The Fortress of Suffering

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  “Ahearn sent me to give you Ravenswood.”

  That gives him pause, as I knew it would. It’s exactly what Ahearn asked of me when he came to Kells. The task is even more dire now. Even when his reinforcements arrive, Eberdon can’t withdraw farther east while Laird Lagan holds Ravenswood Castle. He’s trapped, and he knows it.

  “It’s about bloody time.” A hint of a smile graces his face. I don’t think it’s occurred to him he could lose this war. “We’ve tried and failed to take Ravenswood twice. I thought Ahearn had it in hand months ago, but the man he selected proved disloyal.” Disloyal. All I wanted was to be left alone. This man took everything from me, and he doesn’t give it a second thought. “What makes you so confident you will succeed where others failed?”

  “I know the land. I move fast and light. It’s how we did it with the goblin forts.”

  “You’re a veteran of the goblin wars? I had you pegged as a mercenary.”

  “That too. You won’t find a better killer than me.”

  Eberdon almost laughs at that. “You’re rather sure of yourself. We’re all killers here.” After a look at the others, he steps away from his maps and locks eyes with me. “What do you want out of this?”

  He’s asking if he can trust me. Eberdon is a prince. He wants to own me. It’s the same thing Ahearn wanted. Eberdon rebelled against his mother. Words like family and loyalty mean nothing to him. Instead, I speak his language—the language of greed. “Gold. I want gold.”

  This time, he does laugh. “Then you shall have it. Give me Ravenswood, and I’ll give you more than gold. Fail, and…” Eberdon shrugs. “I can always send someone else after you’re dead. What do you need to see it through?”

  “A dozen men, weapons, horses, and provisions.”

  Skeptical, he raises an eyebrow. “Only a dozen?”

  I don’t flinch. “Aye.”

  Eberdon weighs the matter in his head. It’s an insignificant loss against a critical potential gain. Finally, he waves a hand to the quartermaster. “Gilchrist will see that you’re properly provisioned. The captain will supply you with men.”

  Just like that, I’m led away from the tent. More sentries guard the gate. I expect they’ll want to keep a close eye on me to make sure I’m not with the enemy. It doesn’t matter. My plans don’t involve Scathach’s forces, and I’m exactly where I want to be. Faolán looks around hungrily. Like me, she’s biding her time.

  Mine isn’t the only news to greet Eberdon’s ears that day, as word finally arrives that the reinforcements are on their way. After months of confinement, everyone celebrates the news. Rations are doubled, and that evening, there’s a celebration. I keep my distance. It’s likely some of the soldiers in camp were among those Ahearn sent to Kells, and I don’t want anyone recognizing me by description. Fortunately, it isn’t long before the men are good and drunk.

  It’s child’s play to add a little something extra to the stew. When you live in the wild, you learn which plants to eat and which to avoid. Fairy bells fall into the latter category. Every part of the deceptively alluring purple-pink flower is poisonous, so much so they’re often called dead man’s thimbles. And they grow everywhere. Faolán and I sit apart from the festivities and watch the men eat and drink their fill before returning to my tent and waiting for night.

  The hour is late when I emerge. Darkness covers the sky. I steal across the fort so carefully I hardly make a sound. Shadows devour everything beyond reach of low-burning campfires and torches. Faolán recedes into the blackness until only the faint glow of her eyes is visible as I scale the ladder.

  A sentry stares off the wall with his back to me. He doesn’t hear me approaching. Suddenly, a shiver runs down his back, as if he senses something amiss, and he slowly turns around. His eyes creep up my torso to my face, and I drive my dagger into his throat. I drag him into the darkness, and move on to the next sentry on the wall, and the next, until there’s no one left to raise the alarm.

  My hands are already bloodstained when I slip into the first tent.

  My whole life, I’ve known there’s a monster inside me. I’ve tried to hide it. From my wife. From my daughter. Even from myself. I chained my anger under layer after layer of hardened resolve. All the while the monster lay beneath the surface, waiting to be let out. For years I told myself a beautiful lie so I could believe I was a good father—a good man. There’s no one left to lie to anymore.

  I unchain the beast and let the monster out.

  No one sees me coming. Many are experiencing the effects of the fairy bells—nausea, vomiting, weakness, and even convulsions. Others are too drunk or tired to realize what’s happening until it’s too late. Fury builds inside me, and everything I’ve held in so long comes pouring out. Each death only makes me angrier.

  Faolán darts about like a phantom. Her monstrous shadow creeps across the walls in the firelight, and her fangs glisten in the dark. She knocks men off their feet and rips them to shreds with her teeth and claws. Most turn and run when they see her coming—not that it does them any good.

