The Wrath of Lords

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Berengar bared his teeth in contempt at the show of cowardice, not that he expected any better. The other wardens might have allowed Kane to surrender, but Berengar wasn’t like the others. “I want your head.” Like the monster hunters of old, it was the surest way to show the deed had been done. “Now pick up that sword.”

  Kane reluctantly reached down and retrieved the sword, but before Berengar or Faolán could strike, a bolt of lightning shot through the open ceiling, causing the chamber to tremble. Berengar stared past Kane to the spot where the scholar held the thunder rune clutched in his hand.

  “Stay back!" The rune pulsed with white and yellow light, which seemed to flash brighter in response to the timbre of his voice. When Berengar took a step in his direction, the scholar raised the rune, said something in a strange tongue, and called down lightning from the sky. “Keep away!”

  A bolt streaked from the rune, but Faolán tackled Berengar out of the way before it could hit him. Instead, the lightning knocked over the wall behind him, and stones fell from above as more of the ceiling collapsed around them. Berengar looked for Kane, but the killer had seized his opportunity to flee the chamber and had disappeared down the staircase. Before he could give chase, the scholar again pointed the rune in his direction and spoke the same incantation, causing the rune to glow. The warden dived underneath the stone table and turned it over to use as a shield. Mercifully, the table absorbed most of the impact, even as the blast shook the tower, causing part of the floor to cave in on itself.

  If this keeps up, that idiot is going to bring the whole tower down on our heads, he thought.

  On the other side of the room, Faolán deftly avoided several blasts from the thunder rune, drawing the scholar’s attention away from him. Berengar stuck his head out from behind the table and watched the scholar, who continued to back away. He appeared to have little influence over sparks from the rune, which nearly caught his robes on fire as flames began to spread. Smoke rose from the rune, and Berengar saw that the flesh of the scholar’s arm was burned and charred. The man was dealing with forces beyond his capabilities to control, which came as little surprise. There was a reason magical relics were best left to magicians and the like. In the wrong hands, such a powerful artifact could be dangerous.

  Berengar jumped from cover just before another bolt incinerated the table. The scholar doubled over in pain, nearly dropping the thunder rune. “Don’t come any closer," he said to Berengar, wincing. That was when he noticed Faolán crouched on his other side, ready to strike.

  “Give up,” Berengar told him. “You might get me before I reach you, but you can't hit both of us at the same time.” He made a show of lowering his axe. “I came for Kane. I’m not here for you. Give up the rune, and I’ll let you walk away. You have my word.”

  The scholar surveyed the spreading fire, the structural damage to the tower, and the ruin of his own hand. He finally let go of the rune, which clattered to the floor, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Berengar closed the distance between them in an instant and gutted the man with his axe. He pictured the young woman he found in the dungeon in his mind as the scholar collapsed in a heap on the floor, writhing while clutching at his entrails. The warden turned his back on the dying man, picked up the rune, and added it to his satchel, careful not to let it make contact with his skin. Then he hurried from the tower. He would have to worry about disposing of the rune later. The job wasn’t finished yet, and there remained yet one more life to claim.

  Kane was nowhere in sight when he reached the entrance. Not far away, the earth was disturbed where hoofprints had been left behind in the mud. The rains had stopped, at least for the moment, allowing the moon’s light to peek out from behind the clouds, and he noticed the prints were part of a set of tracks leading away from the tower.

  He can’t have gone far. Berengar headed for the spot where he’d concealed himself in the woods earlier that day. His horse waited nearby, tied to a tree. “Come,” he muttered to Faolán, and together they started on the outlaw’s trail as flames engulfed the forsaken fortress behind them.

  Berengar pursued Kane south, into Leinster. Kane fled as if the devil himself were at his back. Berengar followed over hills, across rivers, and through forests. He did not relent. Each day he grew closer. No doubt Kane hoped Faolán would lose his scent in one of Leinster’s many bogs or marshes, but he would never get far enough for that to happen, not with Berengar hot on his trail. This time there would be no escape.

