The Wrath of Lords
Kyle Alexander Romines
Copyright © 2019 by Kyle Alexander Romines
Copyedited by Katie King
Proofread by Margaret Dean
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Acknowledgments
Also by Kyle Alexander Romines
About the Author
And when Nora of Connacht, last of the line of Áed, took up her uncle’s crown and drove the Lord of Shadows from Fál, the five kings and queens gathered at Tara, where the High Kings of old once reigned. When Queen Nora touched the Lia Fáil—the Stone of Destiny—the stone let out a roar heard across the land, and the kings and queens cast their crowns at her feet. That was how Nora became High Queen of Fál.
But there were many evils left in the land. To ensure the dark times never returned, Nora named five wardens to keep the fragile peace between the realms: Golden Darragh—first and greatest among them—Callahan the Brehon, Niall the Wise, and Connor the Younger—all heroes of renown. But when she named the fifth, a great uproar greeted the name of Esben Berengar, the Bloody Red Bear. Berengar was not beloved as the others, for it was thought he was a monster, a killer against whose wrath none could stand. But wise Queen Nora knew not everything is as it seems, and when heroes fail, sometimes it takes a monster…
—Morwen of Cashel, The Annals of Inis Faithlinn
Five Kingdoms.
Five Kings and Queens.
One High Queen Sits Above All.
Her Wardens Keep the Peace.
Chapter One
He killed the first man with his bare hands.
It was just before dark, and the forest in which Berengar had concealed himself was already alive with the sounds of stirring creatures. Freshly fallen rain left the earth soft and damp, masking his footsteps. He waited until his first victim, the lone sentry standing guard outside the fort, ventured to the forest’s edge to relieve himself.
No sooner had the sentry reached the bushes than he appeared to hear something rustling in the brush. When he raised his torch to investigate the sound’s source, the sentry’s gaze settled on a pair of eyes belonging to an exceptionally large wolfhound. “What the devil are you supposed to be?”
Before he could speak again, Berengar grabbed him from behind and clamped a hand over his mouth to prevent him from crying out and alerting his companions. The sentry tried putting up a fight, so Berengar simply broke the man's neck and dragged the body deeper into the forest. By the time the others realized he was missing it would be too late. He wouldn't have let the sentry live in any event, though he might have preferred to interrogate him first. The members of the company he hunted showed no such mercy to their victims, and likewise they would receive none from him.
Intrigued by the prospect of a fresh meal, a crow hopped from its perch and landed a short distance away. When Berengar finished with his task, the crow and its kin would eat well. A faintly perceptible whistle called the wolfhound to his side. She was Faolán, his sole companion, and her savagery almost matched his own. With the sentry dealt with, there was no one to notice their approach. The others were inside, no doubt seeking warmth and shelter behind ancient stone walls. The pair emerged from the brush under cover of darkness. Only a sliver of moonlight escaped the clouds, which threatened yet more rain.
Berengar was after Skinner Kane, the leader of a vicious company of thugs and killers known as the Black Hand, wanted for atrocities in each of Fál’s five kingdoms. The brehons proved unequal to the task of putting an end to the company’s savagery, so it fell to Berengar to deal with them. It was bloody and dirty work—the kind of job Berengar preferred. He was happy to let the High Queen’s other wardens settle disputes between quarreling nobles and attend to diplomatic matters. He preferred keeping the peace his way, usually at the end of his axe.
He’d tracked the killers to an abandoned goblin fort near the border between Meath and Leinster and waited for night to come. Berengar had pursued the company for the better part of the spring. He nearly had Kane twice, but the man was a slippery bastard, and both times managed to elude his grasp. It had taken him weeks to find their trail again, and Berengar was determined there would not be a third escape.
He slipped through the entrance like a wraith, unseen. Apart from the trickling sound produced by renewed rainfall, the fort lay utterly still. A chill hung in the air. The warden’s eye quickly adjusted to the lack of light, and he found himself in a bare stone hall where a partially collapsed wall prevented him from advancing into the next room. Two sets of stairs loomed on opposite ends of the chamber. The nearest staircase ran upward, and the other led down, into darkness.
Berengar was about to start the climb when he heard a pair of voices coming from below. He motioned for Faolán to follow before creeping along the path down to the dungeon. As he made his descent, the voices grew louder. A hint of torchlight was visible at the foot of the stairs.
“How much longer do we have to wait in this hellhole before we get paid?" one voice asked another.
“We’ll get paid when we get paid," the other replied in a condescending tone. "What's your rush?"
“I hate this place. It's cold and reeks of goblin. That scholar better come through for us after what we went through to get our hands on that rune he wanted.”
“He’d better," the second voice said. "Otherwise, he'll have to deal with Kane.”
