He, Balarin, Jorric and Dag crept through shadow towards the gatehouse. Crouched behind the wall of a house, Arnulf looked at each of them pointedly in turn and patted the pommel of his sword, still in its scabbard. The men nodded, slipping away one after another like armoured shades, Arnulf close on their tails.
Two men stood to the left side of the gate, near a stuttering torch, distracted by their gossiping and jesting, their rough laughter muffled Arnulf’s footsteps as he moved toward them, though not the grunt of the first man as the hilt of his sword crashed down across the back of his head, clanging from his helm. The second man reeled in surprise as his cohort fell, yelping and dropping his spear. He snatched it up quickly, but Jorric appeared from behind him, the rim of his shield snapping the man’s head forward and dropping him. Arnulf acknowledged Jorric with a grunt and a nod of thanks.
A strangled cry came from above, followed by a thud. Balarin and Dag came jogging quietly.
‘No kills?’ said Arnulf.
‘No kills.’ Balarin patted his sword’s pommel. ‘Didn’t even see us coming, too busy talking.’
‘Good. Then let’s away before they come to.’ Arnulf turned away.
Balarin and Dag unbarred the gate together, throwing it open, its heavy doors breaking the stillness of Farrifax with an echoing bark of clashing wood, the clattering of hooves and creaking of wheels beating a crescendo into the night air as the Blackshield Dogs made their escape.
They rode almost in silence, save for the creaking of wagon and cart, the sound of hoof against road. They spoke little, sang no songs, the injured stifled their groans or shouts of pain as they hit bumps and potholes, aware of the need for stealth. Gaelin’s fury would be terrible once he found them gone. Arnulf had made sure his healers had seen to the men properly before they made this trek, and to break his word after such extensive and expensive treatment was grotesque theft. And worse, in the baggage cart a few leather satchels were sat, packed almost to bursting with stolen jars, pots, bundles and wraps of various medicines. His men had been liberal with the healers’ wares and the basic locks on their quarters. They had all of them seen too many of their friends die in the last few days. Arnulf felt only gratitude for their forethought and care for one another, but to be caught now would mean execution for them all, medicines were not cheap, and the guardsmen they had taken down would not be happy when they awoke. And so they proceeded, subdued, anxious and over-vigilant, into the Kennock Vales.
They camped before dawn on the eastern side of the road, nestled out of sight from Farrifax between two of the gentler hills of the area. They stowed the wagon and carts away from the road and prying eyes as best they could, given the make of the land was lacking in its hospitality for wheels. A fire was lit, the hills beyond its light black giants against a purpling night sky, and those who could move sat about it in a loose circle, some slouched and reclining. A few of the men took it upon themselves to set a watch, and roamed the hills about them watching the road and land for movement.
‘You did well tonight, men,’ Arnulf said, as he cut strips of dried beef from a block of the stuff and passed them around, tired mouths muttering thanks. ‘You ensured our escape, and the wellbeing of our Shield Brothers too injured to fight. You will be legends amongst our numbers for this night, the men who take our places will write songs of you in future days.’
‘Aye,’ said Ceagga from nearby, tearing off a chunk of meat and talking around it. ‘Songs of strength.’ A small cheer sounded from the men around them, sounding too loud in their quiet surroundings despite the control of their voices. Their horses grazed and slept nearby, their soft neighing even seeming constrained.
There was something tense in the air, Arnulf realised as he chewed a strip of meat until tender. He’d felt it before. But when? He rubbed at his temples, a headache building in them, like cold knives pressing into his skull.
Marrwood, he thought. There had been something foul in the air then. Something unpleasant.
There came a shout from somewhere above them. One of the men on watch. Those around the fire leapt to their feet, swords scraping free.
‘Where?’ Arnulf cried, peering about into darkness.
‘There!’ Ceagga pointed.
Shapes moved atop a hill to the east, exchanging blows. Three or more against one, spear against sword and shield, voices could be heard, strangely accented, unintelligible.
Gaelin, Arnulf thought sourly.
