“What’s going on here?” demanded the shorter of two guards, both of whom were dressed in Laird Margolin’s colors.
“He’s at it again,” Leona’s father told them. “I tell you, I won’t stand for this. He should be locked up.”
The innkeeper materialized at the entrance to the inn and stepped in front of Silas, who relaxed in his presence. “Apologies all around. I promise you, Hirum, Silas doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Leona’s father jabbed a finger in the innkeeper’s face. “That’s not the point, Iain! I don’t care how you do it, but you’d better keep that half-witted brute away from my daughter.”
“Of course.” Iain turned to the guards and flashed a smile. “I’ll tell Silas to stay away from Leona. Now why don’t we all share a round of drinks on me and forget about this unpleasant business?”
“Sounds good to me,” said the taller of the guards, who reeked of alcohol already.
Leona’s father shook his head and stormed off. “Come, Leona. We’re leaving.” He went on his way, but not without a parting glare at Silas.
“Ignore him, my friend,” the innkeeper said, giving Silas a friendly slap on the back. “Hirum’s just a little possessive, that’s all.”
The pair returned to the inn. When Berengar attempted to follow, the shorter of the guards blocked his path.
“And who’s this, then?” the guard asked his companion with a sneer. “I haven’t seen your like around here before. What’s your purpose here, stranger?”
Even without his weapons, Berengar wasn’t intimidated. He could easily wipe the sneer from the guard’s face if he chose, and he doubted the man’s companion was sober enough to put up much of a fight. While both were in Margolin’s service, he didn’t want to risk revealing himself when he wasn’t sure whom he could trust. “I come from Ulster. I was on my way south to…seek penance for my sins, when I lost my way in the bog.”
The shorter guard took another step closer to inspect him. “Looks like you’ve been in a scrape recently. You aren’t going to cause us trouble, are you?”
We’ll see, Berengar thought. “I’m just looking to earn some coin to purchase supplies and a new horse.”
“Very well then. Be on your way, but I’ve got my eye on you.”
Berengar fought the urge to laugh. He’d known men like this his whole life—thin-skinned and bitter with a taste for power. One flash of the brooch with the High Queen’s sigil and the guard would be shaking in his boots.
“Let’s go,” the guard said to his companion.
“What about that drink?” the taller guard replied, looking with longing at the inn.
“Later. We have work to do.”
Berengar watched them go before making his way inside the inn.
The innkeeper, busy polishing tables, greeted him with a welcoming gesture. “Come in. I was hoping you’d find your way inside.” He nodded to Silas, who stood nearby with a broom. “Silas here was just telling me what you did for him.”
“It was nothing,” Berengar said to Silas, who avoided eye contact and retreated to the corner of the room to sweep the floor.
“Don’t mind him,” the innkeeper said. “He’s shy around strangers.” He held out his hand, which Berengar shook. “I’m Iain. I own this humble establishment. Silas helps me with chores and odd jobs.”
“Has he always been like that?”
“He came into the world with the cord wrapped around his neck. Word is, his mother did something to provoke the hag’s wrath. He’s never been quite normal, but he’s a good lad.” Iain set the tablecloth aside and motioned him to the bar. “Anyway, thanks for the help. I promised his mother I’d look after him when she passed. If it weren’t so early in the day, I’d offer you a drink to show my appreciation. How about a meal instead?”
“Fine by me. I’ll take the drink too, as long as you’re offering.” Based on the way things were going, he was going to need it.
Iain raised an eyebrow but did as requested. “I hope the guards didn’t give you too much trouble. Phineas is always looking for an excuse to swing that sword of his.”
“I assume he’s the shorter of the two.”
“That’s the one. He’s the real devil of the two. Man seems to think he’s Margolin himself. The other one’s named Tuck. He’s actually a decent fellow when he’s not drunk.”
“Are they the only two guards in Alúine?”
