The Fortress of Suffering

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  The Fortress of Suffering

  Kyle Alexander Romines

  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.

  Contents

  Berengar

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Cover by The Cover Collection

  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

  Berengar

  I claw at the mud. Sweat burns my good eye. Dozens lay dead beside me. Others aren’t so lucky. The mortally wounded, clutching exposed entrails or amputated limbs, beg the gods for release. Their pleas fall on deaf ears. My father once said the elder gods have no love for the north. It’s one of the only things we ever agreed on.

  I catch a glimpse of Tate a short space away. Black arrows riddle his corpse. I promised his father I’d look after him. Now he stares at me through lifeless eyes that will haunt my dreams.

  I’m covered in blood. Most of it isn’t mine. My gaze falls on my hammer, which rests tantalizingly out of reach. I drag myself past others caught in the same arrow volley that felled Tate. They’re farmers, not soldiers, armed with pitchforks and spades. Most are too poor to afford even the barest forms of armor that might have saved their lives.

  Goblin drums echo in the distance. Shouts carry where the battle rages beyond the Briarwood. The forest is mostly quiet, save for the flies buzzing around bloated corpses and the wounded moaning for help that won’t come. We were ordered to march into the forest and attack the goblin army’s exposed flank. We never made it through to the battlefield. The goblins were ready for us. As I crawl through the carnage over human and goblin corpses alike, it’s painfully obvious why. We were never meant to flank the enemy. We were only a distraction intended to force the goblins to divert part of their army.

  We were sent here to die.

  Our commanders sent us to our deaths because we are expendable, and they did so without a second thought. To the lords and nobles rich enough to outfit themselves and their soldiers with proper armor and weapons, it is just another sacrifice necessary to ensure the enemy’s defeat. We work their lands, pay their taxes, and fight their wars, and they won’t even have the decency to bury our dead after the battle.

  Right now, none of that matters. Because I’m not going to die here. I have something to live for. My daughter is already without a mother, and I will not make her an orphan.

  Just a little farther. My hammer is almost within reach.

  Silence follows a scream nearby, where a goblin wrenches his spear free from a man’s chest. His reptilian eyes narrow in my direction, and I bite down a curse and take hold of my hammer. The blasted thing is on me before I can find my footing. Like most of his kind, he’s fast. I’ll give him that. But I’m fast too. I sweep his legs out from under him, roll onto him to pin him under me, and strangle him to death with my hammer’s handle as he thrashes under me. When he finally stops kicking, I half-exhale, half-groan and stumble to my feet.

  I glance around, surveying the living and the dead. Sweat pours down my face. Even in the shade, it’s too blasted hot. Ulster is known for its harsh winters. Right now I can’t even remember what snow feels like. The drums continue raging outside the forest. There’s no point in going that way. My presence, or lack thereof, will not affect the battle’s outcome one way or the other. I stop to check the men in my regiment for any survivors. There are none.

  A cry comes from a man nursing an injured leg while attempting to fend off goblin attackers. He locks eyes with me, and a brief look passes between us. He thinks I will desert him to save myself. Instead, I charge to his aid. I may be a killer, but I’m not a monster. Not yet.

  The gray goblins of the north are the most savage of their kind. It’s the reason they remain a force to be reckoned with even now, when their kin in the south are divided and dispersed. Our enemies are bred for battle and trained to have no fear, but even they shake in their boots when they see me coming.

  Saying I’m big is an understatement. I stand well over a head taller than anyone else in my village. My wife used to joke that I had giant’s blood. It’s not just my size that gives the goblins pause, either. The right side of my face is a ruin. I’m only twenty-three, but I look older. Three rough scars rake down from my forehead to my chin, and a leather patch covers the useless eye that sits underneath. Despite the heat, a great bearskin cloak drapes from my shoulders. The bear took my eye. I took her life.

  The goblins are caught off guard by my sudden intervention. It’s easy to assume I move slowly. It’s a deadly assumption. One swing of my hammer caves in an attacker’s skull. Another knocks two more off their feet. I stomp one underfoot on my way to the other, who wildly crawls away seconds before I shatter his back with my hammer. I can’t help but fight back a smile as a fourth goblin flees rather than meet his comrades’ fate.

  The man I just saved offers a leering grin by way of thanks. “You’re a big bastard, aren’t you?” Something about his smile reminds me of a wolf. I’d put him in his late thirties. He wears a gambeson and wields a sword, but he doesn’t look like a soldier.

  “We can’t stay here. There’ll be more of them soon.”

  “Agreed.” He sheathes his blade, but not before I notice the blood. Goblins bleed green. The blood on his sword is red. It’s human.

  I tense. Who is this man?

  He stares harder at me, and his face brightens all at once, like a child unwrapping a gift. “That bear cloak, that red hair—you’re Esben Berengar, aren’t you?” He chuckles, an odd display considering the circumstances. “Heard you were as big as a bear. Looks like for once the stories are true.” He offers his hand, which I ignore. “Name’s Ahearn.”

