The Price of Hate
Kyle Alexander Romines
Copyright © 2020 by Kyle Alexander Romines
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Also by Kyle Alexander Romines
Berengar
About the Author
Also by Kyle Alexander Romines
Warden of Fál
The Wrath of Lords
The Blood of Kings
The City of Thieves
The Will of Queens
Tales of Fál
The Fortress of Suffering
The Price of Hate
The Path of Vengeance
The Way of Rage
The Heart of Magic
The Keeper of the Crows
The Chrononaut
A Sound in the Dark
Bride
Atonement
Drone
Seeking to Devour
To sign up to receive author updates—and receive a FREE electronic copy of Kyle’s science fiction novella, The Chrononaut—go to http://eepurl.com/bsvhYP.
Berengar
Blood drips from my axe, and the scout’s headless corpse crumples at my feet.
Crows spooked by the sudden violence take flight, and the forest falls still once more. I wait for Faolán, my wolfhound, to indicate there aren’t others lurking about before dragging the scout’s body away and returning to the others.
Duke raises an eyebrow when he sees me coming. He must have spotted the crows. I shrug to let him know I handled it. Søren, a bloodthirsty Dane with an insatiable appetite for violence, smirks when he notices my bloody weapon. Bast, the youngest among us, tries his best to look fearless. He’s been with us almost half a year, and he still wants to prove himself. As usual, only Arlo shows any concern.
It’s early in the morning. Weak light pokes through the treetops, and the sky promises another bleak day. The autumn air is cooler than it should be this time of year. Winter can’t be far away. I trek to my horse, plant my boot in the stirrup, and swing myself onto the saddle to wait with the others.
It’s quiet. The only sound is the frigid wind whistling past the trees. The cold air renders my breath visible, but the hooded bearskin cloak draped around my shoulders keeps me warm enough. From the high ground, we have a clear view of the forest path below. It’s the perfect spot for an ambush. The earth is soft and muddy from recent rains, and the trees will conceal us until we make our move.
Half an hour passes before we see the first of them. Harald and Bast nock arrows, and the rest of us reach for our weapons. My knuckles tighten around my battleaxe’s grip. The company below advances along the path in an orderly procession. Spearmen march in lockstep in single file while guards on horseback travel on either side of a horse-drawn supply wagon. A war giant following the wagon looks around, as if ready for a fight. His footsteps reverberate loudly, and most of the guards fearfully avoid glancing in his direction. Relations between humans and giants—or nonhumans in general—are worse than ever these days. No telling how much they’re paying this one.
I spot the sheriff riding confidently among his underlings. It doesn’t look like he suspects an ambush, but the north is a dangerous place, and these are perilous times. This particular sheriff still has unfinished business with us, though for now at least he’s otherwise occupied. He and the others are heading west, bound for Dothrunvaggen. The taxes in the supply wagon will help pay for Queen Scathach’s ongoing war with Connacht.
We stare through the trees and watch the procession go by. Arlo exchanges a look with Duke. There are more guards than we were told to expect, and we’re down a few men as it is. The giant complicates matters further. Duke has eyes only for the supply wagon. He’s been planning this since his informant in Redmyre told him about the delivery in exchange for a modest fee. We glance at Duke expectantly. It’s now or never.
When Duke gives the signal, Harald and Bast take aim at the wagon’s drivers and let their arrows fly. The rest of us spur our horses forward and rush the enemy. Harald’s shot strikes true, but Bast’s falls short. It doesn’t matter. Panicked horses veer off the path, taking the wagon along with it, and Arlo and Doyle gallop after it in pursuit.
I’m the first to enter the fray. My axe caves in a guard’s sternum and knocks him from his horse. Faolán, moving swiftly at my side, pulls a spearman off his feet and sinks her teeth into his jugular. Søren laughs and tramples a man underfoot. Harald and Bast cover us with arrows as the others fan out and attack. We move light and fast. In contrast, spears and shields weigh down the sheriff’s men, and the wet earth slows their movements.
A spear grazes my mount. Faolán tackles a second spearman to the ground and claws him to death while I charge the guards on foot. They’re terrified of me, and with good reason. I stand a full head taller than any man here, and I have the muscle to match. Horrific scars mar my face, and a patch covers what remains of my right eye. Coupled with my bearskin cloak, I look like something monstrous.
Fury builds inside my chest, and I tear into the enemy ranks with my axe. A guard trips in the mud in an attempt to get away from me and lands on his back. I crush his head under my boot and approach another, who wets himself at the sight of me. He’s too paralyzed with fear to bring his shield up to defend himself. My axe splits his face in two. Two more guards exchange glances and attack in tandem. It doesn’t do them any good. Faolán goes for the first attacker’s ankles, and I drive his companion to the ground by bashing his shield repeatedly with my axe.
The others don’t let me keep all the action to myself. Søren gleefully cuts down one man after another. Talon stabs a man through the back of his skull and whispers something to him. The man’s a sadist. Of everyone in the gang, I like him least—even less than Søren. From time to time, when we’re away from the others, I think of killing him. Duke would know if I did, and that’s the only thing that stops me.
