With his hunger satiated, Berengar finally began to feel the effects of a night without rest and looked forward to taking advantage of the room he had purchased. The trek from the forest had taken more out of him than he thought. He was on his way to the herbalist’s shop to check in on Morwen when a scream rose above the clamor of everyday life, and Berengar came to an abrupt halt.
The boy Thomas hurried through town, running in a blind panic until he nearly collapsed in his father’s arms.
“What is it?” Nathan asked with concern, cupping his son’s face.
“Riders!” someone else shouted.
The ground shook with the trampling of hooves, and a cloud of dust rose behind a company of horsemen quickly approaching from the outskirts of town. Berengar counted fifteen men in all, armed to the teeth. All wore a variation of the same black lamellar armor.
Danes. His gaze fell on Iona, who had abandoned her shop to see the source of the commotion for herself and now stood aghast as the riders drew nearer. “Get inside and bar the door. Hide her if you can.”
“What about you?” the herbalist asked.
Berengar didn’t answer. “Go.” It wasn’t a request.
He advanced stealthily and motioned for Faolán to keep low, careful to stay out of sight.
The townspeople clustered together in the center of town as the Danes surrounded them, preventing them from fleeing. The horsemen whistled and jeered, brandishing their weapons in a frightening display. Faolán growled restlessly, eager to attack, but Berengar shook his head. The warden was used to fighting against heavy odds. He had only recently dispatched six déisi with relative ease, after all—albeit with a little help from Morwen—but there was a big gap between six men and fifteen. While the déisi were mercenaries who killed for gold, the Danes killed as a way of life and were no less dangerous. If Berengar was going to make a stand, he needed to go about it smartly.
The horsemen parted and their captain emerged, a great beast of a man astride a black stallion. He wore a byrnie—a mail shirt composed of thousands of interlinked iron rings in a four-on-one pattern. Due to its expense and the level of craftsmanship necessary to hand-rivet the mail, such a shirt was a sign of the individual’s status and power. The captain’s horse trotted forward, and a pair of cruel-looking eyes stared at the townspeople from underneath a spiked helmet. He motioned to his men, and several dismounted and began to round up the remaining people.
“People of Knockaney,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing through town. “My name is Gorr Stormsson. I trust you’ve heard of me.” At that, a round of whispers spread through the crowd of villagers, who fell silent when Stormsson spoke again. “We seek a man by the name of Berengar. A girl with a staff of ash wood accompanies him. They were last seen near the Glen of Aherlow.”
Berengar gritted his teeth. How had they known to look for him in Knockaney? His letter to the castle hadn’t even left town. More importantly, why was Stormsson looking for him in the first place? It seemed a turn of fate had provided him with an opportunity to find the answers he was seeking. The trouble was, he needed to get close enough to Stormsson without getting riddled with arrows in order to do so.
Nathan stepped forward, his hand on his son’s shoulder. “There’s no one here by that name. We are only humble servants of the crown.”
“Loyalty.” Stormsson rested his hands on his saddle horn. “I respect that. I hope you’ll show me the same when I am your king. Now I’ll ask you one more time: where is the warden? From what I hear, he’s rather difficult to miss.”
No one answered. The only sound was the wind whistling through the trees.
“Very well.” Stormsson gestured to the soldiers on the ground. “Search the village. When you’ve finished, burn everything and take what women please you. That is, unless this lot has anything to say to make me change my mind.”
The Danes fanned out across town in pairs. One soldier in each pair searched the huts and businesses while archers stood watch. The farther they spread, the more vulnerable they became.
Stormsson’s attention moved from Nathan to the boy at his side. The Viking’s lip curled upward in a malevolent sneer, and he swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted from his horse.
“Take the boy,” he ordered his men.
Nathan tried to resist, but one of the soldiers struck him with the flat of his blade, and he fell to his knees. Two men seized Thomas by the arms and dragged the struggling boy away while the rest held the townspeople at bay.
