The Blood of Kings

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  The warden quickly recovered from his surprise. “Go back to the tower. It’s too dangerous for you here.”

  Anger flashed through her eyes momentarily. “I’ll decide what’s too dangerous. I will not stand by as blood is shed on my account.” She started forward before he could offer a word of protest. Morwen looked over the villagers, ignoring the warden. “I don’t see enemies here. I see friends.” She gestured to a middle-aged man with a pitchfork. “Finley, when your niece was ill, who treated her with potions and stayed by her side until she was well again?”

  Finley bowed his head, unable to meet her gaze. “You did.”

  “And Lucas,” she said to another. “When your wife complained of nightmares, who showed you what herbs to burn so she might sleep peacefully once more?”

  The man flushed, clearly embarrassed. “It was you, Lady Morwen.”

  She nodded. “I am a loyal servant of King Mór. I care deeply for Munster and its people. I know you’ve had a hard season, but I have placed no curse on your farms or waters.”

  Berengar saw the villagers’ leader tense as she spoke, though the others seemed swayed by her words. Morwen’s hand reached out and lightly touched the leader’s arm. Berengar alone was close enough to hear her mutter a word under her breath, and the man lowered his sword and fell silent, as if in a trance.

  Morwen continued. “Killing me would only taint these lands forever. If you’d like, I can request that the king send relief. We’ve enough stores of grain in the capital to last seven winters.”

  By the time she finished speaking, the remaining villagers had already lowered their weapons. Berengar released his hold on his captive and pushed the young man toward his companions. The crowd laid down their arms and dispersed, tracing the path that had brought them to the monastery. Only their leader remained, a vacant expression on his face.

  “You should go with them,” Morwen said, her hand still on his arm.

  The sword toppled from his hands. “Yes,” the man mumbled. “I should be getting home.”

  “That’s a nice trick,” Berengar said as they watched the man go.

  Morwen let out a deep breath and wiped a trickle of blood away from her nose with her sleeve. Her skin was a good deal paler than it was only a few seconds before. “I’ll be drinking elixirs for days because of that.” She wobbled where she stood. Berengar reached out to steady her, but she waved him away. “I’ll be fine. I don’t suppose you might permit me a nap?”

  Berengar had hunted his share of witches and knew a fair amount about magic and its practitioners. A sorcerer might have frozen the entire crowd in place without difficulty. For a magician, it was a considerably harder task. Although magicians were able to harness the magic in the world around them through spells, sorcerers were far more adept at it. Sorcerers also possessed far greater stores of magical stamina, in addition to inherent powers and abilities unique to each one.

  Berengar shook his head. “It would be best to get you well outside the town limits before sundown, on the chance the others change their minds.”

  Morwen was about to respond when her gaze fell on Faolán. “And who might you be?” She grinned widely at the sight of the wolfhound and dropped to one knee, playfully scratching behind the dog’s ears. For her part, Faolán lazily enjoyed the attention, her tail wagging with enthusiasm.

  “I can’t remember the last time Faolán took an instant liking to someone.” Berengar laughed despite himself when the wolfhound licked Morwen’s face. “I must say, you’re not what I expected. My name is—”

  “I know who you are. What were you expecting—a grizzled old man with a flowing white beard? We come in all kinds, you know.” She said the words so cheerfully he couldn’t tell if they were meant as a rebuke or merely an observation. “And I am Morwen, Court Magician of Munster, although I suspect you already know that.” She offered a slight bow as she rose from the ground. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Warden Berengar.”

  “I am glad to see your safe return, my lady,” Desmond interrupted. “On behalf of my father, I apologize for your treatment here.”

  “Tell Laird Tierney to rest easy. I was fortunate to spend my time among friends,” she said as the monks left the safety of the tower and approached.

  “Your staff, Lady Morwen,” said the bald man who had appeared at the balcony. He handed her a satchel filled with books and a magician’s staff made of ash wood. Symbols and charms were carved into the staff from top to bottom, and two runestones—one blue and one purple—were placed opposite each other near the staff’s head.