Iain set a tankard before Berengar. “Aye. We’ve pleaded with Margolin for more to ward off the ogre, but our requests have fallen on deaf ears. He’s too preoccupied collecting taxes for his campaign to exterminate the goblins.”
Berengar took a large swig from the tankard and choked the substance down. Ale in Leinster was more watered down than in any of the remaining kingdoms of Fál. The accompanying cottage pie tasted much better, though perhaps that was due to his ravenous appetite.
Snores came from the inn’s sole other patron, who was slumped over at the end of the bar. “That’s just Duncan. Better he’s passed out here than home mistreating his wife and boy.”
Berengar declined to make a response and took another bite of pie instead.
“We don’t get many newcomers here,” Iain continued. “Usually just traveling merchants or soldiers. Where are you from?”
Berengar swallowed a chunk of beef before answering. “North. What can you tell me about this place?”
Iain laughed. “Alúine? Centuries ago there was a great battle on the hill, between the High King of Fál and the King of Leinster. Not much has happened since then, apart from the occasional haunting or monster infestation. I suppose the last few years have been harder than most. Drought and disease have ravaged the whole region.” He propped his elbows on the counter and leaned closer. “So tell me, what brings you here?”
The warden shared the same story he’d given the guards—that he’d been traveling south and wandered into Móin Alúin. “I was hoping you could point me in the direction of some work. I’m looking for a place to stay and I’m short on coin at the moment.” He was rarely in need of funds, one of the advantages of being in the High Queen’s service. Though he cared little for wealth or material possessions, gold had its uses, and not sleeping outside in a ditch was one.
When Iain opened his mouth to speak, the church bell chimed before he could say the words, and his smile faltered.
“Goblins!” cried a voice beyond the inn’s walls.
Berengar sat up, instantly alert. Suddenly, the door crashed open, and a creature darted inside. It was short for a goblin—just over four feet—and adorned from head to toe in rudimentary armor, which goblins usually wore only when at war. A large wolf pelt covered the goblin’s back like a cloak, and a pair of angry eyes stared back at him through the mask it wore. It held a shield in one hand and a curved dagger clenched in the other. The goblin scurried across the room in a flash, pinned Iain against the counter, and tried to pry the wedding band from his hand.
Berengar threw himself at the goblin, and they both crashed to the floor. The goblin regained its footing in an instant and leapt on him in the next.
Blasted things are fast. He grabbed the goblin’s wrist to hold off the dagger. Faolán sank her teeth into the creature’s leg, prompting a hiss, and Berengar heaved it off him.
“You made a serious mistake.” Familiar anger rose within him. He might have to wait to settle his scores with the ogre and the headless rider, but finally he had something he could kill.
When the goblin rushed him again, he grabbed it with both arms and swung it across the room. It hit the wall and dropped its shield, and its exposed eyes darted from Berengar to Faolán. Before either could move to intercept it, the creature fled from the inn as the bell continued to toll.
As Silas ran to the bar to help Iain to his feet, Berengar and Faolán hurried from the inn in pursuit of their attacker.
Outside, chaos gripped Alúine. Panicked villagers fled or hid while the band of goblins roamed the streets, pil
laging as they went. A few locals joined forces with the guards to fend off the raid. Berengar approached and picked up a fallen shield, using it to batter an attacking goblin to the ground. Faolán pounced on a second attacker, who scurried up the side of a thatched hut to get away. The pair joined forces with Alúine’s defenders at the well, and the tide of the battle turned. A horn blew, and the goblins crawled over the fence and retreated into the forest, but not before Berengar locked eyes with the goblin holding the horn.
Recalling his scuffle with the goblin in the Green Flagon, he reached for his belt.
The thunder rune was missing. The goblin had taken it.
Chapter Five
Berengar stared into the forest with barely suppressed rage. If he'd only had his axe, he might have cleaved each of the goblins in two. As if he didn't have enough to do before, now he needed to recover the stolen thunder rune. Goblins were greedy, dangerous creatures, and there was no telling what might become of such a valuable object in their possession.
