“What is this?” Berengar yelled above a booming, dissonant voice that reverberated across the chamber in a black tongue.
Agatha didn’t answer. For the first time, she looked afraid.
The ground trembled, causing the seeing stone to roll from the table to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand shards. Cracks appeared as the floor shifted under their feet. Suddenly the earth opened up at the center of the room, and a hole formed in the ground, leading to a pit of darkness. Agatha lost her footing and slipped. At the last second, she grabbed hold of the stone floor, her feet dangling over the edge of the deepening pit.
Berengar thought the crumbling floor would devour him too, but the cellar door swung open, as if granting him passage.
Corrin stirred, suddenly freed from Agatha’s influence. “Berengar? What’s going on?”
“There’s no time.” Berengar helped Corrin to his feet as the chamber threatened to come down over their heads.
A terrible cry came from the center of the room, where Agatha’s hold seemed about to give way. “Help me!” she shouted to Berengar.
Despite the fierce urgency of the moment, the warden’s lips curled into a cold sneer. “No.”
With Faolán at his side, he raced up the staircase and along the corridor. The ceiling came crashing down behind him, and the cellar collapsed in on itself. Berengar threw himself and Corrin from the entrance to the warehouse, landing on the ground outside. A cloud of dust rose where they had stood an instant earlier.
Alannah and Ravenna are in danger, he thought, recalling the witch’s ominous warning.
The warden grabbed his axe and struggled to his feet, leaving Corrin’s unconscious form behind.
Chapter Sixteen
Bells tolled across the city as Berengar raced toward the castle. People everywhere fled, seeking refuge from the chaos. Fires raged atop the Rock of Cashel, and the sounds of battle were audible behind the walls. Fighting had broken out at the gate, and Berengar reached the summit just as the last of the guards were overwhelmed. The first attacker failed to see him in time. Berengar ripped his axe free of the man’s spine and charged at his companions. Moonlight broke through the stacks of smoke, revealing their distinctive armor.
Danes, Berengar thought. It was a raiding party. Somehow Gorr Stormsson managed to slip his men inside the city, using the distraction of the queen’s coronation to launch an attack. The Vikings were well known to use smaller forces to move unnoticed and disappear before an enemy’s superior numbers regrouped. If Stormsson was willing to take such a risk, it could only mean he planned to murder the queen.
An archer took aim at Berengar as he beheaded the last fighter at the gate, but Faolán savaged the Dane before he could get off a shot. A horn bellowed across the courtyard, coming from the chapel, where a band of castle guards were doing their best to hold off a larger attacking force. Time seemed to slow as Berengar rushed to help, though it might have been an effect of the poison still flowing through his veins. The earth was littered with bodies of Munster’s defenders and of Vikings among fallen arrows and blood, along with those civilians unfortunate enough to find themselves caught in the crossfire. It was as if the world around him had descended into hell. Nobles and servants alike hid behind what cover they could find, frozen in horror. Berengar felt the searing heat from the fire as one man ran past him consumed by flames. He coughed down a lungful of smoke and was nearly bowled over by a panicked horse. Again the horn blew. One by one, the queen’s defenders were pushed back to the chapel steps.
“Fall back!” the guard with the horn shouted to his companions. “Fall back to the queen!” An arrow struck him in the throat, and the horn rolled away when he fell.
One of the advancing Danes loomed over the dying guard and raised his spear to finish him, but Berengar threw himself into the enemy ranks and severed the Dane’s hand at the wrist. Side by side with Faolán, he struck down one Viking after another while fighting his way closer to the chapel. When the last of the attackers thrust a spear at him, Berengar moved too slowly to evade the strike, and the spear’s tip grazed his doublet, tearing it free of the white tunic underneath.
It was a reminder that without his armor he was vulnerable, even while the poison spread, slowing his reactions.
Fight it, he ordered himself, pivoting in time to avoid a second thrust of the spear. He stunned the Dane with the flat of his axe, wrenched the spear free, and impaled the man with his own weapon.