  Shouts carry across the fort, and more men come stumbling out of their tents. It isn’t long before shouting turns to screaming. I hack, stab, sever, and break bones, joints, tendons, ligaments, and arteries. Blood spurts freely from the dead and dying. An endless supply of rage keeps me on my feet and fills me with overwhelming strength. When some try to run, Faolán hunts them down. Others try to surrender. They showed no mercy to my daughter, and they receive none in turn. I cut down boys as young as fifteen without a second thought.

  When morning comes, I’m covered in blood from head to toe. Harsh winds batter the tattered black banners that hang over the fort. My chest rises and falls with each heavy breath. The enemy forces, who arrived during the night to lay siege, have gone deathly quiet. They must have heard the screams. I look around the fort. Dismembered corpses are heaped atop each other. Spears nail men to the wall. Heads decorate spikes. Crows feast on body parts and severed limbs. There’s no one left.

  At last I know the truth I refused to see. I finally know who I really am.

  A battleaxe rests among the remains. Its blade glistens in the sunlight, as if calling to me. I lift it off the ground and tighten my grip around the handle. Most men couldn’t wield a weapon this size, but it fits perfectly in my hands.

  I loom over Eberdon. The prince’s body is broken, and he barely clings to life.

  His golden eyes burn with hate. “You can’t do this. I am a prince.”

  He’s right. If I do this, I’ll be an outlaw. No commoner can spill royal blood, and traitor though he is, Eberdon is still a prince. Queen Scathach will put a price on my head for killing her son, even if his death ends the rebellion in a single stroke.

  In the end, it all comes down to power. The nobles and their ilk care nothing for the rest of us. They’ve bled these lands dry for long enough. It’s time someone reminded them they can bleed too.

  I raise the axe and let it fall, and his head rolls away. I take the head by the hair, walk through the fort, and throw open the gate.

  It takes a while before Queen Scathach’s men are brave enough to enter. They don’t see me—not at first. They’re too distracted by the array of mutilated corpses. It’s a scene out of a nightmare. Their commander loses the contents of his stomach. Terrified, the others stare at me as if I’m some demon or monster. Their weapons hang useless at their sides, and they part to allow me past them.

  I let the prince’s head fall and walk through the gate.

  I find an out-of-the-way tavern to lie low. Even this close to the wild, it’s not an easy task. I’m an outlaw now, and there’s price on my head. I wonder if any of the bounties posted outside the door are for me. Only a few have illustrations, and I can’t read the others. I consider riding on, but I need food and rest. Anyone inside who gives me trouble won’t live to regret it.

  The door falls open with a groan. I duck under the doorway and go inside. Faolán trails behind me wit
h a growl. We’re a rough-looking pair. One glance at us is enough to silence most of the tavern’s patrons. For a moment, the room falls completely still as eyes sweep along the contours of my scarred face and the edge of my battleaxe. I lower my hood and warn any potential adversaries with a threatening glare. The show of intimidation works. When I settle at a table in a corner of the room, I’m left alone.

  At my feet, Faolán surveys the tavern’s inhabitants with hungry eyes. She’s not what she was. Something came back with her from the other side. Something dark. Her savagery at the fort matched my own. Monstrous as she has become, we complement each other well, and she’s more reliable than a human companion.

  The patrons mostly return to what they were doing before I entered, though some steal fleeting glances in my direction. Although the tavern is secluded enough that I should be safe here for at least a few days, the attention gives me pause. Word of what I’ve done is beginning to spread. I hear it spoken in whispers and rumors.

  The Fortress of Suffering, they call it.

  My axe put an end to the prince’s rebellion and unleashed chaos in its place. Far from restoring peace, the rebellion’s end has only made things worse. Feuding lords tear the country apart to fill the void left behind. Town and city guards, stretched thin already, find themselves outnumbered by thieves, rebels, and deserters as war-ravaged lands yield only poverty, famine, and disease.

  The nobles cling more desperately than ever to their hold on power, but they are no longer immune. A commoner killed a prince. Now they know they can bleed just like the rest of us. More importantly, the common folk know it too. Others will follow in my footsteps.

  I wash away the sour taste in my mouth with a tankard of ale and count what’s left of my payment from the war. I’m nearly down to my last coin, and I won’t make it long without more—not with Scathach’s bounty hunters after me. It doesn’t take long for the restlessness to creep in. It’s never far behind. I need to kill something. It’s the only thing that brings me any peace.

  The door opens again, and two guards enter. I don’t recognize the emblem on their cloaks, but I’m a long way from home. I keep my head down and wait in the shadows as they make their way inside. Judging from the way the patrons go quiet, this isn’t the guards’ first time here. I reach under the table and ease the dagger from my boot, and Faolán perks up beside me.

