“It’s good.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, reached into his bag, and handed the innkeeper another coin. “Join me, will you? I prefer not to drink alone. Especially not a fine brew like this.”
The innkeeper beamed. “Thank you kindly.” He took the coin and poured himself a cupful of mead. “There’s lots to be done around these parts, if you’re looking for honest work. You might even put that bow of yours to good use. We’ve had terrible trouble with predators of late.”
“I’m just passing through, I’m afraid.” Berengar set the mug down and studied the man with a cautious eye. “I was hoping you might point me in the direction of Cill Airne. Do you know the way?”
The innkeeper’s smile faded. “Aye. Follow the road until it branches into three parts and take the trail leading west. You’d do well to be careful if that’s your destination. There’s a bit of trouble out that way, from what I hear.”
“Is that so?” Berengar suppressed a smile as the innkeeper took another drink of mead. Though each of Fál’s five kingdoms was unique, some things were the same wherever he went. Lords and nobles kept their tongues closely guarded, trading in riddles and half-truths. Common folk, however—particularly merchants and innkeepers—were more liable to divulge their true thoughts freely, especially when alcohol was involved.
The innkeeper looked around to make sure no one else was listening. Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Word is that Morwen, the king’s court magician, is holed up at the monastery at Inis Faithlinn. The villagers want her head on a pike, but the monks refuse to hand her over. Laird Tierney is quite beside himself, from what I hear.”
“What’s their gripe with the magician? Surely they know the price for murdering a servant of the throne.”
The innkeeper shrugged. “You know how people get about magic. Morwen showed up about the same time the planting season went to hell.”
“So naturally they assumed she placed a curse on the land,” Berengar said knowingly.
“Or some other devilry.” The innkeeper shook his head sadly. “And we’re supposed to be the civilized kingdom. Still, if you ask me, I think there’s more to this matter than meets the eye.”
Berengar casually raised an eyebrow, careful not to betray his keen interest in the subject. “Oh?”
“A group of déisi stopped in here a short time before this mess started. Like you, they were headed to Cill Airne. One made mention of Morwen’s presence on the island.” The innkeeper finished his drink and set it aside. “If you ask me, I’d say someone stirred the farmers up. I can’t say why.”
“Interesting,” Berengar mused. The déisi were cutthroats—professional mercenaries. Who hired them, and what was their interest in the king’s magician?
He started to inquire further, but before he could pose the question, the inn door fell open and three men entered the hall.
“You’ll have to excuse me, friend,” the innkeeper said as the band of flashy-looking newcomers approached the bar. He took a moment to top off the warden’s meadair before promptly departing to tend to the new customers.
Berengar rose from his place at the bar and carried his food and drink to a secluded table beside the warmth of the fireplace. The stew had cooled down enough to sample without singeing his tongue. He leaned back in his chair and lifted a spoonful to his lips. The flavor was gamey, but it remained the best meal he’d had since departing the castle.
In light of what he’d learned from the innkeeper, Berengar thought back on his dinner with the king. Mór said his court magician was precious to him, and Berengar wondered if they were engaged in an affair. As a young man, Mór was well known for his conquests of beautiful women. He was different in those days, before the death of his older brother elevated him to the rank of king. He was known across Fál as the Poet Prince, trained in the arts by great masters far and wide. The responsibilities of the throne had erased the easy smile from his face, if the Shadow Wars had not already done so.
One of the patrons at the bar slammed his meadair against the counter. “Another!” When the innkeeper hastily shuffled to refill the trio’s drinks, the man muttered something under his breath, and the innkeeper flushed a deep shade of red. The patron’s friends laughed loudly, stirring the warden from his thoughts.
Berengar glared at them from underneath his hood. All three were relatively well dressed, at least by local standards. He guessed they were minor nobility, or else from prosperous farming families.
The first man mockingly flicked a coin at the innkeeper’s feet. “Go on.” He spoke with an air of command. “Be on your way.”
The innkeeper bowed low and picked up the coin before disappearing behind the bar without a word.
“Drink up, lads,” the first man said as the troubadour began a new song. His clothes were finer than the others’, and he wore a sword sheathed at his side. He drank a sip and made an unpleasant face. “These are dark times indeed if this is the best swill this establishment can furnish. Mark my words, the greedy bastard will be raising the prices again before too long to pay the High Queen’s taxes.” He spit on the floor as he finished speaking, and the others murmured in assent.
“You have that right, Brandon,” said one of his companions, a thin man with a resentful expression. “Why should Munster pay tribute to a foreign queen while we have enough trouble here? You heard what that merchant from Limerick said last night. He barely escaped with his life from the brigands who robbed him. Then there are the Danes, who raid our coasts, burn our ships, and plunder our villages.”
Berengar listened intently to the local gossip.
“It’s worse than that,” the other said in a hushed tone. “You’ve not yet mentioned all the strange talk about magic run amuck in our borders. I’ve heard more reports of monster sightings in the last year than in all the stories my mum told me when I was a boy. Why, just the other day, I heard a rumor that an oilliphéist had come down from Mount Cuilcagh and was killing passersby along the River Shannon.”