One by one the people of Alúine emerged from their hideaways to inspect the damage and loss of property in the aftermath of the attack. Nearby, a few villagers used water from the well to extinguish a fire licking one of the thatched huts as the two guards looked on.
Phineas put away his sword in disgust. “Another raiding party.”
Tuck took a swig from a flask at his side to the visible annoyance of his companion. “I wonder what they stole this time.”
“Probably the same as last time—some animals, medicines, and as much coin as the filth could get their slimy little hands on.” Phineas shook his head and spit in the dirt. “We’re going to have to do something about them. If this makes the villagers late paying their taxes again, Laird Margolin will have our heads.”
Berengar dropped the goblin shield and found the guards looking in his direction.
“I should have known this one would be handy in a fight, judging by the size of him,” Phineas said. “Have you ever considered the life of a soldier?"
“Once,” Berengar muttered. “This isn't the first attack? How often do these raids happen?"
Phineas gestured for him to come along as the guards resumed their patrol. “They stick to ambushes mostly—attacking travelers who pass through the forest. Occasionally one or two will sneak into the village after dark and steal as much as they can carry. They’ve never raided the village in broad daylight.”
“They must be getting desperate,” said Tuck, who seemed to be the quieter of the two. His eyes were glossy and red, and he spoke with a slight slur.
“Why?” Berengar asked.
“There aren’t many left. Laird Margolin decided to stamp them out. Had us burn whatever settlements we found.” There was something haunted about his demeanor.
To Berengar’s surprise, the damage inflicted by the goblins appeared minimal, perhaps because the raid was so brief. A few villagers looked a little rattled, but none were seriously harmed. “Odd. I fought goblins to the north, and it’s rare to suffer an attack like this without any casualties.”
Phineas shrugged dismissively. “They’re afraid of provoking Laird Margolin, I’m sure. Better to remain a nuisance than be seen as a threat. We know the last of their number live somewhere in the forest, but we haven’t found them yet.” He regarded Berengar with a shrewd expression. “In fact, we have something planned for tonight. If we clear the final goblin hideaway, the reward would be great. We’d make it worth your while.”
“Count me in.” Helping the guards was the perfect way to recover the thunder rune and earn some coins in the process. Still, something didn’t quite sit right about the attack. Goblins were usually more concerned with stealing gold and valuables than food and medicine, and doing so without causing harm was unusual behavior. Whatever it was, he would have to worry about it later.
Berengar left the guards to their task and set out to explore the village in search of additional work. He didn’t get far before he ran into a familiar face—Iain, the innkeeper from the Green Flagon. At Berengar’s approach, Iain—busy helping the baker clear away debris from his stand—stopped what he was doing and made his way to the warden’s side.
“There you are. I owe you one, and I don’t say that lightly. That ring is all I have left of my wife since the plague took her. I couldn’t stand to lose it to a goblin.” Iain delved into his pocket and handed Berengar a key. “You mentioned you were short on coin. The room is yours for as long as you’re here.”
“Thanks.” Berengar took the key and nodded in gratitude. That was one less thing to worry about.
“Think nothing of it. I’m not sure I could have afforded repairs if that goblin had ransacked the place. I’ll have Silas take your things to your room. In the meantime, there’s something I want to show you.” He led Berengar up the road toward the church. “If it’s work you’re seeking, I’d suggest starting there. Most people here leave messages for Friar Godfrey on the church doors when they need help.”
Finally, some good news. He could already think of more than a few ways to put his earnings to good use. “Is there a tanner in the village who can mend leather armor? I’ll be needing a new mount as well.”
The innkeeper looked at him quizzically at the mention of armor. “Avery should be up to the task.” He pointed out one of the huts. “As far as the horse is concerned, these are lean times, so there should be someone who will part with one for a fair price. I’ll ask around and tell you what I’ve learned when you return to the inn for supper.”
