They called a halt around midday where green hills made a basin in the land, watering the horses where the rain had gathered into a pool. He had one of his men fetch his sons, Peyton and Alard, so he could sit and take food with them. It was the first time they had marched to battle together, and Ainric wanted to savour the moment with the two of them. His attendants brought silver platters of cold meat, cheeses and dried fruits, with a dark red wine to chase it down with.
Peyton and Alard looked resplendent, clad in bright plate, their surcoats showing their family’s livery, the rondels and pauldrons of their armour sculpted in the visage of an eagle’s face. They made Ainric damn proud. Peyton, with his broad shoulders and dark curls hanging just over his sharp brow, the elder of the two. Alard with his short, dark hair and eagle-like features, long of limb and heavy set like his brother. Both were known for their skill at horse and sword, as well as their good looks, and he was eager to see the path they would cleave through Thegnmere.
‘A good march so far, father,’ said Alard around a mouthful of food.
‘Aye,’ agreed Peyton. ‘We’re making good time considering so many are on foot.’
‘That we are,’ said Ainric, taking some meat himself. ‘Have you sent riders to Thegnmere as I ordered?’
‘As soon as you called a halt,’ said Peyton. ‘Five of our fastest, they should be back tomorrow.’
‘Good, good,’ muttered Ainric, his lips to the rim of his goblet, mind elsewhere. It was deeply disturbing none of the scouts sent previously had returned. They had lost at least forty men and their horses. Horses were expensive, and he was reluctant to lose anymore, but he needed to know what they were up against. He was finding it difficult to answer the other lords’ questions of who had taken Thegnmere – the words ‘I don’t know’ have never inspired confidence in anyone, especially men who think they do you a favour with their presence and feared retaliation from a neighbour.
Such were the ways of Caermark. Every landholder regarded the next with suspicion, you could never know if they were an ally or if their smile hid the dagger behind their back and a forged deed to your holdings. Hopefully a few of the ones following behind him would have the decency to earn a glorious death on Thegnmere’s walls.
He shoved it from his mind.
Some twenty yards away where the water gathered, men were stood letting their horses drink or graze upon long grass. One man in particular caught Ainric’s eye. He was long limbed and looked inclined for speed and strength, having seen maybe twenty summers, clad in mail and leather. A crooked scar ran from eye to jaw that spoke of a once horrific injury. The pale skin and long, dark braids spoke of Luah Fáil, if Ainric were to guess the man’s lineage – that cold island shithole out to the west. They were a bunch of savages that scratched out a living on rocks and turnips, and favoured goats over their women, the latter being the hairier of the two.
The man looked over his shoulder at Ainric and stared at him. For a moment, in the grey sunlight, he looked hollow, ghostly. Dead-looking. It made Ainric jump. A trick of the light. The man grimaced at him and led his mount away by the reins.
You insolent little prick, thought Ainric.
His face burned with rage when he saw the man joined by others who carried black shields, painted with a snarling dog’s face. The fucking sellswords. He spat into the grass in a most un-lordly manner, his food suddenly bitter.
That sellsword had just lost his company the rest of their payment. He would learn his place when they were all scratching in the dirt for spare coppers after the fighting was done. He’d be sure of that.
A lot of people would be learning their place, lowborn and highborn alike, once Thegnmere was his.
They came to a place called the Barrowold Pass as the day drew on. Some of his ancestors were entombed here, buried along with their riches deep beneath these emerald mounds. The odd broken, carved archway still peeped from under the greenery, here and there. An old practice his people clung to from their northern roots. A shame, there would be good plunder to be found atop those old bones, but even Ainric was not heathen enough to crack open his ancestor’s resting places. ‘Long may your bones rest, warriors,’ he muttered to the darkening hills, seeming to press down on him in the fading light, sensing his greed.
To his relief they cleared the pass and emerged into the lowland beyond as the sun was setting beyond a blood red horizon. They halted and made camp for the night. He called for fire, meat and wine to chase away the chill the Barrowolds had left him with, and the other lords brought to hold war council before they retired for the night. He looked forward to seeing that prick Arnulf’s face when he told him what he had in store for him and his band of howling cocksuckers at Thegnmere.
