When she finally noticed him, she gave a start.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m here.”
“I’m so cold.” Rose’s teeth chattered violently. “It hurts everywhere.”
Berengar inspected her wounds. None were made with silver. All would heal with time. He started to remove one of the arrows, but Rose grabbed at his arm.
“Evander. Is he—”
Berengar shook his head. “He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
“Did I—” She couldn’t finish.
“No,” he lied. “It wasn’t you. Margolin’s archers did him in. He died a hero.” That last part was true.
“I can’t do this without him.” Rose trembled, and her whole body shuddered at once. “Help me. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.” Her meaning was plain.
Berengar held her gaze. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
She nodded through tears. “I want to die as myself, not some beast.”
Berengar doubted Darragh would accede to such a request. Most of the other wardens would probably consider it murder.
He quietly grasped the silver dagger. “I promise it will be quick. You won’t suffer.”
When Rose reached out to him, he took her hand and held it.
“I want to see Evander again. Do you believe in heaven, Warden Berengar?”
“I don’t know.” If it existed, it wasn’t a place he would ever see. “I used to think so.”
“Do you think they’ll let me in?” Rose asked. “After everything I’ve done?”
He squeezed her hand. “I do.”
“You’re a good man.” Rose cupped his face, a tender gesture that surprised him. “It’s not too late for you. You don’t have to be alone. Having someone—it was worth the pain.”
The clouds began to part. Berengar glanced at the castle, and when Rose followed his gaze, he slipped the dagger between her ribs.
He stayed with her, there under the light of the blood moon.
Chapter Eighteen
The tankard rattled when he brought it down on the table.
Empty. Berengar choked down the last mouthful of ale and beckoned to the bartender to refill the tankard. The bartender scurried forward to complete his task and withdrew to allow him to drink in peace, a routine well established over the course of Berengar’s stay.
He’d taken up residence in a nondescript, out of the way tavern somewhere near the border with Munster. After renting a room, he’d immediately proceeded to make good on his pledge to drink himself into a stupor and try to forget about everything that had happened since he set foot in Alúine. The days soon settled into a familiar pattern, with one blurring into the next until he was no longer quite sure how long he’d been there. Three weeks or four—it didn’t matter. He was in no hurry to leave. Although the tavern’s proprietors seemed less than keen on his prolonged presence, they were either gravely in need of his coin or fearful of giving him offense.
Berengar raised the tankard to his lips and took another sip. A warm, tingling sensation spread through his fingers, but on account of his size, it would be a while yet before the room was spinning around him. Faolán, who lay curled up at his feet, showed no signs of stirring. Enough time had passed for their injuries to heal. Usually, they would have returned to the road already. There was always something else that needed doing, but at the moment, he had a hard time making himself care.
He’d stopped the ritual and put an end to Laird Margolin’s tyranny. That counted for something, didn’t it? He sighed and took another drink. Regardless of how much he wanted to believe it, he couldn’t quite convince himself.
Blackthorn had traded one despot for another. After her ascension to the throne, Imogen had reneged on her pledge to unite the land and set about exacting revenge upon her enemies. Many who previously demonstrated loyalty to her uncle were summarily executed without trial. She promptly proclaimed her intention to punish those who aided and abetted Margolin’s schemes by imposing severe taxes and penalties on disloyal villages to establish order. Promising to return the land to the true faith, Imogen declared the practice of magic in all its forms prohibited under penalty of death and defied Friar Godfrey’s advice, ordering the continued persecution of goblins and other nonhuman creatures in the area.
Berengar and Godfrey departed Blackthorn not long after burying Rose and Evander—finally joined together in death—within sight of the castle. Godfrey intended to return to Alúine and continue his work. Berengar, who had no desire to set foot in Alúine ever again, declined the friar’s invitation to join him.
No one was innocent. The people of Alúine used their fear of the hag to rationalize their actions, but they were just as guilty as anyone else. The brigands claimed to fight for freedom but enforced Imogen’s new edicts with enthusiasm, relishing in newfound power over their former oppressors.
No matter what he did, it never seemed to make a difference. He’d prevented Balor’s return, but darkness would always find a way to spread. Everyone he’d tried to help, all the things he’d done—it was all for nothing. For a long time, the fight alone was enough. Now he wasn’t so sure.
His constant anger had abated for the moment, leaving him feeling tired, empty, and defeated. Although he’d managed to survive the curse, he had not emerged unscathed. His heart wasn’t completely stone, but that didn’t change things he’d done or the man he was. Rose’s last words weighed heavily on his mind. Despite everything she’d endured, she held out hope until her dying breath. He wanted to believe her. He wished he could see his way to finding that kind of hope, but he saw only darkness.
