There was no answer. He was alone. He wondered briefly if the girl was ever really there or simply conjured by his fevered mind. He pushed himself up, and his gaze fell on the hag’s lair.
“Come on,” he said after Faolán led him to his sword. “Let’s end this.”
Thorns and briars enveloped the hag’s abode—a small, well-hidden hut in the deepest part of the swamp. Bone fragments and pagan symbols hung from crooked branches, and human skulls adorned spikes littered across the dark soil. Legions of crows looked on from their perches as the hag stirred an enormous copper cauldron, which bubbled and frothed with a particularly foul-smelling substance.
Berengar noticed Evander nearby, ensnared in thorns and unable to move. Rose was trying frantically to free him, even as the thorns bloodied her hands. When night fell, the blood moon would appear and cause Rose’s transformation. The hag planned to make her kill her lover and feast on his corpse while in her werewolf form.
“I’m sorry, my love,” Rose said. They reached out to each other through the hedge of thorns, and their fingers brushed.
Berengar took out his axe and stepped into the fire’s sickly green light. “Turn and face me, witch.”
The hag regarded the warden’s sudden appearance with utter bewilderment. Her eyes swept his palm in search of the nail. “You should be dead. How did you break the curse?”
Berengar tossed Rose his sword to free Evander from the thorns. “Your days of terrorizing the people of Alúine are over.”
“You dare challenge me—here, in my domain?” the hag hissed. “I am mistress of the black arts, and you are but mortal.”
Berengar met her eyes with a steely gaze. “I’m going to take my time with you,” he promised. “To make you suffer for everything you’ve done.”
For the first time, he saw a sliver of fear in the hag’s expression. She was right to be afraid. For the past three days, the curse had forced him to restrain his darkest impulses. Now he was at full strength and ready to unleash the full extent of his rage upon her.
She attacked first, calling the horde of crows down upon him. Berengar lowered his head and fought his way through the swarm. Faolán distracted the hag, causing her to lose her concentration long enough for Berengar to break through the crows. Vines and thorns shot out of the ground at her command, wrapping themselves around his axe, but Berengar released his hold on the weapon and charged into her. He grabbed the hag’s long, wispy hair, jerked back hard, and repeatedly jabbed his dagger into her rib cage. She fell backward and landed on the ground, knocking over the cauldron in the process. Berengar heard coarse, shallow breathing—a sign he’d punctured one of her lungs—as he stooped to retrieve his axe. When she spun around and contorted a webbed hand to cast a spell on him, he chopped the limb off with his axe. The hag tried to crawl toward her hut, but he pinned her to the ground with his boot.
“Any last words?”
Her eyes burned with hate, and she struggled to choke out the words. “One last curse. All the things you have lost—everything that has been taken from you—will be restored, only for you to lose them again.”
The axe fell, and the hag’s head rolled away. Berengar retrieved the head before making his way to Rose and Evander.
Rose returned his sword. “Why did you help us?”
“Because you deserved a chance,” Berengar answered. “Because you’re not a monster.” He looked her over. “Did it work? Is the curse gone?”
“I don’t feel any different,” she replied. “We can’t be sure until the moon appears.”
Berengar turned to go. He’d done all he could.
“Wait,” Evander called after him. “Where are you going?”
“The hag’s dead, but the job’s not done.” Imogen was still out there.
“Then we’re coming too,” Rose said. “You’ll need all the help you can get.”
He nodded, and the trio started on the path from the bog. Villagers emerged from their homes and approached when they entered Alúine, where the brigands waited to begin the journey to Blackthorn.
Saroise approached with a replacement for his horse, but Berengar started past her. With the crowd looking on, he strode to the center of the village and left the hag’s head on a spike.
Chapter Seventeen
Night ensnared the land like a tightening noose as Berengar approached Blackthorn under cover of darkness. Margolin’s castle loomed in the distance, awash in an eerie, otherworldly glow. Flickering torchlight gave the appearance of life to neighboring thorn hedges, which cast grasping shadows along the castle walls.
