Harlin made sure he held Arnulf’s stare, though it bordered on insubordination. Some men back down before others, would let their pride take a bruise from those of higher station. Harlin was not one of them.
Arnulf broke the silence first, ending the face off. ‘Come with me.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Arnulf turned away. Harlin followed quickly, if reluctantly, his mind on his meal and wineskin he’d left behind.
Arnulf led him through the arranged, lopsided tents the Dogs had erected in clusters around their campfires. They headed for the edge of the company’s spot on the plain, where a large black tent, flanked again by the company banner, towered above the others.
Two of the biggest and meanest bastards in the company were posted outside the tent as Arnulf’s personal guard: Dran the Shiv and the man everyone just called ‘Boulder’, on account of him being roughly the same size as one. Both giants were clad in the mail and black leather armour that made up the Dogs’ uniform. They bowed their heads as Arnulf approached with Harlin in tow and held the tent flap aside for them to enter.
Inside was a fairly functional affair. Braziers were lit and highlighted a folding travel desk where Arnulf attended to the company’s paperwork and maintained a list of all active company personnel – both fighting and administrative. A clay inkpot weighed down the corner of a map depicting the northern realms. Harlin could make out their current position as he stood before it with a path north marked out, hastily scribbled notes flanked the route here and there. Many tiny annotations surrounded the mark that indicated Thegnmere. He did not have a chance to read them before Arnulf had seated himself behind the desk, his hands clasped before him, covering the notes.
‘You missed the briefing today,’ Arnulf said, his tone unconcerned. Anselm had been right – he was in for a bollocking.
‘Apologies, my lord,’ Harlin said passively. Arnulf grunted in reply. ‘My mind wanders this time of year, my lord.
‘I have noticed,’ Arnulf snapped. ‘I do not like this reclusiveness you have shown of late, Harlin. It is counter-productive.’
‘I… apologise, my lord.’ He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Arnulf’s mouth tightened.
‘That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourself? You missed out on your marching orders, shirked your duty to attend them, and have no explanation?’
‘I…’ Harlin faltered, eyes finding his boots, pondering how to say he couldn’t focus on things anymore without incurring a punishment for laziness.
‘I did not hire you,’ Arnulf said slowly, threateningly, ‘so you could wander camps drinking, fucking girls and ignoring my orders. You’re a warrior, boy, my warrior. You’re paid to obey, and kill whoever our contractor wants killing.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Harlin said stiffly.
‘Our reputation,’ Arnulf went on, ‘rests upon you men, and your ability to do your job effectively. Securing future contracts rests upon our reputation. So if you do not fight well, because you have been shirking duties and fucking about instead, then our reputation will be besmirched. Do you see the problem in this?’
‘Yes, Lord Arnulf.’ Harlin fists clenched hatefully.
‘Then we have some understanding at least,’ Arnulf said, tracing a thumb over his lips as he regarded Harlin. ‘Though I still fail to understand what makes you think you’re special enough to ignore my orders. I have been tolerant because I can look at you and see the warrior you are, the warrior I need, but no one else would dare test my patience in such a way, and I have been patient with you, Harlin. Too patient.’
Harlin bit back a furious retort, mouth drawing into a thin line. Disobedience usually was rewarded with a flogging.
‘Would you care to hear your briefing?’ Arnulf went on sarcastically. ‘Unless you have something more important to attend to, that is? I’d hate to keep you from it.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Harlin said, fighting to keep his voice level.
Arnulf stared at him furiously over the table, eyes not leaving his. ‘We march on Thegnmere tomorrow,’ he said tersely, ‘the town has been razed. Lord Callen, our employer, wishes to reclaim it. That is, of course, if you are fine with this? We could just stay here, get drunk, perhaps frolic with some whores?’
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ Harlin said. It was probably better than ‘fuck you, my lord’.
‘We shall see,’ Arnulf grunted. ‘Fight well at Thegnmere and I’ll spare you a flogging.’
‘Thank you, Lord Arnulf, for your generosity.’ Arnulf’s eyes flashed. ‘Who will we be fighting?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Arnulf, sitting back.
