The Wrath of Lords

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  “Not yet.” Berengar stepped into the clearing, his axe in one hand and his sword in the other. “Time to finish what we started.” He was ready for a fight, even without his armor, and more or less recovered from the beating sustained in his fight with the Dullahan.

  The ogre growled—a deep, menacing sound that would have sent most men running. “You should not have come.” Its voice was deep and gravelly, as if carved from the stones jutting out from the hill. A scab ran the length of its forearm where Berengar had wounded it with his axe.

  “Where’s the girl? What did you do with her?”

  The ogre’s protruding brow furrowed. “What girl?”

  She’s not here, Berengar realized. Maybe she never was. Imogen’s absence raised a new set of questions. If the ogre didn’t abduct her, where did she go—and why? Berengar swore and shook his head in anger. Any questions would have to wait for later.

  The ogre charged, its club held high. The fury of battle took him, and Berengar rushed to meet it with an angry shout. He slashed across the ogre’s side with his sword, ducked under the ogre’s club, emerged behind the creature, and lodged his battleaxe deep in its back before ripping the weapon free. The ogre let out a shriek of pain and stumbled. When it spun around to face him, their eyes met, and Berengar grinned at his foe, causing the creature’s face to tighten with rage.

  The ogre wrapped an oversized hand around a tree and uprooted it from the ground, wielding the club in one hand and the tree in the other. Berengar countered the club with his battleaxe, but the tree caught him squarely across the chest, and he hit the ground hard and tasted blood. When an arrow streaked through the air and hit the ogre in the neck, the ogre hurled the tree at Evander, who was forced to dive away to avoid being struck.

  Berengar, already on his feet, threw himself at the monster before it could reach Evander. The ogre was the bigger of the two, but Berengar was angrier, and that anger gave him a mad strength. He attacked in furious tandem with Faolán, cutting and clawing the ogre in turn. He did not relent, and he did not give ground.

  His sword found its mark, and the fingers of the ogre’s right hand fell away, taking the club with them. The creature dropped to its knees, clutching its mangled hand, and Berengar smote it across the face with his battleaxe, sending skin and blood flying.

  “How do you like that, you ugly bastard?” Berengar said, overcome by hate. “It’s not so easy when someone hits back, is it?” He hit it again, drawing a fountain of blood from its nostrils. “Stay down, you dumb brute.”

  As he raised the sword to deliver the killing blow, the muscles in his left arm and hand locked up again. Not now. Intense, burning pain shot up his shoulder to his jaw, and the blade dropped from his hand.

  The ogre seized the opportunity to tackle him off his feet, and they struggled over possession of his axe’s handle until a second arrow from Evander caught the creature in the chest. The ogre staggered toward Evander, who tried and failed to nock another arrow in the time it took the ogre to close the distance between them. It seized Evander and threw him against the cavern’s entrance, but before it could bash him against the rocks, Faolán weaved under the creature’s legs and ripped out a tendon from its heel. The creature shrieked and dropped Evander, who slid to the ground, unconscious.

  Berengar shifted his axe to both hands. “Let’s end this.”

  The ogre turned to face him, and the two sprinted at each other as the ground shook beneath them. They met in a final, violent clash, and Berengar split the ogre’s belly in half with his axe, spilling the contents of its abdomen across the mud.

  The ogre staggered away and collapsed, blood gushing from its mouth. Berengar stepped over the dying creature, which dragged itself to the cavern’s entrance to die alone, and made his way over to Evander.

  “Get back,” he said to Faolán, who sniffed at the huntsman’s body. “Wake up.”

  Evander’s eyes slowly opened. “What happened?”

  “It’s over.” Berengar stuck out his hand and helped Evander to his feet. “Good work.”

  Evander’s gaze fell on where the ogre had finally fallen still at the cavern’s entrance. “You did it.” He sounded impressed.

  “Easier than killing a troll,” Berengar muttered, retrieving his sword. The muscles in his arms had relaxed again, but for how long? If he couldn’t find a way to get the hag’s curse under control, it would only continue to spread. He heaved his recovered saddle over his shoulders and carried the saddlebags in his arms. “Let’s go. Imogen’s not here.”

  Evander looked over his shoulder at the ogre’s corpse. “We’ll need its head to claim the reward.”

  One stroke of Berengar’s axe cleaved the ogre’s head from its body. With his weapons recovered and the ogre slain, one task was complete, but he still needed to learn what had happened to Lady Imogen and deal with the hag’s curse. Distant lightning flashed as the riders emerged from Móin Alúin, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw the hag watching him from the bog’s entrance.

  “Come on.” He swung himself onto the saddle, and the pair started on the way back to Alúine.

  Chapter Nine

  Screams greeted their return to the village.

  “What’s going on?” Berengar jerked back on the reins, and the stallion readily came to a stop.

  “I don’t know,” Evander replied. “Do you think it’s another goblin attack?”

