I grunt in response, which earns me a grin.
“You don’t say much, do you?” Duke lowers himself to the ground and sits beside me. Nearly shoulder-length raven-colored hair hides most of his face except for his beard. His clothes are black and brown, and he wears padded armor under his tunic. A sword and a pair of knives are sheathed at his sides. Of everyone here—save perhaps Bast—Duke looks least like a northern barbarian and more like a southern rogue. “I buried Doyle.”
“I’d have helped if you asked.”
“I know you would have.” Duke looks tired in the moonlight. It’s a side of himself he doesn’t show often. “You buried men in the war, didn’t you?”
“Aye.”
“Then you know what it’s like.” Duke knows I was a soldier. He’s the only one here I’ve told anything about my past, and even that amounts to precious little.
“Most of us were nothing but fodder for the enemy. The nobles left our dead to rot more times than I can count. It was our responsibility to tend our dead.”
Duke’s brow knits together. He doesn’t show his anger as readily as me, but I know it’s there. “No matter how much we take from them, it’ll never be enough to match what they’ve taken from us, will it?”
“No. It won’t.”
Duke knows I lost someone. Although he hasn’t said as much, I suspect he did too. He hates nobles almost as much as me.
Ulster, the northernmost of Fál’s five kingdoms, is not a kind place. Ours is a brutal land dominated by cruel lords and harsh winters. Things here are worse than ever. The kingdom is in turmoil. Queen Scathach has her eye on Connacht, rather than the unrest within her borders. The chaos that has gripped other parts of Fál since the doom of Áed has found its way here. Starving peasants have revolted and cast down their lords. Bandits and thieves terrorize the populace. Unlike most gangs, ours leaves commoners alone if they do the same. Duke imagines himself a defender of the people, but in truth we hurt the strong more than we help the weak. As for me, I’m in this for vengeance, and because it helps having someone else looking out for me. I hold no delusions about the kind of life I’m leading.
“Can you believe the bastard had a giant?” Duke sighs. When he speaks again, his voice is harder than before. “Kill him if you get the chance, Berengar. Do it for Harald and Doyle.”
He knows I will. It’s what I’m good for.
In the morning, we go our separate ways. I leave Duke and the others to handle the rest and head to Redmyre with Talon and Bast. Talon complains nearly the whole way, mostly about Bast. Tempting as it is to break his neck and tell Duke he fell from his horse, Talon is a talented killer when he’s not bringing trouble down on our heads. It’s his other qualities I despise. Bast keeps to himself, and I’m not the type to push him. I know better than most what it’s like to want to be left alone.
It’s a miserable journey. The rains don’t let up. Hunger makes my mood fouler than usual, and I’m not exactly a pleasant sort to begin with. Even Talon keeps his mouth shut for a change. After two days, we reach Redmyre, nestled deep in Widow’s Vale. It’s said Redmyre was beautiful once, in times of peace. Centuries of war and decline have left their mark. Moss and vines devour crumbling walls and fallen stones. Rotting rooftops expose beams to the elements.
Even with the abundance of guards, it proves relatively easy to slip into Redmyre through one of several secret entrances. We leave our horses behind and forge ahead on foot. We’ve spent enough time here to know our way around. Thunder clashes overhead, and rain drips down my hood. The atmosphere is a pallid gray, and fog from the Whispering Marsh hangs about the air. The marsh was the sight of the bloodiest battle in Eberdon’s Rebellion. Thousands died in the mud or drowned in the water. Redmyre is no stranger to war. It’s changed hands in almost every major conflict since anyone can remember.
Thieves’ lifeless corpses swing from the gallows. The Sheriff of Widow’s Vale has accomplished what no one thought possible and restored a semblance of order to the valley with merciless brutality. His cruelty and ruthlessness know no bounds. So long as he holds Widow’s Vale from her enemies and supplies taxes, Queen Scathach and Laird Cowan allow him free hand to do as he pleases. The people here suffer for it. Afraid of upsetting the guards, they keep their heads down and move quietly about their affairs. The sheriff and his men have been known to make examples of those who displease them.