Berengar kept to the trees, out of the sentries’ line of sight, and searched for a weakness in the castle’s defenses. The gates were barred, and guards patrolled the castle’s outer perimeter. Margolin left nothing to chance. A series of ghostly wails rose above the pouring rains as the sluagh glided toward the castle and vanished into its walls. Berengar looked up at the sky, where storm clouds blotted out the moon. It wouldn’t be long before the blood moon appeared.
He motioned for the others to follow him into the deluge, and they set about taking out the patrol one by one. There was no margin for error. Margolin’s forces had an overwhelming advantage in numbers, and an early alarm would bring them running. Berengar was careful to avoid drawing attention, and the storm drowned out most of the sounds made by his victims.
As he inched closer to the castle, Berengar noticed Tuck among a patrol on its way back to the gate. He grabbed the guard and clamped a hand over his mouth to prevent him from crying out while the brigands peppered the remaining guards with arrows and dragged their bodies into the woods.
Once they were again hidden from sight, Berengar threw Tuck against a tree. Tuck tried to run, but the warden held the bloodstained axe inches from his face.
“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.” He held the blade against Tuck’s neck. “Tell me how to get past the gate, or I’ll carve you inside out.”
Godfrey pushed Berengar’s axe away with his wooden hand. “Wait.”
Tuck averted his gaze, unable to meet the friar’s eyes.
“I know what haunts you,” Godfrey said. “I was there when Margolin’s soldiers butchered my family.”
“I’m sorry,” Tuck mumbled. He again reeked of alcohol. “I’m sorry for everything.”
Godfrey put a hand on the guard’s shoulder. “I know, and I forgive you.”
Tuck looked at him with complete surprise. “I don’t understand.”
“You let me go. Because of you I’ve been able to help countless others. You’re not an evil man—just a lost one. It’s not too late for you. The Lord offers redemption, but you have to ask for it.”
“I want it,” Tuck stammered. “What must I do?”
“If Laird Margolin’s ritual succeeds, many more will suffer,” Godfrey replied. “Open the gate and let us inside.”
“What?” Berengar demanded. “You want me to let him go? He’ll tell Margolin what he’s seen the moment he’s inside the gates.”
Godfrey stared into Tuck’s eyes for a brief moment. “No—he won’t.”
“He’ll get you all killed,” Berengar said.
“We must reach the castle without delay,” Saroise reminded him. “It’s the only choice we have.”
Berengar backed away from Tuck. “If this goes south, I’ll take your head before the night is through.”
Tuck stumbled from cover and fled to the castle. After the sentries granted him entry, Berengar and the others began their approach. The companions relied on the storm and shadows to mask their movements and pressed themselves against the castle’s lofty walls while waiting for Tuck to open the gate.
Minutes passed, and still the gate remained closed. Several of the brigands exchanged worried looks. Even with the patrol eliminated, the castle’s sentries would spot them eventually, and they were running out of time.
What’s he waiting for? Berengar thought, suspicious of treachery.
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A bell tolled loudly above the thunder. Archers appeared on the wall, searching for them in the darkness. The gate opened without warning, and shouts rang out on the other side of the wall. Berengar tightened his hold on the axe and charged through the gate with Faolán at his side. Guards stormed the entrance to prevent them from making it farther inside the castle, and Berengar sprinted to meet them while Evander and the brigands exchanged fire with the archers.
He caved in the first soldier’s breastplate with one swing of his axe. The man slipped in the mud, clutching his chest. The axe split the next man’s helmet in two and cracked skull underneath. More soldiers rushed toward him, but the sudden attack had clearly caught them off balance, and with the sentries eliminated, the remaining numbers positioned near the gate were few. Following a brief skirmish, soldiers’ bodies littered the area around the entrance, and the way forward was clear.
Berengar heard a whimper nearby and turned to see Tuck, with four arrows sticking out of his flank, slumped over the lever used to raise the gate. The guard’s grip faltered, and he landed in a puddle.
“They have her in the courtyard,” Tuck said. “Go.” He reached out to Godfrey, who had stopped to administer last rites. “Do you think the Lord will forgive me?”
