With Elidor and Harmony looking on in approval, Eberdon launches into a triumphant speech. Ben and I are too far away to make out the words, but the gist is clear. The war is over. We have won.
This time, even I join in the cheering.
When night comes, there is a great victory feast. I hardly remember it. I’m so tired I can barely stand. Only hunger keeps me upright. I’ve never seen so many varieties and quantities of food, much of which probably comes from the goblins’ stores. There’s chicken, pork, mutton, and fish, and those are only the meats. I help myself to baskets full of breads, cheeses, apples, berries, vegetables, and nuts.
It’s a raucous celebration. The men have more than earned it. They’ve been through hell and back. Many have watched their friends die before their eyes. Whiskey and ale flow freely—perhaps too freely, as more than a few fights break out. We are northerners, after all. At the end of my first goblin war, I nearly ended up in the stockades after a picking a fight with one of Laird McGrath’s retainers. Tonight, I’m in a more reflective mood.
I spill a portion of ale in memory of Grack. Who’d have thought I would ever pay tribute to a goblin. Life is funny sometimes. Someone near me mentions the goblin king has given himself up as a hostage as part of the peace terms struck by Elidor and Harmony and agreed to by Eberdon. Goblins who lay down their arms will be permitted to leave Ulster. It’s a ploy clearly meant to destabilize the southern kingdoms, but nevertheless I’d like to imagine that Grack’s family is among the survivors.
I stumble away, drunk on whiskey and exhaustion, and find a quiet place to lay my head. Sleep is a blessed release. I slumber well into the next day. I wake voraciously hungry. Fortunately, there are plenty of leftovers from the feast. The camp is in a state of disassembly, and many lords have already dismissed their retainers. It’s up to the poorer footsoldiers to find our own way home, but not before we’re paid for our service.
As we wait in line for payment, Ben and I come across Sloan, the sole remaining survivor from Kells. The grim fellow doesn’t say much, and I can’t blame him. The poor bastard is missing a hand. He was a carpenter. Now he’ll have to find a new trade.
Each soldier pays homage to Prince Eberdon and the nobles, who mostly watch with indifference from their seats at a wide, covered table. Laird McGrath, who sits at Eberdon’s right hand, doesn’t even recognize Ben despite the old man’s years of service. Ben doesn’t mind. He’s paid well. For that matter, so are the others. Something doesn’t sit right with me. I think again of the surrender and the feast. Everything seems arranged to endear Eberdon to the troops. What is the meaning of this? The war’s over. What need does he have of their loyalty now?
When Ben bows one last time and steps away, I hide my suspicion and approach.
“Your name?” asks a scribe with a face buried in a book of figures.
“Esben Berengar.” I keep my gaze low to avoid drawing the interest of the nobles, who murmur disinterestedly among themselves.
The scribe offers a casual glance in my direction and stares a moment too long before quickly averting his gaze. He whispers into the ear of an associate who reaches into a coin purse to retrieve my payment.
I reach out to collect the coins and be on my way. That wasn’t so bad.
Prince Eberdon holds up a hand. “Wait.” The nobles go quiet at once when the prince speaks, and all eyes fix on me.
I shift uncomfortably. I’d rather fight the troll again than face this nest of vipers.
“It’s him. The one I told you about.” The voice belongs to the individual at Eberdon’s left hand. It’s Ahearn, the man I rescued from the goblins. He really does work for the prince. He’s outfitted well, but he doesn’t look like a noble. He must render some other service for Eberdon.
Another man in a crown—one of Eberdon’s brothers, perhaps—shakes his head in wonder. “Gods, this one is a monster. Look at him.”
Laird McGrath recognizes me. “He is Esben Berengar, My Prince. Kells, is it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Ahearn tells me you performed him an invaluable service.” The prince’s voice is coarse. Long black hair, matted with sweat, spills down Eberdon’s pale face. The leather components of his armor are dyed red, and cruel spikes protrude from metal pauldrons. His eyes possess an almost golden hue, an exceedingly rare color believed to occur in humans with the blood of the elder gods. It’s a trait shared by Queen Scathach and her offspring. “Give the man his due.”
