The Wrath of Lords
Page 3
I should have killed Kane at the border when I had the chance. When Nora of Connacht ascended to the High Throne, she appointed the wardens to uphold peace between the realms. In theory, Berengar’s authority as a warden extended to each of Fál’s five kingdoms, though as current circumstances proved, reality often operated by a more troublesome set of rules. For various reasons, he tried his best to keep out of Leinster. The death of the kingdom’s previous king with his sole heir in infancy had left the kingdom under the rule of a Prince Regent more interested in pleasurable pursuits than governance. A weak boy-king and a powerful central church allowed the lords of Leinster to exert an outsized influence over the land.
Walking through the castle’s joyless halls felt like entering a tomb, which seemed in keeping with the grim mood. Shadows lorded over cold, sparsely decorated chambers and corridors. A faint melody emanated from deeper within the castle. The sound grew stronger as Berengar’s armed escort led him to the entrance of the great hall, a quietly lit chamber where a number of the castle’s guests were gathered.
“Wait here,” the guards’ captain muttered sternly.
Berengar folded his arms across his chest and did his best to remain unnoticed by the hall’s occupants—no small feat for a man his size. The music came from a bard playing a harp with obvious skill; all who listened were mesmerized by her voice.
Berengar recognized the song as “The Queen’s War”, which told the story of how Nora of Connacht brought an end to the Shadow Wars and united the five kingdoms of Fál. He had spent enough time in taverns and inns to know many of the more popular ballads by heart, which, to his chagrin, often included the songs sung about him. Most were exaggerations—tales spun into myth with each retelling—but some hit closer to the mark than he cared to admit.
His gaze wandered to the opposite end of the room and fell on a throne hewn from twisted blackthorn branches, upon which sat the castle’s lord. Margolin’s black locks were interspersed with gray, and Berengar estimated the man was somewhere in his forties. He wore a dark blue cloak over a gold and scarlet tunic, but it was the crown on his head that merited Berengar’s attention.
Fál consisted of five kingdoms, with Ulster to the north, Munster to the south, and Connacht, Meath, and Leinster in between. The kings and queens of each kingdom wore crowns of silver. Only Nora, the High Queen, wore a crown of gold. Margolin’s crown, crafted from iron, meant he was a Rí Tuaithe—one of several underkings, or greater lords. If Margolin was in fact one of the Rí Tuaithe, it seemed strange to find his seat of power in such an isolated part of Leinster’s countryside.
As Berengar looked on, a man prostrated himself before the throne, beseeching his lord to forgive a debt of some kind. With the wave of a hand, Margolin had the man dragged from the room before returning to the contents of his goblet. “Who’s next?” he demanded of a scholarly-looking courtier reading from a scroll.
“Fergus O’Rirdan, the representative from Curragh.”
Fergus, a ruddy-faced, balding peasant, waited with his family for Margolin to acknowledge him.
“It seems the good people of Curragh have again failed to meet their obligations,” said a man perched behind the throne. His voice was soft and inviting, and he spoke with a smile, but there was something vaguely menacing about his eyes. Though clad in black robes, no cross hung from his neck, which made it unlikely he was a priest in the service of the Lord of Hosts.
“That’s Thaddeus,” muttered a man beside Berengar, taking note of his interest. “Laird Margolin’s chief adviser, and the only man he seems to listen to. Curious fellow, if you ask me. No one knows where he’s from.”
Berengar said nothing but continued to observe. Thaddeus was an unusually pale man, with unruly black hair and a thin, spindly build.
Margolin lowered his goblet and gestured for Fergus to come before the throne. “Approach.” The lord’s voice was as harsh as his adviser’s was smooth, and as he spoke, Berengar noticed an impressive scar across his neck, suggesting at least one previous attempt on his life.
Fergus swallowed nervously and did as he was asked, hat in hand. He knelt before the throne and lowered his gaze until Margolin bade him to rise. Even then he had trouble meeting his lord’s eyes. “My lord, I can explain…”
“Silence.” Margolin regarded his subject with considerable disdain. He held himself with the bearing of a man accustomed to the trappings of power and authority. “You were not summoned here to give excuses or to plead for mercy.”
“Your village, and others like it, flourish under the protection Laird Margolin provides,” Thaddeus reminded Fergus, who glanced at the lord’s adviser with obvious discomfort. “The costs of cleansing these lands of goblins have proven considerable. It is only natural that your obligations should increase in turn to afford the cost of soldiers and treasure. Would you now deny your lord that which is rightfully his?”
“We have brought what we could afford,” Fergus protested. “We will make good on our debts when the harvest improves. I give you my word.”
Margolin greeted this pronouncement with a cold sneer. “Of that, I have no doubt. I sent for you to deliver a message to the rest of your village. You must now pay three times what you owe, and you must do it by the new moon. If not…the consequences will be severe.” His eyes swept from Fergus to a young woman behind him. “Is this your daughter?”
Fergus looked from Margolin to his daughter, who seemed caught off guard by the court’s attention. “Aye.” The trepidation in his voice was clear.
