Something was singing to him. Berengar stirred. The sound was wrong and unsettling. Instead of a soft, gentle tune, the song was harsh and dissonant, like something out of a nightmare.
The warden’s eye fluttered open. Where am I?
He was lying flat on his back, covered in shallow swamp water. The sky was pitch black. Flies and gnats danced in the thin sliver of moonlight that pierced the trees while reeds and tall grasses looked down at him from above.
The air felt heavy and thick. His thoughts were disoriented and confused. He tried to sit up but only succeeded in grasping at the mud under his right hand. When he opened his mouth to speak, his tongue felt heavy in his mouth and no words came out. It was as if he was under a spell.
Something coarse and unpleasant stroked his face as the song continued, and that was when he saw the witch.
She knelt over him, holding his face in her crooked, spiderlike fingers. The witch’s skin was bloated and wrinkled, and a pair of bulbous eyes protruded from their sockets. Her hands were webbed and claw-like. It was clear years spent practicing black magic within the swamp had changed her considerably. She no longer appeared remotely human, if she ever was in the first place. Berengar’s skin crawled with revulsion at her touch, but his body failed to respond to his mental commands.
“Quiet.” Her breath smelled of rot and decay. “Hush now.”
It was the hag Thaddeus had warned him about. Berengar marshaled all his will in an effort to break free from her hold on him. He managed to liberate one of his hands and wrapped it around her slimy arms, trying to pull her away, but it was as if all the strength had been drained from him.
The hag took his injured hand and raked a long fingernail across the blood, which she lifted to her tongue. A series of shivers racked her body, and she stared down at him with a malicious grin.
“Your soul is stained with blood. You will serve me well.”
“Go to…hell,” Berengar managed to say.
The hag took a long, rusted nail and drove it through his hand. Her spell prevented him from screaming, but the pain was not dulled.
“You are ruled by rage and hate. Your heart is stone, and stone you will become, unless you bring me the sacrifice.” She held up three fingers. “You have three days. Then you will die, Berengar One-Eye.” She stopped and sniffed the air. “You carry something of power. What is it?”
She reached toward him, drawn by the thunder rune, but before she could take it, a bark rang out, breaking the hag’s spell. Berengar glanced across the swamp and saw Faolán approaching.
The hag flashed a set of pointed teeth in anger and withdrew her touch. “Remember—bring me the sacrifice, or the curse will claim your life.”
Then she was gone.
Berengar forced himself to his feet, waded from the bank, and leaned against the nearest tree for support. Though free of the witch’s trance, his body still reeled from the aftereffects of his battle with the headless rider. All attempts to pull the nail from his palm failed.
When Faolán reached his side, he stroked her behind the ears, and she licked his face. “I owe you one. Now let’s get out of here.”
He limped away, hoping he could find his way out of the bog before he lost consciousness.
Chapter Four
He woke to the sound of the witch’s laughter. Berengar bolted upright and instinctively reached for his axe before he remembered losing it the night before. The hag was gone, and he was no longer in the bog. After sitting up to look around, he quickly discovered he had been moved indoors. Shafts of sunlight spilled between the wooden beams that made up the walls of a chilly, shabby-looking room. His cloak and armor lay in a neat pile beside his cot. In their place he wore a white tunic and a pair of brown trousers that didn’t quite fit. Much to his surprise, someone had bandaged the wounds he’d sustained in his fight with the headless rider.
How did I get here? Everything that followed his encounter with the Hag of Móin Alúin remained a blur.
The sound of burning logs, which he initially mistook for the hag’s cackle, drew his gaze to the chimney, where a woman with her back to him tended to the fire. Faolán, much too large to fit on the cot, gave a low whine when Berengar stirred, prompting the woman to turn around.
“Good. You're awake."
She was in her mid-thirties, or at least that was how she appeared. Those in rural areas often looked older than their years—a result of a difficult life. A few premature strands of white ran through her brown hair. Her eyes were somber, but her face was otherwise unmarred by time. She wore a scarf and a hooded sheepskin cloak over a gray linen dress for warmth.
The woman poured a steaming liquid from a kettle into a cup, only to be warned away by Faolán when she attempted to approach.
“You have a loyal companion. She has hardly let me get close to you."
“Don't take it personally. She doesn't like most people.” In that respect, she was similar to her master. He snapped his fingers, bringing the wolfhound to heel. “Easy, Faolán."
The woman seemed vaguely amused by the name. “Little wolf? An odd name for a hound of her size.”
“I didn’t name her.”
“I’m Rose," she said by way of introduction when he declined to elaborate. “I was gathering herbs near Móin Alúin when I found you. You were probably too out of it to remember getting you on my wagon. I brought you back with me to patch you up.”
“Where are we?”
“On my farm, a safe distance from the bog and a decent ride from Alúine.”
Berengar scanned the room for a sign of other inhabitants and found none. Still, the tunic and trousers he wore were a man's clothes and had to come from somewhere. “You live here alone?”
“Aye, since my father's death.”
“Considering what’s out there, why not go to the village?"