At the same time, one of the pairs of Danes neared Iona’s shop. As the soldier started toward the door, torch in hand, Berengar pulled the dagger tucked inside his boot and nodded at Faolán. He slipped behind the soldier and clamped a hand over his mouth to prevent him from screaming before dragging the dagger across the Dane’s neck. The archer spotted the attack too late, and Faolán leapt on him before he could fire. Berengar took the dagger and finished him off. He glanced at the center of town, where Stormsson held Thomas in front of the others. The boy shook from head to toe.
“Such a sweet lad.” Stormsson cupped the boy’s cheeks in his gauntleted hands and looked over at his father. “You southerners are so soft.” He forced Thomas to his knees, and all the humor drained from his voice. “Tell me where Berengar and the girl have gone, or I’ll start taking pieces for the hounds.”
As Stormsson raised his sword, Berengar nocked an arrow in his bow and pulled back on the bowstring, aiming it at the Viking captain.
“There he is!” a soldier called from across town. “I see him!”
Stormsson looked up and locked eyes with Berengar, who released his hold on the string. The Viking threw himself forward as the arrow streaked through the air, instead finding the heart of the Dane at his side. Berengar quickly nocked another arrow and fired it at the closest warrior before casting the bow aside and seizing his axe. He stared down at Stormsson across the gap, and the warrior pushed Thomas aside and pointed his sword in Berengar’s direction.
“The mighty warden, at last,” the Viking said. “I see the tales are true. You are a sight to behold.”
“Gorr Stormsson,” Berengar declared, his voice ringing across town. “It’s time you answered for your crimes against the crown. In the name of High Queen Nora, I sentence you to die.”
Stormsson laughed as his men moved to join him. “Your death will bring me much glory. I will enter Valhalla with your head in my hands.”
Vastly outnumbered by his enemies, Berengar let out a fierce roar and charged forward to meet them, his axe held high. The archers trained their bows on him, but before any could fire, a mighty horn rippled through the air. Stormsson stared past Berengar, and his smile vanished. Berengar looked back and saw Ronan approaching the battle on horseback, his yellow cloak waving in the wind as he held his longsword high. No fewer than twenty members of the castle guard accompanied him, all charging into battle with the enemy force.
“Retreat!” Stormsson shouted when he saw them coming. He turned and threw himself onto his horse.
His dark gaze lingered on Berengar a moment longer, and then he seized the reins and fled.
Chapter Eleven
An arrow whizzed past his head as the people of Knockaney ran, seeking cover. The cavalry had arrived, but the battle was not yet finished. Berengar diverted his attention from Gorr Stormsson to an enemy archer partially obscured by smoke from a burning wagon. Before he could close the distance between them, two swordsmen attacked, allowing the archer to nock another arrow and take aim. The pair of Danes struck in tandem, forcing him into a defensive position in order to avoid oncoming arrows. Faolán outpaced him and knocked the archer off his feet, causing him to misfire.
Berengar heard a horse neigh behind him as the cavalry approached. Moments later, one of his attackers was all but cleaved in two by Ronan’s longsword. Berengar brought his axe around and beheaded the Viking’s companion before the first man’s corpse hit the ground. The queen’s thane galloped in the direction
Stormsson had fled until a spear came sailing out of the smoke and struck his horse, which crashed to the dirt and died with a whimper.
Ronan rose unharmed, his breastplate shining in the sunlight. His men moved to come to his aid, but he shook his head and gestured with his sword to the path the retreating Danes had taken. “After him! Stormsson cannot be allowed to escape!”
The horsemen thundered past them on their way out of town, leaving Ronan and a smaller contingent of castle guards to face the remaining Vikings. Berengar and Ronan fought side by side, cutting down all enemies until at last there were none left to stand against them.
“You fought well,” Berengar said when it was over, impressed. Ronan used the two-handed sword to devastating effect, which was no small feat considering the demands of such a heavy blade.