  On the third day he caught up to his prey. Kane had hidden himself in a thicket. It was a cold morning, and dew clung to the grass. The outlaw glanced about nervously and reached for his sword at the slightest sound, as if he knew death was coming. After a moment, he relaxed. Berengar waited until he cupped his hands, reached into the stream, and lowered his face to drink from the water before taking out his bow. He nocked an arrow and took aim as casually as if he were after a deer.

  The shot struck true. It wasn’t a fatal wound, which was by design. Berengar wanted him to suffer. Kane crawled across the grass and managed to get to his horse, but the end was only a matter of time now, and they both knew it. Berengar lowered the bow and returned to his mount, this time with his quarry in sight.

  He chased Kane to the outskirts of a nearby town. Faolán ran down the killer’s horse, which threw its rider from the saddle. Interrupted from their daily tasks, a number of townspeople watched Kane hit the ground before their attention shifted to Berengar, who dismounted and approached on foot, axe in hand. Kane stumbled back, lost his balance, and landed in the mud, losing his sword. He scrambled to his feet and ran toward the church, leaving the blade behind. When the priest appeared outside the church, drawn by the commotion, Kane threw himself at the man’s feet and kissed the hem of his robes.

  “Please, show mercy, Father.”

  The priest took note of Berengar and nodded, allowing Kane to slip past him and bolt the door closed. When Berengar came to a halt just outside the church, the priest took a nervous step back at the sight of him. “Stop where you are. You will go no farther.”

  “This man is a murderer,” Berengar declared, loud enough for the crowd of townspeople that had assembled to hear him. “He slaughters men, women, and children for sport. He deserves to die.”

  “Vengeance belongs to the Lord of Hosts alone,” the priest replied sternly. “This man has sought sanctuary in the house of the Lord. He is unarmed. You cannot harm him.”

  Berengar snarled, feeling a wave of anger rise up inside him. “I am Esben Berengar, Warden of Fál and servant of the High Queen.”

  At this pronouncement, the crowd murmured loudly among themselves. Some looked on him with fear, others with hate.

  “The law of the Lord of Hosts is above that of any earthly ruler,” the priest said solemnly. “There are some laws even a warden cannot break, and the right of sanctuary is one of them.”

  Berengar looked at the priest and again at the crowd. The priest was right. More than any other kingdom, Leinster valued piety above all. To violate the right of sanctuary was an unspeakable act. None of the other wardens would even consider such a thing.

  Berengar didn’t hesitate. He strode forward, and when the priest moved to block his path, he knocked him into the mud. He broke down the church doors with his axe over the priest’s protests.

  “Stay here,” he told Faolán, who guarded the entrance while Berengar ventured inside the sanctuary. A trail of blood stretched across the chamber, leading to where Kane clung to the altar.

  “Please,” his victim screamed as he approached, but Berengar seized him by the hair, jerked his head back, and held him in place as he struggled.

  Then he took Kane’s head and left his body at the altar.

  Chapter Two

  His task complete, Berengar looked upon his handiwork with a small measure of satisfaction. The debt had been paid. Perhaps it would be enough to bring some comfort to the Black Hand’s victims, be they living or dead.
Berengar felt no such relief. Even with Kane’s lifeless body at his feet, the warden’s thirst for vengeance was only partially sated. The rage that drove him never really went away. Fortunately, there was always another task waiting for him to take care of, if not in one kingdom, then in another. He kept to the road more than any of the High Queen’s other wardens—returning to Tara mostly when summoned—and that was the way he preferred it.

  A bark from Faolán shattered the temporary lull inside the sanctuary as he stuffed the head into a sack. Berengar turned toward the entrance, where some kind of commotion had started. Carrying his axe in one bloodstained hand and the sack in the other, he left the church the way he came. The throng had only grown in his short absence and now appeared openly hostile.

  When he emerged, cries of “murderer” and “monster” rang out from members of the crowd. Armed with stones and torches, they blocked the warden’s path to his horse.

