The Fortress of Suffering

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  The sky is dark, though it’s only midafternoon. A storm is coming. My gaze falls on the forest path, where Ahearn’s men went, and anger greets me like an old friend. I welcome it, and the pain that results when I slowly pry the arrow from my shoulder. My entire body shakes with rage. Hate lines my face as the first raindrops wash over me, and my fists tighten so hard my knuckles turn white.

  I stalk Ahearn’s men through the forest. They can’t have gone far. Fury sharpens my mind and dulls my pain. I was a tracker before I was a soldier, and I know this land better than anyone. The storm doesn’t let up. Rain soaks my torn, bloodstained shirt, and mud cakes my boots.

  It’s night before I find them huddled around a weak campfire under the trees. Thunder crackles overhead.

  The youngest among them peers into the darkness, where I wait. “Did you hear that?”

  “Don’t be so jumpy. It’s just the storm.” A broad-shouldered killer with fair hair—a Dane, by the look of him—snorts derisively. “The gods are angry tonight.”

  “Your gods, or mine?” The archer polishes his knife while trying to stay dry. He’s in a foul mood.

  “We shouldn’t have killed her.” The youngest looks shaken. “She was just a girl.”

  The Dane grunts. “Stop complaining. The boss is gone, and if that one-eyed devil isn’t dead yet, he soon will be. Job’s done.” He glances at the archer. “Do you think he was telling the truth about that silver? Maybe we should go back.”

  None notice as I steal into their camp. There are three of them, and only one of me—and I’m wounded and half-dead at that. I don’t have armor. I don’t have weapons. All I have is my rage, but it’s all I need.

  The youngest is the first to see me coming. He cries out a warning a half-second too late. I force him into a headlock and snap his neck. The Dane reaches for his sword, but I crush his hand with my boot, jerk his hair back, and smash his head against a rock until his brains are visible through his skull.

  “Stay back!” The archer waves his knife blindly at me.

  With nothing to live for, I’m not afraid to die. I’m on him in an instant. He spits out blood when I slam him into the ground. We struggle over possession of the knife. Wounded as I am, I’m stronger and angrier than him. He whimpers like a frightened puppy and strains against me as I slowly force the knife toward his chest. He moans, and his grip relaxes when the blade pierces his heart. I remain astride him, stabbing him repeatedly until a pool of blood forms under us.

  Hours later, I limp into Kells to find the village in flames. My eye stings from the smoke. Ahearn’s men tore the village apart. There must have been more of them. Homes have been ransacked and looted. Rain washes blood from muddy corpses, and many survivors are battered and beaten. The soldiers torched the place before moving on. Their departure doesn’t come as much of a relief to the villagers, who scramble back and forth from the well with water buckets in a frantic bid to save the burning mill. Others hold dead loved ones in their arms or stare at the cinders that remain of their homes. It’s madness. I’m numb to it all, from screaming children to wailing mothers.

  I’m covered in blood. The few who take note of me can’t take their attention off me. Their eyes follow me through Kells. They must know this is my fault. I brought this horror upon them, but that’s not why I’m here.

  Galen waits for me outside the mill. It’s as if he’s been expecting me. Others gather around us. Kent, on his way from the well, stops what he’s doing and comes running. He notices the knife I took from the archer in my hand.

  I look only at Galen. “Someone told Ahearn’s men where to find me.” Galen observed my interaction with Ahearn at the festival. He blamed me for his son’s death. The rest is not hard to guess.

  “You survived.” He knows. It’s as if he can see it written on my face. “Now you know what it’s like to lose a child.”

  I see red. Galen doesn’t try to stop me. I hit him until his ribs break, and then I keep hitting him. Others try their best to hold me back, but I shrug them off with ease and hold the archer’s knife over him. He watches me through swollen eyes. His face is barely recognizable.

  “Esben, stop!” Grawnya emerges from the throng.

  “Aileen’s dead.” It’s my first time saying it out loud. “They’re all dead.” I spit the words out like a profanity. “He did this.”

  Grawnya doesn’t spare Galen a single glance. Her gaze remains fixed on me. “Don’t do this.” Her eyes water as she pleads with me. I’ve never seen her like this before. It’s only now I understand she loves me as a son. “Once you start down the path of vengeance, there is no return.”

