The Wrath of Lords

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  His words proved correct, and they reached the edge of the woods a short time later. The spasms in Berengar’s left arm slowly subsided as they approached Alúine, and by the time they reached the village he was able to unclench his fist.

  A shout sounded somewhere in the distance, and the guards looked at each other in alarm. A group of villagers had congregated around the well, where one of their number addressed the others using sweeping, animated gestures. It was Hirum, the man who had berated Silas when Berengar first arrived in Alúine.

  “Let us through,” Phineas said, pushing his way into the center of the assembly. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “It’s my daughter,” Hirum said. “It’s Leona. She’s dead.”

  Chapter Eight

  The villagers reacted to the news with considerable alarm.

  “Quiet, you lot,” Phineas ordered the crowd. “Haven’t you got work to do?”

  Rather than risk drawing the guards’ ire, those gathered around the well dispersed, speculating about what had caused Leona’s death as they returned to their affairs.

  “I’ll handle this,” Phineas said to Tuck. “Throw our captive in a cell. We’ll deal with the slime later.”

  Tuck nodded obediently and prodded the hobgoblin along. “Come on, you.”

  Another killing, Berengar thought. From what he’d seen so far, the people of Alúine had endured more than their share of hardships. He turned his attention to Leona’s father. Hirum was flustered and agitated, which wasn’t surprising, considering the circumstances.

  Phineas demonstrated uncharacteristic concern for Hirum’s well-being. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  Hirum sucked in a deep breath and wiped a bead of sweat from his eyes. “This morning, I found Leona missing from her room. She must have gone out alone last night without telling me. I searched for her and…” Hirum’s voice caught in his chest, as the horror of his discovery dawned on him for the first time. “I was too late. When I found her, she was dead—killed.” His expression of grief quickly gave way to anger. “Well? What are you waiting for? I want my daughter’s killer brought to justice.”

  Berengar expected Phineas to bristle at Hirum’s criticism, but instead he acted in an almost deferential manner. “Show us the body. Come along, huntsman. We may require your assistance.”

  Evander and Rose started after him, and Berengar followed, for once unnoticed by others. Leona was roughly the same age as the young woman whose lost spirit he’d encountered with Friar Godfrey. If her death was also the Dullahan’s doing, it might hold a clue to the reason for the monster’s presence in Alúine.

  Hirum led them west, toward Móin Alúin. Leona’s body lay at the foot of the great hill that looked over Alúine. Only a day before, the girl was young and full of life. Now she was cold and dead, her corpse covered in mud and blood. She had not died peacefully.

  Hirum’s hard expression faltered as he gazed upon his daughter’s lifeless form, and his voice broke as he spoke. “She was all I had.” He quickly recovered his composure and made no move to approach the body.

  “Go on,” Phineas said to Evander. “Tell me what you see.”

  Evander nodded grimly and crouched low to inspect the body. Tears marred Leona’s bloodstained dress, and puncture wounds were visible across her abdomen.

  “Was it the beast?” Rose seemed barely able to look at the grisly scene, perhaps reminded of her father’s death.

  “Or perhaps the ogre,” Phineas muttered. “The bog isn’t far from here.”

  Berengar interrupted for the first time. “No. The ogre would have crushed its victim. Does it look like Leona’s bones are broken to you? Besides, the ogre wouldn’t have left her here, and certainly not in one piece. The werewolf didn’t do it either.”

  “If those monsters didn’t kill my daughter, what did?” Hirum demanded.

  “Let me take a closer look.” Berengar knelt beside the body and gestured to Phineas. “Hand me your drinking horn.” When the guard complied, Berengar used the water to clean away the blood. “These aren’t fang or claw marks—they’re stab wounds. This wasn’t some random killing, either. It was murder. Look at these wounds. Leona was stabbed multiple times up close, which suggests she knew her attacker—maybe even trusted them. Whoever killed her probably left her here hoping she would be mistaken for another of the beast’s victims.”

