“Where’s Evander?” he asked, surprised the huntsman was not among them.
“He said he has somewhere else to be tonight,” Phineas explained. “We’ve enough men for the job without him, especially with the Bloody Red Bear fighting alongside us.”
It struck him as odd that Evander would turn down the chance to earn more coin. Then again, when he borrowed Evander’s horse earlier, he had noticed some supplies in the stall. Maybe he’s going somewhere. Had Rose finally agreed to start a new life with him, or did Evander have another destination in mind? In the end, it didn’t matter. Evander’s plans weren’t his concern. It was time to reclaim the stolen thunder rune before it fell into more dangerous hands. He lingered at the back of the room as Phineas addressed the hunting party.
“The goblins and their kin have plagued our lands for too long. They’ve raided our towns and villages, stolen our cattle and horses, and murdered our friends and families. Even Laird Margolin’s niece lost her parents to the vermin.
“Tonight, we strike a blow for Leinster! Tonight, we show the monsters that only humanity has the divine right to rule! In the name of Laird Margolin—in the name of the church—we will stamp out the race of goblins in Leinster once and for all!”
Berengar’s arms remained folded across his chest as the men raised their weapons and cheered, ready for blood. “Follow the scent, Faolán.”
Faolán sniffed the hobgoblin’s cell, bolted from the jail, and sprinted south. The others marched toward the forest, their oil-soaked torches glowing amid the downpour. The wolfhound led them ever deeper into the dense forest, until at last the trail turned north and stopped at a ledge looking over the land below. Rain trickled down Berengar’s hood as he stared down at the hobgoblins’ hideaway, which lay just beyond the forest, far removed from civilization.
The encampment slid into view as they crept toward the treeline. The storm masked their movements. The full extent of the hobgoblins’ desperation was readily apparent, and it soon became clear conditions in the camp were even worse than Gnish suggested. The hobgoblins were bone-thin and emaciated, and most wore ragged clothes or no clothes at all. Some were clearly ill, a sign the outbreak of plague had not confined itself to the human race. Aside from Rose’s horse, there were no animals or livestock in the camp, suggesting the hobgoblins had eaten them to avoid starvation. The few huts and tents were shoddy enough that some had been blown down by the storm. Yet despite the sense of hopelessness and fear that hung about the camp, the hobgoblins clung to each other for support. As Berengar watched, it was evident hardship had forged these last survivors into a family.
Phineas gave the nod, and the men emerged from the forest’s edge and ran into the camp. Screams spread through the camp as creatures attempted to flee in a blind panic. Caught unawares, the hobgoblins were too late to mount a defense. One managed to reach his bow only to be impaled by a spear before he could nock an arrow. The struggle was over within minutes. Most of those remaining were females or younglings who cowered in fear, left with nowhere to run.
Two villagers dragged Gnish—kicking and biting—before Phineas.
“Stupid goblin. So much for protecting your kin. You led us right here.” He smacked Gnish across the face, drawing blood. “Put him and the others in chains—a gift for Laird Margolin.” Malice gleamed in his eyes, and his lips curled into a thin smile. “Of course, there’s no reason why we can’t have a little fun first. He doesn’t need all of them.”
While men looted the camp, taking what few possessions the hobgoblins had as their spoils, Berengar searched for the thunder rune, which he found tucked away inside a wooden chest in one of the tents. He made sure no one was looking before securing the stone. When he rejoined the group, the men were doling out goblin-mead among themselves. Phineas looked on from a log under a tent’s entrance, where he had taken refuge from the rain. The men laughed as they took turns beating various goblins—all except Tuck, who drank alone.
When Berengar approached, Phineas raised a tankard in his direction.
“You—Bear Warden. Are you not pleased?”
Berengar just stared at him and returned his attention to the hobgoblins’ suffering. A throaty wail came from nearby, where two men dragged a hobgoblin away from two green-skinned goblin younglings.