Two shapes went down as he ran for the hill, dropping spears, clutching wounds, screams cutting through the night. More appeared, cresting the hill and joining the fight, a dozen, maybe more. Arnulf broke into a full sprint, Ceagga alongside him. They tore up the hill together, the rest of the men behind them, some voicing their company’s howling battle cry.
Arnulf crashed into a dark form clutching a spear as the lone Shield Brother atop the hill went down with a yell, holding his leg. Arnulf’s victim sprawled back, shouted something in a strange tongue, then screamed as Arnulf stabbed him through the breast, feeling the distinct resistance of mail links trying to hold together as they were split. To his right, Ceagga fended off jabbering spearmen, standing over a fallen, groaning form, long hair streaming as he moved.
The Blackshield Dogs came rushing up the hillside, bludgeoning men to the ground with shields, swords flashing silver then red in moonlight. The spearmen fought back, spear tips scoring shields deeply as they moved backwards, leaving a trail of their dead as they went. The Dogs were upon them though, swords punching through mail and cutting limbs free, more joining as they mounted the hill.
The spearmen broke and ran, outnumbered, outfought, panicked voices clamouring in strange words as they fled back down the hill. The Dogs pursued them a short way, hacking down stragglers and the injured, cheering as the last few leapt atop mounts hidden beyond the hill, galloping over mounds, shadows in the moonlight as they raced eastward.
‘Capture those horses,’ Arnulf panted to his men, pointing at the ones left behind with a bloodied sword, there was a good number, fourteen at least, he thought. ‘And scout the perimeter!’
He turned away and headed back up the hill, making to check on the fallen Shield Brother. It was Dag, he saw, cresting the rise and seeing him propped upright on the shoulders of Torc and Elric. Blood flowed steadily from a wound on his left leg, a spear having punched through the boiled leather on his thigh.
‘Have someone stitch that wound,’ Arnulf barked, pointing at it. ‘Good work, Dag, rest up.’ He laid a reassuring hand on Dag’s shoulder as he passed. They owed it to the man that they hadn’t been surprised in the middle of camp.
‘Any other injured,’ Arnulf called out, eyes scanning the hilltop around him.
‘None serious, my lord,’ came Ceagga’s voice from behind him. ‘A few cuts and bruises.’ He appeared to Arnulf’s side, face bloodstained and grinning. ‘We sent them fleeing like kicked hounds.’
‘That we did,’ Arnulf agreed, ‘but who were they?’
‘I don’t know, my lord,’ said Ceagga, ‘other than they were clearly a scouting party. I had thought them men sent by Farrifax to punish us, but they are… different.’
‘Aye, they were certainly not of Farrifax.’
Ceagga crouched by a dead spearman that lay on their side and rolled them over onto their back, frowning. Swarthy skin could be seen in the moonlight, bloodstained beneath a sharply peaked helm of unusual make. An angular kite shield was strapped to the fallen man’s arm, and Ceagga folded it over his pierced chest. Arnulf felt his eyes widen at the mark it bore.
A red ram’s head, set before a bloodied hand.
‘Impossible,’ Arnulf murmured, crouching to look at it more closely.
‘What is it, my lord?’ said Ceagga. Arnulf shook his head, not wanting to believe what lay before his eyes.
He could not have anticipated something like this. No one could have. But as he looked at that red mark, a horrible world of possibilities was born in his mind, none of them
pleasant, all of them deadly. All of them deceitful and beyond the wildest imaginings of most men.
Things suddenly, grimly, made a horrifying connection in his mind.
‘This mark,’ he said to Ceagga, tapping the ram’s head, ‘it is ancient.’
‘Ancient? I thought the ram’s head was merely bad luck?’
‘Aye, so they say, but do you know why?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘I was taught history as a child in my father’s halls,’ Arnulf said brusquely, ‘our history – Caermark’s history. This mark, this… ram’s head. It was the sigil used long ago by the Old Empire.’
‘I thought the Old Empire a myth,’ he said, ‘or at least something long dead, my lord.’