The bell continued to toll from the watchtower. More were coming, though he wasn’t certain if they were Danes or the queen’s reinforcements. He cast the body aside and stumbled inside the chapel, which was already overrun. Alannah was huddled behind the throne, defended by Ronan and a final remnant of guards. Morwen was deep in the thick of the fighting, casting protective wards and enchantments to hold the enemy at bay. One of her spell books lay at her feet, its pages torn and trodden upon. The magician deflected a torrent of arrows away from the throne, blood running from her nose, and the enchantments began to fail, allowing the enemy soldiers past her.
“Kill the magician!” ordered a Dane in a horned helmet.
Morwen delved into her satchel and hurled a vial of black powder at her nearest attacker, causing the man to drop his sword with a scream. Before she could reach for another, the Dane in the horned helmet brought his war hammer down on her, and she barely had time to bring her staff up to protect herself. The blow sent the staff sliding across the room, and Morwen fell on her back, defenseless.
The Dane raised his war hammer to finish Morwen, but Berengar let out a roar and thundered down the hall, propelling himself forward with all the strength he could muster. He put his axe through the man’s skull, and the corpse tumbled to its knees and slumped to the ground.
When Berengar reached out to help Morwen to her feet, he heard a terrible cry from the throne, where three attackers had overwhelmed Ronan. One of the Vikings slipped past him, and Berengar’s eye met Alannah’s just before the soldier put his sword through her belly. Ronan struck down his foes and beheaded the Dane in the next instant, but it was too late. The queen’s gaze wandered down her dress, freshly stained with crimson. Ronan took Alannah into his arms and cradled her body.
With her dying breath, the queen reached out to Berengar. “Ravenna…protect Ravenna.”
A shriek sounded across the room, where a group of Danes had seized Ravenna and were dragging her from the chapel.
They’re taking her to Stormsson, he realized. With Alannah dead, the princess was next in line to the throne. If Stormsson abducted her and forced her to marry him, he could legitimize his claim over Munster. Berengar didn’t intend to let that happen. He ran forward, swatting aside arrows and spears on his way from the chapel. Outside, the princess’ captors had already bound her hands.
“Ravenna!” he shouted, and she noticed him just as they forced her onto a horse.
“Hurry,” one said. “The queen’s forces are coming.”
As the horsemen bolted, Berengar unsheathed his sword and hurled it through the air. The weapon impaled the rider at the rear, and as he toppled from his mount, Berengar swung himself onto the horse and took off with Faolán in pursuit. The horse jumped over a flaming wagon, and Berengar ducked under an arrow, clutching the reins in one hand and his axe in the other. He tore down the hill after the princess’ kidnappers. Most of the Danes had fallen in the initial skirmish. Munster’s reinforcements marched toward the castle, unaware that their sole remaining monarch was being spirited away from Cashel. There was no time for Berengar to stop to send word to Ronan or get help. He couldn’t allow Ravenna out of his sight.
The abductors took advantage of the confusion to pass through the city gate unimpeded. Berengar chased them from the city in the moonlight until at last Cashel vanished behind him. There would be no second chance. If Stormsson’s emissary had told the truth that day in the throne room, two thousand Danes were on their way to Munster’s shores. If they landed befo
re the princess was recovered, it would be too late.
Hold on, Ravenna. I’m coming. He was alone and poisoned, without his armor, sword, or bow, but he still had his axe, and he had Faolán. That would have to be enough.
Berengar rode like a man possessed. He did not stop to eat or even to sleep in his pursuit of the Danes, who had a head start on him. The princess’ captors led him east, into the wild. Though they knew the country better than he, Berengar had been a hunter long before he was a warden. Even when they were out of his sight, he was never far behind. If he could track a single goblin on foot through a forest, he could follow the trail left by a band of fleeing horsemen, especially with Faolán hot on their scent.
The first day, the Danes dispatched riders to meet him in battle. When the third rider did not return, they stopped trying. Though they outnumbered him, the horsemen didn’t dare confront him, on the chance that Munster’s soldiers were at his back. No, they planned to take the princess to Stormsson’s hidden fortress, where they would be safe.