Then there was the hag’s final curse. What did it mean, and what did it portend for the future? The tankard again rattled empty. At least the tavern was peaceful. He sat at a lonely table in the back of the room. Apart from the bartender and two patrons several tables away, the hall lay empty. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow. The days were growing warmer, and summer was on its way.
The door opened, and Faolán raised her head as Saroise entered the inn. She stopped to converse with one of the tavern’s proprietors before making her way to his table. Berengar used his boot to push the chair opposite him out for her, and she sat on the other side of the table.
“I take it our meeting here isn’t an accident,” he muttered in a tone meant to imply he wished to be left alone.
“I’ve been looking for you. You departed Blackthorn in haste.”
“My work there was finished. And you? I would have thought the Lady of Blackthorn had more use for you.”
Saroise sighed. “It seems an iron crown is an ill fit for Imogen. She has little need of councilors now that she has an army. I left some time ago.”
“And you came here,” Berengar finished. “Let me guess. You want a song.”
Saroise smiled, without a hint of the suspicion or dislike she’d felt toward him. It wasn’t an expression others usually chose to grace him with. “You have me wrong, Warden Berengar. I came to apologize.”
Perhaps he’d already had too much to drink after all. “Did I hear you correctly?”
“When you first came to Blackthorn, I only saw the man from the stories. Then I learned of your deeds in Alúine and all the people you helped. I was wrong about you, it seems. I was wrong about a great many things, I suspect.”
Berengar leaned closer to her. “Why tell me this?”
“To the people of Fál, you’re nothing but a killer without conscience.” She looked at him intently, as if searching for the answer to a question she had yet to voice. “You made me pledge not to sing of your deeds. Why? Why not let people know the truth?”
Berengar regarded the empty tankard for a long moment. “Fál has enough heroes. Sometimes heroes aren’t enough. The monsters out there need someone to fear, and if that means I’ll never be beloved like Darragh or the others, I can live with that.” He met her eyes with a cold gaze. “Besides—many of the stories are true. There’s more than my share of
blood on my hands.”
If Saroise was troubled by his words, she gave no sign of it. “You have nothing to fear from me, Warden Berengar. I gave you my word, and I will not break it.” She hesitated. “I did not seek you for that reason alone. There is something else.”
Berengar sensed something more was coming. Judging from her expression, he wasn’t going to like it. “What?”
“Word of your actions at Kildare has spread through Leinster and beyond.”
“I should have known Margolin would never keep his word. I gather there are already ballads on the subject?”
“Aye,” Saroise replied, “but I’m afraid it’s far more serious than that. Blackthorn received word from Dún Aulin.”
“Dún Aulin?” A feeling of dread rose in the pit of his stomach.
“For the murder of Skinner Kane on the altar at St. Brigid’s, you have been excommunicated from the church. There’s a push to have you banished from Leinster under penalty of death.”
Politics of church and state were so entwined in Leinster that excommunication from the church meant he was an enemy of the state. All servants of the Lord of Hosts would be encouraged to shun him or even do him bodily harm.
“Good,” he muttered. “I hate the whole bloody kingdom. Gives me an excuse not to return.”
Saroise didn’t appear convinced. Both knew his actions had brought shame on the High Queen. Berengar didn’t want to know how Nora would react to the news.
The door opened before either could address the matter further, and two messengers entered the tavern. Both wore white cloaks and carried blades sheathed at their sides. The pair engaged the tavern’s proprietor in conversation with distinctly southern accents. After a brief discussion, the tavern’s proprietor pointed the pair in Berengar’s direction.
“Warden Esben Berengar?” one asked.
“Who’s asking?” He inched his hand toward his sword.
One of the messengers handed him a rolled-up piece of parchment. When Berengar saw the sigil of the eagle on the message’s seal, he knew immediately where it came from.
“What is it?” Saroise asked, noticing his grim expression.
Berengar broke the seal and unfurled the message before answering. “It’s a summons—from King Mór of Munster.”
“King Mór requests your presence at Cashel,” the messenger said. “He asks that you come without delay.”
Berengar’s frown deepened. Why would Mór ask for him? There were other wardens more familiar with Munster. He hadn’t had dealings with Mór since the war. The message was short on details, suggesting Mór feared its contents might fall into the wrong hands.
Whatever the king’s reasons, Berengar owed Mór a debt. Besides, the summons gave him a reason to avoid returning to Tara to face the High Queen’s ire.
He folded the message and tucked it into his cloak. “Very well. I’ll go.”
When they set out from the tavern the following morning, the proprietors looked more than a little relieved to see him go. Saroise too returned to the road, headed for parts unknown. They parted ways at a fork in the road, but not before she wished him well. Although it seemed unlikely that any bard with such a tale would decline to put it into song, for his part, Berengar actually believed her sincerity.