“She will remain here until your obligations are met. Should you fail to properly motivate the people of Curragh, I am sure she will make a fine wife for one of my soldiers.”
“But my lord—”
Fergus reached for his daughter, but she was pulled away by a group of guards.
“If you are not out of my sight by the time I finish my wine, I will have you thrown into a cell,” Margolin said.
Fergus gave his daughter one final look and fled from the room with the rest of his family as his daughter’s anguished cries filled the chamber.
Berengar knew cruelty when he saw it. Watching Margolin, he was certain this was not a man to be trifled with. He would have to proceed with caution, something that didn’t exactly come naturally to him.
The music resumed, and the clamor of the hall began anew.
“It appears the patrol from Kildare has returned,” Thaddeus said, observing the guards who had traveled with Berengar to Castle Blackthorn. “What news is there from Kildare?”
The guards’ captain stepped forward and nodded to his companions, who ushered Berengar toward Margolin. “This man assaulted a priest and murdered a man granted sanctuary in St. Brigid’s Church. He claims he is one of the High Queen’s wardens.”
The captain reached into the sack and produced the severed head of Skinner Kane to the collective gasp from those gathered in the hall. The bard’s playing stopped abruptly, and silence spread through the chamber as every eye in the room fell on Berengar.
Better get this over with.
Murmurs came from the crowd when he approached the throne with Faolán, flanked by guards on either side.
“So it is true,” Thaddeus muttered. “Esben Berengar—the Bear Warden. There were rumors he was traveling through the area.”
It was an unfortunate consequence of his distinctive appearance and well-deserved infamy that he was easily recognized.
Margolin regarded him with a steely gaze. “What brings a Warden of Fál to my domain? Speak."
Berengar met his eyes without flinching. “I entered your lands on warden’s business, after tracking the Black Hand to an abandoned goblin fort at the border with Meath. I dealt with the outlaws, but their leader fled into Leinster. When I tracked the coward to Kildare, he thought he could escape me by seeking protection from the church. He was wrong.”
“This is an outrage!" a lesser noble bellowed. “Murder, in a sacred place?”
“Th
e people of Kildare demand justice,” the guards’ captain said, gesturing to the priest. “The town’s priest insisted on accompanying us here to plead with you personally.”
The priest, who rode in the wagon on the journey from Kildare, gave a curt bow before addressing Margolin. “My lord, this man must be punished for his crime. Such barbarity cannot be tolerated in Leinster, no matter who he serves. The church will not stand for it.”
Margolin stroked his beard, deep in thought. “Enough. I wish to speak with the warden alone. Everyone out.”
The order was a demonstration of power. If Margolin wanted to discuss something with him in the absence of prying ears, he might have done so in private with ease. The lord’s subjects obeyed without hesitation, although the priest glared balefully at Berengar on his way from the room. Berengar briefly locked eyes with the bard, who frowned before leaving with her harp. Apart from the guards, only Thaddeus remained behind, a signal of his influence over Margolin.
The lord set his goblet aside and descended from the throne, stopping just short of Berengar. “Were you one of my subjects, I would have you killed and be done with it. What, then, am I to do with you, Warden of Fál?”
Berengar stared down at him, arms still folded across his chest in a show of defiance. Rí Tuaithe or not, he didn't like being threatened. "I don't answer to you. That man deserved to die. I’d do it again if I had the chance."
Margolin’s brow furrowed with visible anger. "You would do well to show respect, Warden Berengar. You may be a favorite of the High Queen, but here you are in my abode. If I wished your death, be assured your body would vanish into a swamp and never be found. I am certain there would be many who would be glad of your demise.”
“Perhaps there is a way a man like him can be of use to you, my lord,” Thaddeus suggested. “I understand there was a hefty bounty on Skinner Kane. Surely his head would fetch a handsome price."
In the end, it always came down to greed. There was always a deal to be made. "Take it. I have no use for the reward."
“Of course, there is the matter of the church," Margolin said before he could leave. “It will not be long before word of your actions at St. Brigid's begins to spread. Dún Aulin is not far from here. I understand you've had issues with church leadership in the past?"
Berengar stopped dead in his tracks and turned back to face him. Issues was an understatement. Of all Fál’s kingdoms, Leinster was the least tolerant of nonhumans and magic. After the upheaval of the Shadow Wars, when the dark sorcerer Azeroth nearly conquered Fál, public sentiment quickly turned against anyone with even the slightest connection to magic, resulting in a number of riots and purges. The most violent of these riots took place in Dún Aulin, Leinster’s capital. Berengar was sent in to restore order, which he did with bloody efficiency, something the leadership of the powerful Church of Leinster had never forgiven him for. He could only imagine how they would take the news of his deeds at Kildare. Given the church’s influence over Leinster, it was not something he wanted to consider.
“If she is as pious as the stories say, I assume the High Queen would also take issue with your actions in her name,” Margolin continued.
Berengar gritted his teeth. A follower of the Lord of Hosts, Nora had a great deal of respect for the church, and the queen’s opinion was the only one that mattered to him. “I’m listening.”