“I was a soldier long before I was elevated to the rank of thane.” Ronan’s fine clothes and armor were stained with blood. “Fighting comes as easily to me as breathing.”
Berengar understood that sentiment well enough.
Ronan issued orders to the guards. “Extinguish the fires and assist the townspeople. Pile the bodies of the dead. If there are any Danes left alive, we’ll take them as prisoners. If not, search the corpses for any information that may be of use.”
“It will be done, Thane Ronan,” a guard replied with a bow.
Berengar accompanied Ronan as he supervised the battle’s aftermath. “I don’t know that I could have taken them all on my own.”
“It’s fortunate we came across you when we did.”
“How did you find us?” Berengar asked.
Ronan laughed for the first time since Berengar had known him, the only hint he’d shown of something underneath his reserved persona. “You have the princess to thank for that. She ordered a search party sent out when you did not return from the Glen of Aherlow. Given all that has happened, Queen Alannah was hesitant to allow my departure, but her daughter refused to entrust the mission to anyone else. Princess Ravenna can be quite…insistent.”
“So I’ve noticed.” Berengar found his already considerable admiration for the princess growing.
He noticed Thomas sprinting across town to the spot where his father waited. The boy leapt into Nathan’s arms, father and son safely reunited.
The sound of hooves echoed nearby, where some of the riders Ronan sent in pursuit of Gorr Stormsson were returning. The riders slowed their approach as they neared Ronan and Berengar. “Forgive me, my thane,” their leader said. “The Danes eluded us. We dispatched two scouts to continue the hunt.”
Ronan flashed his teeth in annoyance. “There is work enough for you here.” He turned to the crowd that had assembled in the marketplace. “People of Knockaney! This settlement is under the crown’s protection. Good Queen Alannah will not permit her subjects to suffer at the hands of Danes. Mark my words—Gorr Stormsson will be brought to justice. Until that time, I will leave a number of guards here to bolster your defenses.” With that, he issued commands to his men before pulling Berengar aside. “I take it your visit to the witches didn’t go as planned.”
“Not exactly.”
“Were they behind the king’s death?”
“Not here,” Berengar said as townspeople and guards passed by. “We have much to discuss upon our return to the castle.”
“Very well. What of Lady Morwen? I don’t see her about.”
“Come with me.” He led Ronan to the herbalist’s shop and rapped loudly on the door until Iona inched it open.
“Is it safe?”
He nodded. “How is she?”
Iona motioned for them to come inside. “See for yourself.”
To Berengar’s surprise, Morwen was awake and alert.
“I’ve never seen anyone begin the recovery process so quickly,” Iona said. “Then again, you might have told me she was a magician.”
“I imagined the staff gave it away.” Berengar aimed a wink at Morwen, who laughed before breaking into a fit of coughing.
Iona propped Morwen up and passed her a cup of water. “Here. Drink this.”
“Thank you.” Morwen glanced around the herbalist’s shop, clearly puzzled by the unfamiliar surroundings. “We aren’t back at Cashel, are we?”
Berengar shook his head. “We’re at Knockaney. You fell ill, so I carried you to the nearest town.”
Morwen graced him with the easy smile that seemed second nature to her, though she remained noticeably pale. “Thank you.”
“Now we’re even.”
Morwen glanced away, as if embarrassed. “I spent so much time wishing the king would let me go off in search of adventure. It seems the world was more dangerous than I realized.” She shook her head. “I thought I could beat them, but I couldn’t.” She bowed her head. “I would have had to kill them, and I couldn’t do it. Maybe if I were more like you…”
“Don’t say that,” Berengar said, the warmth gone from his voice. “It’s much easier to take a life than it is to show mercy. There are plenty of men like me. Perhaps this world needs more like you.” He wasn’t sure he believed the words, but they seemed to do the trick. Morwen perked up immediately.