Godfrey nodded. “Aye. Be at peace, my friend.”
At that, Tuck smiled and breathed his last.
“Follow me,” Saroise said. “I know the way.”
Apart from the storm raging above, Blackthorn lay quiet under night’s embrace. Berengar and the others advanced deeper inside, where many of the castle’s inhabitants hid in terror of the horrors unleashed by their master. He followed Saroise up a staircase to a wall that looked over the courtyard.
Imogen lay bound to a stone altar similar to the one on the hill at Alúine. Opposite the altar lay a well enveloped by a withered hawthorn tree. Even Margolin’s soldiers appeared unnerved by the strange sounds emanating from the well. Thaddeus stood over the altar, reciting a sinister incantation with his arms stretched toward the heavens. At his side stood the Dullahan, so motionless he might have been mistaken for a statue. As Thaddeus spoke, the spirits of the dead slowly surrounded the altar.
Berengar turned his attention to the more than two dozen soldiers between them and the altar. Behind them, Margolin observed the ritual with a stone face.
“Can you hit him from here?” he whispered to Evander. Margolin was at least seventy yards away.
Evander nodded, nocked an arrow, and quietly took aim. Before he could fire, the earth shook, causing the castle to groan. Margolin looked up and spotted them, and his soldiers followed their master’s gaze.
Berengar and the rebels rushed into the courtyard, and the fighting began. The brigands struggled to hold their own against Margolin’s elite soldiers’ superior numbers. At Thaddeus’ command, the souls of the dead departed the altar to prey upon the living as Imogen watched helplessly from the altar. Man after man fell beside him as Berengar fought against waves of attackers. Within minutes, Margolin’s soldiers surrounded the remaining attackers.
Margolin raised a hand. “Stop.”
The guards halted their approach.
“It is only fitting you should be here to witness Balor’s rebirth, Warden Berengar. After all, it was you who made this possible.”
“Go to hell,” Berengar said, eyeing the Dullahan, who barred his path to the altar.
Margolin’s iron crown seemed to glow in the torchlight. “I’ve already been there.” He laughed, producing a grating, discordant sound that hinted at something monstrous within. “When the assassins opened my neck and left me for dead, I offered my soul to the dark powers in return for vengeance. That was when I heard it calling me—the voice of something other. Now the time has finally come to release Balor from his slumber to plunge this world into eternal darkness.”
At the altar, Thaddeus stopped chanting and now held a black sword clutched in his hands.
“With this blade, we shall raise Balor to life anew.” The sluagh dissolved into a shadowy blur that revolved around the altar before disappearing into the sword, which hummed with inner power. The spiritist held the black sword aloft and pointed it at the clouds as lightning struck the castle several times in rapid succession. “Souls of the departed, I sacrifice you to invoke the ancient magics. Rise, Balor, King of the Fomorians!”
The clouds parted to reveal the shape of the enormous blood moon stretching across the sky, as if a great red eye had opened above. When the red light fell over the well, the earth shook again, and a horrible presence emerged from the well and filled the courtyard.
Thaddeus passed the blade to Margolin, who approached the altar.
“With this sword, I spill the noble blood of my niece so you may again take form in this realm.”
This is it, Berengar thought. He readied himself to make a last stand, but a bark from Faolán stopped him cold.
Rose’s eyes glowed amber in the moonlight. Killing the hag hadn’t broken her curse. Teeth and nails sharpened into fangs and claws, and by the time Margolin’s soldiers realized what was happening, her body was already covered in fur. Arrows and spears from the guards found their marks, but none were made of silver, and the weapons served only to enrage her. She leapt at her attackers and savagely tore them to shreds, and renewed chaos broke loose in the courtyard.
“Rose, stop!”Evander rushed to aid her before Berengar could attempt to prevent him.
She turned to face him, her eyes bereft of any lingering humanity.
“This isn’t you.” Evander continued his approach and lowered his bow to show he posed no threat. “Fight it.”