Brandon wrinkled his nose in disgust. “The work of the Witches of the Golden Vale, no doubt. What a sad state of affairs. Our once-great nation brought low. Still, if there’s anyone who can restore the peace, it’s good King Mór.” He raised his meadair in a toast, and the trio drank deep. “Long may he reign. We don’t want the Tainted Princess sitting on the throne.”
There was a brief lull in the conversation until one of their number spoke up. “There’s even talk the warden is about.”
“Which warden?”
“Which do you think?” Brandon asked contemptuously. “The warden.” His lips spread into a savage grin. “If you ask me, the Bloody Red Bear is more trouble than the rest of them combined.”
Berengar merely listened, expressionless, as Brandon’s face grew animated and he spoke with wide, sweeping gestures.
“You’ve all heard the stories. They say he’s a bear wearing human skin, or that his mother was a giantess. Only one thing is for certain: the trail of blood he leaves wherever he goes. There’s a reason they call him the Bloody Red Bear.”
“I thought it was on account of his hair,” said one of his companions.
Brandon shook his head somberly. “Not if you’ve heard the tales of the Shadow Wars.”
None seemed to notice that the subject of their fascination was sitting in their midst. Berengar noted the irony with little satisfaction. He was loath to hear yet another account of his deeds. The tales always portrayed him as either a hero of great renown or else a bloodthirsty monster with no remorse. At best, most contained a mixture of half-truths and complete fabrications.
Brandon started to speak, but the music stopped, and he peered past his friends in the direction of the troubadour as if suddenly struck by an idea. “You there! Play the one about the warden.”
The troubadour hesitated, uncertain, until Brandon pointed to the pouch of coins he carried with him. Then he lifted the flute to his lips and the room went quiet as he began to play. Berenga
r held his teeth clenched tight.
Oh hear ye the tale of the Bloody Red Bear
With an axe swing that blots out the sky
And the burn of the glare from the eye of the Bear is the last thing men see ere they die
The Bear was a cub only twelve years of age
When he trekked into desolate lands
To hunt down a beast so his village could feast on the blood laid bare by his hands
The Cub tracked a beast to its shadowy cave
And the Cub died within that dark lair
Then into the light and roaring with might emerged the Bloody Red Bear
Blood on his blade and flames in his hair
Scars down his arms,
And a cruel one-eyed stare
Mothers tell children
You better beware,
That you don’t ever cross the Red Bear
As the Bear grew so too did his deeds
Saved his village from raids at fifteen
Whispers of his name gathered the fame that would draw the eyes of the Queen
Goblins hewn down by the axe of the Bear
Cursed his name with every last breath
But only when his town burned did the Bear truly learn his calling was death
A man meant to kill, he was a scourge
To the enemies of the new throne
He stopped those who opposed and as the Queen rose, the Bear got a job of his own
A Warden of Fál, the Bear stands apart
From the polished four with the same ring
He travels the land as the Queen’s trusted hand and now all of the bards sing…
Blood on his blade and flames in his hair
Scars down his arms,
And a cruel one-eyed stare
Mothers tell children
You better beware,
That you don’t ever cross the Bloody Red Bear
The troubadour finished playing and bowed his head. A dreary mood hung about the inn until Brandon and his companions broke the silence, clapping their hands together loudly.
“Good! Now play the other one. You know, the one about the Doom of Dún de Fulaingt.”
At the mention of the name, Berengar felt a chill run down his spine.
The musician shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid I must decline.”
Brandon was taken aback. “But you must know it. Every child in Fál’s five kingdoms is familiar with the tale of the Fortress of Suffering.”
The troubadour stood firm. “I would not pollute my trade with such a song, not for all the money you carry with you.”
Brandon bared his teeth angrily. He pushed away from the table, sending the chair crashing to the floor behind him. “You dare insult me?” He glanced at his friends, who moved to join him. “Perhaps we should teach this one a lesson about respecting his betters.”
Berengar was already on his feet. “That’s enough. Leave him alone.”
Brandon turned and took note of him for the first time. He whitened slightly at the initial sight of the warden, but wine or natural-born foolishness made him brave. “My God—take a gander at this one, lads. He looks as if his mother lay with a bear.”
“That’s a good one,” Berengar replied. “I’ve certainly never heard it before.” His tone dripped with sarcasm.
Each man looked at the others, not knowing quite what to make of the remark.
Brandon sneered when his gaze swept over the fox sigil pinned to Berengar’s cloak. “This isn’t your concern, foreigner.” He made a show of resting his hand on the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side. Berengar very much doubted the man knew how to use it.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Brandon’s companions looked at him warily, but the man himself remained undaunted. “We will not be intimidated so easily. There are three of us, and only one of you. We are men of Munster. We serve the one true king, not some foreign whore.”
He was on the ground before the others could so much as move. Berengar held his boot pressed against the man’s throat. “Now you’ve done it. You’ve gone and made me angry.” It was one thing to insult him. Impugning the queen’s honor was another matter entirely.