Gnish spat at Phineas’ feet, and the guard struck him hard across the face.
“Someone take this scum and execute him.”
Two eager-looking men started toward Gnish with their swords in hand, but Berengar blocked their path.
“I’ll do it.” He dragged Gnish away from the camp, out of sight, and took out his battleaxe. “On your knees.”
Gnish bowed his head and sank onto the mud as the rain fell around them both. “Do what you want to me, but don’t let the others suffer. I beg you.”
“Shut up.” He stood over Gnish and looked him in the eyes. “Goblins used to raid the northern villages when I was a child. I was taught to hate them before I was old enough to swing a sword. I killed scores in war—hundreds, even.” More screams came from the village, but he ignored them. “I remember one that almost got the best of me. We hurt each other pretty bad before we realized we’d stumbled onto a troll’s hunting ground. Bastard was the biggest one I’d ever seen. It took the both of us to bring him down. You learn things about someone after doing something like that. The goblin was doing his best to survive to get back to his family, same as me.”
“Why tell me this?” Gnish asked, confused.
“That was when I understood that all goblins aren’t evil, any more than all people are.” Lightning flashed again, and Berengar raised the axe high. The axe cut the chains binding Gnish’s hands, freeing him, and Berengar held out his hand to the hobgoblin. “Free the rest. I’ll handle the guards.”
He trudged through the mud back to camp without another word.
“You took long enough,” Phineas called out. “Is it done?”
Berengar didn’t reply. He merely stood there, axe in hand, as the storm washed over him. Phineas’ leering grin faltered in response to his harsh expression. One by one, the others stopped what they were doing and exchanged worried glances.
He struck the first man in the face with the axe’s handle. Blood spurted from the man’s nose, and he slipped and lost his footing. Berengar stepped over him, picked up another villager, and threw him against a stack of firewood.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said when an archer took aim with his bow, blocking his path to Phineas.
Faolán snarled, ready to pounce at the archer, and Berengar resumed his course. The archer lowered his bow, and the remaining villagers scattered at his approach.
“What are you doing?” Phineas shouted. “I demand you—“
Berengar kicked him, and Phineas toppled backward over the log. Tuck started toward him, but when Berengar warned him away with a shake of his head, the guard eased his hand off the hilt of his blade and backed away.
Phineas scrambled to his feet, drew his sword, and trained it on the warden.
Berengar ignored the blade. “They haven’t hurt anyone. I won’t let you slaughter them.”
“The famous Warden Berengar.” Phineas looked past him to Gnish, who was busy liberating the remaining hobgoblins. He spat at Berengar’s feet and waved his sword in the hobgoblin’s direction. “You butcher men like cattle, but you would defend them? You dare court Laird Margolin’s wrath?”
“I am a Warden of Fál,” Berengar said. “I fear no lord.”
Phineas rushed forward and swung his sword at him, but Berengar sidestepped the blade and hit Phineas in the gut with his axe’s handle. Phineas landed at his feet, and Berengar crushed the guard’s sword hand under his boot.
“Besides—without you to tell him, Laird Margolin will assume the hobgoblins killed you.” He raised his axe to deliver the killing blow.
“Wait,” Phineas cried. “I know you’ve been looking into the girls’ disappearances.”
&nb
sp; “What of it?” Berengar said. “Speak up, before I lose my patience.”
“You don’t understand what’s really going on here. I can tell you, but only if you let me live.”
Berengar crouched beside him. “Understand this. If you’re lying to me, your death will be slow and painful.” He struck Phineas in the head with his fist, and the guard slumped to the ground, unconscious.
When he emerged from the tent, the hobgoblins clung together, still uncertain of his intent.
Berengar turned to face Gnish. “Laird Margolin won’t stop. It might not be today, it might not be tomorrow, but more men will come. If you stay here, you will die. Take your tribe and leave. Go somewhere else, far from here, where you will be safe.”
“We have nothing. Where can we go?”