They paid Old Ben forty-five copper coins, the standard rate for a footsoldier. I’m taken aback when the scribe’s associate hands me one hundred copper coins. I can hardly believe my luck. I’ve never seen so much money in my life. My smile fades as the scribe’s associate reaches for another purse and counts ten silver coins. What is this?
The prince himself flips me a golden coin. “I reward those who are loyal, Esben Berengar. Can I count on you when the time comes?”
Finally, it all makes sense. He’s looking for men. He means to wage another campaign—perhaps the rumored invasion of Connacht.
There are no good options. I can’t turn down the prince’s generosity without insulting him, and I dare not refuse him. Instead, I lie through my teeth and pocket the money. “I am at your command, My Prince.”
Satisfied, Eberdon dismisses me. He’s spent enough time on a no-name peasant already and has more important figures to treat with. Still, as I walk away to join Old Ben, I can’t help feeling the weight of Ahearn’s gaze.
It isn’t until Ben, Sloan, and I stop in the town of Easthaven to purchase provisions and supplies for the journey to Kells that it hits me it’s over. A merchant in the marketplace is selling dolls. I stop to purchase one for my daughter before going to join the others.
I’m a cynical man by nature. It’s born from a hard life. But as we start on the road north, for the first time in a long while, I dare to hope. It’s a nervous hope, but it burns bright and warm in my chest all the same.
I’m going home.
It’s almost a month before we make it back. Ulster has more wild and forested lands than Fál’s other kingdoms, and the journey takes longer on foot. We had to stop along the way when Sloan’s stump became infected. The poor bastard didn’t make it. Old Ben and I buried him and continued on our way.
Summer’s almost over. The season never lasts long in the north. We’re known for our harsh winters. It’s autumn I look forward to the most. I long for quiet, peaceful days after harvest and nights spent around the fire. It won’t be long now. The leaves have already begun to turn.
We travel light. A cool breeze dances through the meadow as we come to a fork in the road. The remains of a broken signpost reclaimed by weeds stare back at us. The writing, faded with time, is illegible. It’s just as well. Neither of us is literate. Besides, we don’t need a sign to tell us where we are.
Ben slaps me on the back. “We made it, lad. We’re almost home.” His voice is full of emotion. Something tells me he never expected to return this time.
When I glance over at him, he’s already laughs and smiles. I envy him.
I was never afraid in the war. Not once. Not even against the troll.
I’m afraid now.
Although I long for home, the thought of it fills me with dread. The closer we get to the village, the worse it gets. Fear rises in my throat, and it’s all I can do to choke it down. I’ve been at war on and off since I was sixteen. Every time I come home, it gets harder to leave it behind and go back to the way things were before. What if I’ve changed too much?
Trees shade the path north. Ben’s walking stick stirs up dust from the trail. He doesn’t need it. He’s not that old—probably somewhere in his fifties. Common folk rarely live long enough to become much older than that. Our lives are too hard.
He catches me fiddling with the doll I purchased at Easthaven. “A gift for that sweet lass of yours?”
“Aye.” The knowledge my daughter waited for me was what kept me going
during the war. How she begged me not to go. That was months ago. The first time I left for war, Aileen was too young to recognize me when I returned home. She’ll be eight now.
My wife was the best person I’ve ever known. What she saw in me I’ll never understand. I was a broken shell when we met. Rhona pieced me back together with her gentle heart. When she died in childbirth, I thought I would never care for anyone or anything again. Then I held Aileen for the first time, and I felt so much love I thought I might burst.
My daughter is all I live for, but the prospect of our reunion leaves me restless. Aileen has her mother’s kind spirit. She deserves better than someone like me. I have too much of my father’s anger in me. War has turned me into a hardened killer. I’ll carry the scars of the things I’ve done for the rest of my life. How can I be the father she needs me to be?
Mindful of Ben’s gaze, I pocket the doll. The brush shifts beneath the trees less than thirty yards away, and a bear cub sticks its head from the bushes. The small cub lets out a lazy yawn and saunters into the sunlight.