  Phineas was clearly unhappy at being upstaged. “That tells us nothing.” He reached down and snatched the empty water horn from Berengar. “This is Alúine. Everyone knows everyone in this godforsaken hellhole. Anyone could have killed her.”

  Berengar pushed himself to his feet. “It’s your job to find the killer, not mine. I’ll say this—it was clearly a crime of passion. Whoever killed her was full of rage.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” Phineas asked with a derisive laugh.

  “I’ve seen wounds like these before,” Berengar said in a tone that warned the guard from pressing the subject. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find whoever’s responsible. You find the weapon and you’ll find your culprit. I’d guess it’s a dagger, or else a cook’s knife. Hirum, you said she went out alone. Do you have any idea why?”

  Hirum shook his head. “Leona was a good girl. None of this makes any sense.”

  “I’d start there, if I were you,” Berengar told Phineas.

  The guard’s expression darkened, and he took a step toward Berengar. “I don’t care how big you are—I wouldn’t go giving orders if I were you. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m in charge around here.”

  Berengar merely stared back at him with a cold expression until Rose laid a hand on his shoulder, presumably to defuse the tension. “We should get the body back to the village before the crows find her. It’s the least we can do for her now.”

  Phineas averted his gaze. “Get to it, then.” He started toward Alúine, leaving Berengar and Evander to lift the body.

  When they reached the village, Evander removed his cloak and used it to shield Leona from curious passersby. They carried the body to the church, where Hirum and Phineas conversed briefly in hushed tones.

  “I’ll fetch Father Godfrey,” Hirum finally said. “We’ll be needing a coffin.”

  “What are you still doing here?” Phineas asked Berengar.

  “There’s still the matter of my pay.”

  “I suppose you did help us catch that goblin,” Phineas said, as if he had suddenly realized it would be unwise to renege on his word. “Very well. Wait for me at the jail, and I’ll see to it that you’re properly compensated.”

  Berengar turned away without a reply and walked over to Evander and Rose. “I did what you asked. Time to uphold your end of the bargain.”

  “Of course. After what you did for Rose…”

  “Good. I’m going to collect my pay and see about a horse. Meet me at the inn in half an hour.”

  The jail wasn’t difficult to find, as most of the villagers made sure to keep a safe distance. The people had no love for Laird Margolin or his guards, even if they clearly feared both. Still, in Berengar’s experience, fear was usually enough for any despot’s purposes. There was no sign of Tuck inside the jail. Given what he’d witnessed the previous night, the guard was probably holed up somewhere with a bottle in his hand. It was little wonder Alúine was overrun, considering the quality of its guards.

  Something stirred in a corner on the other side of the iron bars. The hobgoblin wrapped his hands around the bars and stared at him, prompting Faolán to show her teeth in warning.

  “Quiet,” Berengar ordered the wolfhound. “What’s your name?”

  The creature made no reply.

  “Fine. You can rot in here for all I care. I just want the thunder rune back. Where is it?”

  Again the hobgoblin gave no answer.

  “Why did you help me?” Berengar asked. “You could have left me to the werewolf.”

  Finally, the hobgoblin spoke. “We’re only monsters to you
r eyes, human.”

  Berengar leaned closer. “Then why attack the village? Why disguise yourselves as goblins girded for war?”

  A soft, non-threatening hissing noise almost like a sigh came from the back of the goblin’s throat. “There are few of us left now. The soldiers have hunted us almost to extinction.”

  “Margolin’s men?”

  The hobgoblin nodded. “I am Gnish. Mine is the last of the tribes. I have done my best to keep the others safe. We take food and medicine—only what we need to survive. It is not in our nature to harm others, even if we must fight to stay alive.”

  That fit with what he knew about the shy creatures. “How many are left?”

  “Thirteen,” Gnish answered. “And two goblin younglings we are raising as our own. There are only five fighting males among us. The others are females or younglings.”

