“I’ll be waiting. You can find me at the inn.”
That was some progress, at least. With any luck, he would retrieve the thunder rune before the night was through. After that, he would recover his weapons and slay the ogre in the morning, which left him two days to deal with the Dullahan and the Hag of Móin Alúin. Then again, considering the way his luck was running lately, it was probably best not to get ahead of himself.
Night was fast approaching, and he didn’t intend to go hunting for goblins without eating beforehand. He started on the path to the inn, a decision his stomach welcomed with a growl of approval. The place was more crowded than when he left. Iain and Silas were hard at work tending to their patrons, most of whom sought to unwind after another day’s labors. Despite the warmth of the burning fire, there was something cold about the hall. Many of the villagers kept to themselves, nursing drinks in solitude or chattering in small groups. On his way to the bar, he overheard snippets of conversations about the goblin raid or speculation on when the ogre might strike next.
“Did you hear?” one man asked of his friend. “Young Lucas has been running around the village telling everyone he was rescued from a headless rider by a bear!” The man laughed, but his friend didn’t seem as amused. Given all the recent happenings, it was likely the villagers knew something was going on, even if they didn’t know what.
Berengar averted his gaze to prevent the men from noticing his scars. Friar Godfrey was right. It wouldn’t be long before someone deduced his identity. A loud crash came from the bar, where a familiar-looking man kicked away a barstool and staggered to his feet. Berengar recognized him as the drunk who’d been slumped over the bar earlier in the day. From the look of things, the man—Iain called him Duncan—hadn’t moved much in that time, which suggested he’d been so inebriated at the time of the goblin raid he’d slept right through it.
Silence fell over the hall as the drunk pounded the counter with his fists in anger.
“I’ll say when I’ve had enough,” Duncan shouted at Silas. “Give me another.”
Despite the disparity in their sizes—Duncan was stocky but much shorter than the bartender—Silas seemed unable to form a response, and his forcible attempts only resulted in a string of incomprehensible stuttering. He finally shook his head to indicate his refusal to pour another drink.
Iain made his way to the bar in a show of solidarity with Silas. His friendly expression was gone. “This is my establishment. Go home and sleep it off, Duncan.”
“How dare you,” Duncan slurred, projecting spittle with each word. “I’m a veteran of the Shadow Wars. I’ll not be ordered about by the likes of you.” He gave Iain a shove, and the innkeeper nearly lost his balance.
“That’s enough,” Berengar said. He grabbed Duncan and slammed him against the bar. “You heard the man.”
Duncan struggled vainly to free himself. “Let me go, you bastard.”
Berengar pinned the man’s arm behind his back to restrain him. “Say one more word and I’ll break it.” He released his hold on Duncan’s arm and tossed him toward the door. “Get out of here. Now.”
Duncan landed on the floor and glared up at Berengar, only to find himself face-to-face with Faolán, who growled and showed him her teeth. He scrambled to his feet, pushed a pair of patrons out of his way, and hurried outside.
Berengar turned his back and took a seat at the bar. “Smells good. I’ll have some of whatever you’ve got cooking.” He slid some copper coins across the counter, and the patrons returned to their activities.
Silas went into the kitchen and returned with a bowl full of venison stew and a plate of hot soda bread.
“It’s good,” he said, stuffing his mouth with a sizable piece of bread.
Silas beamed at the praise.
“Duncan’s always been trouble,” Iain muttered. “It seems we’re in your debt yet again. If I had the coin, I’d hire you on full-time. Unfortunately, between the vice tax on spirits and all the strange goings-on, business has suffered since the start of the year. Many travelers or merchants would rather take a longer route to Dún Aulin and avoid this area entirely. Can’t say I blame them, either. From what I hear, people have been going missing all across Laird Margolin’s territory. Of course, Margolin has something of a reputation himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man rules with an iron fist.” Iain looked around the room—as if to make sure neither of the guards was present—and lowered his voice before continuing. “There was a time when Margolin was one of the most influential lords in the realm, until he was banished from court. Some said it was on account of his barbarity during the Shadow Wars, though there were rumors the church suspected him of heresy.”