Ben stiffens and reaches for his bow. Moments later, the bear’s mother emerges behind her cub. The wind shifts, and she notices us.
I watch the mother through my good eye. I know the bite of a bear’s claws better than most. There aren’t many left in Fál, even in the north. Most southerners believe they’re extinct.
I put a hand on Ben’s bow and shake my head. She’ll attack us if she thinks her cub is threatened. I feel a strange sense of kinship with her. I don’t even want to think about what I would do if I lost Aileen. The mother regards me for a time before prodding her cub along with her nose, and Ben and I resume the journey once they’re gone.
The old man’s gaze lingers on me. “The bear you killed—was it as big as that one?”
“Bigger.”
I could have gone into the village after my parents’ deaths. Instead, I roamed the forest and lived off the land for years. Not that the bastard didn’t have it coming, but killing my father broke something in me. I preferred solitude over the company of others. The idea of moving on seemed like a betrayal of my mother’s memory.
It was winter when I came across the bear. The blasted thing nearly killed me. It would have if not for the same dagger now tucked in my boot. The bear’s corpse was still warm when I skinned it and wore its fur to keep from freezing to death. Somehow, I made it through the forest to the village before collapsing into the snow. That was where I met Rhona, who mended my broken spirit. I was just fifteen when we married.
The sight of home keeps me anchored in the moment. Kells is a rural village in Eastern Ulster—by most reckonings, everything east of the Sperrins is part of Eastern Ulster—that borders the Oakwood and the Bann River. It’s a small, peaceful place beneath the notice of outsiders. So long as we pay our taxes, we’re largely left to our own affairs. Ben and I aren’t greeted with cheers when we finally reach Kells. Many are too preoccupied with their labors to pay us much attention. We’re too far from Laird McGrath’s castle at Dunservick to depend on him for relief when winter hits. Instead we must rely on each other. Although the people here are mostly farmers, there are a modest number of tradesmen—including a baker, blacksmith, butcher, weaver, and carpenter—among us. For anything more specialized, one must travel to a town.
It’s not long before we’re noticed. I’ve packed away the bearskin cloak. It smells of battle and frightens Aileen. I only wear it in war to frighten the enemy. Even in winter I prefer the threadbare wool cloak Rhona stitched me as a wedding gift. In the cloak’s place I wear a simple shirt, but I draw stares all the same. Some are friendly. This is my home village, after all. A few narrow their gaze in contempt as I pass by. Most people suspect I killed my father. Those who knew the man don’t begrudge me. My mother was beloved by all, and he beat her to death and dumped her body in the river. Still, patricide isn’t exactly smiled upon. There are plenty who believe trouble and death follow wherever I go. Let them. I don’t care. My head remains unbowed. I’m a loner by nature, and others’ opinions have never mattered that much to me.
Old Ben, on the other hand, is given a hero’s welcome—mostly by children, who flock around him and clamor for the sweets he brought back with him from Easthaven. Ben’s always had a soft spot for little ones. Both his boys died in the goblin wars. The children keep their distance from me. My tortured visage frightens them. Once I overheard an older boy telling the younger ones stories about me meant to scare them. The poor lad went white when he realized I was standing behind him.
I let the children fuss over Ben and keep my gaze on the village. Kells hasn’t changed much while we were gone—not that I expected it to. There’s no fence to keep out unwanted intruders. Nor are there guards to keep the peace. Kells is too remote for Laird McGrath to waste his men on us. Many homes are little more than thatched huts. The buildings near the village’s center are grouped closest together. The homes on the periphery are more dispersed. Neighbors help each other plow their tracts. They plant oats, barley, wheat, and rye, among other crops. Animals are everywhere—horses, mules, pigs, goats, chickens, and hounds. There’s no telling how many will be left after winter. When I was a lad, one winter was so bad my father was forced to slaughter his prize mule. He was so mad after that he beat me bloody.
The dread in my gut lessens as I take in the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of home. My gaze settles on the spot where I saw my wife for the first time. I listen to the mules braying at the plow and the pigs squealing in their pens. I inhale the aroma of freshly baked bread. Some villagers pause from their chores to watch as Ben and I wander down one of two dirt roads that run through Kells. Others, understanding what our arrival portends, stop everything and look for loved ones they will never see again.