Berengar hesitated. He’s right. They wouldn’t last long on their own, especially without resources. He stared at the hobgoblins for a long moment before reaching into his cloak to retrieve the thunder rune, which he offered to Gnish. “This should fetch a steep enough price for your tribe to start a new life. Just don’t sell it to anyone shady. I don’t want it falling into the wrong hands, understand?”
Reclaiming the rune was the reason he’d joined the raid in the first place, but now that he saw the hobgoblins posed no threat, it didn’t seem as dangerous to leave it in their possession.
Gnish accepted the thunder rune with a mixture of gratitude and surprise. “I will not forget what you’ve done for us this day. We’ll tell of your deeds to all we meet.”
Berengar doubted anyone would believe such a story, especially one told about him. He cast a parting glance at the hobgoblins, slung Phineas over Rose’s stolen horse, and turned his back.
Chapter Twelve
The return journey left him cold, hungry, and wet—and those were the least of his worries. The hag’s curse weighed heavily on his mind. Berengar did his best to bite back his anger. It wasn’t an easy task.
No good deed goes unpunished. He had saved the hobgoblins from further bloodshed, but at the cost of jeopardizing his agreement with Laird Margolin. Phineas’ claims of conspiracy probably amounted to nothing more than an attempt to save his own skin, and he would undoubtedly report Berengar’s actions to Blackthorn the moment he was free to do so. Then there was the matter of Lady Imogen, who was almost certainly still alive, even if the reasons for her disappearance remained hidden.
Every time he tried to do the right thing, it resulted in one headache after another. Despite his efforts, it remained more likely than not that the hobgoblins would never leave Leinster alive. Most of Leinster’s human inhabitants would just as soon kill anything related to a goblin as look at it, even without the promise of reward. Then all his actions would be for nothing. He shook the rain from his hood. Alúine was close.
He glanced back at Phineas, who showed no signs of stirring. The silence was one thing to be grateful for, provided he hadn’t accidentally hit Phineas hard enough to kill him. It wouldn’t be the first time. He checked to make sure Phineas was still breathing before continuing on. Once the members of the hunting party reached the village, they were sure to spread the news of what happened. Few villagers would look well on him for siding with the creatures that raided them. Berengar was long past caring what anyone else thought of him. Finishing the job was the only thing that mattered. That, and staying alive long enough to settle accounts with the hag.
The storm relented just before he reached the forest’s edge, and pale light again broke through the clouds. It wouldn’t be long before sunset, after which he would have only one day left to lift the curse. Mud caked his boots by the time he entered Alúine, where some villagers had emerged from their homes to inspect the damage left behind by the storm. Most were smart enough to look the other way and avoid mention of the unconscious guard when they saw him coming.
A savory aroma greeted him outside the Green Flagon. He found Iain and Silas finishing repairs to the stable door.
“There you are,” Iain said when he noticed him. “We were wondering when you’d turn up again. Please, come inside and warm yourself by the fire while we fetch you food and drink. After what you did for Silas, it’s the least we can do to thank you.”
The thought of food and drink was appealing, though in truth, he would prefer to make use of the room he had yet to sleep in.
“Maybe in a minute.” Berengar ignored Silas’ heartfelt utterances of thanks. There’d be plenty of time to rest when he was dead. “There’s something I need your help with first.” He hitched the horse to a stall door and dumped Phineas on the ground.
Iain’s smile faltered at the sight of Phineas.
“I need a place to keep him out of sight until he comes to,” Berengar explained.
Despite his obvious reluctance, Iain motioned for him to follow him to the inn. “Bring him inside.”
Fortunately, the storm had driven all patrons from the inn. Berengar and Silas carried Phineas into a storeroom while Iain stood watch. He bound Phineas’ arms and legs with rope and gagged him for good measure before returning to the bar.
“I’ll take that drink now.”
Iain set a tankard before him, clearly uneasy at the idea of holding one of the village guards captive inside his establishment. “You don’t look so good, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“More than usual?”