“Of course, it would be a simple task for me to suppress the news. My guards can be very persuasive. One command from me and word of what you have done will never leave Kildare. Do we understand each other?”
Berengar studied the man across from him. Margolin had him in a bind, and they both knew it. “We do. And what is it you want from me in return?”
Margolin returned to his throne. “Are you familiar with the Bog of Móin Alúin, which rests on my lands?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“An ogre that dwells in the bog has been causing trouble for the locals. Then, three nights ago, the monster abducted my niece, Lady Imogen. I want you to rescue her, if she is still alive, and slay the beast.”
Berengar accepted without hesitation. “We have a deal.”
“Good. I expect you will want to rest before setting off on your quest. You are welcome to do so, but I warn you not to tarry too long. If my niece is out there, it is unlikely she will long survive on her own. In the meantime, you are my guest. Eat and drink your fill. I will have a bedchamber prepared for you. When you are ready, Thaddeus will fill you in on the details.”
“Very well.”
The moment he was dismissed from Margolin’s presence, Berengar left to find his way to the kitchens. His dogged pursuit of Kane had left him tired and hungry. Soon he would hunt, but first he needed sleep.
In truth, the task before him was rather straightforward. Though Lady Imogen was most likely dead, Berengar intended to find her, whatever her fate. Ogres, while nasty creatures, were nothing he hadn’t handled before. For once, luck seemed on his side.
What could go wrong?
Chapter Three
Berengar woke early to prepare for the hunt. Sunrise remained a ways off, but there was work to do before then. He had just finished arming himself when an eerie wail came from somewhere outside the castle. The low, mournful cry reminded him of someone in torment. He glanced around the confines of his modest room and listened, half-expecting to hear the noise again.
Must've been the wind, he thought, but something about the sound left him uneasy.
Faolán, whose animal senses were more attuned to the supernatural, growled, and her fur bristled in response to an unseen threat. Berengar motioned for her to follow and eased open the door. Castle Blackthorn lay still in the dead of night. Even the servants showed no signs of stirring. Only the guards on patrol were awake. Berengar made his way through quiet, dark halls and deserted corridors. A pair of guards regarded him with suspicion at the castle's entrance, but he ignored them and proceeded to the courtyard, which lay bathed in the moon's pale light. From there, it was only a short climb to one of the round towers, from which he could see the grounds beyond the wall.
Berengar scanned the area, seeking anything that might shed light on what had transpired the night Lady Imogen was taken. According to Margolin, his niece had been abducted outside the castle, but if that was true, what was she doing on the other side of the wall in the first place? Though an ogre might approach a human settlement if hungry enough, even it wouldn’t have been thick enough to do so in a place so well defended. It didn’t add up.
Suddenly, another wail rang out above the wind. Berengar peered past the dim torchlight toward the swaying trees that lay beyond the maze of shrubs and thorns around the castle. For a moment, he thought he glimpsed several figures watching from the shadows, but before he could get a better look, he heard someone approach behind him.
“What has you on the prowl at this hour, Warden Berengar?”
It was Thaddeus, Laird Margolin’s chief adviser. His tone was friendly, but Berengar saw mistrust in his eyes.
“Daylight is too valuable to waste. I want to reach the ogre’s hunting ground before dusk, and I plan to learn as much as I can before departing.” He preferred to avoid going in blind when he could avoid it. In his line of work, proper preparation often meant the difference between life and death. Besides, things weren’t always as they appeared on the surface.
“In that case, I am pleased to offer whatever knowledge you require. You’ll find the bog between the Shannon and Liffey rivers. The village of Alúine, to the east, is the closest human settlement. Although the goblin population has dwindled thanks to Laird Margolin’s efforts at extermination, those who are left have caused no shortage of trouble for his lordship’s subjects. The ogre has killed more than a few villagers already, but if you plan to venture into the bog, you should also be aware of the hag.”
Berengar followed him back inside the castle, and they walked together in the direction of the great hall. “What hag?”
“I’m a dangerous man.”
“You do not understand. This part of the realm is not as tame as other areas of Leinster. The old ways still have a hold here. Padraig may have vanquished the Fomorians, but many powerful creatures linger.”
Whether the elder gods were truly gods, as the fairies believed, or demons, as the church believed, most acknowledged they existed, or at least had at one time. It was thought by some they had spawned entire races of monsters. Thanks to Azeroth’s attempted conquest of Fál and the purges of magicians following the Shadow Wars, there were fewer magic-capable beings to deal with monsters, leaving the task to mercenaries or men like Berengar.
“What else do you require?” Thaddeus asked.
“I want to speak with anyone who knows Lady Imogen or her habits, as well as witnesses to the ogre sightings.”
The request seemed to surprise Margolin’s adviser. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ve also arranged for three soldiers to show you the way and accompany you on your quest. All are skilled hunters.”
“I prefer to work alone.”
Thaddeus shook his head as if to indicate the matter was not up for discussion. “It is the express will of Laird Margolin.”
Berengar grunted in half-hearted assent. “Fine. Just see to it they don’t get in my way.”