The High-King (Isolde Saga Book 5)

by Robert Jones

  “Why did the goblins leave? When are you going to attack Harkham?” Isolde spoke quickly as a thousand questions began to surface.

  “The goblins left us about a week ago,” Erik explained. “I don’t know why... fear seemed to take them all as one and with a single mind they just fled back north. And Harkham… who can say, we have already been here a fortnight. I don’t know why Hrothgar is waiting when the town is so lightly defended.”

  “He knows the south is rising up,” Harald guessed. “He will probably want to finish it in a single blow.”

  “Just like we should,” Isolde said. “Erik, why did you take us out the town? We could kill Hrothgar tonight and end it all right now.”

  Erik quickly stifled a laugh.

  “The king is waiting for you, Isolde. Everyone knows it, the soldiers don’t know who he is baiting, but I knew it was going to be you. He’s not even in that tent, I don’t even know if he’s in the camp. It was a trap, and you were going to fall right into it if I hadn’t found you first. You guys have to get out of here.”

  Isolde had to turn away to temper her rage. How could she have been so stupid?

  “How many southerners do you have coming up?” Erik asked.

  Harald shrugged, “as many as Wulfric could summon I guess. It would never be enough.”

  “Do you know when they will get to Harkham?”

  “Soon, I hope,” Harald said. “Maybe another night or two if they stick to Wulfric’s plan.”

  Erik nodded slowly, he was thinking and Isolde could see how cunning the young man was.

  “We don’t want to fight you,” Erik eventually said. “I might be able to turn some of the men. Convince them to join the south, we all hate Hrothgar as much as you do.”

  The idea was tempting, Isolde knew that if they could divide Hrothgar’s forces then they might still stand a chance against his loyal killers.

  “How would you do it?” Isolde asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Erik admitted. “The High-King will first send us in ahead of the army. If I can convince everyone to switch, then look for a sign. I don’t know… look for me in the field, I will raise a flag or something. But when you see it, tell your men to hold their arrows or we will be cut to pieces.”

  “You’ll be hit from behind as soon as Hrothgar sees the betrayal,” Harald said.

  “Trust me, Harald,” Erik said with a smile, “we would rather fight and die for something we believed in.”

  Harald nodded and caught Isolde’s eye, there was hope still.

  “Harkham is only a few miles to the south,” Erik said. “Go now, catch Wulfric and the southerners before Hrothgar marches. Tell them our plan.”

  His eyes couldn’t hide the desperation behind them and Isolde put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He looked away and Harald thumped him on the back.

  “It was never too late for you to make good on your wrongs.”

  CHAPTER III

  “Do you think Erik will make good on his promise?” Isolde asked Harald.

  They were watching the lights of Harkham from far up on a hill to the west of the city. The morning sun had yet to rise, but the deep darkness of night was fading away and they could see the city well enough. Both had agreed that approaching the city now would be ridiculous, the tension in the air was so thick that any guardsmen atop those grey walls would surely shoot them before asking any questions. So they stood in the shallow snow and studied the small city, taking in its narrow lanes and central streets. They could see the Jarl’s hall built of wood in a city of stone as the old ways dictated and Harald noticed how all the major roads seemed to lead from the gates to it.

  “I think he will,” Harald replied to Isolde. “He seemed genuine enough.”

  His mind was far from Erik though, he knew that even if the weakest of Hrothgar’s army switched to their side, then there would still be one hell of a fight, and they would still be outnumbered.

  “The walls aren’t that tall, are they,” he observed.

  “They will hold,” Isolde commented hopefully.

  “They will have to. We should get going.”

  They made their way back down the hill toward the south with the bite of the early morning air in their eyes. All of Harald’s weariness had been driven away by the night’s adventure and he couldn’t help but think about why the goblins had deserted. It mattered little, the fight ahead would be just as brutal, but it mystified him as to why the greenskins, who were famed for their brutality, would shy away from the coming carnage.