I can tell the others are on edge, and with good reason. The sheriff’s men will do worse than kill us if we’re caught. We advance with caution to avoid drawing unwanted attention. Fortunately, fog and heavy rains partially shield us from view. I keep my hand close to the short sword at my side just in case. Arlo taught me how to wield it, though I mainly use it to hack and slash. A silver dagger is hidden in my boot should the need arise.
I spot a bounty with my face on it among others posted on a set of doors. Queen Scathach has put a price on my head for killing her son. The Ice Queen doesn’t forget. Neither do I.
I had a different life once. A family—a home. My wife died in childbirth, leaving me to raise our daughter alone. When my time in the goblin wars ended, I promised my little girl I was done with war, but war found me anyway. Queen Scathach’s son, Prince Eberdon, rebelled against his mother and attempted to seize the throne for himself. His soldiers burned and looted my village and murdered my daughter.
When she died, something broke inside me. I tracked Prince Eberdon to Fort Morrow, where he and his men had taken refuge. That night, I stole through their camp and killed every man inside. I took them apart, piece by piece, until only Eberdon remained. Then I took the prince’s head with my axe. In the morning, covered in blood, I threw open the gates to Queen Scathach’s forces and walked away. Word of my deeds spread across the kingdom—maybe even farther than that. My actions were barbaric, even for a hard land like Ulster. Dún de Fulaingt, the bards call it. The Fortress of Suffering.
Since that day, I’ve killed anyone who serves Scathach or her nobles I can get my hands on. I want vengeance for my daughter. Ending the lives of the men responsible wasn’t enough. Neither was beheading the prince. I want the queen. One day, I’m going to kill Scathach like I killed her son. Until then, I’ll tear the nobles’ world down around them, one death at a time.
Duke was right. No matter how much I take from them, it’ll never be enough.
We head for the town square. Crows perched on a withered tree regard a gravedigger pushing a cart weighed down with corpses on his way to the church. When one of the cart’s wheels sinks into the mud, the cart overturns, and a body falls into a puddle with a splash. A pair of guards watch idly with amusement as the gravedigger attempts to ward away descending crows while propping up the cart.
I wave Talon and Bast forward while the guards are distracted. “Something’s up. There are more guards than usual.”
Talon remains undaunted. “You think the queen’s taxes are still here? Maybe we should take a look.” He’d slit his own mother’s throat for a few copper coins.
“No.” My voice is firm. “We stick to the plan.”
Bast holds up a hand. “Wait.”
The ground shifts slightly as the giant who killed Harald lumbers by, drawing glares from the town’s inhabitants as he goes. He growls at them as if he might crush them with his club at any moment. His kind once ruled these lands. Even reduced to serving the sheriff, he’ll always be an outcast among men.
At the moment, the giant is the least of our worries. When we come to the town square, the blasted guards are everywhere I look. Most look on from sheltered posts as the townspeople conduct their business despite the elements. A priest to the Lord of Hosts imprisoned in stocks shouts himself hoarse above the thunder with a call to repentance. His pleas go unheeded. Unlike in the south, where Padraig’s teachings have replaced the old ways, worship of the elder gods remains dominant in the north. Shadows cling to a bloodstained shrine to the Morrigan, a dark war goddess worshipped by Queen Scathach.
When she lays a hand on one of the guards, he backhands her with his gauntlet, and the others take turns kicking her while her grandson is forced to watch helplessly.
Bast reaches for his bow and shoots me a dark look when I stop him. “We have to do something.”
“We stick to the plan. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
Bast glances back at the old woman with impotent rage. It’s clear he desperately wants to help her. Bast is idealistic, by northern standards at least. It’s why he joined Duke in the first place. He turns away, unable to look until the guards leave the old woman in the mud and carry her grandson away. “You don’t care about anyone, do you?”
“Do your job. Find Rourke. After you’ve tracked him down, keep a lookout in case we have to leave in a hurry. Talon, go with Bast and take care of Rourke.”
“With pleasure. And the sheriff?”