For three days he hunted them. The Danes’ path turned south, following the course of the River Suir. The trail led him through dense green woods and rocky plateaus. The witch’s poison wore on him even more than the lack of food or sleep. He felt its full effect weighing him down, sapping him of strength and energy. It was all he could do to remain upright in the saddle. His white tunic was stained with sweat from the overbearing sun. Still, he couldn’t give up, not with Princess Ravenna counting on him.
At last he came to a place where a skeletal structure loomed not far from where the river emptied into the Celtic Sea. Vines crawled over half-finished ramparts that rose above the trees that concealed the hidden fortress. Berengar slowed his pace and dismounted to continue on foot before his horse collapsed from exhaustion. The battleaxe weighed heavy in his hands, and each footstep felt weaker than the last. Sounds of metalworking carried through the woods, suggesting swords and spears sharpened for war.
As he drew nearer, he could see the stronghold was only partially complete. Stormsson’s men had made camp in tents at the center of the basic fortifications. It appeared construction would not be finished until after the Vikings’ reinforcements arrived. Berengar crept along the camp’s perimeter, careful to stay out of sight. The fortress boasted an impressive number of warriors, and he was hardly at his best.
A cheer rang out as Ravenna’s captors rode into camp. Berengar watched from a safe distance as they hauled the princess into a large tent, which he was sure belonged to Gorr Stormsson. The warden crept forward, quietly making his way closer to their camp. When Faolán attempted to follow, Berengar shook his head.
“There are too many to fight our way in. You need to turn back.”
She wouldn’t budge, refusing to leave his side.
“Now’s not the time for stubbornness. I need you to trust me. Turn back and find the others. Bring help.”
Faolán looked at him for a long moment before at last retreating into the brush. When she was gone, Berengar waited for the sentry stationed outside the western wall to pass by on his patrol and stole into the camp. He found the entrance to the tent where they had taken the princess surprisingly unguarded. Once Ravenna was free, they would steal a horse from the stables and, with any luck, they’d be gone before the Danes were even aware she was missing. It was quiet inside the tent. Berengar looked around, searching for the princess, but Ravenna was nowhere in sight.
“Warden Berengar, look out!” he heard her shout. “It’s a trap!”
Footsteps sounded behind him. Before he could turn around, something hit him in the back of his head, and everything faded away.
The sun had already begun to set when Berengar woke, a sign he’d been out for a long time. Though he’d been left alive, the Danes had gone to great lengths to ensure he did not escape. He was trapped inside a net that hung above the earth, suspended from a rope tied to one of the trees. Ropes bound his hands and feet. Even tied, his first instinct was to reach for his axe, and yet he knew at once it was gone.
A cool breeze caressed his face, causing the net to sway back and forth. Berengar shifted uncomfortably within the confines of the net, unable to fully extend himself. His head still ached from the blow that rendered him unconscious, but at least he felt more rested. The effects of the witch’s poison seemed to have abated somewhat, though they’d left him weaker than he would otherwise have been.
“You’re awake.”
The voice came from Ravenna, who was strung up in a separate net nearby. She’d been stripped of her silver tiara, and her dress was dirty and disheveled, but she appeared unharmed.
Berengar craned his neck in order to better see her. “Why didn’t they kill me?”
“Once the rest of the ships arrive, Gorr Stormsson plans to march his army to Cashel and behead you outside the gates. Then he’ll threaten to do the same to me unless Ronan surrenders the city to him. I’ll die before I let that happen.”
The last of the light faded, replaced by the glow of the flames below. The Vikings celebrated their victory around the campfire, drinking and feasting while Stormsson looked on like a conquering king. Berengar’s battleaxe lay at his feet like a prize. The men shouted and jeered, some even fighting among themselves. A few had already managed to consume more mead than they could hold and were passed out at tables or engaged in drunken brawls with their companions.