  Someone called out for help, and Berengar spotted Iain near the inn, surrounded by a crowd. He recognized several familiar faces among the villagers.

  Guess I’d better see what this is about. He slid from the saddle and started toward the inn with Faolán.

  Phineas approached the stables and banged on the door. “This is your last chance, Silas! Open up.”

  “I told you it would come to this,” Hirum told Iain. “I warned you to keep him away from my daughter, but no one listened.”

  Iain ignored him and instead focused his attention on the guards. “Don’t do this. I beg of you.”

  “Fine,” Phineas said to Tuck when the door remained closed. “We’ll break it down.”

  Godfrey offered Iain his support. “Silas is not a murderer. He’s just frightened, and you’re only making it worse.”

  “Stay out of this, friar,” Phineas retorted, and together the two guards battered the barn door.

  Iain noticed Berengar. “You. Thank heavens. It’s Silas—they think he murdered Leona.”

  At that moment, the barn door came crashing down, and Silas fell hard on his backside and landed in the dirt. Blood oozed from a deep wound to his scalp, and his clothes were torn and stained with sweat.

  Phineas drew his sword. “You shouldn’t have run, halfwit. Now we have to make an example of you.” He nodded to Tuck, who seemed to draw his sword only with reluctance.

  Silas pleaded for mercy, but his panicked words were barely comprehensible. His malformed arm hung limply at his side while he attempted to use the other as a shield. Even with his handicap, a man of Silas’ size might have easily defended himself if he was the brute the others believed he was.

  “Stop,” Berengar said, drawing the crowd’s attention.

  “You again,” Phineas muttered. “What do you want?”

  Berengar trained his gaze on Silas. “Did you hurt Leona?”

  Silas shook his head emphatically. “No. She was nice to me. She was my friend.”

  Berengar remembered the flower Silas had offered Leona when he first arrived in Alúine—a gesture that drew her father’s ire. “I know you liked her. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you wanted to be more than friends and lost your temper.”

  “I didn’t,” Silas sputtered, struggling with his words. “I wouldn’t.”

  Berengar stared into his eyes and nodded. “He’s telling the truth.”

  “And I suppose we’re to take your word for it, then?” Phineas demanded. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I am Esben Berengar, Warden of Fál, her
e at Laird Margolin’s request.”

  The pronouncement was followed by a few utterances of the Bear Warden and the High Queen’s monster from alarmed villagers in the vicinity. Even those who hadn’t recognized him had heard the stories of his deeds.

  Phineas’ expression wavered as his gaze swept over Berengar’s cloak and weapons, though he remained defiant. “I don’t believe you. What is a Warden of Fál doing in Alúine?”

  “I’ve just come from Móin Alúin, where I slew the ogre that’s been harassing the village.”

  “I—” The guard’s face whitened a shade when he noticed the ogre’s head fixed to Berengar’s horse’s saddle. “In either event, this matter is none of your concern.”

  Berengar rested his hand on the hilt of his blade. “I’m making it my concern.” It didn’t surprise him the guards had rushed to judgment in their hurry to catch Leona’s killer. He’d seen it many times before. The poor and oppressed had little recourse when it came to the justice meted out by their betters.

  “We found a bloody knife among his things. When we tried to ask him about it, the fool fled. He’d been warned to keep away from Leona more than once. What more is there to say?”

  “You heard them,” Hirum said angrily. “That brute murdered my daughter. I demand justice!”

  “No,” Berengar replied, his voice almost a growl. “I won’t let you put this man to death without evidence. Now put that sword away before I lose my temper.” He and the guards faced each other in a tense standoff, with each man waiting to see if the other would back down.

  Phineas looked to Tuck for support, but his companion averted his eyes. “You would let Leona’s murderer go free?”

  The matter of Leona’s death was a distraction from the task at hand, and his time was short enough as it was. As always, the innocent suffered while the wicked prospered. It was the way of things. What was one more?

  No, he told himself. He wouldn’t stand by and let them execute an innocent man. “Fine. I’ll find the killer on my own. If it turns out Silas did it, I’ll help you hang him myself.”

  “You should do as he says,” Godfrey urged Phineas. “Laird Margolin would be displeased if you killed the wrong man in his name. Just imagine the effect it would have on local morale.”

  In the face of no support, Phineas was left with no recourse but to put his sword away, though it was more than evident he hated having to back down. “Have it your way. In the meantime, Silas will remain in our custody. You have until the end of the day to find the killer—otherwise, the brute hangs.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Hirum trained his anger on the guards. “This is an outrage.” He glared at Berengar before storming away.

  “It’s going to be all right, my friend,” Iain said to Silas after helping him from the ground.

  Rose inspected Silas’ bloody scalp. “This wound needs to be stitched. His ribs are broken. He needs care.”

  “You can tend to him at the jail,” Phineas informed her. “Take him, Tuck.”

  “Wait,” Berengar said before the guards left with their prisoner in tow. “I didn’t kill the ogre alone.” He gestured to Evander. “He helped. I expect he’ll be fairly compensated for it.”