He grinned at him, taking his seat at the head of his map table as the other lords filed in, Arnulf sparing him only the briefest of glances.
‘The curtain wall will be difficult to overcome,’ Lord Fullen was saying, looking doubtfully at the map spread before them all. ‘We have no siege engines.’
‘We will have to make do with ladders,’ Ainric said. ‘Forgive me if I could not commission a unit of trebuchets at such short notice.’
‘That will be no small task, Ainric,’ said Fullen, whistling between his teeth. Lords Tannic and Hanton murmuring their agreement. Ainric frowned in annoyance, those two had been the most vocal about the lack of intelligence gathered on who had taken Thegnmere. He sipped a cup of light golden wine and took some food, listening to their mumbled doubts.
‘Perhaps we should send riders out to Ostermoor?’ suggested Lord Tannic. ‘I believe Lord Pellan has some siege equipment. If we –’
‘Fuck Lord Pellan,’ Ainric suddenly barked, the other lords looking up from the map with a start. ‘And fuck his siege engines, too. There are enough of you here trying to skim a bit off the top of my cousin’s hoard without him. We have capable men, and I know mine aren’t afraid of mounting the walls and getting a bit of blood on them.’
‘This is Thegnmere we speak of, Ainric,’ said Tannic, sharing pointed glances with the other lords around the table. Ainric stared at them all in turn. A dozen worms were all he saw, slimy, grovelling, sneaking worms. They stayed their tongues for the most part, Ainric held the most land out of all of them, with the exception of Garrmunt, and that carried weight. Or the coin and men it brought him did, rather.
‘We lay siege then,’ Ainric said with a shrug.
‘A siege will take time, Ainric,’ Tannic said reproachfully.
‘They usually do, yes.’
‘We could try for the gates,’ Fullen suggested, ‘they may have been damaged, if the town was razed as badly as is believed. A simple ram should be within our means, the Marrwood has wood enough, for sure.’
They fell to arguing amongst themselves then, and Ainric sat back with a sigh, becoming more interested in his wine than any more talk of capturing the town.
Through the raised voices, rapidly approaching a vicious circle state of affairs, he noticed one lord staring at him over the top of his wine cup. Haakon Garrmunt. A sharp featured man. Heavy set in his red silk shirt laced with gold, cheekbones high and regal and his dark hair flecked with silver, eyes black in the dim light. He raised an eyebrow at his peer, questioning the look. He raised it higher again as Garrmunt raised his cup in toast to him and inclined his head.
‘A victory for the north, no doubt,’ he said, his voice silencing the bawling of those around him with its thunder and southern twang, all eyes upon the man. ‘Three days hence. I have faith in you, Ainric.’ He drained his cup, holding Ainric with his stare. There was something troubling about the man. Why was he here?
‘My thanks,’ Ainric grunted, returning the toast to his peer as manners demanded. ‘And when we uncover who was behind the attack on Thegnmere it will be a victory for all Caermark. I am sure the Ironbrand will be interested to hear of it, perhaps even consider how their lands should be divided amongst us.’ A murmur of assent passed through the a
ssembly, some downing their wine and praying for a long reign for the Ironbrand.
Empty words. They’d all gladly see the man dead and they knew it, himself included.
Garrmunt smiled haughtily in silence at Ainric. Southern arse kisser, he thought to himself, though his face remained affable. In the corner of his eye, he saw Arnulf watching Garrmunt with a neutral expression upon his face, his cup still full. Was that disdain in the sellsword’s glance? If it was then he found common ground with the mercenary prick.
‘May you be a more capable defender of walls than your cousin, Lord Callen,’ Garrmunt said, rising, ‘and forgive me, but I find talking of walls and gates for so long makes my arse sore and my mind weary, my lords. I will retire for the night, if my knights can provide you with any service upon the morrow, please send word. I notice you have not had much luck with your riders so far.’ And he was gone with a slight bow, leaving behind an awkward atmosphere. Had he meant to sound so… threatening?