  One of the guards—a stout man with a face deeply scarred by pox—shoots a dark look at another patron. “What are you lot looking at?” He scratches his nose and approaches the tavern’s proprietor. “First of the month. Time to pay up.”

  My grip eases on the dagger, but only a little. They aren’t here for me.

  The proprietor glances from one guard to the other, and it’s clear their previous encounters have been unhappy ones. “I paid the sheriff what I owed not two days ago.”

  The pockmarked guard flashes a toothy grin and leans across the counter. “Aye, but this is a new tax. Wartime, and all that.” He glances at his friend. “A small cut of your earnings, does that sound right? Think of it as a fee for keeping goblins out of the area.”

  “I’ve already given you more than I can afford,” the tavern’s proprietor pleads.

  “That’s your daughter, isn’t it?” The guard’s gaze rests on one of the barmaids. “She’s a pretty lass. It would be a shame if something were to happen to her, if you catch my meaning.”

  The tavern’s proprietor bows his head, and all the fight goes out of him. “I need time. Give me three days.”

  “That’s more like it.” The pockmarked guard slaps the proprietor on the back. “You’ll have until tomorrow. Now if you don’t mind, my friend and I are thirsty.”

  I wait until they’re good and drunk. It’s dark when the pockmarked guard’s companion goes outside to relieve himself. He hears me coming but barely has time to turn around before I take his head in my hand and slam it against the post repeatedly. When I finish, his face is a bloody mess.

  “What’s keeping you?” his friend bellows from inside.

  I release my hold, and the guard lands in the mud. Faolán finishes my work for me. The door opens, and the remaining guard emerges to find me waiting, axe in hand.

  This land is full of monsters. I won’t stop until they’re all dead or I am.

  Whichever comes first.

  Acknowledgments

  Tales of Fál is a companion series to my Warden of Fál sword and sorcery series, which follows Esben Berengar, the High Queen’s most feared warden. These short stories and novellas flesh out characters and events mentioned in those books in greater detail.

  The Berengar we encounter in The Wrath of Lords is not the same man we meet in The Fortress of Suffering. The challenge of writing this series is knowing exactly where he ends up. It’s also what makes writing these stories so much fun. Berengar is one of my favorite characters to write because he’s so complex. Even knowing where he’s going, his journey is full of surprises. Character progression isn’t a straight line. Sometimes characters change and evolve. Sometimes they backslide.

  In The Wrath of Lords, Berengar is initially presented as an unsympathetic character, but as the series unfolds, and his backstory is slowly revealed piece by piece, he’s revealed for what he is—a tragic figure. While Warden of Fál explores his growth from that starting point, stories like The Fortress of Suffering show how he got there. Part of the tragedy is seeing how easily things might have gone another way if Berengar’s circumstances or choices were different. Even as the writer, I want Berengar to succeed in being a good father and a better man, while I know all along that he’s destined to fail.

  If you enjoyed this story, I encourage you to explore the other short stories and novellas in this series. Like this one, each story is meant to stand alone, though I always hope to leave you wanting more. Tales of Fál will also expand on the world of Fál and explore other characters from Warden of Fál as well—including warrior queens, evil sorcerers, kindly magicians, and mischievous fairies. The world of Fál is a big place, full of all sorts of characters, and not every story is as dark as this one.

  And if you enjoy reading about Berengar and find yourself hungry for more novel-length books featuring the character, I invite you to check out my Warden of Fál series on which these stories are based. The Wrath of Lords is the first book in that series. I also encourage you to consider leaving an Amazon review for any story you particularly enjoy. They are very helpful to authors. Additionally, if you have any questions or comments for me—or would simply like to chat—feel free to send me an email at thekylealexander@hotmail.com. Talking to readers is one of my favorite things.

  Thank you for reading my story!

  Until next time,

  Kyle Alexander Romines

  About the Author

  Kyle Alexander Romines is a teller of tales from the hills of Kentucky. He enjoys good reads, thunderstorms, and anything edible. His writing interests include fantasy, science fiction, horror, and western.

  Kyle's debut horror novel, The Keeper of the Crows, appeared on the Preliminary Ballot of the 2015 Bram Stoker Awards in the category of Superior Achievement in a First Novel. He obtained his M.D. from the University of Louisville School of Medicine.

  You can contact Kyle at thekylealexander@hotmail.com. You can also subscribe to his author newsletter to receive email updates and a FREE electronic copy of his horror/science fiction novella, The Chrononaut, at http://eepurl.com/bsvhYP.