‘There have been no scouting reports?’ Harlin asked, mask of neutrality slipping. An unknown enemy did not sit well with him.
‘None have returned,’ Arnulf breathed, brow furrowing. ‘Most of Lord Callen’s knowledge has been gleaned from refugees from the area. They speak of men with silver faces who slipped silently from between the trees like ghosts, and of the town burning like a funeral pyre.’
‘Ghosts from the trees?’ It sounded fanciful.
‘So they all say,’ said Arnulf, sounding doubtful himself.
‘Were there no survivors from Thegnmere that could be questioned?’
‘None that we’re aware of,’ Arnulf sighed, ‘the town was razed in near silence. No banners were seen, no runners were sent, no warning beacons lit, nothing.’
Thegnmere was more fortress than town, from what Harlin knew of the place. Both its position and defences meant it was a daunting obstacle to overcome in a direct assault. High walls, high ground and a river to cross before you even got there. Capturing it would be no easy task, and not something done quickly.
‘Was there no word received of a siege?’ Harlin asked. Arnulf shook his head from behind his desk.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘From what we gather there wasn’t one. The town was simply destroyed in a night, and then the attacks came from these silver faced men on the outlying settlements.’
Harlin pursed his lips thoughtfully. How could a town like Thegnmere fall in a night? There was no force in Caermark capable of such a feat.
Harlin breathed deeply and thought carefully before he spoke again.
‘This feels… amiss, my lord,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. Arnulf was not one to have his judgement questioned by anyone, let alone those under his command. To Harlin’s surprise, however, he simply nodded.
‘That it does, Harlin.’
‘Should we be joining this venture, my lord? It seems… ill planned.’
‘That,’ Arnulf snapped, ‘is none of your concern. You will march north, you will fight alongside your Shield Brothers, and you will retake Thegnmere. I will worry about whether or not it is a wise decision to tag along with this rabble of an army, not you.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Good, now get out. If you disobey me again or shirk any further duties, Harlin, I won’t hesitate to have you flogged, even with a battle looming, is that clear?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Harlin clenched his teeth so hard they hurt. He bowed, and turned to leave.
‘Harlin,’ Arnulf called as he reached the tent flap. He looked back over his shoulder. The Lord-Captain was looking at him strangely. He didn’t know what to make of it.
‘The past is a place to learn from,’ Arnulf said after a moment’s silence, ‘not to live in. Nothing good comes from dwelling in a place that can never be changed. It will only serve to torment you. Let it go. It’s time to forget.’
Harlin paused, caught off guard. ‘As you say, my lord.’ He left as Arnulf nodded and looked away.
As he made his way back to the campfire, Harlin could not help but let his mind seethe. It burned to be spoken to like a child. Arnulf was right, he supposed – he shouldn’t have disregarded his summons to the briefing, all the men were expected to attend to accept their orders. But it still burned. They were foolish orders. March blind to Thegnmere? Find out what kind of f
orce they’d be facing once they got there? Utter stupidity, surely anyone could agree on that.
And to tell him to simply forget? That burned most of all. Some men forget. Others do not. Some men can accept shit shovelled to them day in, day out and chew upon it with a smile and a merry wink. Maybe they were stronger men than he. He had tried to forget. He had tried more than anything to move on. It didn’t work. And it was none of Arnulf’s concern, regardless. He had no right to suggest anything of the sort, Lord-Captain or not – the scars that run through the very core of you cannot be forgotten.
Tits would be good right now, he felt.
He emerged into the light of the camp, the company banners rippling gently above him. ‘Harlin!’ Anselm barked from across the fire, where he sat with his large arms around two young, smiling girls. ‘I told you I’d find them!’ Harlin smiled to himself, hurts suddenly forgot, and went to join him, swiping a full mug of ale from the hands of one of the men who’d passed out drunk.
‘I see your quest was more than a success, Anselm,’ he said, taking up a seat on a discarded crate and eyeing up the girls Anselm had corralled into joining them. They were most pleasing to the eye for sure. Women, much like swordplay and fighting, were one of Harlin’s major interests, and one – like swordplay and fighting – that he felt the need to practice his skills with frequently. A sword arm must be kept sharp after all, if you wish to strike true with it.