“Leave him to me.” I wait until they’re gone before my gaze returns to the old woman. Unable to rise, she whimpers in the mud. Blood spurts from her nose. I check to make sure the guards aren’t looking before I approach.
“Please, don’t hurt me.” She tenses at the sight of me. I can’t blame her.
My hands are rough and calloused—the hands of a killer. Still, I’m gentle as I lift her small frame from the ground. She leans against me for support, and I help her away from the square and out of the rain.
“You need a healer.”
She winces from the pain. “I have nothing with which to pay.”
I hesitate, reach into the pouch of coins I carry with me, and press a few copper coins into her palm. “Here. Take these. I know it’s not much, but it should be enough to pay for a healer.”
She hugs me before I can stop her. “You’re a good man.”
I’m not. There was a time when I was like Bast, but there’s not much left of that man in me now. Expressionless, I stalk away before she can say another word, and Faolán follows me in the rain. I should know better. This act of charity is as doomed as it is foolish. Even if the old woman’s body heals, without her grandson to provide for her, she’ll probably be dead within months.
Faolán picks up the guards’ trail with ease. They warm themselves at a fire cairn not far from the dungeon’s entrance. Cloaked by fog, I listen to them laugh and trade barbs. They don’t care about the lives they ruin, so long as their masters are pleased.
“The messenger from Ahoghill saw it himself. The whole village was destroyed. Goblins, it was. Some say it’s the start of a new goblin war.”
“It’s not a goblin war.” The guard responsible for the old woman’s beating speaks with obvious authority, and the others around the cairn wait for him to continue. “There were giants there too.”
“What do you mean, Jerrick?”
Jerrick looks at each man in turn before answering. Clearly, he enjoys the attention. “They were working together. And not just here, either. It’s happening in the south too. A full-scale nonhuman uprising—that’s what the sheriff called it.”
“Nonhumans fight against each other as much as they do us. Why come together now?”
“I heard it has to do with some giantess who preached peace between the races. Harmony, I think was her name. King Elias of Leinster had her executed. The same night, the Lord of Shadows put his sword through the king’s heart. Now the nonhumans have rallied to his cause.”
Another guard frowns. “The Lord of Shadows is a myth. We have enough problems on our hands without worrying about some made-up sorcerer—the war with Connacht, for starters.”
Jerrick glowers at him. “Connacht is at war with itself. The kingdom hasn’t been a force since the fall of King Áed and Thane Ramsay. Besides, Connacht is crawling with monsters.” He spits into the fire. “Serves the bastards right.”
“Unlike the Lord of Shadows, Princess Nora is no rumor. If Nora unites the kingdom under her, she could turn the tide against us. Queen Scathach would burn Connacht to dust before she lets Áed’s niece sit on his throne.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she won the crown,” another says. “At least there was peace when Áed ruled.”
Jerrick narrows his gaze in his direction. “I wouldn’t let the sheriff catch you saying that when he comes out of the dungeon. Enough of this. I need to take a leak.”
I’m in luck. The sheriff is close. Jerrick treks away, and the group disbands. They shouldn’t worry about monsters in Connacht when there are worse monsters at their door.
Jerrick is busy relieving himself in a secluded alley when I approach. He doesn’t bother glancing back at the sound of my footsteps. “Sod off.” He finishes his business and turns around to find me blocking his path, and his gaze makes a slow, familiar creep to my scarred face. “What the devil…”
I break his larynx to prevent him from crying out. Maybe I couldn’t help the old woman, but I can prevent this piece of scum from hurting anyone again. Jerrick falls to the ground and scrambles back. His eyes widen as Faolán bares her teeth and goes for his throat. I stuff him into a barrel and steal toward the dungeon. By the time Jerrick’s body is discovered, I’ll be long gone.
The entrance to the dungeon groans as it shuts behind me. My footsteps echo softly down stairs leading into darkness. Other than the rain, faint cries coming from the prisoners below are the only sounds. Faolán sniffs the stale air, and her amber eyes glow in muted torchlight.