  Morwen accepted the staff reverently. “I’m afraid I must be leaving. The good warden here has come to spirit me back to the king.” She wrapped each of the monks in a warm embrace. “I will miss your hospitality, my friends. I will always be grateful for the kindness you have shown me.” She turned back to the warden. “Now then—I trust you brought transportation?”

  Berengar merely shook his head and started walking, and Morwen and Desmond followed after him. It wasn’t long before they were again on the waters of Loch Léin, Cill Airne growing at their approach. As they reached the dock, Berengar noticed a lone rider watching them disembark from one of the neighboring hills. The warrior was clad in armor, a cruel sword at his side. Berengar stared unwaveringly at the rider until the man galloped away. There was no doubt in Berengar’s mind the rider was one of the déisi.

  “Is something wrong?” Morwen followed his gaze to the place where the hill now stood empty.

  The warden did not answer.

  After a few farewells to Laird Tierney and the members of his court, a trip to the stables to secure a horse for the magician, and a brief stop at the marketplace to restock provisions for the journey, Berengar and Morwen departed Cill Airne. They took the path that led through the Gap of Dún Lóich, a road both were familiar with. As planned, Berengar was in and out of the city in under a day, the magician successfully in tow. He hadn’t even needed to use his axe, although truth be told, that was more Morwen’s doing than his. All in all, things had gone even smoother than he’d hoped.

  They rode side by side under the shade of the Black Stack Mountains, Faolán trailing a dutiful distance away. Berengar yawned and stretched comfortably astride the saddle. With the hard part behind him, there was nothing left to do but keep an eye on the magician and enjoy the weather. With any luck, they’d reach Cashel in two or three days’ time, and then he’d be on his way back to Tara.

  “It’s going to rain,” Morwen observed casually. It was the first time either had spoken since they set out, and the warden had grown accustomed to the silence. If it were up to him, they might have continued the whole way in such a fashion. It was difficult enough making small talk with most people. For all he knew about combat and killing, he didn’t know the first thing about adolescent girls.

  It was a bright, sunny day. There were no clouds anywhere in sight. Berengar raised an eyebrow at Morwen’s pronouncement but offered no protest. When a magician said it was going to rain, it was probably going to rain.

  “Anything you can do about that? I’d prefer clear skies on the way back.”

  Morwen looked at him with an expression of mock scorn. “I’m a magician, not a druid.”

  He wasn’t certain, but it was almost as if the girl was teasing him. Berengar scowled at the idea and rode ahead of her.

  Morwen pulled alongside him. “You’re bigger than I thought you’d be. You know—from the stories.”

  He didn’t reply, hoping she’d take the hint.

  “Your cloak is true bearskin.” She looked him up and down. “Did you really kill a bear with your hands at twelve?”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear in stories.” He hesitated, noticing her disappointment. “I was fifteen, and I had a dagger.”

  Morwen’s countenance brightened considerably. “I thought it might be true. It’s the one story that’s the same in all the songs about you.”

  “And wha
t do the songs say about you, I wonder?” he asked, suddenly curious.

  “There are no songs about me.” Morwen glanced away with a slightly sullen expression. “King Mór rarely allows me to leave Cashel unescorted. I spend most of my days locked away among scrolls and potions, reading about others’ adventures. It was my hope to use my time in Cill Airne to prove myself, until I nearly got myself killed.” Berengar noticed her knuckles whiten as her grip on the reins tightened. “I can only imagine what the king will say upon our return.”

  “I thought you acquitted yourself well. It takes a great deal of resolve to retain your calm when men have weapons trained on you. Did you find what you were searching for at Cill Airne?”

  “No, though I’m certain the king is right. Darkness spreads across the land. I’ve felt it for some time. Something is not right. If I’d had more time…” She trailed off.

  “I can’t speak to magic, but I’m certain the déisi were involved in the siege. They were seen in the village just before it began. I spotted one of them watching us when we arrived at the docks. I assume he left to join his brethren. If the déisi are involved, that means someone else is paying them—someone who wanted you dead.”

