The Blood of Kings

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  “This is who I am,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “It’s the life I chose.”

  “You don’t think you deserve happiness.” It wasn’t a question. “You’re wrong.”

  Berengar turned to go. “Farewell, Princess.”

  “Farewell, Warden Berengar.”

  She left him there, the floral scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

  They rode north with haste. With the date of the queen’s coronation fast approaching, his chance to catch the killer before the ceremony was slipping away. Whatever the assassin’s true motives, the king’s murder was clearly meant to send a message. Berengar suspected another attempt on a member of the royal family would be made at the coronation, if not sooner. He needed answers before it was too late.

  The sky took on a sickly gray pallor the farther they traveled. It wasn’t long before the sun was lost behind ominous storm clouds. Thunder sounded above, though no rains came. The air grew cold enough that one might have been forgiven for forgetting it was summer. A hush fell over the company as the mountain came into view.

  “There it is,” Ronan said. “The Devil’s Bit.”

  Berengar was familiar with the mountain, having passed it when he first crossed the border from Leinster. A large gap was visible between the rocks near the mountain’s peak, giving it the appearance of missing a piece. The mountain had been the source of many stories and myths long before the crone took up residence there. Berengar heard several such stories as a child. It was said the devil himself took a bite from the mountain—forming the gap—only to spit it out when he broke a tooth. According to legend, the place where the stone landed became the Rock of Cashel.

  “I’m surprised Darragh hasn’t dealt with the crone already.” Berengar searched for the entrance to the cave among the stones, but the mountain remained too distant.

  “Munster is too vast a kingdom for one man to rid it of all its evils, even a man of renown such as Warden Darragh,” Ronan replied. “It was Darragh who broke three of the four Viking captains at Cill Chainnigh. Only Gorr Stormsson escaped him. He also slew a Fear Liath at Cnoc Buí and defeated the Conjurer of the Copper Coast, all in the last year.”

  “No need to recount all his deeds.” Berengar was certain such a list would take all day to recite. “I’m sure the whole of Fál will hear of them soon enough, if the bards have their say.”

  The remark drew a chuckle from Ronan. “Warden Darragh is well loved by the people of Munster.”

  “I don’t doubt it. He’s loved by all, it seems.” While Berengar was looked down upon or despised in many quarters, Darragh was almost universally revered as a great hero. In truth, Berengar actually respected and admired him, though he would never admit it to his face. “Do you know him well?”

  “Well enough to know him to be the man the legends claim. King Mór often invited him to court.”

  Darragh possessed a fondness for Munster and its people, though his duties as captain of the wardens took him across Fál. Most of the time, Warden Niall of neighboring Leinster stepped in for him in Munster when Darragh was about the High Queen’s business elsewhere. Niall probably would have done the same had Mór not specifically requested Berengar for the job of retrieving Morwen from Innisfallen.

  “We must be careful,” Ronan said after a time, his gaze trained on the Devil’s Bit. “I do not know what awaits us at the mountain. None of the heroes King Mór sent to slay the crone ever returned. Many times, I asked the king leave to hunt the witch myself, but Queen Alannah persuaded him against it.”

  “You’re close with her. I’ve seen the two of you together.”

  Ronan nodded. “I’ve known her all my life. We grew up together. Munster could not ask for a better queen.”

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  To his credit, Ronan didn’t feign shock. He merely bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Aye. Since Tuathal. I’ve never told her. Not long after the war, Mór proposed, and who was I compared to the Poet Prince? Seeing them together…it’s why I never wanted the rank of thane.”

  Berengar could only imagine what it must have been like for Ronan to be so close to the object of his affections, who would forever remain out of reach. “Yet you’ve stayed by her side all these years.”

  “I served the king, but my loyalty was always to Alannah. There’s nothing I would not do for her.”

  The two men exchanged a knowing look, and Berengar couldn’t help feeling a kinship with Ronan. He knew what it was like to possess such unwavering loyalty to his queen, though his love for Nora was of a platonic sort. In many ways, a thane was like a warden. Both held positions of great responsibility, even if Berengar’s authority extended to each of the five kingdoms. Like Ronan, he was a warrior who was more comfortable on the battlefield with a weapon in his hands than at court with a wine goblet.