  The landscape changed little as they made their journey toward the crossroads. The rolling hills to their right were capped in the white frosting of snow while small pockets of birch and oak sporadically broke out between the fallowed fields of farmers. They kept the Harkham road to their left and stayed off of it in fear of being spotted, but other than the birds and themselves, there were no signs of life. It was peaceful, Harald thought to himself that this was a good country and he wondered what the folk would have been like if the war had not come to them.

  Dawn came and went and the mid-morning arrived to shunt away the bitter cold of the night. Though the dark clouds above their heads were so thick that no sun could be seen no matter how hard they looked. And so they stepped up to the lonely crossroads in the bleakness of mid-winter.

  “Where are they?” Isolde asked, but Harald knew that she expected no real reply.

  He looked around and the road disappeared to the south where a sharp rise quickly fell away. To the east, the cobbled stones led far to Unster on the threshold of the Watcher’s Wood. Yet, here they stood, at the right time, in the right place to meet Wulfric and the southern army, but there was not one sign of life, save from the steam that blew from their own mouths.

  “They should be here…”

  Harald could hear the panic welling up in Isolde’s voice.

  “They will be,” he said, though doubt was spreading in his own mind as well. “We’re early, give it time.”

  The waiting dragged on and the pair watched the southern leg of the road for any signs of movement, but it never came. Dark thoughts began to form in Harald’s mind. If Wulfric was late, then they would have to surrender the walls of Harkham and make a stand in Firth. He had never been to the town but knew it was much smaller. He shook his head to himself, maybe they would have to break the army up and fight in skirmishes… try and beat Hrothgar’s force in smaller fights…

  Isolde shrieked and broke Harald’s thoughts. He looked up and the sun split the sky, letting brilliant light stream down and catch the glint of steel as the first of the southern cavalry mounted the rise into their view. They were brilliant, proud riders in thick chainmail, the sunlight caught their lances so they seemed to shine silver in winter’s midday sun. It was Jarl Sigurd, Isolde’s father, riding at the head of the army, he raised his black-gloved hand to them and Harald felt pride swell up in his heart.

  Strong-armed spearmen followed the cavalry, their round-shields painted in the various colours of the houses and towns they fought for. It was a magnificent sight and as the Jarl dismounted his steed, Harald quietly wished that more men had heeded the battle call for the south.

  “Isolde!” Sigurd cried out as he strode toward his daughter.

  He was a kingly sight in Harald’s eyes and more so now than ever he had seen before. It seemed the years had slipped from the man’s face and even his salted hair had a sheen of vigour to it.

  “Where have you been? What have you done?” he cried and couldn’t keep the smile from his face as Isolde buried herself into her father’s chest.

  “Harald?” Sigurd said, his eyes finally catching him. “I barely recognised you!”

  Sigurd held out an arm and Harald came to embrace him.

  “It feels like it’s been a lifetime,” Harald said and smiled at the Jarl.

  “We thought you would never come,” Isolde said.

  “How could
I not?” he replied, his eyes glowing. “Wulfric told me everything… he said you were going to Heroth Nuir?”

  “It’s over,” Isolde said as she kept her face buried in his chest. “The witch is dead.”

  The Jarl tilted his chin in a slight nod.

  “It’s not over,” he said in a low voice. “Not yet.”

  “Where is Wulfric?” Harald asked as he spied the ranks of men piling up around the crossroads.

  “With the elves,” Sigurd said. “Narbeth begged him to come and rally as many of their people as he could. Pray Throndir they hear his words.”

  “We’ll need them,” Harald said knowing too well that as strong a show this small army was, alone it would be blown aside like chaff in the wind.

  “We’ve seen Hrothgar’s army,” Isolde said. “The camp goes as far as the eye can see.”

  “They are close?” Sigurd asked as his mouth formed a tight line across his face.

  “A few hours north of Harkham at most,” she replied.

  “We must move then,” Sigurd commanded.