Our plan is to get the gold and leave. Although Harald and Bast keep the giant at bay with their arrows, that will only last so long. I search for the sheriff. Where’s he hiding? Something about this doesn’t feel right.
Duke calls my name above the fray, and my suspicions are confirmed. Arlo and Doyle have forced the lock and opened the overturned supply wagon, which rests on its side under the trees. I glance past the wagon’s open backdoor and clench my jaw.
It’s empty. There’s not as much as a single coin inside.
A horn blares through the forest, and everything goes to hell. More guards appear in the treeline. The sheriff must have held them in reserve. This was a trap. The queen’s taxes were never here.
It’s a realization I have little time to dwell on. The giant brings his club down on Harald. The impact carries him off his horse and into a tree. He’s killed on impact. That’s one mercy, at least. Faolán barks a warning, and I pivot and sprint toward the nearest horse. We’re hopelessly outnumbered, and I’m not fool enough to stand my ground when there’s nothing but death to be gained from it.
Duke spills a man’s guts and calls to the others. “Fall back!”
We try to retreat together, but an arrow flurry drives us apart. A spear hits Doyle in the back. When he lands in the mud, I see the point protruding from his abdomen. It’s bad. Doyle calls to Talon, already on his horse, but Talon passes him by. I swear and defy oncoming fire to defend Doyle from the guards.
“Berengar!” Bast rides to my aid. He may be green, but he’s brave. I cleave
a guard’s sword arm from his body and help Doyle onto Bast’s horse. Even if he’s a dead man already, Doyle’s still one of us. “What about you?”
I shake my head. There’s no room for me. “Get out of here. Follow the others!”
The ground shakes under the war giant’s feet. He’s headed straight for me. I’m not afraid—I’ve killed giants before. I squeeze the axe and stand my ground.
“Berengar!” Duke, gripping a spare horse’s reins in one hand, ducks an arrow and rides my way. I climb onto the horse and spare a glance back at the sheriff, who watches with a mocking sneer. Then I whistle to Faolán, dig my boots into the horse’s flank, and don’t look back.
We gather at Crow Hill, the ruins of an ancient watchtower near the border with Connacht. It’s where we agreed to meet if the heist went wrong. We’re safe for the moment, but the sheriff will have hunters after us. We can’t stay here longer than two or three days—three at the most.
The sky threatens rain. It’s midafternoon, and the cold hasn’t relented. Towering stone columns stare down at me as I follow a narrow, winding path uphill. Duke knew what he was doing when he picked this place. The watchtower was built by our ancestors in the days when giants still ruled the land. From this vantage point, we’ll be able to see an enemy coming from any direction and hold them off if necessary. Although the ruins will provide some relief from the elements, Duke won’t want to risk a fire after nightfall with the sheriff’s men on our trail.
I’m the last to arrive. It looks like everyone made it. Other than Harald, no one’s injured. Søren and Talon work to set up a makeshift camp. The gang’s permanent hideaway is too far from here. There’s no point trying to make it tonight, not with Doyle in the shape he’s in.
Bast has his head down and isn’t talking to anyone. He looks sick. The lad’s been in fights before, but this is the first since he joined the gang that really went south. This life chose him, not the other way around, and he hasn’t fully hardened to it yet.
When Talon shouts at him to pitch in, Bast scrambles to his feet and goes over to them. I do my part before going to look in on Doyle. Deathly pale from blood loss, he clings to life by a thread. Each heartbeat brings him closer to death. He’s only regained consciousness once since Arlo removed the spear. Arlo tends to him. He’s the closest thing we have to a healer. There’s not much Arlo can’t do, but the damage is too severe. Even a magician couldn’t save Doyle now, so there’s certainly nothing more I can do for him.
I stalk away from camp and find a secluded spot near a peaceful stream. I prefer to keep to myself. Being a member of this gang is the closest I’ve felt to belonging anywhere for a long time, but even here I don’t fit in. Although the others are seasoned killers, like me, I don’t mistake them for friends. It’s easier not caring about anyone.
It’s been over a year and a half since I joined the gang. The life of an outlaw suits me well. I do as I please and go where I want. There’s always something that needs doing, which helps me keep my mind off my life before all this.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection when washing blood from my hands in the stream. No wonder the guards ran from me. My red hair has grown into a long and untamed mane, and I can’t remember the last time I trimmed my beard. The bards have taken to calling me the Bloody Red Bear on account of my bearskin cloak, and the blasted name has caught on. I suppose that’s what comes from killing one of the bastards. While I can’t remember what he did to deserve it at the moment, I’m sure I had my reasons.
Blood on his blade and flames in his hair. Scars down his arms, and a cruel one-eyed stare. That’s how it goes. Much to my annoyance, the tune’s become quite popular. I swear I’ll kill the first man I catch singing it. Faolán sits beside me in the shade, and I brush the burrs from her coat.
Bast approaches sometime around dusk. “Duke’s got something to say. He wants to see everyone.”
It’s a quiet ride back to the ruins. Bast is usually more talkative. Maybe it’s me. Most of the others are afraid of me—even Talon, though he’d never admit it. I watch Bast in the dying light. He wears his emotions on his sleeve. While he does his best to hide it, it’s clear what happened to Harald and Doyle has him on edge.