That explains what Margolin’s doing in a place like Blackthorn, Berengar thought. “Heresy?”
“Aye—that he held with the old ways.”
The rumors seemed consistent with the absence of a church or chapel at the castle, a rare occurrence in pious Leinster. Berengar, who came from the north—where worship of the elder gods was widespread—didn’t see it as cause for concern, but he could see how Margolin’s subjects might hold such beliefs against him.
“Laird Margolin claims the rumors are all lies spread by his enemies, and there are few left who would dare challenge him on the subject. Margolin has killed or imprisoned most of his rivals over the years.” Iain’s eyes grew distant, as if recalling a memory from long ago. “It wasn’t always so. Laird Cairrigan once held dominion over Alúine, before Margolin made war against him. Margolin murdered Cairrigan and all his heirs and claimed his territories for his own.” The innkeeper reached across the bar and poured himself a drink. “When he slew Cairrigan, only the goblins were left to oppose him. Soon they too will be gone from these lands.”
“What about the brigands who live in the forest?” Berengar asked. “Friar Godfrey told me they aren’t friendly to Margolin.”
Iain chuckled. “I’d say not. Most are former subjects or servants of Laird Cairrigan, although word has it a fair number come from Alúine and neighboring settlements. They tried rebelling against Margolin after the war and even attempted to assassinate him on more than one occasion.”
Berengar recalled the scars across Margolin’s throat.
“Margolin crushed the rebellion and slaughtered all the rebels he could find. Those who remain are little more than outlaws. They make trouble from time to time, but they’re no longer a threat to him. Few can withstand the wrath of lords.”
Berengar frowned. Margolin's ruthlessness had been readily apparent from the moment they’d met, but this was something else. He’d been forced into a pact with a devil, and now there was little recourse but to see it through to the end. It was the price to be paid for the death of Skinner Kane.
Iain left to attend to other patrons, and Berengar continued eating in silence.
“I’ve got a lead on that horse you asked about,” the innkeeper said when he returned. “A friend of mine needs the money. Fifty copper coins is what he’s asking.”
The door to the inn opened, and in walked Evander, accompanied by Phineas and Tuck.
“Tell him I’ll have the money by tomorrow.” Berengar finished the last of his stew, set the bowl aside, and followed the others outside.
The sky slowly darkened as Berengar and the others made their way to the outskirts of the village. Phineas—clearly the man in charge—discussed the plan while Tuck outfitted Berengar with a club and passed around torches. The guards had rigged up a seemingly abandoned wagon not far from the forest’s entrance. According to Phineas, the sacks of grain in the back of the wagon were sure to attract the attention of goblin scouts patrolling the forest. When the goblins came, they’d capture one and force it to reveal the location of their lair. The plan sounded simple enough, but Berengar knew from experience goblins were clever creatures. If they smelled a trap, the hunters might become the hunted, and goblins weren’t the only creatures lurking about.
The company started on the road to the forest with night unfurling around them. The full moon emerged to cast a bright glow across the trees.
Phineas waved to the others with his torch. “This way.”
Evander took the lead. In addition to his bow, the huntsman carried a dagger strapped to his waist. Faolán held her nose to the ground, sniffing out scents on the forest floor while the two guards brought up the rear. Unlike the dense hedges that made it difficult to navigate the area around Castle Blackthorn, the forest’s trees were widely spaced. A dirt path was visible underfoot, though masked by overgrowth, as if neglected for quite some time. The air was cold, though at least there was no trace of the mist that obscured the road to Móin Alúin.
Evander pointed out a set of prints. “Look.”
“You’ve got good eyes,” Berengar replied.
Evander knelt in the mud to inspect the prints. “My parents died of the plague when I was a lad. I had to fend for myself, or else I didn’t eat.”
“Is it the goblins?” Phineas asked, keeping a lookout.
Even in the dim light, it was obvious from Evander’s expression that something troubled him. “No.”