‘Smug, southern cunt,’ Lord Fullen mumbled into his cup, conveniently waiting a few moments as Garrmunt’s footsteps faded. He received a good few belly laughs and slaps on his back for the comment.
They talked and joked for a while, differences forgotten, leaving one by one to take to their own tents. It was Arnulf who was last to leave, having been sat, lost in thought for some time. ‘Mercenary,’ Ainric snarled at him as he made for the tent flap. He turned slowly, his eyes glinting in the firelight.
‘Yes, Lord Callen?’
‘That man of yours when we took rest earlier today. The big lad. Ugly scar on his face under the eye, hair all done in braids. What is his name?’ The mercenary captain paused before answering him, clearly wondering whether or not to lie.
‘Harlin.’
‘He is an insolent, peasant-born sack of shit. I want him flogged, sellsword, understand? No man sneers at me in that manner. I am Lord of Farrifax and will soon be Lord of Thegnmere, I demand respect, especially from those who forage in the shit for their daily bread.’ The mercenary regarded him with those cold eyes like slits of ice.
‘He is my best warrior, my lord,’ he said at some length. ‘To flog him so soon before battle would be… counterproductive, we will need his sword arm if we are to win. Can the punishment be withheld until after we do battle? He is of Luah Fáil, and they are known for their brashness.’
Brashness? What idiocy. He considered having the entire company strung up and left at the roadside for Arnulf’s refusal briefly, as his lip curled in anger made worse with wine.
‘Your company will be the first atop the walls, mercenary,’ Ainric spat and turned away
‘So be it, Lord Callen,’ Arnulf answered him gently. ‘We expected no less, you do us an honour.’ And with that he left Ainric to his own company in the dimly lit tent, his insides boiling with silent frustration.
With the coming of dawn he awoke to the sounds of serjeants breaking camp and kicking men awake in their tents. He broke his fast on bread and fruit, cool water easing his wine-dried throat. As the sun crested the dull horizon he was in his saddle and his host was moving again, following the road steadily. He was slightly hungover, and was in no mood for what came next.
His captains brought him word that some of their men had been reported missing that morning when their guard duty was supposed to have ended. He ordered them to beat anyone who spoke of it – desertion was bad for morale, and he hadn’t gotten so drunk last night that he had forgotten the distrustful looks Fullen, Tannic and Hanton had given him. If word got round, it might not just be crossbowmen sneaking off in the night – those weasels Tannic or Hanton might just decide to up and leave and take their men back home with them. Fullen too, the worm.
Not a fucking chance, he thought, temples aching. Wine could be a cruel comfort.
They found the missing men later that day.
Five men, tied to the rocks along the road side as though they were upon a torture rack. Cut open like animals and bled, the loops of their intestines slopped at their feet, bloody holes where their eyes had been, skin flayed in some places. It was almost artful, the pattern of those cuts upon their flesh. A ritual of skin and blade. A slow death. What remained of their faces spoke only of agony.
‘Cut them down,’ Ainric ordered, wine-soured stomach heaving at the sight and smell. ‘Put them out of sight. The rest of the men must not see this, word will spread quickly enough without a spectacle.’ He watched as some of his knights dismounted and set about the task. They hid the bodies in the long grass away from the roadside, yet the blood upon the stones remained almost accusingly, long dried and soaked in, refusing to wash away.
Ainric tried to shut out the sight of those eyeless faces leering at him as he had passed them by, unable to shake the odd feeling that something there had watched him through bloodied sockets.
Word spread quickly as expected. Some of the other lords approached him angrily and demanded to know what he was doing about the situation. Tannic, Fullen and Hanton among them. As expected.
‘My men are whispering,’ Lord Hanton said, round, pouchy face ablaze, looking every inch the pig he was. ‘Of ghosts from Thegnmere, Ainric. Ghosts. They say they came and took those men of yours and left their bodies as warning.’
‘I’d flog them if I were you,’ Ainric said with a shrug, ‘for spreading discord in the ranks.’