  I stare at Galen, and the knife wavers in my hand. Then I think of Aileen’s lifeless form in my arms, and white-hot fury takes hold of me. A quick death would be too good for him. I want him to suffer. I disembowel Galen with the knife and leave him clutching at his entrails. I can’t look at Grawnya, who screams and falls to her knees in despair. I’ve broken her heart.

  Like the other villagers, Kent looks on in disgust as I let the knife fall away. “Get out of here, Esben. Don’t ever come back.”

  I spare him one last look before taking Galen’s horse and leading it away. Kent was my friend once.

  Sunrise greets my return to the farm. The rains have stopped. I pass out burying Duncan and Hilda. I’m not sure how much time has elapsed when something nudges me awake.

  It’s Faolán. Nasty scars mar her fur, but she walks without injury. I frown. What devilry is this? I’m almost certain she was dead. I’ve heard tales of revenants—creatures reanimated by magic. Is that what this is?

  “What are you?”

  Faolán follows me inside the cottage. Aileen’s body waits where I left her. She looks so peaceful she could be sleeping. Faolán pokes Aileen with her nose, as if trying to rouse her like she did me. When Aileen won’t wake, Faolán lets out a low whine, sits on her haunches, and refuses to move from her side.

  Hunger gnaws at my gut. I eat to keep up my strength to finish my task. My wounds, while nonlethal, will need time to heal. Other less visible wounds will never heal. After burying Duncan and Hilda, I gently lift Aileen and carry her up the hill overlooking the cottage. There, I bury her next to her mother.

  I’ll never see her smile again. Never hear her laugh. Never hold her hand in mine.

  I will have vengeance on those who took her from me. Whatever it takes, I will find a way.

  Faolán cocks her head to one side, as if waiting my command. The warmth is gone from her eyes, and she has a feral, almost sinister look about her. Less superstitious men than me would put her down, but she’s all that I have left of Aileen.

  The bearskin cloak waits for me in the cottage. I drape it around my shoulders and take out the silver dagger I used to kill my father. Its work isn’t done.

  It takes a long time to track down Ahearn. He’s a hard man to find, and winter doesn’t make it any easier. It’s a harsh one—harsher than I can remember. The snow doesn’t relent. I’ve heard a mad bear ravages the countryside to the east near Kells. Some hunters killed its cub, and now it roams the land devouring anyone who crosses its path. I think about the village less and less as time goes by. I’ll never go back. There’s nothing left for me there.

  I come and go like a ghost. A tavern here. An inn there. I sleep in barns or under doorways. Few notice me. The rebellion has displaced hundreds—or more—and the ranks of beggars and refugees swell. No one’s looking for me. If Ahearn spares me a second thought, he probably believes I’m dead. Still, I’m careful to cover my trail.

  When it’s warm enough, I move on. The rebellion makes travel difficult, and this land is dangerous enough already. The large-scale conflict comes to an end as the armies entrench themselves for winter but fighting continues across the kingdom. From gossip I overhear, despite Prince Eberdon’s early successes, Queen Scathach’s armies have recently won a string of decisive victories, and the prince’s soldiers have been forced east of the Sperri
ns. It’s exactly the position Eberdon wanted to avoid. His strategy relied on catching his mother by surprise. Scathach now has ample time to gather her strength. Meanwhile, the rebels must contend with Laird Lagan, who terrorizes the east from his castle at Ravenswood.

  I see more maimed and disfigured at every stop. Deserters hang at the end of ropes for abandoning a senseless cause not their own. Widows and orphans die more slowly. Everywhere, there’s a sense of crushing despair. The nobles don’t care. We’re their pawns and playthings. I haven’t forgotten the lesson of the last goblin war. Eberdon, and those like him, think they can do as they wish with impunity. Every night I imagine killing him.

  Spring arrives before I catch up to Ahearn in war-ravaged Eldemar. I keep my distance as he and his men dismount and make their way through town. I’ve been following them for days. Ahearn is well-protected, and I don’t want him slipping through my grasp. I’ve waited too long for this.