He noticed the one under his friend’s left arm let her eyes linger on him a moment after he met her gaze, and she turned away with the faintest of smiles. Young, still in her teens maybe, soft red lips that traced knowing, suggestive smiles, long blonde hair that cascaded down her back and full chest, her thin white shift doing little to conceal what his eyes sought to find.
Mine, he thought, sipping ale and pretending to listen to Anselm’s semi-drunk prattling to the girl under his right arm. He saw the blonde glance at him now and then as he let his eyes feast on the sight of her. She was a treasure to behold.
‘Now this here, girls,’ Anselm was blabbering, slurring ever so slightly, ‘is Harlin.’ A slight nod of his head in Harlin’s direction drew the girls’ attention to where he sat in silence, drinking slowly. ‘Harlin, the only wolf among the Blackshield Dogs.’ That earned a small titter from them, the one under Anselm’s right arm beginning to draw shapes across his chest with a free hand. Her raven hair painting her a stark contrast to her blonde friend, whom Harlin had every intention of devouring before the night was through.
‘Never seen a fucking swordsman like this one, you haven’t,’ Anselm was still rattling away, ‘none of the grace you’d find from the likes of me, of course – I like to cut men up fluidly, let my footwork confuse ‘em and amaze ‘em – but he’s got this simple, efficient brutality to him, absolute butcher of men, no fucking about that’s for sure. One man I wouldn’t choose to cross blades with, an’ I’m no fucking tart let me tell you, ladies…’
Anselm went on to recount some of their adventures over the years during this war and that battle. A skirmish in the King’s campaigns to subjugate rebellious lords, where they found chests of gold hidden by bandits or outlaws in the old abandoned fort near Fenn Camrann. Apparantly he and Harlin had taken down twenty screaming warriors from a hill tribe from the north standing back to back like a storm of steel. It was all Harlin could do not to laugh at the tales he was inventing, and tried his best to hide his smirks behind his mug of ale, which was vanishing too rapidly for his liking.
It was no small degree of pleasure that he saw the blonde girl wriggle free of Anselm’s meaty arm and pad over to him. He looked up at her, and she looked down at him – over the top of her considerable chest, he noted. ‘May I sit with you?’ she asked softly, her voice light and musical. ‘This big, bald lout,’ she jerked her head at Anselm, ‘keeps pinching my arse.’ Harlin fought down a snigger. Both at Anselm’s inclination to the pinching of young girl’s arses (a man after his own heart, he thought) and how the firelight shone off the man’s round, hairless head, crisscrossed with scars.
‘Of course, my lady,’ he said, trying not to choke on a laugh, and edged over on the crate to make room.
‘My thanks. Do you have any wine?’ she asked, plopping down next to him so close they were touching. Not that he minded. Her white linen garb was thin enough to let the heat of her skin through, and clung scandalously to the delightful curves of her body. It was almost see-through in some places, he took note. She woke his passion without effort.
‘Ah, no,’ he said, dragging his eyes away from her figure to her face. ‘One moment.’ His own wineskin was long gone, so he moved quickly to a random tent and dove inside the flap, only to be greeted by the sight of Dag’s pale arse, hammering up and down between the legs of a girl he could only presume was the one he had been molesting earlier. Ignoring the sight, he pilfered the wine skin they had discarded near the opening of the tent, pleased to find it half full still, and returned to where he had left the girl sat waiting for him. He handed it to her and sat back down, pleased to feel her thigh rub against his. She thanked him and drank deep.
‘Much needed,’ she said softly, a slender hand wiping the corner of her mouth. ‘I’m Aedri.’ Harlin took her hand and kissed it dramatically.
‘A divine pleasure to make your acquaintance, Aedri,’ he simpered overtly in a way that would have put Jorric or Torc to shame. The gentle yet somehow devilish smile that spread across her face was quite satisfying.
‘And to make yours, Harlin,’ she said. ‘Your friend Anselm was telling us both quite a bit about you.’
‘I heard.’ Harlin looked over to where Anselm was sat with Aedri’s friend, her legs across his lap and his eyes firmly on her breasts as she swigged ale in a manner eerily reminiscent of Anselm himself.