One of Brandon’s friends started toward him but stopped when Berengar lowered his hood. “The Bloody Red Bear.” He took a step back.
Berengar glanced down at the man under his heel, whose face had started to turn a shade of purple. There were tears in his eyes. The warden dug his boot deeper. “You will not insult the High Queen in my presence. You’re not worthy to speak her name. But for the queen, these lands would all be enslaved under a dark sorcerer. Apologize—now.”
“Forgive me, great Warden,” Brandon coughed out when Berengar eased off his throat.
The warden withdrew his boot. “Get him out of here.”
Brandon’s friends helped him to his feet, and together the trio stumbled toward the door.
“And leave something for the innkeeper on account of the trouble you caused.”
The group hesitated at the door before leaving a bag of coins on the counter.
“Thank you,” Berengar said to the troubadour. “For not playing the song.”
Then he excused himself and made his way up the stairs to his room. Before he went to sleep, he peered out the window one last time to see if anyone had followed him to the inn. For a moment, he imagined he saw a shadow standing among the trees, but in the next instant it was gone. Berengar looked down and noticed Faolán curled up beneath his window as if keeping watch over him. He chuckled, grateful the wolfhound hadn’t been there during the fight. She would have ripped out the man’s throat merely for threatening him.
He arrived at Cill Airne late in the morning. His path led through the Gap of Dún Lóich, a narrow mountain pass between the Black Stacks to the west and the Purple Mountain to the east. Fál’s topography consisted of a vast central plain surrounded by hills and coastal mountains. Berengar had come of age far to the icy north, and as such was well accustomed to navigating such terrain.
His stallion’s hooves clattered over an old arched bridge that ran across a lake beneath red sandstone peaks, and Cill Airne came into view. Three lakes formed a sea of blue beyond the town’s border. When he peered closely enough, Berengar saw several islands scattered across the lakes.
He was a stranger to Cill Airne but knew it well enough by reputation. Though modest compared to Cashel, the bustling village that spanned the valley below was impressive in its own right. Cill Airne was known across Fál as a center of learning. Its monasteries boasted some of the most extensive libraries in the land, and craftsmen of all trades studied under the masters of its various academies and institutes. In the days of old, great mages and magicians had come from far and wide to learn the mystic arts, until the purges had forced the school to shut its doors.
Berengar guided his horse down the path that led from the gap. It was a steep descent of at least five hundred feet, if not more. He passed dozens of farms along the road, spread out across vivid green pastures. Cill Airne was home to a host of peasants and farmers in addition to varied classes of merchants, craftsmen, and winemakers. It was this diverse mix that yielded such a vibrant, thriving community. Nestled under the protection of the surrounding mountains, the town had a reputation for peace, current circumstances aside.
Berengar slowed his horse to a trot as he entered the village, Faolán trailing behind. It was still relatively early. With a little luck, there would be time enough to rescue Mór’s magician and start on the return journey before the day’s end.
Life in the village seemed nothing out of the ordinary. There was hardly any indication of an ongoing siege, other than a slight tension in the air. His appearance drew the typical number of intrigued stares, but for the most part the people paid him little attention, preoccupied with their affairs.
He stopped in the marketplace and bought an apple from a vendor, taking the opportunity to ask for directions. “Any idea where I can
find Laird Tierney? I have an urgent matter to discuss with him.”
The seller pointed north. “I’d suggest you start at the castle.” He wore a bemused expression as if to say, where else would he be?
Berengar thanked the man and went on his way. The warden could have easily been forgiven for his failure to notice the distant structure among the tall buildings spread across the village. Unlike the Rock of Cashel, where the castle loomed above the heart of the city, Laird Tierney’s stronghold was relatively secluded at the edge of the lake. The castle was a good deal smaller than the one at Cashel, consisting mostly of a keep and a tower house. Archers and sentries were perched atop each of four round corner towers along a protective badhún wall.
When he was within walking distance of the castle, Berengar descended from his horse and continued on foot. The guards looked at him warily at the entrance.
Berengar produced a letter marked with the king’s seal. “I’ve come to see Laird Tierney. I carry a message from King Mór.”
Judging from the brief look exchanged between the guards, they’d been expecting something like this to happen, perhaps for a while. They nodded and motioned for him to come with them. Berengar left his horse with a squire and motioned for Faolán to wait for him outside before following them beyond the gate.
“We knew the king would send someone before too long,” one of the guards muttered. “Nasty business at Innisfallen, if you ask me. Never would have happened even a few years ago. Thought there’d be more than one of you, if you catch my meaning.” He looked Berengar over. “I mean no offense. I’d wager you’d be right handy to have in a fight.”
Berengar held back a grin.
They escorted him to the keep, where Laird Tierney waited. Berengar slowly made his way across the noisy chamber, crowded by the members of Tierney’s court. A guard stood on each side of the lord, who was dwarfed by an uncomfortable-looking stone chair. Tierney appeared impossibly old, with pale skin and shrunken, slow-moving eyes. What little remained of his hair was white, and a long, flowing beard swept down his face. If not for his splendid clothes, the warden might have mistaken him for a sage.
The Blood of Kings Page 3