  “It must have been difficult for you, watching as she endured the king’s multiple affairs,” Berengar said, his mind on Lady Elaine.

  “Mór was unworthy of her. He treated Alannah poorly, and their children as well.”

  “There are rumors there’s something more to your relationship with the queen—that you had cause to want Mór dead.”

  Ronan shook his head in disgust. “Lies, probably from the mouth of that snake, Marcus O’Reilly.”

  “He warned me you were not to be trusted,” Berengar admitted.

  Ronan didn’t seem surprised. “O’Reilly has always resented that I was made thane and he was not. He knows nothing of loyalty or honor. Power and gold are all that hold sway over him.”

  “Even so, you have to admit the circumstances are suspicious. You’ve told me openly of your feelings for the queen.”

  “That’s all they are. Feelings. Alannah is an honorable woman. Even if I had wanted something more, she would never have reciprocated. For all his faults, she loved her husband.”

  Ronan spoke plainly, without regard for how his words might be perceived. Most of the potential suspects Berengar questioned proved evasive or untrustworthy, and he found it a nice change of pace to converse with someone who was forthright. Ronan seemed honest enough, but Berengar had met some very talented liars in his time.

  “We’re here,” Ronan said before he could ask another question.

  They had arrived at the mountain. It was as if a pestilence had fallen over the land. Unlike the green fields of the Golden Vale, the area surrounding the Devil’s Bit was barren and covered in rocks, with only sparse vegetation. Even the trees were leafless husks, which bent under the weight of the fierce winds moaning from the mountain.

  “Dismount,” Ronan told his men. “We go on foot from here.”

  Apart from a few crows that watched from their perches as the company passed by, there were no animals anywhere in sight. The mountain was lifeless and deserted. Even the horses were spooked, as Prince Aiden’s mount must have been when he bashed his head on one of the very stones underfoot. Berengar tightened his grip on the lead rope and led the reluctant animal into a gathering fog, which hung around the mountain like a veil. A skull leapt out at him as he peered through the mist, and he saw a human skeleton lying slumped against the base of a tree.

  Murmurs came from the others as more remains came into view. Bones belonging to hundreds of corpses were scattered everywhere, as well as the remains of horses and other animals. Based on the way many of the bones were strewn, it almost looked as if they’d been ripped to shreds by scavengers, not murdered at the hands of a witch. Berengar used his axe to prod a dust-covered shield that bore the coat of arms of one of the many unfortunate souls who sought to hunt the crone. Swords, spears, and even wagons were visible in the fog, abandoned and forgotten by time.

  “Stay alert,” Ronan said. “Keep your eyes open for the entrance to the crone’s lair.”

  The soldiers drew their swords and advanced farther into the mist, careful to keep close to one another. The crows’ black shapes soon disappeared. The fog grew denser with each step Beren
gar took until the soldiers’ outlines were barely discernable. Sensing trouble, Faolán began to growl, and her ears perked up.

  The winds, he realized. They’ve stopped. He held his axe close.

  Berengar imagined he heard the sound of high-pitched laughter. An unearthly howl echoed from the mountain, and a shape darted past him through the fog, followed by a scream from one of the soldiers. Berengar raced toward the sound of the cry, Faolán close behind, just in time to see the soldier’s sword clatter to the hard, lifeless earth. Moments later, another scream rang out. Somewhere nearby, Ronan attempted to shout a warning to his men, but his voice was drowned out by another hair-raising howl.

  The form sailed past him again, and Berengar swung his axe, connecting only with empty air. One by one the soldiers cried out and were silenced. For a brief moment, Berengar glimpsed part of the mountain through the fog. He started upward in search of higher ground and nearly collided with Ronan, their weapons inches from meeting. The queen’s thane appeared unharmed. Faolán barked, warning of impending danger, and Berengar spun around as a shape broke through the fog.