Berengar listened carefully. He'd heard rumors that a valuable thunder rune purchased by King Mór of Munster for his court magician had been stolen, but this was the first he'd heard that the Black Hand was responsible. He had a deep dislike and mistrust of all things magical, which would only serve to further complicate his task. Still, he had come to kill Kane, not recover some missing artifact. If Mór wanted the rune, he could claim it himself.
“That rune’s probably worth a hefty sum,” the first voice added. “I still don't understand why we don't just kill the scholar and sell it ourselves, especially if we’re not getting paid for the hostages."
Berengar frowned at the mention of hostages, and he suspected he knew what awaited him in the dungeon.
“You know how he gets around magic. I think it’s the only thing he’s afraid of—just don’t tell him I said that.”
He quietly eased his blade from its sheath. Although the battleaxe strapped to his back was his weapon of choice, the staircase’s narrow confines made his short sword better suited to the task at hand. The torchlight grew brighter as he approached the guards, each of whom noticed him a half-second too late. Faolán leapt from the stairs and pounced on the nearest guard, mauling him with her teeth and claws. Before the remaining guard could cry out to alert those above, Berengar grabbed him and bashed his head against the wall several times in rapid succession. Faolán silenced her victim’s whimpers by tearing out his throat as Berengar used his blade to finish off his foe.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, it became clear why th
e killers did not expect to receive payment for those they had taken hostage. The warden lowered his sword and put it away. It was almost like stepping into hell. Unlike the chill that hung about the fortress, a searing heat greeted him in the chamber below, where a pile of logs lay beside a roaring fire filled with brands. Bright firelight licked the dungeon’s bloodstained walls, revealing the bodies strewn throughout the chamber on the floor, in cells, and in shackles. Without exception, they appeared dead. Some seemed to have been burned; others starved. Most had scorch marks on their clothes. All bore marks of torture.
A cough came from the center of the room, and Berengar’s gaze fell on yet another hostage—a young woman barely out of adolescence, shackled to a table.
Berengar was accustomed to his appearance causing alarm. The mere sight of him was often enough to send children running in the other direction, and not without cause. He wore a hooded bearskin cloak over his leather armor. He had nearly the size of a bear to match. In addition to the battleaxe and short sword, he carried a bow slung across his back and a silver dagger hidden in his boot. He hesitated before approaching, careful to keep the ruined half of his face turned away from her so as not to scare her.
He needn’t have bothered. The young woman was too close to death to notice much of anything. When she saw him, she simply watched him through narrow, swollen eyes. Her face was bruised, and cuts and gashes marred her sweat and soot-stained skin. Like the corpses, she had also been marked with one of the brands.
“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.” Though he tried his best to make his words sound soothing, his voice was coarse and harsh. If there was ever a time when he sounded different, it was long ago, and he no longer remembered how to comfort.
She opened her mouth in an attempt to speak but produced only a dry rasp. Berengar cradled her in his arms and pried the lid from his drinking horn. She was too far gone for the water to help, but perhaps it would ease her passing. Water spilled over the young woman's face as she eagerly gulped down the horn’s contents. She stopped and for a moment looked at him with a hint of gratitude before the life left her eyes.
The warden’s arms began to shake with an all too familiar fury as he gently lowered the girl's body to the table. When he turned away, his face was a stone mask, barely betraying his gathering rage. No trace of softness or vulnerability marred his expression—the hostages were dead, and his vengeance would serve them far better than mourning their demise. In a way, their deaths almost came as a relief, as they spared him from having to make the decision of whether to rescue the hostages or finish the job.
Berengar climbed over the twin corpses left in his wake on his way from the dungeon. It would not be long before the rest of the Black Hand joined them in death. Their passage would be swift, but he didn't intend to make it easy. He reached again for his sword. The cruelties Kane and his men had inflicted upon the hostages would be visited upon them a hundredfold. Berengar returned to the entrance hall and slowly ascended the staircase leading deeper inside the fortress. He kept to the shadows, just out of sight. The torches were few and far between, as the killers wanted to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Unfortunately for them, he had found them all the same.
When he first began his pursuit, the Black Hand numbered seventeen strong. Berengar whittled that number down to thirteen in Ballivor before Kane eluded his grasp, and counting the sentry he killed earlier, he had now taken the lives of three more. The sounds of the storm muffled his progress. Despite the warden’s size, he moved with considerable stealth. A few guards patrolled the hallways of the upper levels, but most were gathered in the great hall where the goblins that built the fortress once held their feasts. He took the guards apart one by one. Behind him, Faolán’s eyes gleamed, watchful and hungry.
Finally, he reached the top of the tower, which loomed above the great hall. A large portion of the ceiling had collapsed long ago, rendering the night sky visible and allowing rain to run freely around the periphery of the chamber. Kane, another of his men, and a robed individual sat around a broad stone table beneath the tower balcony while the others warmed themselves beside the fireplace.