“There is one more thing,” Berengar said. “I need a guide who can lead me through Móin Alúin.”
Iain’s brow furrowed. “Why the devil do you want to go there? You’d have to be mad to go back with that ogre on the loose.”
Berengar kept his tone firm. “I left something I need behind, and I plan to get it back, one way or another.”
Iain sighed reluctantly and stroked his beard, contemplating the request. “Well, if your mind is truly made up… There is a man who might be willing to help with such a dangerous endeavor—Evander, the village huntsman. I can send word to him if you like.”
Berengar recognized the name. He’s the man who greeted Rose when we arrived. “No thanks. I know what he looks like.”
“In that case, I will see you tonight upon your return.” With that, the innkeeper went on his way.
Berengar started on the path to the church, a tall building that seemed to keep watch over the rest of Alúine from relative seclusion. Moss and vines grew freely over the dark stone surface. The church bell had fallen still within the round tower belfry, and the area was quiet and deserted.
Berengar hesitated on the steps, remembering the last time he’d entered a church. In his mind’s eye he saw himself cutting down Skinner Kane, and his left hand throbbed again with a sudden, stabbing pain. He winced and focused on the doors, where a number of notices were nailed. Most were written in the same hand, which wasn’t surprising, considering the level of illiteracy among the common folk, especially in more rural areas. Berengar was well into adulthood before he learned to read and write, and he wasn’t particularly fond of either. His hands were made for wielding axes and swords, not quills and parchment.
He examined each of the messages in turn. There were rewards posted for killing the ogre or providing information to the guards about the goblins’ whereabouts. Another was a request for help finding a predator responsible for killing villagers’ livestock. One more interesting notice warned of a group of dangerous outlaws encamped in the forest—men condemned to death by Laird Margolin himself.
“This could be promising,” he muttered to Faolán as a final notice caught his attention. It was short on details but promised paying work.
Help wanted. Could be dangerous. See Friar Godfrey for details.
There wasn’t much in the way of a reward; forty copper coins might be enough to get his armor repaired, but they probably wouldn’t buy him a decent horse. Still, it was a start. He took t
he notice and pushed open the door. It was dark inside the church. A few candles rested at the altar, all unlit. The rest of the sanctuary was cold and bare, save for some pews. It was probably the best the villagers could manage in such lean times.
Faolán’s ears perked up, and when Berengar listened closely he heard the sound of digging beyond the stone walls. He walked outside to the cemetery, where a man was digging a fresh grave. A short distance away lay the same coffin the carpenter had been working on upon Berengar’s arrival in Alúine.
The gravedigger was a stout man in long brown robes. His hair and beard were gray, and a crucifix hung from his neck.
“You’re Godfrey? Where’s the undertaker?”
“Dead,” the friar replied, his work complete. “Taken by the plague, and the priest before him. I’m all that’s left, I’m afraid.” He nodded at the coffin. “Help me with that, will you?”
It was then Berengar noticed a wooden prosthesis in place of Godfrey’s right hand. He considered telling the friar to get on with it, as his time was short and he wanted to proceed with the business of the notice. Instead, he stifled a sigh and trudged over to the coffin, which he moved without assistance. As he worked, he shared an abbreviated version of the events that had led him to Alúine. The job of filling in the dirt went much faster with a two-handed man wielding the shovel, and despite the work, the pain in his hand seemed lessened by the time he finished.
Godfrey retrieved a satchel from the ground, fished out his drinking horn, and offered Berengar a drink. “I take it you’re here about work, then.”
“Aye.” Berengar used his forearm to wipe the water from his lips before returning the horn to Godfrey.
“Donald O’Dohetry and his family haven’t been seen in the village in a few days. His sister is worried and asked me to look into their disappearance. She’s the one offering the reward for information. The family lives on a farm near the woods three miles south of here. With the goblins lurking in the forest—not to mention the ogre—few dare venture far beyond the village. Even the guards aren’t up to the task without Margolin’s boot up their backsides.”
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