  Morwen stared at him, as if troubled by something. “The villagers—would you have killed them? If they hadn’t laid down their arms, I mean.”

  He answered without hesitation. “I would have done what I had to.” It clearly hadn’t been the answer she was looking for, but it was the truth. For a moment, the warden caught a flicker of fear in her expression. “You’re rather forthright and plainspoken for a magician. Aren’t you supposed to speak in riddles?”

  She laughed at that, and Berengar was struck by a warm feeling that reminded him of another time in his life, before the Shadow Wars. The memories left him uneasy, and he did not speak for a time.

  “You carry great anger inside,” Morwen said softly, startling him from his thoughts. “You hide it well, but I’ve never sensed so much rage in another person before. Never.”

  Berengar shot her a withering gaze. “Stay out of my head,” he warned, no longer amused. He dug his boots into the stallion’s flanks and quickly outpaced her. This time she had the sense to remain behind.

  They followed the path for several hours, until at last the sun hung low in the sky. True to Morwen’s words, it began to rain. The sky, a deep blue only a short time ago, was now ominous and dark.

  “There’s a settlement a little ways down the road,” Berengar yelled over the sweeping winds. “We’ll seek refuge at the inn and wait out the storm. We can start again tomorrow.”

  A crack of thunder drowned out her response. Heaven’s floodgates were thrown open, and what began as a light sprinkle soon evolved into a full-on deluge.

  “Faster,” the warden bellowed to his stallion, which kicked up mud at its back as it galloped along the trail.

  Morwen’s horse reared on its hind legs at the flash of lightning. For a moment Berengar worried she was going to fall from the saddle, but the magician reacted with a graceful speed that surprised even him. In one fluid motion, she held onto the saddle with one hand and touched the flat of her mount’s muzzle with the other.

  Her eyes closed, and her voice became a whisper. “Síocháin. Peace.”

  The horse instantly dropped down to all fours, as calm as if it were a sunny day once more. Morwen pulled her hood over her head to shield herself from the rains and spurred her horse forward. She took to the saddle so well it was clear she had the benefit of tutoring from Cashel’s stable master. King Mór had evidently spared no expense with her education.

  The pair rode neck and neck through the storm until they reached the settlement. Berengar slowed his horse’s pace to a trot and Morwen did likewise. The warden dismounted in front of the stables and glanced behind, where Faolán had stopped at the outskirts of the settlement, her ears pricked alertly. He didn’t need magic to know something was amiss. By the time their horses were safely squared away in warm, dry stalls, the wolfhound was waiting nearby. She gave him a knowing look, and he nodded to indicate he understood.

  “Stay here. Keep watch.”

  Faolán stared unflinchingly in the direction of the forest.

  “Come on,” Berengar said to Morwen, motioning for her to accompany him. “A warm hearth sounds perfect right about now. Their soup’s not half bad either.”

  “I can’t read minds,” she said as they walked down the path to the inn. Morwen sidestepped a puddle, but Berengar splashed right on through it.

  “What?”

  “What you said back there, about me keeping out of your head—I can’t read minds, you know. I can only sense the emotions and feelings of others. Most sorcerers can’t even manage mind reading. And even if I were able, I wouldn’t invade someone’s privacy like that.”

  “Oh, that? I’d already forgotten about it.”

  Morwen regarded him doubtfully, but he gave her a look that indicated he had no wish to broach the matter again. The warden proceeded to push open the door to the inn for good measure, definitively ending the subject.

  Berengar wiped the mud off his boots and swept the rain from his cloak before crossing the threshold. The room was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and the storm raging outside the inn’s walls. There was no music, suggesting the troubadour had moved on. The hall was relatively empty, at least by the prior night’s standards. A young boy was sweeping the floor between rows of bare tables. The absence of patrons wasn’t entirely surprising given the torrential downpour. Berengar made his way to the innkeeper, who looked as if he expected to see him.