The messengers from Munster kept a quiet distance—which, considering his fierce hangover and accompanying ill temper, was probably wise. The throbbing in his temples eventually subsided, and before long his mood returned to its usual level of irritability. The companions traveled under bright sunlight, and the air grew warmer the farther south they rode.
They were almost to the border when Faolán sniffed the air and looked at him warily. Not long after, they encountered roughly a dozen corpses just off the road. Berengar slowed his pace, and the others followed suit. Flies swarmed around the bodies, which were scattered across the grass.
This was a slaughter, Berengar thought. He stared at the scene, unable to take his eyes away.
Alarmed, the messengers reached for their swords on the chance the responsible party remained nearby, ready to ambush them. Berengar didn’t bother. Whoever committed the act was long gone. He dismounted and approached the bodies on foot.
“What are you doing?” one of the messengers called after him. “They’re not human.”
Berengar disregarded him and stooped to inspect one of the bodies, ignoring the smell. The corpses were the hobgoblins he’d saved from Margolin’s men. Although Gnish was not among them, a trail of blood led into the woods, and Berengar suspected he knew what he would find if he followed it.
He guessed the bodies had been there for two days, maybe more. They’d been slain just north of the border, only a short distance from freedom. After a quick search, he concluded the thunder rune was gone, taken by whoever murdered the hobgoblins.
Berengar hung his head. It really was all for nothing.
A cry came from the pile of bodies. Faolán barked to get his attention, and Berengar made his way over to her side. Shielded by an arrow-ridden hobgoblin corpse lay one of the goblin younglings Gnish had taken under his care. Somehow it had survived.
Berengar took the goblin into his arms and trekked back to rejoin the others. He told the messengers to ride ahead to Cashel and let the king know he was on his way. He would answer Mór’s summons, but not before finding the goblin a new home.
Maybe he couldn’t make the world a better place, but he could at least do that.
Acknowledgments
Every time I try to write a novella, it turns into a novel.
I intended The Wrath of Lords to serve as a prequel novella that would explain events alluded to at the start of The Blood of Kings. Like my characters, my stories have a mind of their own, and Wrath quickly became something more—the true beginning of the Warden of Fál series. The Berengar we encounter in this story is even rougher around the edges (if possible) than the man we meet in Blood, which delves deeper into both the warden’s past and the themes introduced in this book.
The idea for this series came from an interesting place. I’d dabbled in fantasy before—I have an as-yet unpublished fantasy series set in the same universe as Warden of Fál—but was busy with other projects when I read a mystery novel written by a friend. As someone who grew up devouring mysteries and thrillers, I wondered what it would look like if I attempted to write a mystery of my own. How would I do it differently?
That’s when it hit me: I could write a series of mystery novels set against a fantasy backdrop. After that, all the other pieces quickly fell into place. Because so many fantasy series require readers to be familiar with all prior books, I’ve purposely tried to make each novel as standalone as possible (while remaining interconnected).
Having written in a number of other genres, including thriller, horror, science fiction, and western, I can honestly say fantasy is the most challenging and rewarding. There’s something special about the combination of monsters, magic, and swords in a unique world with its own history and mythology.
The world of Warden of Fál was heavily influenced by Irish mythology. I was fortunate enough to take a trip to Northern Ireland, where it was as if the world imagined in my stories leapt off the page. Other fantasy stories that have influenced my writing or love of the genre include The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, The Kingkiller Chronicles, Bone by Jeff Smith, Game of Thrones, and the Skyrim and Witcher video games. If you enjoy the genre, you owe it to yourself to check out these stories.
I’d like to say a huge thanks to Jeff Brown, my cover artist for the series. His work is tremendous. I would also like to thank Maxime Plasse, who did a superb job designing the map of Fál, and Matt Forsyth, who rendered a color illustration of Berengar. You each helped bring my world to life, and for that I am exceptionally grateful.
On the technical side, I’d like to thank my copyeditor, Katie King. I’d also like to thank my mom, Pam Romines, for helping to edit the book.
And finally, I’d like
to thank you—the reader of this book. If you enjoyed The Wrath of Lords, I highly encourage you to read The Blood of Kings. Berengar’s story is just getting started.
Also by Kyle Alexander Romines
Warden of Fál
The Path of Vengeance (prequel short story)
The Wrath of Lords
The Blood of Kings (coming spring 2019)
The Will of Queens (coming spring 2019)
Drone (Science Fiction/Superhero)
The Chrononaut (Science Fiction)
A Sound in the Dark (Thriller)
The Keeper of the Crows (Horror)
Bride (Horror)
Atonement (Western)
To sign up to receive author updates—and receive a FREE electronic copy of Kyle’s science-fiction novella, The Chrononaut—go to http://eepurl.com/bsvhYP.
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 [email protected]. 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 .
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