“It is good to see you are well, Lady Morwen,” Ronan said. “Life at court is diminished without your presence, even during a short absence.”
“You’re very kind, Thane Ronan,” Morwen replied.
Despite their age difference, in many ways they were counterparts of each other. A thane and a court magician were two sides of the same coin. Both were servants of the throne, and each protected the realm in his or her own way. Thanes defended the realm from political and armed conflict, while court magicians were the safeguard against monsters and magical threats. According to custom, thanes stood at the right hand of the throne while court magicians were at the left.
Morwen grimaced as she shifted her weight and swung her feet over the side of the bed. “The queen must know what we have learned.”
“Wait.” Iona laid a hand on the young magician to restrain her. “You’re in no condition to be walking around on your own.”
“Nonsense,” Morwen replied. “I’ll be fine after a few days of healing elixirs from my stores. Not that I’m not grateful for your…remedies,” she added hastily, glancing around the room.
Iona put her hands on her hips. “My remedies saved that leg of yours.”
“She doesn’t mean anything by it,” Berengar interrupted. “We need to take her back to the castle. It’s not safe for her here. Can we move her without risking further injury?”
Iona glared at him. “This morning the girl was at death’s door, in case you’ve forgotten.” She let out a frustrated sigh and began gathering balms and bandages. “Fine. Do as you will, but remember to change her bandages, and don’t let her attempt to walk on that leg until it’s healed—for any reason.”
He nodded politely in her direction. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”
“No, Warden Berengar,” Iona replied, in a tone that implied she had not forgotten the horrors of Dún Aulin. “I remain in yours.”
With that, they parted ways. While Ronan oversaw preparations for their return to the castle, Berengar took the opportunity to catch up on some well-deserved sleep. In the morning, they bade the town farewell. Five guards remained behind to ensure the town’s defense against further attacks. Thanks to Ronan’s intervention, Knockaney had sustained only minimal damage and no loss of life. The Danes were not so lucky. All who attempted to stand their ground against the queen’s forces had perished in the skirmish, which meant there were no prisoners who might reveal the location of Gorr Stormsson’s hidden stronghold. Though the townspeople considered the Danes heathens who worshiped foreign gods, Ronan insisted they be given a proper burial, a sign he was a true man of Munster. In the far reaches of the north, the bodies might have been burned.
Morwen continued to show remarkable improvement overnight. Apart from her injury, she seemed to have returned to her usual good spirits. Much of the co
lor had returned to her face, and her energy was good. She rode in the back of a transport wagon, grimacing only occasionally when the road turned bumpy. Faolán lay beside her in the wagon to keep her company while Berengar and Ronan rode ahead. Ronan remarked they were leaving empty-handed, though Berengar privately disagreed. He considered it fortunate they were leaving Knockaney with their lives intact.
Berengar attempted to draw Ronan into conversation. “You said you were a soldier before the peace. How did you come to enter the king’s service?” Despite the position Ronan held, Berengar knew little of the thane’s personal history.
“In the time of Azeroth, goblins spilled freely across our borders, their ranks growing by the day,” Ronan answered. “The lowlands became unsafe, and many of the lords of Munster and their people sought safety in the fortress of Tuathal’s Keep in the Black Stacks to the west. Laird Tierney of Cill Airne was one such lord, as was Queen Alannah’s father, Laird McAllister, to whom I had sworn my sword.”
The warden had seen the Black Stacks for himself when passing through the Gap of Dún Lóich on the road to Cill Airne. The mountain range contained Géarán Tuathal, the highest summit in all Fál—taller even than Ulster’s icy peaks—where an ancient stone fortress served to protect Munster’s people in times of war.
“I heard of Tuathal’s Keep during the war,” Berengar said. “The goblin army massed in the mountains and laid siege to the fortress.” With the goblins fixed on the mountain, Azeroth’s armies in Munster were divided, allowing Mór’s brother to send aid to Nora.
The Blood of Kings Page 19