  After half an hour of waiting, a newcomer rides into town from the other direction. The man—whoever he is—hides his face behind a hood. He and Ahearn converse in hushed tones before going off alone for a more private conversation while Ahearn’s men stand watch. When their business concludes and the stranger leaves, it’s time to make my move. I only have a small window to act.

  I seize Ahearn, shove him up against a wall, and put my dagger in the corner of his mouth. His brow arches in surprise and knits in disbelief in a matter of seconds. He knows what this is. What I did to Galen was a mercy compared to what’s in store for him, but first, I want answers. “Where’s Eberdon?”

  Ahearn mocks me with his eyes, and his lips pull back into that cruel smile I remember. He thinks he’s untouchable. Men like him always do. He’s wrong. Since he likes smiling so much, I cut him from the fold of his mouth up to his ear and give him a carved smile. I clamp a hand to muffle his cry, hold the dagger against his throat to warn him against calling to his men, and listen to make sure no one heard us.

  I glance over my shoulder. We don’t have long. “I won’t ask again.” Faolán snarls at him. If not for me, she’d be at his throat. She obeys my commands, but there’s no affection in her now—only aggression and hostility to anyone other than me. She’s hardly recognizable as my daughter’s gentle companion.

  “Fort Morrow. It’s over a half-day’s ride east of here. The Ice Queen’s forces besiege the fortress almost daily. Reinforcements from Laird McGrath are on their way.”

  I know the fortress by reputation. With enough provisions, Eberdon could hold it indefinitely with only a skeleton crew. “Tell me how to get inside.”

  “The prince has at least forty soldiers with him. You’re just one man.” Ahearn looks at me as if I’m mad, and maybe I am.

  I press the dagger harder against his skin, drawing blood. “You took my daughter from me. I’ll kill every man there if I have to.” A plan forms in my mind.

  Faolán barks a warning, and an arrow lands beside me. Shouts ring out at my back. They’ve discovered us. I let out an angry grunt and turn back to Ahearn. He’s not smiling now. I wanted to take my time with him, but if I wait, his men will carry the news to Prince Eberdon, and I’ll lose my chance. I stare into the face of the man responsible for my daughter’s death with all the hate I can muster. I want to remember this.

  When a second arrow misses my head by inches, I open his neck with my blade, run to my horse, and whistle to Faolán. Ahearn’s men hurry to his side rather than give chase, though archers continue firing until I’m beyond reach of their arrows. My mount, a reliable war stallion I stole a few weeks back to replace the one I took from Galen, doesn’t flinch from the danger. It isn’t long before the town slips out of sight. They haven’t followed me. Still, I dig my boots in and push the horse to his limits until we’re a safe distance away.

  It’s a bleak day and unusually windy. When we come to the road, I slow the horse to a canter and head east along the war-torn countryside. The world is ugly and dark. Faolán’s wolfish eyes search out signs of trouble. There’s suffering everywhere I look. Carrion birds flock overhead. Smoke rises from a smoldering farmstead. Just off the road, a spear protrudes from a bloated corpse’s back.

  I near Fort Morrow by midafternoon. My path is unobstructed. The besieging forces have withdrawn, at least for the time being, to continue their daily assault another time. I spy their encampment on my way. It’s not much to see. They’ve been given an impossible task, few resources, and fewer soldiers.

  It’s quiet. Faolán’s ears perk up in alert, and I pull back on the reins. Mindful of my surroundings, I advance with caution. These are dangerous lands, and foul things thrive on death and decay. The earth is charred where Queen Scathach’s soldiers cleared a portion of the forest with fire. Arrow riddled corpses—mostly draped in Scathach’s colors—litter the ground. The sun emerges as I approach the fortress, and the air warms, though the high wind bandies my cloak about.

  Fort Morrow stands tall before me. A weatherbeaten tower casts a long shadow over the ground. Moss and vines grow over pitted walls marred by scorch marks from past sieges. There are no cracks in the gray stones from the enemy battering ram. A few haggard-looking sentries patrol the ramparts. The fortress’ advantage lies almost solely in the height and thickness of its walls, and not on account of its position. Unlike other forts built on hills, beside rivers, or near caves, it rests in the open, defiant.