Voices carry from nearby. I listen carefully and keep to the shadows. The dungeon is cold and dark. Rain leaking through cracks in the stone ceiling collects in puddles on the floor. Candles and torches interspersed through the chamber fail to hold back the abundant dark. What weak light there is paints a grim picture. Chains, shackles, and ropes hang from the walls. Rows of iron-barred cells stretch past the illumination. The place reeks of death. Several prisoners are dead already, and they’re the lucky ones. The dungeon is filled with every conceivable instrument of torture imaginable. The Sheriff of Widow’s Vale isn’t known for his mercy.
“Another outlaw brought to heel.” The sheriff peers through iron bars at a shriveled, emaciated prisoner who shrinks away from the light.
“He gave up more under torture.” The sheriff’s companion, a young man built like a bull, regards the prisoner with a twisted smile. Even in the dimness, I recognize him as Angus, the sheriff’s right hand. His methods are so brutal the people have taken to calling him Black Angus. “We’ll round them up before the week’s end.”
“Excellent.” Trailed by guards, the sheriff turns away to continue his inspection. Unlike Angus, his expression has an air of cruel indifference. “Each day we tighten our grip on this lawless land bit by bit. The war with Connacht goes poorly, but so long as we hold the Widow’s Vale, we have Queen Scathach’s favor. You’ve done well, Angus. I wonder—are you ready for more responsibility?”
“Is the queen finally naming you High Sheriff?” Judging from the greed betrayed by his tone, Angus is clearly intrigued by the prospect.
“Let Lagan and Magennis fight each other for High Sheriff. The position is more trouble than it’s worth—its occupants have a habit of losing their heads. No, Queen Scathach has seen fit to reward me in another way.” He waves the guards away, makes his way to a candlelit table, and withdraws a letter from his cloak.
Angus, still standing, flinches. “What does it say?”
“For restoring order to the region and the safe delivery of her taxes, Queen Scathach has named me her executioner in addition to my current responsibilities. I think you would agree it is a position that is more in line with your particular talents.” As Scathach’s executioner, the sheriff will have nearly unlimited authority to pass judgment in the queen’s name.
I slip my hand into my boot, grip my silver dagger, a
nd press myself against the wall. Counting Angus and the guards, the sheriff has four defenders. I’ve beaten worse odds, but I’d rather bide my time and wait to get him alone. Otherwise getting out of Redmyre in one piece will be much harder.
Then Angus says something that makes my hair stand on end. “What of Prince Diarmuid’s family?”
“Quiet. You never know who’s listening.” For a moment, the chamber falls completely still. “I’ve told you not to say that name, Angus. The queen and her family have been under constant threat since that fool Eberdon lost his head. Scathach may have put her trust in us, but if anything happens to Diarmuid’s wife and daughter, it’ll be our necks on the chopping block.” He glances at the guards. “You would do well to forget what you heard. Kill the prisoners—all of them.”
My grip tightens on the dagger. That explains what all the guards are doing here. I took one son from Scathach, but she has others. She must have moved Prince Diarmuid’s family to Redmyre to keep them hidden. Fury consumes my caution. The plan doesn’t matter anymore. Since my daughter’s death, only one thought has kept me alive—taking vengeance on Queen Scathach. Now it is within my grasp.
The dungeon’s warden flinches at the sheriff’s suggestion as I move through shadows unseen. “Is that really necessary? Some of these men have committed minor crimes.”
The sheriff’s mouth forms a thin line. “Are you going to carry out my command, or should I have you killed with the rest of the prisoners?”
The warden bites his lip. “It will be done.”
Angus hears me coming a step too late. He’s big, but I’m bigger. One blow to the head is enough to put him down. Before the others can react, I drive my dagger through the sheriff’s hand to anchor him to the table. When the guards reach for their swords, Faolán puts herself between us and lets out a threatening growl.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I jerk the sheriff’s head back. “Call for help and he dies.”
“You.” Blood stains parchment scattered across the table as the sheriff struggles against the dagger. “You’ll never leave here alive. My men are everywhere.”
The Price of Hate Page 2