  No wonder they have to pose as goblins. Without their masks or armor, hobgoblins weren’t threatening-looking in the slightest. Goblins, on the other hand, were hated and despised far and wide. Berengar wasn’t immune to anti-goblin sentiment. He’d killed more than his share in battle over the years. Still, they weren’t all hostile, and humans bore more than their share of blame for relations between the species. He’d learned to tell good from evil long ago, and Gnish didn’t fit in the latter category.

  “Why not leave? Munster isn’t far from here. The people there are far more tolerant of nonhuman creatures than those who live here. There are goblin smiths in Cashel with forges of their own. Perhaps your tribe could find peace there.”

  “This is our home. Our ancestors lived here, and theirs before them.”

  “The fairies once thought this land belonged to them. Where are they now?”

  While there were many areas of Fál where magic and magical creatures remained common—particularly in the north—times were changing. Even before the purges that followed the Shadow Wars, other races were left with smaller and smaller territories to call their own as human cities and settlements spread across the land. In the past, human magicians and druids often mediated between species, but now they too were almost nonexistent. Although the High Queen had declared most peaceful magical races under her protection, such proclamations were largely left to the monarch of each realm to enforce—and no realm had more antipathy for nonhuman creatures than Leinster.

  “Just tell me where I can find the thunder rune, and I give you my word no harm will come to your tribe.” Even as he said the words, he remembered promising to let the scholar live before running him through. It wasn’t a promise he could keep.

  “I will die before betraying my kin.”

  “Have it your way, then,” Berengar said through clenched teeth, fighting back his anger. “I expect the guards will put your resolve to the test.” He felt sympathy for Gnish, but there was nothing he could do. One way or another, the end would be the same.

  As if on cue, the door opened. Phineas entered and immediately aimed a kick at Gnish. “Don’t worry, you filth. I haven’t forgotten about you.”

  The hobgoblin retreated into a corner, and Phineas motioned for Berengar to follow him outside, where he reached into a pouch and produced a number of silver and copper coins.

  “For your efforts. That ought to cover it, I think.”

  Berengar counted the coins and tucked them away. Although it wasn’t an overly generous reward, the amount was more than enough to cover the cost of a horse.

  “Wait,” Phineas said when Berengar turned to go. “I have my hands full with this murder at the moment, but I’ll need good men by my side when we find the goblin encampment.”

  “His name is Gnish,” Berengar said. “He’s a hobgoblin. He and the others are the last of their kind. They’re only thieving because your lord and his soldiers have made it impossible for them to survive otherwise.”

  “Goblin, hobgoblin—they’re all the same. Can I count on you when the time comes?”

  Berengar hesitated. The hobgoblins weren’t monsters, and they hadn’t actually hurt anyone. He didn’t care for Phineas, whose greed and hatred of goblins didn’t bode well for Gnish and his kind, but he couldn’t allow the thunder rune to remain in their hands. It was too dangerous.

  “Aye. I’m with you.”

  “Good. It’s better to have a fighting man with us. Learn to mind that tongue of yours, and you might have a place at our side when Laird Margolin rewards us for stamping out the goblin threat.”

  It wasn’t unusual for people who saw the warden’s size and scars to assume he was some mindless brawler or the like. By the time they realized their mistake, it was usually too late. Berengar was no scholar, but he was clever in his own right. More importantly, he understood people. It was better to let Phineas think he could be of use, at least for the moment. He didn’t want the man getting in his way, and he certainly didn’t want to have to kill one of Margolin’s guards.

  Berengar returned to the inn with his new funds. Iain proved good on his word, and after a quick exchange of coins, Berengar purchased a dapple-gray stallion. Although the horse was accustomed to the plow rather than the heat of battle, it was well built and suitable enough for his purposes. With the matter of the horse settled, Berengar visited Avery’s shop to collect his armor, but the tanner was nowhere to be found.

  An icy cold wind rushed down from the ominous sky. Rain’s coming. He returned to the inn and retrieved his cloak. Evander was waiting for him outside when he emerged. “Ready?”