Rose's brow momentarily knotted in anger. “This is my home. I’m more than capable of managing on my own. Besides, I have little use for village life."
In that respect, he could relate. “Are you a healer?”
She shook her head. “No, but I’m as close to one as you’re likely to find around these parts. What happened to you?”
He hesitated, unsure of how much to share. Berengar made it a point to trust no one. Still, she’d rescued him from the bog, so she deserved at least something in the way of an explanation. “My horse fled once we entered the bog, and I lost my way.”
“You took quite a beating.” She bit her lip, and her voice wavered just a little. “Did something attack you?”
“I came across a boy pursued by a headless rider. We fought. Do you know anything about it?”
At the mention of the rider, Rose oddly seemed to relax, as if she had been expecting him to say something different. “I’m afraid not, although I don’t venture into Alúine often enough to hear the latest gossip.”
“I need to get to the village. I can pay.” Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, he remembered that he had lost his money with his horse. Berengar muttered a string of profanities under his breath.
“There are some things I should see to in the village. I can take you by wagon, but first let me check your wounds.” Rose reached into her cloak and withdrew the warden’s dagger. “No offense, but you have a dangerous look about you and I don’t want any trouble. Behave yourself and you’ll get this back when we reach Alúine.”
“I mean you no harm.”
She studied him curiously. “You’re not dressed like one of Laird Margolin’s men. Who are you? Some kind of mercenary?"
“Something like that.”
Rose knelt at his side and inspected the bandages. “You seem to be healing well. Luckily, none of your injuries were serious, but…”
“What?” he asked, noting her discomfort.
Her eyes lingered on the bandages wrapped around his left hand. “This is a cursed wound. The nail won’t come out. I’ve tried. The hag’s handiwork, it appears.”
He s
tared up at her. “You’ve had dealings with her?”
“Perhaps,” Rose said evasively. “You’d be better off speaking to Friar Godfrey.” She offered him the cup. “Drink this. It will make you feel better.”
Berengar took the cup and lifted it to his lips. His body still ached from the brutal beating he’d endured. The nail no longer caused him pain, but he could feel black magic slowly spreading through his veins. The hag told him he had three days before the curse finished him—three days to bring her the sacrifice she spoke of, whatever that meant. It was bad enough the ogre had slipped from his grasp, and even worse that he’d gotten his backside handed to him by a rider with no head. Now he had to find a way to break a curse before it claimed his life. I really hate magic.
His stiffness and fatigue had improved considerably by the time he finished the draught. Apart from a few scrapes and bruises, he was mostly no worse for wear. Rose shared some porridge with him, after which he stuffed what remained of his belongings into a sack and emerged into the cool air.
Like the cottage, the farm appeared in a state of disrepair. On the way to the barn, he passed a stretch of fence with several conspicuous gaps in it. Whatever her insistence to the contrary, it was quite clear that Rose had a rough time since her father’s death. Weeds sprouted freely across the property, and judging from the barren field, Berengar had a hard time believing the harvest would prove plentiful. It was quiet, too—and with good reason. Many peasants were too poor to afford cattle, but neither did he see any sheep, goats, chickens, or pigs.
“Predators came for the chickens at the start of spring,” Rose said when she saw him staring at an empty coop. She opened a stall door and ran a hand along the crest of her horse. “I had to sell the others to make ends meet. Tillie is the last one left.” She led the horse outside, and Berengar helped her hitch the mare to the wagon, which also looked to have seen better days.
It seemed strange she would choose to live so close to Móin Alúin on her own, especially with predators in the area. Then again, perhaps memories of her father made it difficult to abandon her home. It was the way of things that some people were determined to cling to the past while others tried their best to run from it. There was a reason Berengar preferred life on the road. Although he had his own quarters in the warden’s tower at Tara, he hadn’t called any place home since before the Shadow Wars.
He whistled to Faolán as the wagon started down the path. Instead of jumping onto the wagon, she trailed behind, a sign she still hadn’t warmed to Rose. The ride was peaceful, with no hint of the horrors that stalked Leinster’s countryside by night. They rolled through open, dark green fields where the earth was still damp from the recent rains, and they had to stop three times when the wagon’s wheels got stuck in the mud. The air warmed as morning passed, if only a little. The sky was mostly clear, though the sun remained a pale, muted color. Rose said next to nothing during the journey, which suited Berengar just fine, as he wasn’t fond of making small talk. He’d been on the job long enough to know when someone was keeping secrets, but her affairs weren’t any of his business. He had far more pressing matters to concern himself with once they reached the village.
It was still early when they arrived, which was a good thing, considering the curse the hag had placed on him meant his supply of time was limited. Ahead lay a modest, unguarded gate, which Berengar thought unlikely to prove much use in the event of an actual attack. Alúine was considerably smaller than Kildare. Even the church—the only building in the area made from stone and not wood—was plain in comparison to St. Brigid’s. The villagers lived in thatched huts of varying sizes gathered around a central well. Berengar doubted the population numbered more than forty people, if that. A great hill looked over the village to the west, in the direction of Móin Alúin, and a forest loomed to the south.