  “Greetings, Warden Berengar. It is an honor to have you with us again. I see you’ve brought a guest.”

  The warden grunted to acknowledge the greeting and laid a pair of coins before the innkeeper. “We’d like a room for the night, if it’s not too much of a bother.”

  “Not at all.” The innkeeper took the coins and handed him the key. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he added as Berengar began to turn away. “A message came for you from the Rock of Cashel.”

  “Word travels fast around here,” Berengar muttered. “Are you sure it’s from Cashel?”

  “It’s not every day we receive a messenger from the capital.” The innkeeper let out a good-natured chuckle. “If he’d only stayed longer, the messenger might have been able to deliver this in person.” He reached behind the counter and passed Berengar a sealed letter.

  “That’s the king’s seal,” Morwen said curiously. “What does it say?”

  A chilling howl outside the inn interrupted him before he could break the seal. “Faolán.” He knew that howl all too well. That’s not a good sign.

  Morwen closed her eyes, her hand on her staff. “There are men outside. They come with dark intent.”

  “Tell me something I didn’t know.” Berengar tucked the letter away. “It’s the déisi, of course. They’ve followed us from Cill Airne. This is their last chance to finish the job.”

  “You were expecting them,” she said, alarmed. “You used me as bait to draw them out. You wanted them to find us.”

  “Not entirely, no, but it was always a possibility they’d track us down. If I take one alive, we can find out the name of their employer. If they all die, well, that also sends a message to whoever hired them. You’re not in any danger, as long as you stay put.” He glanced over at the innkeeper and the boy sweeping the floor. “That goes for both of you as well. Get behind the counter. The déisi aren’t known to leave loose ends.”

  The boy dropped his broom and did as he was told, leaving Morwen standing firmly with her arms crossed. “You’re not going out there alone.”

  Berengar growled angrily, but she did not relent. “Fine. Just don’t get in my way. And don’t get yourself killed, either. I promised King Mór I would bring you back safe.” He grabbed his battleaxe with a smirk. “It appears I’ll get to use this after all.” With that, the warden threw open the door to the inn and stepped into the p
ouring rain.

  Lightning cast a pale glow over the darkening sky, revealing the menacing figures gathered outside the inn. All were clad in the same black and maroon dyed armor. Berengar counted seven déisi in all. Two were mounted on horseback. Of the five on the ground, two archers held their bows trained on him. The other three reached for their swords.

  Berengar didn’t flinch. He remained where he stood, sizing up his enemies. A savage growl sounded beside him, where Faolán crouched, ready to pounce. Berengar stared at their leader across the deluge, undaunted. He’d faced worse odds before.

  The captain’s gaze moved past Berengar to where Morwen lingered in the doorway just behind him. “Give her to us and we will spare the rest of the villagers.” His voice was cold and cruel.

  Berengar’s grip tightened around the axe. “You wouldn’t like her. She asks too many questions.”

  The captain frowned at his response. “Take her,” he ordered his men. “Kill the warden.”

  Morwen was right about one thing. Berengar carried a white-hot fury within him. Most of the time he was careful to keep it restrained under a mask of civility. Only in battle could he truly release his hold on the anger that drove him.

  Faolán moved first. The wolfhound leapt at the nearest archer before he could loose his arrow. The man was on the ground in an instant, and a scream died on his lips as she ripped out his throat.

  Berengar fell on the swordsmen with a savage cry. He cut down the first to meet him, driving the great axe through the mercenary’s armor. Blood spurted from the man’s chest as Berengar ripped the axe free. He used the man as a shield as an arrow sailed through the rain, hitting the déisi in the back. Then Berengar spun around and disarmed the archer by literally removing the man’s arm with his axe. The archer collapsed, bleeding to death.

  The two remaining swordsmen rushed to attack him together. The warden fought like a berserker, gripped in the mad frenzy of bloodlust. Years ago, a sword master told him the lack of a calm, detached focus was the only thing that kept him from becoming a great swordsman. Berengar had still learned enough to handle a blade if need be, but he always led with the axe.