  The sun rolled back behind the deep clouds and the moment of splendour was gone. Two-thousand men had rallied to Sigurd, that's how many he told Harald, but as he looked back at the gathering men, he guessed that the Jarl may have been exaggerating. Yet if they could hold the walls, then the enemy would not know their true strength or weakness. And with the elves and draugrs on their way, Harald thought their force might act like an anvil with the hammer coming to smash Hrothgar away.

  “Your father, Arne, could not come,” Sigurd told Harald as they moved north along the main highway.

  Harald snorted but the Jarl seemed not to notice, or if he did, he kept speaking anyway.

  “I kept a skeleton guard at Eyndale, I had to. Since you’ve been gone, things have only gotten worse with each passing day.”

  “Raiders?” Isolde asked.

  “Black magic at first,” Sigurd explained, “but when that stopped, it was the raiders, and when the raiders became worse it seemed every brigand in the south thought their weight worth gold. We have been busy, but now it ends.”

  The southern walls and gatehouse of Harkham rose up before them, the cold dark stones stood fifteen feet high, and the square towers were dotted irregularly around. A shout cried out from atop the battlement and Sigurd walked forth with Isolde and Harald in step.

  “Who stands before the gates of the great city of Harkham?” came a voice.

  Harald looked up above the iron-studded gates and saw the small head of a man whom the voice belonged to.

  “Jarl Sigurd and the men of the south,” the Jarl cried back.

  There was a long silence and Harald felt Jarl Sigurd’s patience waning.

  “What are they waiting for?” he grumbled to Isolde.

  She didn’t answer him, but a new voice came from above the walls, one that was deep and booming, yet carried no weight behind its words.

  “It does not surprise me,” the voice cried out. “The High-King waits to strike from the north, and Jarl Sigurd slithers up from the south to take me by my soft underbelly.”

  “Jarl Aba!” Sigurd cried out. “Don’t be a fool, we are here to help you.”

  “Help me!?” Aba barked back. “Why would my city need helping?”

  “Jarl Aba,” Isolde cried out. “Hrothgar stands before you with a sea of men, more than the eye can take in with one look. Let us fight beside you, let us throw him back together.”

  “Throw him back!?” Aba laughed. “Why don’t you take your little army and stand before my northern wall. Let Hrothgar break against your walls of wooden shields rather than mine of stone. Now, that would help me!”

  Harald turned to Jarl Sigurd and spoke under his breath.

  “We are losing time,” he said. “Break down the gate, let’s force our way in so we can help these people from this fool before it is too late.”

  Sigurd shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Aba might be useless, but there has got to be a better way.”

  ***

  In her mind's eye, Isolde could see all the grisly details of Harkham’s fate. She could remember the scenes that she had seen from Ama and realised the only thing that divided victory and defeat was choice.

  “You will burn…” she cried out desperately before steadying her voice. “I have seen it, I have seen your women and children in chains, your men dead in the snow. I have seen Harkham in flames and the south fall to the same fate. But there is another way, a way of hope, a way of trust.”

  Isolde strained her ears as the silence above the wall stretched on and she couldn’t believe there could be any hesitation.

  “Already it has started,” she called out. “Harald and I have seen it. We know you have seen it as well… the villages are burning, your people carried off as slaves. When will you make your stand?”

  Her voice was harsh at the end, bitter at the lack of action from the town. She listened for any reply and heard the sharp barks of an argument behind the battlements. Without warning, Jarl Aba cried out and the dark oak gate before them creaked as it broke open toward them. A guardsman squeezed through the opening gates wearing the dull yellow livery of Harkham, and Sigurd slapped her daughter on the back in approval. The guardsman’s long dark hair fell across his face and as he swept it aside, Isolde could see the shadow of a beard and the worry in his eyes.

  “Help us,” he pleaded, “we beg it of you.”