He turned his attention to the villagers, most of whom were occupied with the business of their daily lives. Despite its size, Alúine was home to an assortment of tradesmen, and Berengar spotted a baker’s stand, a blacksmith’s forge, a butcher’s shop, and a carpenter hard at work on what appeared to be a coffin. Given the probable difficulty of farming the surrounding lands, it seemed likely the village depended on trade with neighboring towns and settlements. Though it was not quite as ominous as Margolin’s castle, there was a palpable sense of discontent about Alúine, perhaps the result of hard times or the recent trouble with the ogre. None of the villagers seemed particularly cheerful—including the children, who appeared far too busy helping their parents with their labors to play.
Without his distinctive cloak and weapons, Berengar went unrecognized by the locals. Some nonetheless looked on him with the same level of suspicion reserved for any outsider, but for the most part, the people of Alúine seemed largely too preoccupied to care.
Rose pulled back on the reins and brought the wagon to a stop. "Here we are." She took out the dagger and held it out to him. "As promised.” She hesitated before handing it to him. “There are good people here. Don’t make me regret this.”
Berengar tucked the dagger into his boot. “Don’t worry. It’s for protection only.” It was a lie, but one that might set her mind at ease. He retrieved the sack of his belongings and climbed off the wagon in time to greet Faolán.
“Farewell. I wish you good fortune.”
“Wait,” he said gruffly, and she turned back to face him. “Thanks.” It wasn’t often strangers treated him with kindness, and in lieu of payment, the least he could do was show a little gratitude.
“Rose?” said a voice nearby. The voice belonged to a huntsman in the process of selling a stag’s carcass to the butcher. At the sight of Rose, the huntsman quickly pocketed the coins and hurried in their direction. He appeared close to Rose’s age, and based on his concern it was obvious they shared a history. “What are you doing here? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Evander. I just came to gather supplies, that’s all.”
“I’ve been worried about you. It’s been weeks since you last visited the village.” He stopped and noticed Berengar for the first time. “Who’s this?”
“A traveler. I found him on the outskirts of Móin Alúin.”
“The bog?” Evander gripped Rose by the shoulders. “You know you shouldn’t be living out there by yourself, not with what’s out there.”
Rose brushed away his hands with a pained expression. “I can’t stay here, Evander. I’m sorry.” With that, she turned and walked away.
“Rose, wait.” Evander cast one last look at Berengar and went after her.
The warden peeled back the bandage wrapped around his left hand and grimaced. The skin around the nail was gray and discolored. The affected area extended almost the full width of his palm. What started as a simple task had grown considerably more difficult. Before he could proceed, he needed to recover his weapons from the bog, which would require hiring a guide. That would cost money he no longer possessed, which meant finding work that would put his talents to good use. He had three days to find a way to break the hag's curse. Then there was still the business of the ogre and Laird Margolin’s missing niece, not to mention the mysterious rider. First, he had to find a place to stay during his time in Alúine.
Given his reputation in Leinster, it would be better to keep his identity to himself, at least for the time being. The last thing he wanted was another bloodthirsty mob on his hands. Besides, the locals would be much less likely to answer his questions if they knew who he was, and he wanted to be able to move about the region without attracting too much attention.
Berengar started down the path that led to the inn, a humble, one-story building. The sign posted outside read The Green Flagon. Innkeepers were generally the friendly sort, especially when their palms were oiled with coin. They were also, almost without exception, better informed on local gossip and goings-on than anyone else in a given area, which made the inn the best spot to start his search for answers and find paying work.
Whe
n he drew nearer, he overheard an argument close to the stables. Angry shouts came from a scowling middle-aged man accompanied by a young woman who appeared to be his daughter.
“I told you before, stay away from her, you beast!”
The beast in question was a towering behemoth of a man who had offered the young woman a flower. In all Berengar's years, he had only seen a handful of human individuals taller than himself, but the stableman was easily among their number. The man had a left-sided limp, and his arm and hand on the left side was shrunken and contorted, as if neither had properly developed.
“Father, it’s all right,” the man’s daughter said. Her words were kind, but her eyes were red, and there was something sad about her. “Silas is harmless.”
“Quiet, Leona.” The veins in the man’s forehead throbbed as he looked at Silas. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
As a rule, Berengar made it a point to avoid getting drawn into local disputes. This doesn’t concern you. He had enough to do already, a thought accompanied by a brief stab of pain in his left hand.
Leona’s father plucked the flower from Silas’ hand and stomped on it. Though Silas might have easily snapped the young woman’s father in half, instead his face reddened with embarrassment, and he cowered in shame.
Berengar ground his teeth in anger. Tendency to avoid getting involved or not, he didn’t like bullies. “Is there a problem?”
The man’s anger didn’t abate. “This is none of your concern, stranger. Get out of my way.”
“You just made it my concern. I don’t take kindly to being threatened.”
The man’s expression faltered, and he took a step back when Faolán growled at him.
The Wrath of Lords Page 5