Before long, nearly everyone has gathered around us. I hear murmurs about how few have returned. Fathers, sons, husbands, and brothers are missing. Someone asks if more are coming. Perhaps they are simply arriving by another road. I shrug in response. I don’t want to offer false hope. Sloan’s widow approaches me, eyes full of questions. She trembles when I meet her gaze. When he left she was pregnant. Now she carries their daughter in her arms.
Ulster is a hard place.
Expressions are steely, but there are few tears. Everyone has borne similar losses before. The men and women of Kells are no strangers to suffering. They know as well as I there are no guarantees in war.
It’s Kent, the butcher, who clears his throat and puts an end to the murmuring. “You two are a sight for sore eyes. Welcome home.” He hobbles forward and extends a hand to me. Kent understands the horrors of war as well as anyone. He’s a veteran himself and walks with a limp because of it. “It’s good to have you back. I know your little lass will be anxious to see you again. Saw her not three days ago.”
It’s a decent trek through the Oakwood to my cottage. We venture into the village once or twice a week, and more rarely than that in winter.
Now that Kent has spoken, others step forward to greet us. It’s a sign of the strength of my people that whatever their losses, the villagers nevertheless do their part to make us feel welcome. A man who lost his brother to a goblin raid thanks me for doing my part to keep the goblin threat at bay. A girl whose father I rescued in the last goblin war tells me she prayed to the elder gods for my return as she tucks a shamrock into my belt for good luck. No one is a stranger here.
My gaze settles on a woman apart from the crowd. She is Grawnya, the village healer. It was she who nursed me back to health after the bear nearly killed me. Now she watches the commotion from outside her hut. Unlike Ben, she’s truly old. Although she does not approach, I incline my head in a show of respect.
There are calls for celebration, and Ben and I exchange a brief glance before we’re dragged to the town hall. The humble building, worn with age, is as lively as any inn or tavern. We northerners may be a hard people, but we let loose as good as anyone when the mood seizes us. Villagers pack inside t
he hall’s candlelit confines. Ben and I are handed tankards brimming with ale and accorded a place of honor. A freshly slaughtered pig roasts over a fire.
Someone begins playing a viola. The music is fast and less structured than that played by southerners—perfect for dancing. Men and women clap their hands and stomp their feet to the rhythm, which rapidly increases in tempo. Ben joins in the dancing, spilling his ale in the process, and I double over in laughter.
Kent lifts a tankard in our direction and raises his voice. “The gods are good! Today we welcome home our brave heroes—true sons of Kells! I hope you gave those pointy-eared bastards hell.”
Cheers drown out the sound of music, and tankards rattle against tables. I grind my teeth together and forcibly exhale through my nose. I’m uncomfortable being at the center of attention. I endure it as long as possible before finding my way to a lonely table at the hall’s periphery. It’s not long before I’ve eaten my fill. I empty my second tankard and listen as Ben holds the crowd enraptured with tales from the war. Good. He’s the storyteller. I just want to be left alone. We all honor the dead in our own way.
The villagers use the gathering as an occasion to discuss recent happenings. I listen to fragments of conversation from the shadows. The news of the goblin king’s surrender is regarded with equal parts relief and suspicion. There are plenty who thought each of the previous goblin wars would be the last. There’s speculation about what will happen next. Some hold out hope for peace, while the more cynical among us believe Queen Scathach will move against Connacht by next spring. The conversation gradually turns to sightings of the bear Ben and I saw on our journey. Although the bear isn’t known to have harmed anyone, there’s still talk of putting together a hunting party.
I slip my hand into my pocket and feel for the gold coin Prince Eberdon gave me. It’s smoother than the others. I made sure no one saw it on the road. Now I wonder what to do with it. Although I can’t read, I have a decent head for numbers. Even without the gold coin, my wages from the war will pay for a horse or mule—or both—and repairs to the farm with plenty left over for the winter. The idea still feels me with reluctance. I can’t help feeling it was a gift that came with strings attached.
The Fortress of Suffering Page 3