  Sigurd greeted the man and they found he was named Arvid, captain of the Jarl’s guard. Isolde silently hoped that this act was in loyalty to the city rather than treason toward the Jarl. Arvid was in the prime of his manhood, probably a few years older than Harald, yet his eyes did not share the same look of wisdom that her friend had come into these past months. Instead, it seemed that Arvid was a man who knew his job, but the world beyond that was not of his concern.

  “Traitor!” Aba cried out as he puffed his way through the gates and passed the Harkham guard who milled about.

  The outcry cut Isolde’s thoughts off and she looked up in disgust at the short fat man before her. He was laden in rich yellow robes, with a wide belt of leather stretched out across his wide stomach which the shaft of a short axe had been stuffed into.

  Arvid turned to his lord and cast his eyes down but it was Sigurd who stepped up to speak with Aba. He eyed the plump Jarl up and down and spoke sternly to him.

  “Leave the defence of your city to men who know how to do it.”

  “You think I can’t look after my own people?” Aba spat back.

  “I think you grow fat on the people looking after you!”

  Isolde stifled a laugh and noticed her father’s top lip curling and she knew that he couldn’t stand the site of Aba. Aba feigned offence at the words and Sigurd pushed past him, put an arm around Arvid’s neck in a show of brotherhood and led the southern army through the gates of Harkham.

  Harald and Isolde gave Sigurd and Arvid the space to talk as they followed them through the gates. When they passed Aba, Isolde met his eyes and she could see the feigned distress in his gaping mouth and rosy cheeks.

  “How can a man like that be allowed to rule?” she asked Harald as they moved out of his earshot.

  Harald shrugged. “Some men are born into it I guess. You did well in your speech.”

  Isolde appreciated the compliment, but there were graver things on her mind and as she looked at Harald, she could tell his mind was on them also. This was a well-built city with many of the buildings built of strong stone with great half-timber structures between them with their quaint whitewashed walls and dark oak frames. They walked the central north-south road that was shadowed by the double- and triple-story townhouses. Here and there the wooden signs of artisans and tradesmen swung from rafters, they were painted with horseshoes, anvils, arrows, kegs, and everything a larger town needed to run itself. Yet the streets were mostly bare, with only the soldiers marching, their tongues silent but the chinking of iron and creaki
ng of leather being enough noise to echo through the alleys and streets.

  Still, the noise seemed to have woken the people, and little by little, small faces were poking out of windows to see the soldiers. Townsfolk began to emerge from shadowy alleys and darkened doors with eyes full of awe and hope.

  “Jarl Halvar!” Sigurd bellowed over the din of marching feet.

  A solid man swept out of the rank and file and made his way up to Sigurd as Isolde tugged on Harald’s arm to do the same. He looked about the same age as her father, but as hard as his eyes were, he did not share Sigurd’s greying hair or creased brow. Halvar looked as though he had led a different path to his position, one where he did not fret so much about the future. By the time Isolde and Harald had fought through the growing crowd, the men were already talking.

  “I want your strongest soldiers up on the northern wall,” Sigurd explained, waving his hand vaguely to the battlements. Arvid says they have no more than five hundred men, and most of them are only townsmen with the weapons they could find. We need strong arms up there, Halvar.”

  Isolde noticed the piercing eyes her father used to bore into the Jarl and she shuddered as she remembered how powerful that look could be. Halvar nodded slowly and looked from the northern wall to Arvid.

  “Bows? Arrows? Oil?”

  “Not enough of any to go around,” Arvid replied.

  Halvar tilted his head to the side and let his long hair fall over his shoulder.

  “We’ll give ‘em cold steel then…”

  Isolde spoke then.

  “Skaldi will be coming from the west with… men. I don’t know when though.”

  She carefully avoided the fact that the old wanderer was in fact coming with a troupe of the walking dead, yet as soon as she finished her sentence she felt the eyes of the soldiers on her and suddenly felt like a girl again.

  “Good,” Sigurd said. “With Skaldi from the west and Wulfric coming from the east, we can crush Hrothgar against the walls.”