  Instead of the crone, he found himself face to face with a monstrous beast at least twice his size. It looked almost like a werewolf, though larger and less human in shape. Its hair was shaggy and white, apart from its maw, which was stained crimson with blood that matched the color of the beast’s eyes. It had a mane of fur like a lion and a long tail like a serpent. Berengar recognized it instantly. The creature was a Cù Sith, more commonly known as a grim—a monster known to dwell in places of death. He had never encountered one before, though he knew them well enough by reputation.

  Faolán bared her fangs and leapt at the grim, which batted her away with its black claws. The thing moved like the wind. When Ronan rushed forward with his longsword, the blade didn’t even graze it. The grim disappeared into the fog again, followed by another ear-splitting howl. Berengar spotted its red eyes glowing in the mist and stood his ground, waiting for the right moment to strike. His axe made contact, but just barely. The monster roared and lifted him into the air. Berengar’s back struck a large rock, and he fell. Just before the creature could strike while he was defenseless, Faolán jumped on its back long enough for Ronan to slice it across the flank.

  With a violent shudder, the monster heaved Faolán to the ground. This time, its howl was one of pain. Ronan stood between Berengar and the grim, holding out his sword, now stained in silver blood. The creature regarded the three of them, unsure whether to strike, and the fog lifted enough for Berengar to catch a glimpse of a stone ladder carved into the mountainside. His eyes followed its course to a cave’s entrance.

  “It’s there,” he said to Ronan, who traced his gaze. “The crone’s lair.”

  With a savage roar, the grim sailed over Ronan’s outstretched sword and landed atop the rock before crouching, intending to pounce. Ronan grabbed Berengar’s arm and pulled him to his feet, and the pair sprinted away with the grim in pursuit.

  We’re not going to make it, Berengar thought as the steps of the ladder drew nearer. That monster’s too blasted fast. He could feel it closing in on them. At the last moment, he pivoted and put himself in the creature’s path, swinging the axe with everything he had. It felt as if he had rushed headfirst into the mountain itself. The axe seemed to burn the creature when Berengar ripped it free, which he was sure was the work of Morwen’s enchantment. He swung again, severing one of its limbs as he toppled backward and crashed to the earth. The grim held him pinned to the ground, its fangs inches away from his face. Berengar struggled under its weight until Faolán came sailing through the fog and ripped out a chunk of flesh from its throat as Ronan smote the creature’s face with his longsword.

  The grim collapsed in a great heap and reached out for him with its claw. Berengar was already on his feet, the ladder within reach. He began the climb, Ronan beneath him. The mist receded near the ledge at the top, and Berengar heaved his axe over the side. They had almost reached the top of the ladder when Ronan lost his footing on the damp stone and nearly fell. Berengar reached out and caught him at the last moment, though the longsword slipped from Ronan’s grip. Before he could pull his companion over the edge, the grim leapt from below. The monster seized Ronan with its dying breath, and the red glow faded from its eyes as they fell together, vanishing into the mist. Berengar looked at his empty hand and shook his head before pulling himself over the ledge.

  The cave was cold and quiet. A narrow path led deeper into the darkness. There was no telling how far it went. Berengar crept forward with the axe, the pale light fading behind him. He glanced from one side to the other, searching for the crone, and his gaze passed over a vaguely human shape waiting in the shadows. When he returned his attention to the place where it had stood, the form was gone.

  The warden frowned. I’m not alone.

  He felt something move behind him, but when he looked back, there was nothing there.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” the crone’s voice reverberated across the cavern, a harsh and high-pitched sound.

  “Show yourself,” Berengar said with a growl, holding his axe at the ready.

  The figure moved again, this time ahead of him. The crone scaled the wall and crawled along the ceiling like a spider until she again slipped beyond his sight. She moved too fast for him to catch much detail, apart from the rags she wore.

  “Go back,” the crone demanded. “Why can’t you just leave Lissa alone?”

  This time her voice was louder—more distinct. He was getting closer.