  I shrug. The name doesn’t mean anything to me.

  For the first time, his face betrays a hint of irritation. “Prince Eberdon’s right hand.”

  I fight the urge to groan. That name I do recognize. Eberdon is one of Queen Scathach’s sons. He’s leading the whole bloody campaign. If Ahearn is working for Eberdon, what the hell is he doing here?

  I gesture to his leg. “Can you walk on that?”

  Ahearn winces and shakes his head. “Afraid not.”

  “Come on.” I sling Ahearn over one shoulder and trek south, away from where we encountered the patrol. He’s heavy, but I once dragged a giantess across the frozen Lake of Eyes. I can manage.

  “To hear Laird McGrath’s men tell it, you’re a local legend.”

  It’s bad enough I have to carry his sorry backside through a forest crawling with goblins. Apparently, I also have to listen to him talk. “I’m good at killing goblins. That’s all.” It’s another understatement. I’ve probably killed more goblins than most mo
nster hunters twice my age.

  “That’s not what I heard. I heard you killed the goblins’ champion at Fool’s Pass in the last goblin war.”

  “What of it?” I’ve been fighting the bastards since I was younger than poor Tate. This campaign is my fourth goblin war. If I make it out, it will also be my last. I’m through fighting others’ wars.

  Besides, the goblins are all but finished. Our forces have trapped their army at Ramshorn. The final battle rages even now. The goblins’ losses in previous wars have depleted their numbers and resources. Their weapons are rusted and their armor is damaged. They may fight like devils, but Eberdon and his underlings will keep throwing nameless peasants like me at them until the battle is won.

  Gods, it’s hot. I’m stronger than most and handle the added weight well enough, but the slog through the mud takes a lot out of me. We’re still at the outskirts of the woods—too close to the battle for my liking. Gradually the mud dries up. That’s one small mercy, at least. Eventually we reach a thicket near a stream. I prop Ahearn against a tree and take a knee. “We should be safe here.”

  “I owe you one.” He scrutinizes my face. “If anyone asks, you never saw me. Understand?”

  “Aye.” Whatever he’s doing here, I don’t care. I just follow orders. Nothing good ever comes from getting mixed up in nobles and their affairs.

  The response satisfies him. “Good. A man like you could rise high, especially with the right friends. We could use someone like you in the war.”

  I resist the impulse to shake my head. He’s not the first to attempt to recruit me. I was offered a place in Laird McGrath’s guard, which I refused. Kells is my home. I will fight to defend it, but no more than that. Men like Ahearn would make me a butcher. For all my faults, and there are many, there’s more to me than that. “Haven’t you heard? The war’s over.”

  Ahearn seems to know something I don’t. “There will be more battles to come, perhaps sooner than you think.”

  I raise an eyebrow but say nothing. Ulster is a hard place. Just ask any soft-skinned southerner. The north has more territory than any of Fál’s kingdoms save Munster. Much of our lands are crawling with monsters. Even the war’s end won’t change that. Disorganized goblin raids and attacks on villages will continue after this is over, but the goblins will never again hold dominion over any part of the north. Neither will the giants, whose clans are just as likely to war amongst themselves. Trolls, while dangerous, are solitary creatures. Queen Scathach has an iron grip over Ulster. So what does Ahearn mean?

  “You’re from Kells, aren’t you? As it happens, Prince Eberdon may have need of a man who knows the east. Someone who can follow orders without question and keep his mouth shut.”

  Again I say nothing. I don’t trust this man.

  “A man of few words. I can respect that. You must want something.”

  “You know what I want? I want you to shut your bloody mouth before every goblin in the Briarwood hears us.” It’s clear Ahearn hasn’t spent much time around goblins. The creatures’ senses are sharper than ours. As if on cue, a horn reverberates from the trees, where a scout looks on. “Now you’ve done it. That’ll bring more of them.”

  Ahearn reaches for his sword.

  “Stay low. I’ll lead them away.”

  Before I go, he grabs my wrist. “I won’t forget this.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  Arrows fly left and right as I emerge from the thicket. I run deeper into the forest with goblins at my back. Archers pursue me through the trees. If I so much as slip, it’s over. The briars and thorns that tear at my skin are irritating but preferable to the goblins’ poison-dipped arrows. Fortunately, the forest grows denser the farther I flee. It’ll be harder for them to get a decent shot. If I can just find somewhere to hide…

  An archer stands in my path. It’s too late for me to slow my momentum, so instead I charge. Somehow the arrow misses its mark. I close the distance between us before the archer can get off another shot. The bow goes flying away, and just like that he’s pulled a knife. It’s a quality weapon—goblin smiths are a talented lot when their resources haven’t been bled dry. When I swing my hammer, he sidesteps and goes in for the kill. The thrust misses my jugular by inches. My daughter nearly lost her father. The thought fills me with such rage that I let out a roar.