“People die. Happens all the time. You’ll get used to it.”
Bast mutters a noncommittal response and tries to give the impression he’s older than he is. He’s the only one in camp with a smooth face. I’d wager he’s eighteen, maybe seventeen. Truth is, I’m not that much older than Bast—only about five years or so—even if I appear older. I was only fifteen when I married my wife, and yet somehow Bast seems younger. His hair, a mess of brown curls even more unkept than mine, frames a round, boyish face. He’s of average height for his age, and his frame is lean but muscular. I look like a giant beside him.
It’s dark when we return to camp. Doyle has finally stopped moving. Moonlight casts the ruins in an otherworldly light, and I’m reminded of tales of fairies come to snatch children from their beds. Faolán prowls around the camp’s outskirts like a shadow. Anyone unfortunate enough to stumble across us will wish they hadn’t.
Duke’s addressing the others when Bast and I approach. “Good. We’re all here.” The mood of discontent that hung over the camp has lessened in my absence. Duke has a way with words, and whatever he’s said already has clearly had an impact. “There’s nothing we can do to change what happened today. We have to move forward.”
“Winter will be here sooner than anyone wants.” Søren spits on the ground. “We needed that loot.” He’s right.
“There was no loot,” Talon says. “The supply wagon was empty. Remember?”
Duke silences Talon with a dark look. “Never mind that. I’ll find us more work.” He’s the only man Talon listens to. It was Duke who brought me into the gang, and he’s its undisputed leader. “At the moment, we have more important concerns. The sheriff went through a lot of trouble to set that trap for us. Someone tipped him off, and we need to find out who it was. We can’t risk going back to our hideaway until we’re sure the sheriff’s not onto us.”
“Maybe it’s time to move on,” Arlo volunteers. “Like Søren said, winter will be here soon enough. If we need a new sanctuary, now is the time to look for one.”
Søren frowns. “We can’t leave our silver behind.” Leave it to a Dane to have his mind on coin at a time like this.
Talon licks his lips. “I say we put a dagger in the sheriff’s heart and be done with it.”
That starts an argument over the best course of action that quickly dissolves into a shouting match threatening violence. I’m the only one who keeps quiet.
“Enough.” Duke hardly has to raise his voice to get everyone to listen. He’s older than me—somewhere in this mid to late thirties. “Søren and I will scout ahead to look for a new hideaway and fresh opportunities. There are some places father east I’ve used before. Arlo, you’ll sneak back to our hideaway to look for signs of intrusion and recover our loot if need be. It should be easier for one man to come and go unnoticed.”
Talon folds his arms across his chest. “And the sheriff?”
Duke strokes his beard and considers the proposition. “Killing a sheriff could draw too much attention, but the man is dangerous. We’d have to be quiet about it.” His eyes find mine. “Berengar, are you up to the task?”
I ignore Talon, who takes no pains to hide his disappointment at being passed over. “What do you need me to do?”
While others here were part of the gang before me, I’ve quickly become Duke’s top enforcer. When he absolutely needs something to get done, no questions asked, he turns to me. Each of us is an outlaw. We’re all wanted men. Some come and go, but the core gang is the same. We all work together to survive. We look out for each other because no one else will. Everyone here has a role. Killing comes naturally to me—always has.
“Go to Redmyre and talk to Rourke, the furrier. He told me the sheriff’s plans. If he betrayed us, deal with him. While
you’re there, find out what the sheriff knows. Kill him if you can but make sure it’s done quietly. I don’t want you going alone, either.”
Talon stares me down. “I’m coming too.”
I show him my teeth. If Talon wanted to intimidate someone, he picked the wrong man. “I saw the mess you made at Stonecrest. I’m taking Bast. I need someone the locals won’t recognize.”
“You’ll all go,” Duke says. “I want this done properly. But Berengar’s in charge. Understand?”
Talon shrugs. “Whatever you say, boss.”
“It’s settled then. We’ll ride out in the morning.” There’s no point arguing. When Duke says something’s settled, it’s settled.
We divide what rations we have among ourselves and hunker down for the long night. No one says much of anything until Arlo brings out a drinking horn full of ale. No surprise there—Arlo loves the stuff so much he brews it himself. He hands it to Bast, who takes a swig, makes a face, and nearly spits it out, prompting a round of laughter from the others. We pass the drinking horn to each other in honor of Doyle and Harald. The tension eases a little as we tell stories about them. When Arlo is drunk enough, he begins to sing. Even Bast grins at that. As usual, I sit farthest from the group, though still close enough to hear. I don’t smile along with the others. I can’t remember the last time I smiled.
Thunder rumbles overhead, and it’s not long before the rain starts. The others take cover to try to keep dry. I take the first watch while they sleep and stare off the edge of the world from the ruined watchtower’s peak. Blackness stretches as far as I can see as hard rain lashes fallen stones around me.
Faolán’s ears perk up after about an hour. We’re not alone.
“Couldn’t sleep.” It’s Duke.
The Price of Hate Page 1