  A repugnant odor filled his nostrils, reminding him of an ogre’s den. Firelight danced farther down the path, which ended in a wide chamber framed by stone columns. The unpleasant smell came from a cauldron over the fire that bubbled with what appeared to be a broth of some kind. The flames revealed heaps of fish bones, probably taken from the River Suir, which had its source at the mountain.

  I guess she doesn’t eat humans after all.

  Berengar heard the sound of breathing behind him and turned around just as the crone threw herself at him from the ceiling, her long fingernails outstretched liked claws. He grabbed her and flung her across the room. The crone crashed against the wall and landed in a mess on the floor.

  There was a clear contrast between the crone and the beautiful Witches of the Golden Vale. She was impossibly old, her wrinkled face heavy with age. The strands of her sparse, wispy hair were matted and dirty. Her nose was hooked and crooked, and her back was hunched. She was thin and small, so pathetic-looking he would probably be doing her a favor by putting her out of her misery.

  When he trained his axe on her neck, the crone’s large eyes widened and welled up with tears. “It’s not fair,” she said, her face in her hands. “Why can’t you just leave poor Lissa alone?”

  Berengar had spent enough time in the company of evil to recognize its presence. The crone looked just like he imagined a witch should, and yet something felt wrong. He again looked at the pile of fish bones. “You didn’t kill those people?”

  The crone looked up at him again and shook her head with vigor. “Never! Lissa never hurts people, even when the king sends his knights to kill her.”

  Those soldiers were torn apart before they ever reached the cave, he realized. It was the grim that killed them.

  “The grim.” He watched her carefully. “Did you summon it here?”

  Again she shook her head. “The grim scares the bad men away, but it is not Lissa’s friend.”

  “Lissa? Is that you?” Berengar lowered his axe.

  Now that he wasn’t a threat, the crone seemed to look at him with a new expression. She smiled and nodded in the way a child might. There was an innocence about her that seemed impossible to reconcile with her appearance. This was not the monster the stories told of.

  “It was, it was, it was,” she seemed to sing. “So very long ago. Before the bad witch came.”

  “Bad witch? Do you mean Agatha?”

  The cro
ne held her finger over her mouth and looked around, as if to make sure they weren’t overheard. “She came to Lissa’s village. Told Lissa she could help her use magic. Said she would be beautiful and young forever.”

  Berengar suspected Agatha had attempted to recruit Lissa to her coven—much as she had with Morwen. “What happened?”

  “Lissa’s magic turned wrong. Bad things started happening to her family. Lissa told the bad witch she didn’t want to hurt people, but the bad witch got angry.”

  “She cast a curse on you, didn’t she? She turned you into this.”

  Her expression told him he was right. Agatha probably corrupted Lissa’s magic so that she would harm those she cared about, causing her to flee to the Devil’s Bit. There she lived in isolation for decades, all the while people thought she was a monster who needed to be slain. In truth, Agatha was the monster.

  “Warden nice to Lissa? Warden kind?”

  “Afraid not,” Berengar answered. “Wait. You know I’m a warden? So you can use magic.”

  The crone didn’t answer. Instead she scurried over to the cauldron and dipped a ladle into the boiling mixture. “Would warden like soup?” She offered him a ladleful of the foul-smelling substance, which Berengar politely declined.

  “Maybe you can still help me. Do you know who murdered the king?”

  She looked at him long and hard, and for a moment he thought she might be able to do just that. “Powerful magic. Shadow magic.”

  “Shadow magic? Is it Azeroth? Has he found a way to return to Fál?”

  “Lissa does not know.” She took a sip from the ladle before returning it to the brew. “The Lord of Shadows seeks to take back what was stolen from him, but there are others as well.”

  “What others?”

  She merely shrugged.

  Berengar looked her over carefully. While he was the farthest thing from an expert on magic as there was, he knew that Agatha’s death didn’t necessarily mean the crone’s spell had been lifted, but it was still possible. He would have to ask Morwen about it when he returned. Perhaps she could lift the crone’s affliction, though he doubted even Morwen could foresee the lingering effects such a curse might have over time.