Berengar crouched beside the huntsman and examined the tracks. “No goblin left these—they’re too large.” The strange prints reminded him of those of a hound or wolf, but much bigger. Was there another monster stalking the countryside besides the ogre and the Dullahan?
When Faolán sniffed the tracks, she let out a soft whine. Berengar heard a twig snap nearby and raised his torch, but when he peered into the darkness past the brush, there was nothing there.
“We should keep moving,” Evander said. He waited until the others were out of earshot before speaking to Berengar in a hushed tone. “I’ve seen prints like these before, left by the beast that killed Rose’s father.”
“What sort of beast?”
“I never saw it. Things were different in those days. Rose and I were to be married. Then one night I went away on a hunt, and when I returned, the old man was dead. He’d been ripped to shreds.”
“Was Rose injured in the attack?”
“No, but she was never the same after that. She wanted to be a healer. Lord knows the village needs one, and she was good at it, too. When her father fell ill, the priest said there was nothing to be done. Rose wouldn’t hear of it, and she nursed the old man back to health herself. Then the beast killed him, and everything changed.”
“It sounds like she took her father’s death hard,” Berengar said.
“That’s the truth of it. She broke off our engagement and gave up healing. She hardly comes into the village anymore. Still, I’ll never give up on her. I’ll find a way to kill the beast and avenge her father, and with the reward for the ogre, we can have the life we’ve always wanted.”
Although the sentiment struck Berengar as foolishly naive, he chose to let the remark pass unanswered. He’d learned the hard way that life rarely doled out happy endings, and even more rarely for commoners—who were far more likely to succumb to disease or a robber’s knife than death of old age. Either way, death always won in the end, which meant life was really about surviving as long as possible. The High Queen had a different outlook, but while Berengar respected Nora’s well-meaning optimism, he didn’t share it. Evander was young. He had plenty of time to see the world as it really was.
Suddenly, he noticed a man-sized figure just off the path. Long, unruly willow branches surrounded the darkened figure like a shroud, cutting it off from the moonlight. When Berengar tightened his grip around the club’s handle and rushed forward, crows fled the tree’s branches, and the torchlight revealed lifeless gray stone.
It’s a statue. He reached out and pulled vines away from the figure’s head, exposing a monstrous face. Like Berengar, it too had only one good eye.
Evander, following behind, lowered his bow when he saw the statue. “I see you’ve found Balor. There aren’t many of these old shrines left. The church ordered them destroyed.”
Balor. Anyone with knowledge of the elder gods or the old ways knew that name, and with good reason. Balor, also known as the Deadly One and Balor of the Evil Eye, was the Fomorian King—a god of death, plague, and pestilence. Worship of such a monstrous entity was unusual but not unheard of. In the days of old, there were entire sects and cults led by druids or magicians who sought the Fomorians’ blessing, often to disastrous effect.
Phineas beckoned to them from the path. “Come along. The wagon isn’t far from here.”
A short time later, the company reached a bend in the path, where a wagon lay bathed in moonlight.
Berengar caught a glimpse of movement on the other side of the wagon and lowered his voice to a whisper. “We’re not alone.”
Evander nocked an arrow, the guards eased their swords from their sheaths, and the group silently advanced toward the wagon. Berengar half-expected a goblin scout to jump over the wagon and attack. Instead, he heard the sound of teeth and claws tearing into flesh. As he drew closer, he noticed green blood pooled across the ground, where a mangled goblin corpse lay twisted and broken. Something else had found the scout first. Berengar’s gaze fell on a creature making a meal of the goblin’s limbs, and suddenly he knew exactly what had killed Rose’s father.
The wind shifted, and the creature stopped what it was doing and sniffed the air before slowly turning around. The werewolf’s fangs glistened in the moonlight. Long claws sprouted from its hands. Although it stood on two legs like a man, its limbs and torso were covered in thick, dark fur.
Berengar stared down the creature, which regarded the companions with a set of predatory amber eyes. Werewolves were extremely difficult to kill. In addition to their supernatural strength, speed, and senses, most varieties could only be seriously injured by silver. True, he carried a silver dagger, but without his axe, there was little chance he’d get close enough to use it.