“You shouldn’t have come after me on your own,” Ravenna said. “Why did you do it? Now we’ll both die.”
“You know why.”
The trees moaned in the wind, and as the nets swung past each other, Ravenna reached her fingers through the gaps in the net and grazed his fingers. Berengar closed his fingers around hers, holding her hand as they swayed in the breeze.
“I won’t let this happen to you,” he said to her. “I’ll find a way to get you out of here, no matter what it takes.”
Even if the queen’s forces had followed his trail—and by some miracle Faolán found them—there was no way they’d reach the Viking stronghold in time to rescue them. If they were going to escape, it had to be now. The sentries had left their posts to join the revelries below. Night crept over the sky, ushering in darkness across the fortress. With the whole camp distracted by the festivities, he might stand a chance of surprising them if he could just get free. Berengar tried pulling at his ropes with all his strength, but it was no use. Without a weapon, there was nothing he could do.
That was when it hit him. His captors had taken his axe, and his sword and bow were back in Cashel, but there was one weapon that might have escaped their notice.
“Ravenna, do you think you can reach inside my boot?”
“I think so. But why?”
“I keep a dagger inside it for occasions just like this. Our hosts might have missed it. If you can get your hands on it, you might be able to cut through our bonds.”
“I understand.”
The princess leaned forward and reached through the gaps in the nets for his boot. She struggled to slip her hand inside his boot, and for a moment he thought she would fail, but her fist came free with the dagger. Ravenna quickly cut through her own restraints, stopping to conceal the knife only momentarily when a Dane wandered past them on his way to the bushes below. Then she went to work on Berengar’s ropes. When his hands were liberated, Ravenna passed him the dagger, and in an instant his feet were also free. He stared down at the drop before returning his gaze to the princess.
“What now? Are we going to escape?”
“This ends tonight, one way or another.” If they fled, Stormsson’s men would only hunt them down. Even if they managed to escape, once the Viking ships arrived, Munster would face the threat of war. This was his only chance to break the Danes once and for all. He started to cut the net. “You’re not going to want to see what comes next.”
She shook her head. “I won’t look away.”
The bottom of the net opened up, and Berengar tossed her the knife. “Find
a place to hide. Get a horse. If I fall, leave me.”
He let himself go and landed hard on the ground. He kept to the shadows, moving unseen, and slipped behind a man at the periphery of camp. Before the man could react, Berengar clamped his arm around his mouth to prevent him from crying out. He dragged the struggling Dane into the bushes and crushed his windpipe before tearing the dead man’s sword from its sheath.
Then he came for the others. He started slowly, picking off stragglers at the outskirts or those who had wandered away from their companions. He fell on them one by one. With each man he killed, his rage burned even hotter. He slashed, hacked, and ripped them apart with his sword, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. Any lingering weakness from the witch’s poison was burned away by the unbridled fury that gripped him.
It wasn’t long before someone cried out a warning, and a bell began to toll to alert the camp. Those who had fallen asleep started awake in confusion. Some ran to find weapons while others fled in terror at the sight of the bodies, unaware their doom was at hand.
“There he is,” one shouted as Berengar strode confidently into the heart of the encampment. A host of warriors ran to meet him and he stood his ground against the onslaught of swords and spears. A lucky few got close enough to cut him before he put them down. The pain only made him angrier.
Berengar spotted his axe and cut his way toward it. Just before he reached the axe, a Viking came rushing toward him, swinging his hammer. He caught the man’s forearm in one hand and pitched him into the campfire in time to defend himself against the man’s companions. One dealt him a wound across his torso before the warden gutted him. Blood soaked through his tunic from the injury. He growled from the pain like a wounded animal assailed on all sides.
“Esben Berengar!” Gorr Stormsson blocked his path to the axe. The Viking’s eyes seemed to glow in the firelight within the spiked helmet he wore. Stormsson raised his double-edged blade and pointed it at the warden across the flames to challenge him. “You die tonight, Warden of Fál.”
The Blood of Kings Page 28