  The priest Berengar had pushed aside gasped at the sight of the blood-covered sack and stared at Berengar with an all too familiar mixture of fear and loathing. "This is sacrilege! You have committed murder at the sacred altar of St. Brigid's Church. There can be no forgiveness for such a crime against the Lord.”

  Berengar cursed his luck. Next to Padraig himself, Brigid was one of the most sainted and revered figures in Fál. That meant Berengar had tracked Kane to the town of Kildare, which literally meant “church of the oak.” Of all the places for Kane to seek refuge, he had to choose one of the holiest sites in Leinster. Something like this would follow him. At the least, this was yet more fodder for the bards to spin ballads of his misdeeds. At worst…

  “Blasphemer!” one of the angrier townspeople shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “Blood for blood! The Lord demands justice.”

  “Kill him!” another replied. “Hang his body from the oak!”

  It wasn't all that unusual for his actions to stir up the locals, though most of the time they had the good sense not to threaten him outright. He could usually count on his appearance to frighten away potential enemies. The warden towered over all the townspeople in sight, but it wasn’t just his size or the weapons he carried that intimidated. Three deep, jagged scars raked down his face from his forehead to his lip. A leather patch covered his missing right eye, the result of his encounter with the bear whose fur he now wore as a cloak. Even his hair, bright red like an open flame, drew unwanted attention his way.

  Berengar bared his teeth in displeasure, causing a few to back away. “Get out of my path.” Faolán bounded to his side, snarling at the closest potential attacker. None of the townspeople made a move toward him, but neither did they clear a path to his horse. The tense standoff continued until at last the warden raised his axe and pointed it at the crowd. “Last warning. I’ll go through the lot of you if I have to.”

  Someone threw a stone at him, which fell short and landed at his feet.

  This is about to get ugly.

  “People of Kildare, make way!” a voice proclaimed before the frenzied mob could attack.

  The crowd parted to allow a number of guards to pass through their ranks. The townspeople obeyed without question, and with good reason. The guards were well armed and impressively armored. All wore blue woolen cloaks. There were almost fifteen men in total—a surprising display, even for a town the size of Kildare. Berengar eased off his grip on the axe’s handle at the guards’ advance, though he remained careful to keep the weapon close at hand.

  “Stand down,” the guards’ captain ordered one of the more irate townspeople—who nodded meekly and stepped out of the way—before taking note of Berengar. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The priest hurried to the captain’s side and jabbed his finger in Berengar’s direction. “This man violated the right of sanctuary and committed murder on St. Brigid’s altar—in cold blood, no less! In the name of all that is holy, he must be made to pay for his sins.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed in Berengar’s direction. “Take him.”

  The guards quickly moved to surround the warden, encouraged by the crowd.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Berengar said when the captain reached for the sword at his side. “I am Esben Berengar, Warden of Fál. I answer to the High Queen alone.”

  The guards halted at this declaration, and their captain’s eyes lingered on Berengar’s scars before wandering to the brooch clasped to his cloak, which bore the sigil of the silver fox.

  “The man was Skinner Kane, leader of the Black Hand,” Berengar continued. “He was a butcher and a criminal, deserving of death many times over.”

  The captain exchanged a brief look with one of his lieutenants at the mention of the Black Hand.

  “These are Laird Margolin’s lands,” said a guard who wore a particularly nasty expression. “We won’t answer to some whore of a queen, or one of her dogs that’s slipped its leash.”

  Berengar moved without hesitation. Before any of the guards could react, he seized the man’s hand and snapped his wrist like a twig. “Insult the High Queen in my presence again, and I’ll kill you.”

  The guard muttered a string of profanities, which quickly ceased when Berengar increased the pressure applied to his broken wrist.

  “Enough,” the captain of the guards said. “Let him go.” At his command, archers across the town square took aim, their bows trained on Berengar.

  The warden growled but reluctantly released his grip on the guard, who toppled over at his feet, whimpering in pain.