‘Oh I will,’ Hanton nodded, ‘but what will you do about the situation? We’ve got men jumping at shadows the second day into the march. Unacceptable. Have your scouts even returned? Or are we wandering blindly into some folly of yours, our men being picked off while we stand around with our cocks in our hands, hoping to stumble across who they are?’
‘My scouts are not expected until nightfall,’ Ainric lied, voice level. ‘Tell your men that the guard duty will be doubled tonight, no man is to be alone whilst on patrol.’
What else could he say? It seemed to satisfy Hanton, anyway. The pig of a man grunted, nodded, squinty little eyes regarding him with flagrant scrutiny. He made to wheel his horse away when Ainric suddenly said, ‘And Hanton?’
‘Yes, Ainric?’ His jowls tightened with suspicion.
‘If you ever speak to me like that again in front of my men I’ll cut your throat and have your lands scourged. Do not forget who leads this army. And do not forget who here is the fat little lord over a handful of farmers.’
Hanton’s face, and jowls, purpled furiously, eyes disappearing behind fat cheeks. He yanked his horse viciously round, storming away, the chuckling of Ainric’s men following him.
But the pig did have a point. Where were the scouts? They should have been back by now, surely?
They stopped when the sun began its wearisome descent behind the land, staining green grass red away beyond western ridges. In the night the men were restless, the patrols jumpy. They whispered anxiously to one another, challenged others too easily in frail voices. He could hear them as he lay awake himself, unable to find sleep, dreading the day in the saddle that was to come, keeping face for the men. Two days on the march, none the wiser of who their foe was, five men dead another five missing – their scouts had not returned.
Tomorrow, he told himself, they’ll be back tomorrow. He hoped they would, at least. He couldn’t bear to think of the smug look on that fat bastard Hanton’s face if word got round about more scouts not returning.
Ainric jumped at a sudden crack nearby. A breaking twig, though it sounded like a breaking bone. He breathed. Just his guards outside, shifting position. He could see their shadowed forms stood to attention through the silk of his tent. He sighed, trying to slow his racing heart, cursing himself for a coward.
Was it just the men they had lost that was making them all so brittle, or was it something else? Something didn’t feel right. His head ached as he lay awake, a nasty prickling at the temples, like fingers trying to force their way into his skull. He found himself massaging at them, watching shadows dance along the silk walls of his tent, seeming almost a
live at times.
At their current pace they would be at Thegnmere on the morning of the fourth day, providing the Marrwood held no unwanted surprises for them. Thinking of it now though, he felt only dread. Five thousand men, against Thegnmere and whatever lay in wait there. He cringed, and drew his blanket over his head, wanting nothing more than to turn back and make for Farrifax and bar its gates forever.
Could he? Would the others agree to it? No. Of course not, that was his fear talking, the little coward all men have within. They wanted his cousin’s hoard as much as he did. More, maybe, the jealous, scheming rats. They’d be getting a lot less than they bargained for once the town was his. He would have to watch them closely, he knew, as sleep eventually took him, and he dreamed of choking Lord Hanton of Ullerwood to death, nice and slow.
The serjeants reported another six men missing come morning, as Ainric shuffled red-eyed and sallow-skinned from his tent, mind weary and mouth dry. He dismissed them with a roar and called for wine to calm his nerves before they began their march again.
The army had marched maybe a mile, when one of their outriders came galloping back to whisper in Ainric’s ear. ‘Bodies, milord, maybe a half-mile further along the road, cut up good just like the others.’
Ainric cursed, and sent word for Peyton to lead the column as he rode on with his guard, the outrider leading the way.
Beyond a crest in the land a scattering of corpses waited for them on the road. Ainric counted eleven men and five horses, as he tried to fend off that distinct smell men make when cut wide open with an arm across his face. They lay like the others, cut up, cut open, guts strewn and eyes gouged out. The horses lay in equally grim repose, their bodies sliced and carved and their innards spread across the road in long ropes shining like gossamer. Some had been dead longer than others, but the flies and ravens nipped and squabbled over them all in equal measure.
Six men missing from this morning, the five scouts from two days ago and their mounts. Ainric tried not to vomit at the stench in the air.
The Shadow of the High King Page 6