‘He told us even more before you joined us,’ said Aedri. ‘I hear you’re the scourge of the south.’
Scourge of the south? Harlin thought vaguely. She sounded sceptical, but her words cast his mind back a good few years.
A burning town, a dying man’s hands upon his blade.
He shuddered.
‘I assure you the reality is no match for the legend,’ he said, focussing back on Aedri.
‘Quite,’ she said bluntly. Harlin raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. ‘Your arse-pinching oaf of a friend had me thinking you’d be eight feet tall with horns and covered in the blood of your victims. I’m disappointed you seem to be just a man, not a monster.’ She turned her face away and took a sip of wine, her lips pursed teasingly as she gave him sidelong glances.
The game of lovers often involves the bandying of teasing words and some degree of insult for good measure, a chasing, parrying sport of word craft and of glib-tongues. Harlin was no silver-tongued poet, no spinner of intricate metaphor or dainty synonym. He often found bluntness, brazenness and a dash of insolence were the weapons he wielded best when fencing words with the opposite sex. Especially young girls. A streak of arrogance in your words, they would mistake it for confidence. Often it would find the chink in their armour that would let you prise them open.
‘I am a monster,’ he uttered. She raised an eyebrow curiously at him. ‘Where I come from we tell our children some monsters wear the faces of men. The sluadh we call them. They come and steal the souls of men in the night. Some say they take the form of their victim’s dead kinfolk to trap them.’
‘You don’t look like any of my kin,’ she said dismissively, sipping wine.
‘I suppose not. But some say that a man is shaped by his sins, and if that is true then I am a monster. I kill men for coin and war is my life. My sword drinks deeply of men’s souls even if I do not, I have bathed in enough blood to fill the Parting Sea. An old crone of a woman once said that the ghosts of a thousand dead men follow behind me, and a thousand more wait to die before me.’
Their eyes were caught together. It sounded melodramatic, a tall tale made taller by drink. He didn’t care, he had no mind other than for
the shape of her hips, the sweet scent of her and her lips made for the kiss, soft and pouting. She made him hunger.
‘That’s the thing,’ the girl said at last, holding his gaze. ‘You fighting men, you all think so much of yourselves. To me you always smell of sweat and blood.’ She was right, he supposed. She paused again. One of her teasing, subtle smiles came to her lips and she looked him up and down. ‘You are pleasing to look at though. For a monster.’ She turned away from him again and sipped her wine. ‘I like your hair. It’s unusual.’
Harlin instinctively ran a hand down his hair. Dark braids, long and thick, trailed down his back, kept neat with slender silver rings etched with tiny wolves. The men of his people were fighters, and wore their hair long and braided; often longer than their womenfolk’s. It was homage to their god of war, Cu Náith, who wore his hair the same. He told her as such, as she drank more wine and listened with an interested expression.
‘And where are you from?’ she asked, sounding ever so slightly merry, and a bit cynical.
‘From Luah Fáil.’
Aedri’s eyes widened in genuine amazement. ‘An island boy? And no accent?’ she laughed. ‘The accent is so beautiful! What a shame!’
‘I left when I was very young,’ said Harlin, taking the wineskin from her and swigging a mouthful from it. More memories came surging back, none of them welcome. ‘I’ve spent many years travelling and fighting.’
‘I can tell.’ Her hand suddenly moved to trace the scar under his eye with a finger, following its jagged path down to his jaw, then the line of his jaw to his chin. Silently he slipped an arm around her waist. She was against him, and his lips found hers and he had her where he wanted her.
‘I’ve never kissed a monster before,’ she said as she moved away from him, another of her playful smiles danced across her face. He passed her back the wine and let her have the last of it.
‘Come with me,’ he said, taking her slender hand in his and helping her stand. ‘I tire of watching Anselm manhandle your friend.’ Anselm and Aedri’s friend were such a tangle of flesh where they sat together that Harlin would not have been able to tell where one ended and the other began. If one of them not had breasts that were now fully exposed in the firelight, of course. Aedri laughed at the sight, giddy from drink, and he led her to where his own tent lay pitched, holding the flap open for her to enter.
The Shadow of the High King Page 4