  The guards’ captain nodded, and the archers lowered their bows. “Servant of Tara or not, you have committed a grievous offense, Warden Berengar. Relinquish your arms and surrender yourself to our custody. Laird Margolin will decide your fate.”

  Berengar weighed his options. He might have fought his way past the crowd to his horse, but there was little chance of cutting down Laird Margolin’s guards in broad daylight. He had hardly slept in the last three days. On the other hand, nobles could always be counted on to cut deals if there was something in it for them, and as a servant of Leinster’s boy-king, the local lord would likely be more favorably disposed toward him than the mob of peasants calling out for his blood.

  “Very well. I’ll go with you to the castle, but if you try to take my weapons, we’ll have trouble.”

  The captain grimaced at this response, clearly unaccustomed to having his authority challenged, but nevertheless agreed, prompting sighs of relief from his subordinates. “As you wish. This way. You’ll accompany us to Castle Blackthorn.”

  Berengar reluctantly handed the sack containing Kane’s severed head to one of the guards and followed the captain from the town square, the people of Kildare glaring behind him.

  What have you gotten yourself into now?

  They reached their destination just after midday. Despite the hour, the land was again shrouded in darkness under a veil of black clouds. The guards’ wagon splashed through a puddle and rolled to a stop, followed by those on horseback. The outline of a towering structure was visible through a thin layer of fog. As Berengar and the others made their way through the dense hedge of thorns and briars surrounding the castle, the stronghold’s features grew more distinct.

  Castle Blackthorn had an austere, imposing appearance, even from a distance. While by no means the largest castle Berengar had beheld, Blackthorn was nonetheless impressive for such a rural setting. Though the surrounding lands were flat, neighboring swamps and marshes lent the remote castle added protection. Any attacking force would have a difficult time even finding the castle, let alone launching an assault. Dark blue banners bearing the sigil of a leafless, bleeding tree hung from the walls, thrashed about by frigid winds that held no promise of the summer to come.

  Berengar scanned the castle’s walls, noticing a number of sentries, archers, and spearmen at their posts.

  “Open the gate,” the captain bellowed to those on the other side.

  After a brief pause, the gate slowly opened, grantin
g them entrance. A faint whisper of thunder echoed in the heavens, like a slumbering giant soon to wake, as Berengar passed under the watchful eyes of the sentries above. A trio of corpses hung from gallows inside the courtyard, which had attracted no small number of crows. In more populous areas of Fál, it wasn’t uncommon to find a castle as part of a larger city or community. This was not the case at Blackthorn, where the castle was far removed from the towns and villages under its lord’s control. It seemed likely that any traveling merchants, farmers, or emissaries would have to stay the night in the castle before returning to the road.

  To Berengar’s surprise, there wasn’t a church or chapel in sight—which was unusual for Leinster, where the worship of the elder gods was strictly prohibited. Although devotion to the elder gods—beings divided between the benevolent Tuatha dé Danann and the monstrous Fomorians—had slowly diminished since Padraig brought the word of the Lord of Hosts to Fál, the old ways remained strong in many places, especially in the north.

  The gate closed behind them, and the captain whispered something into a messenger’s ear before nodding in Berengar’s direction. The messenger stared at the warden in alarm until Berengar returned his gaze, causing him to promptly hurry in the opposite direction. A mud-covered stableboy who barely reached Berengar’s waist appeared to take his horse, but not before Berengar made sure the satchel with the thunder rune was safely secured in his possession. That was one object he didn’t want falling into the wrong hands.

  “This way,” the captain said as the boy vanished into the stables with Berengar’s horse.

  He accompanied the guards through the courtyard and farther into the castle. They encountered mostly servants along the way, though the warden noticed a few lesser nobles in attendance—possibly guests of Laird Margolin. Most were quiet or kept to themselves, but some carried themselves with an added air of wariness and suspicion, hinting at an atmosphere of fear hanging over Blackthorn. Though his duties frequently drew him into the affairs of lords and lesser nobles, Berengar disdained regional politics. He knew relatively little about Margolin, but what he had witnessed so far wasn’t particularly promising.