“It’s too blasted quiet in here,” one remarked as Berengar crept closer to the balcony, where an archer stood with his back to him. “Where have the others gone?”
For a moment, no one spoke, and there was no sound in the chamber apart from the dull echo of raindrops against cold stone. Then Kane’s voice filled the room. “Why so jumpy, Alastair? There haven’t been any goblins in these woods for a long time.”
Berengar could practically hear the mocking sneer on the killer’s face. As he neared the balcony, he saw Kane leaning back in his chair, his boots on the table. Across his lap lay his sword, freshly polished, and a tankard was fixed in his right hand.
“It’s not goblins I'm worried about," Alastair replied, nervously glancing at the shadows. “The Red Bear is on our trail."
“Esben Berengar is a fable,” interjected the robed man at the table with a dismissive shake of his head. "A myth spread by those loyal to the High Queen to strike fear into the hearts of her enemies."
With that, the robed individual returned to tinkering with a shimmering white stone under candlelight. Berengar assumed this was the scholar the guards in the dungeon spoke of, which made the object in his hands the stolen thunder rune. A small pile of books and scrolls were stacked beside him.
“He’s no myth,” Alastair answered. “I saw him with my own eyes at Ballivor, where he took out four of our lads. Big as a giant he was, and he wore the skin of a bear as a cloak, just like the stories say.”
The scholar laughed derisively. “And I suppose you think he killed said bear with his bare hands when he was a child? Or that he’s a demon sent by the Fomorians? You and the others would be better served finding me more subjects for my experiments and spending less time worrying about some tall tale.” As he spoke, the rune began to glow and vibrate in his hands. A burst of thunder shook the tower, and Berengar realized where the scorch marks on the clothes of the victims in the dungeon had come from.
“He’s real enough,” Kane told the scholar. “Let him come. The warden is just one man. We can chain him below. Maybe he’ll last longer than the others. They were starting to bore me.”
Berengar’s blood boiled with fury at the memory of the bodies strewn across the dungeon. The archer posted at the balcony stiffened, as if suddenly aware something was behind him, but before he could react, Berengar drove the sword through his back and hurled him over the ledge. The archer’s corpse landed in a heap on the table below, the blade protruding from his back. Those at the fireplace turned to see the source of the commotion as Kane and the scholar leapt back from the table, stunned. Lightning flashed outside the tower, illuminating Berengar, who loomed over those below.
The corner of Berengar’s mouth turned upward in response to their fear.
“It’s him,” Kane stammered, the characteristic arrogance in his voice replaced by a hint of fear.
Berengar reached for his axe and started down the stairs as the outlaws scrambled to arm themselves. “I’ve come for you, Kane,” he called, his grip tightening around the handle. “But I'll gladly cut through your men to get to you."
There were seven in all, including Kane and the scholar, who waited in the center of the chamber, flanked by archers on either side. As three swordsmen rushed forward to meet him, an arrow from a panicked archer missed him by a wide margin and vanished, lost to the darkness. Berengar whistled to Faolán, who quickly outpaced him, running the archer down before he could fire another shot. The warden countered a blow from the first swordsman to reach him, with such force his attacker was thrown on his back. He crushed the man's windpipe under the weight of his boot while at the same time bringing his axe around to meet the wrist of the next to approach. Blood spurted in the night, and Berengar seized the man by the hair and used him as a shield as another arrow came streaking toward him. The swordsman caught the arr
ow in the chest, and then another, as Berengar fought his way closer to the stone table. He pushed the swordsman’s lifeless body away and split an archer’s face in half with a stroke of his axe. A sharp cry came from the last of the swordsmen as Faolán dragged him across the floor with a bloodstained maw.
Berengar turned at last to face Kane, who stood with his sword at the ready. The two warriors regarded each other for a prolonged interval, each sizing up the other’s strengths and weaknesses until Kane glanced at the stairway, as if expecting the rest of his men to come to his aid.
“No one's coming,” Berengar told him, his voice low. "They're all dead. It's just you and me now."
Kane lunged at him suddenly, hoping to catch him off guard.
Berengar battered the killer’s sword away with ease and knocked him back, sending him crashing into the stone table. “I thought this would be more of a challenge. Is that the best you've got?"
Kane’s eyes flashed with hate, and he swung his sword at Berengar several times in rapid succession with deadly precision. The warden stood his ground. Turning his foe’s momentum to his advantage, he reached out and caught Kane’s wrist in his free hand, wrenching the sword away. Before Kane could react, he drove his knee into the man's groin and broke his nose with the flat of his axe. Though he might have easily shattered his attacker’s wrist, he instead released his hold and nodded to the fallen sword.
“Pick it up."
Kane regarded him with a curious expression until it seemed to dawn on him that Berengar was toying with him—as he himself had toyed with so many of his victims over the years—and all the color drained from his face at once. “Wait! Perhaps we can strike a deal. Tell me what you want.”
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