‘As do many,’ said Arnulf, frowning at the spearman’s shield again. ‘They are as real as you or I, Ceagga. This, though –’ he indicated the bloody hand. ‘– I do not know what this is. I think it is something new, maybe something they adopted since last they set foot on these shores. I don’t understand what it symbolises, but I do not like the look of it – there is something unpleasant about it.’
Ceagga’s face paled silently as he listened, his hand moving to touch the amulet around his neck tangled with his long, blonde hair.
Arnulf rose then, staring down at the corpse and its shield. Ceagga stood a moment after, quiet, wiping his hands of drying blood.
‘What does this mean, my lord?’ he asked quietly, brow troubled.
‘I don’t know, Ceagga,’ Arnulf sighed, looking about him at the men slowly making their way back to camp, voices raised cheerfully at their small victory. ‘I hope my fears are unfounded. I pray that they are, even. But this mark here –’ he kicked the shield, ‘– it casts new light on things that had confused me these last few days.’
Ceagga watched him quizzically as he looked north, where Farrifax lay hidden beyond the hills, where Lord Garrmunt’s forces lay hidden somewhere beyond the town. His throat felt dry, that vicious headache returning from before. Something was wrong here. Something wrought of deceit and betrayal.
What web has been spun for this land?
Arnulf shook his head, now was not the time. Those scouts would be back with reinforcements soon enough. They would not survive a true assault out in the open.
‘Gather the men, Ceagga,’ he said, ‘and quickly – there is something at foot here, something foul. I do not want us caught in what is coming to Farrifax.’
‘Aye, my lord.’
The Blackshield Dogs mounted up once more in darkness, rushing south with all haste, the sun rising above them with the coming of a blood red dawn.
Chapter 7
A Throne of Skulls
They say that to be king amongst men is to suffer. A crown bears its weight grievously and without mercy for those whose head it rests upon. To sit thyself upon a throne is to lay the troubles of the world upon your shoulders, to feel your form buckle and tremble beneath them.
Men talk of the millstones around their necks, of the pain it is to carry their burdens and to suffer the ire and cruelty of the world. They know nothing of what it is to take the weight of a simple golden circlet and the title it gives a man. They know nothing of what it is like to spend each day hanging by your fingertips above an abyss so deep it could swallow light itself, to know that an inch in the wrong direction spells disaster for you, your house, your land and its people.
Men know nothing.
To be king over men is to be the mule for the woes of countless to be drawn by, to be a slave to the very kingdom you rule. To be king is a life sentence of sacrifice, compromise, balancing acts and regret.
Regret – except for that which is done that keeps you in power, that which keeps the threads of the kingdom you are enslaved by from unravelling before your eyes.
To stand as a king before men is to be consumed by those same souls you would lead, to stand great and mighty as the oak, and be brought low, worried away by a thousand tiny, vicious mouths, cast down from the shoulders of those who you stood upon.
It takes a strong man to bear such a weight, lest the crown snap his neck like the cruel, clutching hands of the rapacious and avaricious men he must surround himself with, if he wishes to wear that title.
It takes a ruthless man to rule over such a ruthless land. And he who dares to call himself king must be ruthless to survive. For Caermark was ruthless, if anything, above all else.
All of this King Aenwald, of House Darnmor, knew and understood all too well, as he strode briskly through the Keep of Faldarun’s long entrance hall. To his sides and behind him, the knights of his bodyguard, the Red Cloaks, kept pace as they protected his flanks and rear, their hands resting almost casually on their swords. Their vermillion namesakes rippled smoothly with regal splendour as they matched stride with the king. Two moved ahead of the procession as they approached a tall set of beautifully carved oaken double-doors, pushing them open with practiced grace and precision, heads bowed as they kept them open for the king.
They stepped into the Royal Hall, a wave of court attendants parting before them, guards of House Darnmor forming up along both sides of the exuberant red carpet that led to the throne, their lines keeping the masses of nobles away from the king’s red pathway.