For a moment the werewolf’s face betrayed a hint of recognition. Then an arrow from one of Margolin’s archers struck her, and with an angry roar she leapt at Evander, who struggled in vain against her. Busy with the guards, Berengar was unable to intervene in time. Rose disemboweled Evander with her claws before scaling the walls and vanishing into the night.
Berengar sprinted toward the altar, and the remaining brigands followed suit. Margolin was forced to fall back to avoid incoming arrows. The tide of the battle turned, but Margolin’s remaining forces held the rebels just short of the altar. Arrows flew wildly in every direction, and both sides suffered heavy losses.
“Kill the warden!” Thaddeus commanded the Dullahan.
The headless rider wielded a sword in one hand and the bony whip in the other. Berengar knew none of his weapons could kill the Dullahan, so he focused instead on holding his own. He parried each attack and drove his enemy from the altar, leaving Thaddeus and Margolin vulnerable. When the Dullahan’s whip tore his axe from his grip, Berengar grabbed a fallen shield from the ground and used it to batter his foe until the shield splintered in his hands. A gold coin landed in his path, and the Dullahan froze just long enough for Berengar to recover his weapon. He nodded to Saroise, who cast a number of similar coins onto the ground, which caused the Dullahan to become confused.
“Stop him!” Thaddeus shrieked as Berengar reached the altar. The spiritist made his hand into a fist, drawing a shriek from the Dullahan. “You are bound to serve me. You have no will of your own.”
Before Berengar could cut through Imogen’s bonds, the Dullahan’s hand shot out and gripped him from behind, pulling him away. The creature’s whip wrapped around his blade, but the Dullahan stopped before delivering the killing blow.
Thaddeus looked down at an arrow lodged in his chest. Evander, who had taken up his bow with his dying breath, remained upright just long enough to watch the spiritist topple over. Then he too fell and succumbed to his wounds.
Hooves echoed through the courtyard as the headless rider’s corpselike horse appeared. Berengar regarded the Dullahan warily, but the creature ignored him and reached for its head, which opened to hiss a single word.
“Margolin.”
The Dullahan claimed lost souls, and Margolin had given his soul in exchange for power. Liberated from Thaddeus’ contr
ol, the Dullahan was free to resume his task.
The bony lash wrapped around Margolin’s boot before he could flee. His iron crown clattered to the ground as the Dullahan climbed atop his mount and dragged him screaming into the night.
With Margolin gone, it wasn’t long before the rest of his men surrendered or deserted. As the fighting drew to a close, Berengar made his way to the altar and freed Imogen from her restraints.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “You’re safe now.”
Even as he said the words, the dark presence from the well swarmed around him. Suddenly, Imogen and the others were gone, replaced by a nightmarish scene of fire and shadow.
“You are too late,” thundered a powerful voice. “You may have thwarted the ritual, but I can still take possession of a mortal vessel.”
A giant loomed through a wreath of flame. Berengar felt the entity prying at his consciousness. Its terrible gaze left him spellbound and powerless to resist its will.
“Your rage and hate burn bright. You will make a powerful host. Soon this land will again tremble before me.”
The giant’s hand stopped short of him, and the hellish landscape vanished, replaced by the courtyard once more.
“In the name of the Lord of Hosts, I cast you out,” Friar Godfrey shouted, forcing the evil presence back into the well, which Avery and Saroise promptly covered.
The red light faded as the clouds concealed the blood moon once more. A grim silence fell over the courtyard, and Berengar took a moment to regain his bearings.
One after another, the castle’s inhabitants slowly emerged from hiding. All appeared relieved their former master was gone. As the others celebrated their hard-won victory, Berengar’s gaze fell on Evander’s lifeless form. He picked up his silver dagger and left the courtyard behind. The fighting was over, but his work wasn’t finished. Not yet.
He found Rose on a hill within sight of the castle. With the moon again hidden by the clouds, she had returned to human form. Arrows and spear points covered her body, and blinded by the pain, she hardly noticed his approach. The image reminded him of the young woman he’d discovered in Skinner Kane’s dungeon. He hadn’t been able to save her either.
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