writ upon it soon.

  Anselm approached him as he stood listening to the crunch of fallen redbark needles beneath his boots. They smelled good, like ancient pine, rich, an infinite depth and complexity to them. It took a moment for Harlin to notice him standing there staring at him, his new helm of clan-make tucked under his arm.

  ‘Make ready, Anselm,’ he said, noting his friend’s troubled face. ‘Aenwald will be upon us soon.’

  ‘Arnulf will be with him, won’t he?’

  Harlin chewed on that. Not sure what to say. Anselm had been quiet since their attack from the woods at Redda’s Motte had led them to encounter Arnulf. Withdrawn, even. It was most unlike him. Harlin knew the man’s loyalties raged within him. Seeing Shield Brothers falling beneath arrows and to clansmen’s swords had stopped Anselm dead in the midst of battle, struck dumb by the sight and unsure what to feel or do. It was that which had led Harlin to instruct Ceatha to rupture the earth beneath their feet. He himself had even felt some relief that he did not recognise any of the faces that had stared up at him from the ground – he was uncertain how Anselm would have responded had he seen Dag, Jorric, Torc, Dran or Red Harry staring lifelessly into a snowy sky, and he could afford no distractions.

  ‘He will be with them.’ Harlin nodded apologetically. Anselm closed his eyes.

  ‘It was hard watching him like that,’ he sighed. ‘I never thought before that battle that Arnulf could even be hurt. Not without, well…’

  He meant to say sorcery, or witchcraft. Harlin could see it in his eyes, and others’, now it was common knowledge he could manipulate the Weaving. The fear, the ever so slight turn of distrust. He would have felt bitter if he could. Probably would have been better if he could at least feel something, anything, even. Anselm had not treated Ceatha in this manner. Not for long, at least. That alone would have made most men feel at least some stab of betrayal. But Harlin felt nothing, and found his cares were only for whether or not Anselm would fight, and fight well, when Aenwald arrived.

  ‘I will not see Arnulf harmed, Anselm,’ said Harlin, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I owe him far too much. He is our friend, and always will be.’

  Friend. The word seemed to hold less meaning as time went by. He couldn’t tell if it was the Weaving, slowly stripping away the frail bonds between he and others, simply his own blackened heart, descending through darker shades as the days went on.

  ‘I am glad,’ Anselm said, meeting his gaze at last. He shrugged, labouring a weighted laugh. ‘The men have been singing songs of you all night, of your greatness. They say you bring them justice at last. Wrath of Cu Náith, s
ome even say of you.’ His face became sorrowful, for a moment Harlin thought he saw tears forming. ‘Never thought I’d see the day I stood against our Shield Brothers, though. Against Arnulf. I wanted so much to speak to him… but I couldn’t even look him in the eye when it came to it. Not as his enemy.’

  ‘We are not enemies,’ said Harlin, the lie spilling from his tongue smoothly, ‘nor did you stand against them. Why do you think Arnulf still lives after such a defeat? I would not see him fall afoul of us, just because our motives differ. I owe him my freedom, I owe him everything.’

  Harlin owed him nothing, but the lie seemed to satisfy Anselm all the same. He smiled faintly and clasped Harlin’s arm.

  ‘Who would have thought a grudge would lead us this far,’ Anselm said, face falling again. ‘Is this the right path, Harlin, truly? Is there no other?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Then what will this mean for us when tomorrow comes?’

  ‘We will face that when we must.’ Harlin gave him the warmest, most comradely smile he could muster. ‘Fear of tomorrow creates fear for today, Anselm. Stay true and all will be well. Now make ready, Aenwald comes for us.’

  Nodding, Anselm hefted his shield and trudged off to take his position amongst the trees, redbark needles crunching underfoot. Harlin dropped his forced smile at the sight of his friend’s retreating back.

  Enemies. They were something Harlin had never feared creating. Not when he was a slave, not when he was a simple mercenary, and least of all now he had been crowned High King. If Arnulf chose to stand against him, then he was just another name on a list now sure to be longer than Harlin was tall. It mattered less than nothing to him. Enemies come and go. Most die. Others can be killed, or subdued. Arnulf, he liked to think, knew better than to stand in his way where this matter was concerned.

  Ceatha touched his arm then, making him jump. She had been so quiet he had forgotten she was there with him. Though, to be truthful, the stone circle made him feel… distant. Almost as though he was utterly alone, detached from the world and void of burden, enclosed in a room of ruddy walls and green floors, the light dim and comforting. Her disruption irritated him, and he let it show in the look he gave her.