  Voices and clanging metal carry loudly from inside as I draw near, and my nose wrinkles at a particularly unpleasant odor. They’ve been here a while. It isn’t long before the sentries take note of me. A warning shot lands mere feet away, and—finding myself staring down a string of arrows—I bring my horse to a stop outside the gates and look up at them.

  “State your purpose and begone.” The sentries regard me with deep mistrust.

  “I’ve come to see the prince.” If Ahearn was telling the truth, and reinforcements are on their way, I can’t waste time searching for a gap in the defenses. They have to let me in. It’s a simple plan with an equally simple flaw. Once they permit me inside the fortress, I’ll be at their mercy.

  My request draws laughter from the sentries. “So you can open our gates to the others? Come any closer and I’ll gut you myself.”

  “Look around you. I came alone.” With the forest burned down, there’s nowhere for the enemy to hide. “Ahearn sent me with news for Prince Eberdon.”

  That gets their attention. Ahearn is Eberdon’s left hand. They know him and the consequences for angering the prince by turning away his messenger. Still, the sentry’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “What’s your name?”

  “Esben Berengar.” The name means nothing to them, not that I expect it to. To Eberdon and men like him, I’m just another faceless soldier.

  “What news do you bring?”

  “It’s for the prince’s ears only.” I make a show of glancing over my shoulder, as if the enemy might approach at any moment. “Let me in. I’ve come a long way. If you find I’m lying, you can kill me and be done with it.”

  No one answers. The sentry mutters something to one of his companions, who disappears—presumably to carry my message to the prince. After a considerable delay, the gate opens, and I’m ushered through the threshold and relieved of my horse.

  It’s orderly inside. Everything’s organized like a camp. Spears and shields are kept inside neatly arranged tents. The soldiers are presentable and alert. Eberdon might be a brute, but he’s effective at instilling discipline in his subordinates. A reputation for hacking off limbs might have something to do with that. Black and crimson banners stream in the wind. Eberdon has kept his mother’s sigil but has added a crown. I’m just a commoner, but the would-be king’s reasons for doing so are clear enough.

  Ahearn wasn’t lying. There are at least forty men here, maybe more. They look relatively healthy, if underfed. While the sentries clearly don’t trust me, most of the fort’s inhabitants react to my appearance with disinterest. Hardened though they
are, these men are weary from the long siege. Some soldiers hustle to repair damage from the most recent assault or busy themselves with daily tasks while others languish about. One man digging a latrine shudders when he sees Faolán shadowing me. She licks her lips, as if anticipating making a meal of him.

  “This way.” A group escorts me across camp. Collapsed rubble blocks the tower entrance, so the prince has had to make do with a tent like the rest of them. I walk with confidence, like I’m supposed to be here. If Ahearn’s men send word, or the prince finds out I’m lying, I’m dead. Ahearn’s name got me this far. The rest is up to me. Eberdon, poring over maps, hardly notices the soldier bow before him. “Esben Berengar, Your Majesty.”

  “Ahearn’s man.” The prince regards me with the same golden eyes I remember from our last meeting. His bodyguards size me up when I enter the tent. In contrast to the men outside, most wear swords and heavy armor. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Esben Berengar, Your Majesty.” He doesn’t even remember my name—or my daughter’s. The thought fills me with hate. I swallow my anger so that none shows. I’ve been doing it all my life. I’m not fool enough to walk up to him and put a dagger in his heart, but my fingers itch to do just that.

  Faolán, on the other hand, exposes her fangs and utters a low growl. Something dark and intelligent stares out from her amber eyes. Even Eberdon’s bodyguards appear disquieted by her size and savage appearance. I silence her with a glare, though her gaze never leaves Eberdon. It’s like she knows what he’s done.

  “I haven’t seen you with Ahearn before, but you do look like the sort he keeps around. You’re not a spy, are you, Esben Berengar?” A cruel look plasters itself on Eberdon’s pale face. He’s thinner than when I last saw him but no less menacing. His armor is clean, as if he’s above the filth and grime the rest of us have to endure. “It’s been a while since our last execution, and the men are in need of some entertainment. I’ll only ask this once—why are you here?”