“Run,” he said.
Unlike Phineas and Tuck—who had already fled down the path—Evander stood his ground and trained his bow on the creature. “I have you now, monster.”
“What are you doing?” Berengar demanded. The arrows wouldn’t do a thing but make the werewolf mad.
Evander ignored him and fired an arrow, which struck the creature in the heart. Evander fired a second arrow, which also found its mark.
The werewolf howled in pain and leapt at Evander, but Berengar pushed him out of the way at the last second.
“Idiot. You’re no match for a werewolf. We have to go—now.”
While Evander hesitated, the werewolf landed gracefully and spun around to face them. It pounced on Berengar, who struggled to free himself as the werewolf’s jaws inched closer to his face. Twin arrows hit the creature in the side, and Berengar managed to free his hand and strike the werewolf with his club as Faolán jumped on its back, biting and clawing. The werewolf tossed Faolán aside as if she were weightless, and the wolfhound crashed into a tree with a yelp.
Berengar lunged forward, grabbed his fallen torch, and jabbed it into the werewolf’s face. There was a sizzle and a pop, and the werewolf let out a pained cry and clawed the air blindly.
“Get out of here,” he shouted to Evander.
They took off running deeper into the forest. A howl echoed through the night behind them, and Berengar heard the werewolf moving through the forest. The blasted thing had their scent. He ran until his legs burned and his sides ached. Somewhere along the way, he lost sight of Evander and found himself alone in the unfamiliar forest. Or was he? Something moved in the brush nearby—something too small to be the werewolf.
Berengar reached into the brush and grabbed hold of something that thrashed about in his grip. He tightened his hold and pulled a goblin from the brush. The goblin bit his hand and broke free, but Berengar tackled the creature before it could scramble up a tree.
“You.” He recognized the creature’s shoddy armor. It was the leader of the raiding party that attacked Alúine. “You took
something from me, and I want it back. Where are the others?”
The creature merely hissed in response.
Berengar tore off the creature’s helmet. “I’m done playing games.” He frowned, surprised by the face looking back at him underneath. “You’re not a goblin.”
The creature was male. His skin was a pale yellow. Rounded teeth protruded from his lips, and his ears and nose were much longer and pointier than those of ordinary goblins. Coupled with his stature—short even by goblin standards—it was clear Berengar was looking at an altogether different creature entirely.
“You’re a hobgoblin, aren’t you?”
The discovery didn’t make any sense. If their leader was a hobgoblin, so were the others who had raided the village. Although they were known to be playful and mischievous, hobgoblins weren’t dangerous like their cousins. If anything, they were known to be extremely shy around humans. That accounted for why no one was killed in any of the attacks, but it didn’t explain why hobgoblins would pose as goblins in the first place.
The werewolf’s howl reverberated through the night before the hobgoblin could answer. When Berengar glanced toward the source of the sound, the hobgoblin wriggled free of his grip and scurried up a tree. At that moment, the werewolf burst free of the thicket and brandished its bloodstained claws. It crouched to jump, as if expecting him to flee. Berengar charged it instead, catching it off guard, and the two met in a violent clash. He reached for the silver dagger, but the werewolf overpowered him and opened its jaws to devour him.
Without warning, a black arrow sailed through the night and pierced the werewolf’s throat, allowing Berengar to grab the dagger and plunge it deep into the creature’s side. The werewolf reacted even more violently to the silver than the arrow in its throat. It writhed in agony, steam rising from the wound. Above, the hobgoblin watched from the tree, a bow in his hands. He jumped to another branch and vanished into the darkness.
Berengar found his footing and tore through the forest, the werewolf hot on his trail. He stumbled through a thicket and emerged into a clearing, where the ruins of an abandoned structure loomed under the moonlight. The structure—which might have been a castle or fort at one time—had largely been reclaimed by nature in the absence of human occupants. Scorch marks marred its blackened stone surface and crumbling walls.
The Wrath of Lords Page 8