Iain and Silas appeared uncertain how best to answer the question.
The hag’s words returned to him. Stone you will become. More than ever, his body was showing the effects of the curse.
He lifted the tankard and drank deeply of its contents before Silas returned with a plate of bread and stew. When he started to eat, the muscles in his jaw tightened with painful spasms, causing his teeth to grind against each other. Even after the spell passed, his jaw remained sore. Unable to eat, Berengar pushed the food away.
“I’m going out. Keep an eye on our guest, will you?”
He left the inn, retrieved Rose’s horse, and started on the road to the church. Again the anger rose within him. He had thought sparing the hobgoblins might have relieved the curse’s symptoms. He’d followed Godfrey’s suggestion and resisted his darker impulses, hadn’t he? Then again, maybe it was already too late. His heart was too black, and a few good deeds couldn’t change that.
This is what comes from meddling in the affairs of witches. It was just another reminder of why he hated magic. He’d rather fight a fully-grown troll than a mage. Even so, he had yet to find something his axe couldn’t handle. If it came down to it, he would kill the hag or die trying.
Still—his aversion to magic notwithstanding—a magician would have come in handy, if the blasted purges hadn’t driven the survivors into hiding or the arms of powerful patrons. There hadn’t been a truly great magician in Fál since Thane Ramsay of Connacht. In the days of King Áed, when Nora was only a girl, Ramsay delivered the land from more evils than perhaps even Padraig himself. Those evils returned with a vengeance after Áed’s fall, and with none to stand against them, chaos reigned in the years leading up to the Shadow Wars.
A sob cut short his path to the church. Was he being watched? Berengar stopped to listen and quickly heard it again. He searched the abandoned street for the source of the sound and saw nothing.
“Faolán. We’re not alone.”
The wolfhound stared at two barrels nestled against a hut only a short space away. Something hid behind them. Whatever it was, it was too small to be an adult.
“Who’s there?”
The sobbing stopped abruptly at the sound of his approach.
He looked behind the barrels, where a boy fit into the narrow space between the barrels and the hut. “Lucas?” Godfrey was supposed to take him home. “Come out from there.”
Lucas cast a fleeting glance at the hut, and Berengar saw the boy’s face was bruised and bloodied.
“What happened? Who did this to you?”
Lucas just stared at him, as if he’d lost his vo
ice.
He’s terrified.
A woman’s scream came from the hut. The door crashed open, and Lucas went stiff as a board as two figures emerged. One was Lucas’ mother, herself bruised and battered.
“Don’t hurt him,” she pleaded with her husband.
The man knocked her aside and turned his attention to Lucas. “There you are. Did you think I wouldn’t find out where you’d been?” His temple pulsed with anger. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, you sniveling brat.”
Unable to meet his father’s gaze, Lucas stood rooted to the spot.
Incensed, the man started toward him.
Berengar’s voice was almost a hiss. “You. You’re Lucas’ father.”
It was Duncan, the drunk he’d ejected from the Green Flagon.
Iain said Duncan mistreated his wife and son. He finally understood why Lucas ran away from home on the night he encountered the Dullahan. He was fleeing from his father’s abuse.
“What’s it to you?” Duncan snapped at him. As before, his eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of alcohol. “Get back inside, boy.”
Lucas’ mother clutched at her husband’s boots until a callous kick from him caused her to collapse with a whimper.
Berengar stepped in front of Lucas, blocking Duncan’s path.
“I’m the man of this house,” Duncan said. “What I do with my family is no business of yours.”
Berengar didn’t budge. “I’m making it my business.”
Most people wouldn’t have gotten involved—much less one of the High Queen’s wardens, who were usually preoccupied with some great quest or another. There wasn’t always time to concern oneself with the affairs of the common folk when the fate of an entire kingdom was at stake. Besides, in many parts of Fál, a man’s family was his property. Easier to look the other way. That was what most people did.
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