The court fool, a dwarfling midget named Bror the Smallwitted, cartwheeled into the king’s path like a brightly-coloured spinning top covered with bells, squeaking, ‘A rolling arse! A tumbling arse!’ hopping from one foot to the other as he shook his behind at the procession. A swift boot to that very same arse from the king sent the half-man scurrying into the far corner of the hall, to great peals of laughter from the crowd, whimpering, ‘My arse! My arse! My broken arse!’ as the Ironbrand climbed up the marble steps to his seat of power.
And there King Aenwald sat, flanked on either side by his knights and bannermen, the silken weave showing the Darnmor family’s royal heraldry – the chained bull, golden upon a deep red field, a crown above its head. A magnificent, ancient sigil, dating back to the first King of Caermark – the Chainbreaker, the man who had turned a land of slaves into a land ruled by kings and free men. The links of the chain around the Bull’s neck were split along its length, symbolic of the ancient hero’s deeds.
King Aenwald turned a fierce eye upon those assembled before him, his hands gripping the arms of his throne tight enough to turn the knuckles white. The Shacklestone, they called the royal seat. They said it was carved from one of the great rocks they had kept slaves chained to in the days of the Old Empire’s rule. It was supposed to be a symbol of their freedom, if the old tales were to be believed. In truth it was a monstrous thing. All angles, uncomfortable, inclined to make the royal arse numb, carved grimly at the ends of the arm rests to resemble the heads of grimacing bulls. Old rusted chains were still attached to it in places, the links crumbling slowly away into orange dust with the passing of time.
He still felt a slave to this day, as he glowered at the procession of beseeching nobles before him, all pleading for something from him, or some service he was obligated to fulfil for them. Their words all bent on easing a few more coins from his treasury, or from their fellow man, or more lands for them to squabble over like children.
If only he could sweep his hand and wipe these petty fools of men from his sight…
Each day he faced this, a rambling convergence of needy rich men, whose hungry mouths yearned for more riches to be shovelled into them. It was enough to trifle with his digestion, and as his years progressed he found his tolerance lowered for it all. His breakfast weighed almost as heavy upon his stomach as his crown did upon his skull.
Compensation for lands lost, ills suffered, insults delivered, livestock taken in raids by neighbouring fiefs, trespasses, looting, rights of vengeance against lords who had infringed upon their borders – it was all trivial and meaningless to Aenwald. The petty squabbles and hurts of even pettier men, they made him sick. His temper was short enough already with his fellow man without them jabbi
ng it so.
Though the news he had received this morning had done nothing to extend his already famous lack of patience.
They came one after another. Nibbling mouths. Greedy mouths. Suckling mouths. Most he sent away for their piddling matters with an order to deal with it themselves. Some he had Bror humiliate before their peers for the stupidity of their requests, the tiny buffoon rolling between their legs to smack them upon their rear with his belled rod, and squeak insults against their heritage as he chased them from the room, kicking at their heels as their peers laughed scornfully.
King Aenwald did not laugh. Humiliation was a punishment, not a pastime, and punishment must be taken seriously if it is to work to its intended purpose.
Some hours passed, and Aenwald tired of the crush of nobles that would suck him dry of every last drop and rose to his feet, roaring, ‘Enough! Enough! Be gone! Out of my court! All of you, now, you bloodsucking worms! Out, before I have you fed to the pigs!’ His men formed up and ushered out every last noble as Bror jigged behind them guffawing stupidly.
The King’s roaring left a ringing silence as his guards returned to their positions, the great doors of the Royal Hall slamming shut. He sat back down, breathing heavy, his face flushed. He lifted the crown from his head and sat rubbing at the marks it left upon his temples.
‘A tad hasty perhaps, Your Majesty,’ said Cyneweld to his side, Captain of the Red Cloaks.
‘Your opinion is as welcome in my ears as hair is upon a whore’s cunt,’ the King growled.
‘Yes, Sire,’ Cyneweld said, bowing. Bror began to dance before them, spitting a rhyme about hairy-cunted whores from southern shores.
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