  My anger surprises him. I drive him back with the hammer’s handle to get some breathing room. We circle each other, sizing up our enemy’s strengths and weaknesses. I’m not at my best. Neither is he, by the look of it. The fighting has taken its toll on us both.

  “What are you waiting for?” I tighten my grip on the hammer and dare him to attack.

  The goblin’s reptilian eyes flicker right. He feints and goes left. The knife draws blood. Before I know it, he’s scored another strike. I’m not wearing armor, and the slash opens my skin just under the collarbone.

  I’ve been angry my whole life. It’s something else I inherited from my father—may he rot in whatever hell there is. Now that anger spurs me forward and gives me new strength. I can’t let the goblin dance around me. He’s too fast. Instead, I use my one advantage over him—my size—and rush him before he can get out of the way. The collision sends us into the stream. He lands on his back in the water, and somehow I manage to retain my footing.

  I think I’ve won and raise my hammer to deliver the killing blow. The slippery bastard lunges for my legs, throwing me off balance. I catch him across the chin with my fist, and he rakes a claw across my bare chest. I release my hold on the hammer and fasten my hand around his wrist in a vice to prevent him from going for his knife. He bites at me, but I don’t let go.

  Die already. Most goblins aren’t this difficult to kill. He doesn’t give up, and neither do I. We punch, kick, claw, and bite at each other until we’re exhausted. A sharp drop awaits where the stream flows into a pool beneath a ledge. If I can just send him over the edge…

  The goblin follows my eyes, and the thought occurs to him at the same time. We rush each other once more. I pick him up with a final burst of strength, but he clings to me with a dogged determination. We fall together.

  We land beside each other in the shallow water. I hit the ground hard. Mud and water soak my clothes. I stare up at a sky barely visible through dense trees. It’s all I can do to cling to consciousness. The goblin’s chest rises and falls, but he barely moves.

  “I’m going to cut your heart out.” My words are muffled. Blood fills my mouth. My body rebels against me when I try to roll over.

  He doesn’t answer me. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. “The drums.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’ve stopped.”

  I finally manage to turn over. It’s an awkward angle, but enough so I can get a good look at him.

  I’m not prepared for what I see.

  “We’ve lost.” As a species, goblins possess greater variety than humans. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. This one is nearly half my size. Clothes two sizes too large, full of holes and stitched patches, cling to his wiry frame. His gray skin is smooth and hairless, and his nose and ears end in sharp points.

  But that’s not what surprises me. It’s his gaze, so cold and distant. He nearly killed me moments ago, and now all the fight has gone out of him.

  “What’re you crying about?” I’ve no sympathy for him. I’ve been taught to hate goblins since I was a boy, and with good cause. The monsters raid and attack human villages and settlements with more ferocity than Danes, and that’s saying something. If it was up to me, we’d exterminate the vermin down to the last one. “Your war took me from my home.”

  That sparks something in him, though even this flash of anger quickly dissipates, crushed under a sea of mounting despair. “At least you have a home to return to. My family is in our abandoned stronghold in the Mournes. Do you know what men do to goblin younglings?”

  This time I do feel sympathy for him. I know very well what happens to
goblin younglings.

  “You call this our war, but I never wanted it. I knew it was a fools’ errand to revolt again. You have grown too strong, and we too weak. Now we will be your slaves and work your mines, or else be forced to eke out a miserable existence in the wilds.” His voice is full of regret.

  “Spare me. You lot deserve worse.” The pity I feel can’t overcome years of resentment between our races.

  The goblin doesn’t argue. He just searches my face, as if looking for answers. “Do you have a name, human?”

  There’s no way in hell I’m giving this creature my name.

  “I am called Grack.” He seems to be talking to himself as much as to me. How hard did he hit his head? “I come from the mountain at Malin’s Head, far to the north. Have you ever been there, human?”

  What’s he getting at? If this is some sort of trick…

  “It’s beautiful. We call it the snow mountain, for snow dances off the peaks in winter.” Grack lets out a deep sigh and coughs up phlegm and blood. “When I was a youngling, we had peace with the men and giants who dwelled in the lowlands. Those were good years. They couldn’t last.” He coughs up more blood. That fall did a number on us both. It’s a miracle we survived, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

  Then I spot the knife in his hand. I didn’t notice him retrieve it earlier. Goblins are naturally stealthy. There’s a silver dagger tucked away in my boot, but I can’t reach it in time. For a moment, I think the goblin will finish the job and succeed where so many have failed. Forgive me, Aileen. I fought so hard to get back to you.

  Then Grack lets go of the knife, and it vanishes into the muddy water. “I’m tired. So tired. I think I’ll lie here for a time…”

  There’s a brief silence before either of us speaks again. “Esben. My name is Esben.” I surrender to exhaustion, and blackness takes me.