  “Aye. Are you sure about this?”

  Berengar stared at him hard. “Having second thoughts?”

  “No. I gave you my word, and that means something to me.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Once astride their steeds, the pair left Alúine behind and traveled west until they neared the bog.

  Evander brought his horse to a halt. “There it is. Móin Alúin.”

  Even in the daylight, there was something eerie about the bog. Most of the trees were crooked and bent, deformed by some unseen hand. In contrast to the surrounding fields, the grasses and plants were a sickly pale color.

  Evander slid from the saddle and motioned for Berengar to do the same. “Horses grow restless this close to the bog. We go on foot from here.”

  Berengar dismounted, and they hitched their horses to trees at the edge of Móin Alúin. Fog clung to the path ahead as the pair advanced into the bog. It was dark inside, but enough light made it through the trees that the way forward was visible without the need for torchlight.

  Evander nocked an arrow and held his bow at the ready, clearly aware of the dangers lurking within. “There aren’t many men brave enough to go hunting ogres, even for coin. Why are you really doing this?”

  “The ogre abducted a young woman from Laird Margolin’s castle. Keep an eye out for any signs of her when we reach the ogre’s lair.”

  Evander regarded him curiously. “Lady Imogen? What’s your interest in her?”

  Evidently, word of Imogen’s disappearance had spread beyond Blackthorn.

  “Margolin sent me to kill the ogre and learn the whereabouts of his niece. She’s probably dead already, but the brigands we met seemed convinced otherwise.”

  He peered through the fog, searching along the path for a sign of his missing weapons. Suddenly, he saw the hag among the shadows, watching him with the same malevolent smile he remembered from his dreams. Berengar’s left hand throbbed with pain. Not again, he thought, wincing.

  “What is it?”

  When Berengar looked again at the place where the hag stood, she was gone. “It’s nothing.”

  Evander held out his hand to prevent Berengar from taking another step forward. “We can’t go that way. It leads to the swamp, which is too close to the witch’s dwelling.” He led Berengar through unfamiliar surroundings until they came to a tree where the ground had been recently disturbed.

  “There are two sets of prints here,” Evander said, looking over the area. “Something was dragged through here—s
omething big.”

  “My horse, most likely,” Berengar muttered, the memory of his battle with the Dullahan fresh in his mind. He saw the marks the Dullahan’s whip had left behind on a tree and the impact his stallion made when it landed in the mud. Judging by the trail on the ground leading away from the spot, the ogre had dragged it away.

  There it is, he thought as his gaze fell on the place where his battleaxe rested. Finally.

  He picked up the axe and ran a hand along its surface, as if greeting an old friend. He’d wielded it for so long it felt like a part of him. There were few weapons feared more in the whole of Fál. His sword, a storied blade in its own right, lay a short distance away. The feel of the blade only further stoked his thirst for vengeance.

  “Show us the way, Faolán.”

  Howling winds faded behind them as the wolfhound led them deeper into the bog. The sky continued to darken until storm clouds eclipsed the sun. A foul odor lingered nearby, growing stronger with each step they took.

  Berengar eased his sword from its sheath and lowered his voice. “We’re close.”

  Weeds and tall grasses gave way to a clearing ahead, where bones—human and otherwise—blanketed the muddy earth. The scene was vaguely reminiscent of the stories Berengar’s mother told him about the dens of greedy cave dragons, but instead of gold and treasure, common trinkets and keepsakes from victims littered the ogre’s lair.

  The ogre’s club lay outside a shallow cavern that extended into the rocky hillside. A charred animal corpse lay beside the soot and ash of a recent fire. The presence of the saddle and saddlebags nearby told him he was looking at what remained of his horse. Berengar scanned the area but saw nothing to indicate Lady Imogen’s presence. None of the human remains, which were fully decomposed, could have belonged to Margolin’s niece, as she’d vanished only days ago.

  The ground shook without warning. The ogre lumbered from the cavern’s entrance, and Evander took aim with his bow.