  “Take it up with Laird Margolin,” Phineas said. “We don’t have that kind of gold on hand.”

  “Then find some,” Berengar insisted. “Or I’ll make sure Margolin hears of it.”

  “As you wish,” Phineas replied through clenched teeth. “Come with us, huntsman, and we’ll see to your reward.”

  “What about your share?” Evander asked Berengar.

  “I’m not doing this for coin. Take my share and give it to Rose as thanks for her help when she found me in the bog.”

  Evander held out his hand as a sign of friendship. “Thank you.”

  Berengar hesitated before shaking his hand, and Evander went after Rose and the guards.

  “We’d better go inside,” said Iain, watching the crowd.

  The inn lay empty, and Berengar guessed the patrons had been drawn outside by the commotion.

  “I can’t believe I had Warden Berengar under my nose this whole time and didn’t recognize him.” Iain shook his head at the thought. “The tales they tell about you…”

  Berengar cut him off. He knew the stories better than anyone, and he wasn’t particularly fond of them. “Tell me what happened.”

  Iain sat at one of the tables, and Berengar settled across from him. “There’s not much to tell. The guards came to talk to Silas and go through his things. I’d wager Hirum put them up to it. When they found the knife, Silas panicked and ran. I swear to you, he never laid a hand on the girl.”

  “Then where did the knife come from?”

  Iain shrugged. “It looked like an ordinary kitchen knife to me. It wasn’t one of ours—I’m sure of it. Silas and I have been in and out all morning. Anyone could have hidden it among his things in that time. It was no secret Silas was smitten with Leona. She was a kind girl. I don’t know why anyone would hurt her.”

  Berengar always found such sentiments naive. People hurt others for all sorts of reasons, and sometimes no reason at all. “I don’t suppose you can vouch for his whereabouts last night? It would make my job a lot easier.”

  “I’m afraid not. I turned in early and left him to sweep up after me.”

  “Then I’ll ask around and see what I can find out. If Leona’s killer entered the inn to plant the knife among Silas’ things, someone might have seen.”

  Iain let out a sigh of relief. “It appears I am in your debt yet again. If Hirum had his way, the guards would have hanged Silas without another thought.”

  “Phineas doesn’t seem like a man who likes taking orders, yet he hangs on Hirum’s every word. Why?”

  “Hirum is a wealthy man—by our standards, at least. He’s wealthy enough to influence the guards, at any rate. His wife died some years back, leaving him an angry and bitter man.”

  “What was his relationship with his daughter like?” Berengar asked. “When I saw them together, he acted possessive.”

  “He had a reputation for being strict with her, yes. Hirum rarely let Leona out of his sight. Still, whatever his faults, he cared for his daughter.”

  Berengar pushed away from the table. “That’s enough for now. I should get started.” He reached for the door when a thought occurred to him. “In the meantime, there’s another way you might be able to help me.”

  “Name it,” Iain said.

  “Laird Margolin sent me to the bog to find his niece. I thought the ogre abducted her, but now I’m not so sure. The brigands I met earlier certainly seemed interested in her. Do you know anything on the subject?”

  A puzzled expression came over the innkeeper’s face. “Lady Imogen? Come to think of it, I have heard rumors she vanished from Blackthorn, but nothing beyond that. Although…” He trailed off, deep in thought.

  “What?” Berengar asked, interested.

  “Varun O’Shiridan, one of the village elders, does a fair amount of trade at the castle. I believe he’s had dealings with Lady Imogen in the past. You might want to hurry if you plan to speak with him. When he was in here last night, I heard him say he’d be leaving for Blackthorn earlier than usual on account of the weather.”

  “Thanks.” It wasn’t much, but at least it was a start.

  Thunder sounded for the first time as he departed the inn. The crowd that had assembled to watch Silas’ arrest had already dispersed. Everywhere he looked, villagers worked to finish their chores and tasks before the impending storm. Some hurriedly plucked dry garments from clotheslines while others herded animals into pens and barns, all while the wind howled and raged with the promise of worse to come.

  Berengar led his horse to the stables and secured it in a stall before delving into the saddlebags and withdrawing a piece of parchment, on which he hastily scrawled a brief letter to accompany the ogre’s head to Laird Margolin.

  I trust you’ll find this gift to yo
ur liking.

  The ogre didn’t take your niece. If she lives, I’ll find her.

  “That was noble of you,” Father Godfrey said when he emerged from the stables. “What you did for Silas. You’re not the man I imagined you would be, Warden Berengar.”

  “You don’t know a thing about me.” Berengar started on his way, leaving Godfrey to follow.

  “Perhaps not. We aren’t always what we appear—I should know that better than most.” Godfrey chuckled, as if amused by some private joke. “I wanted to offer my help with your investigation.”

  Berengar fought the urge to laugh. “You’re unusual for a friar, I’ll give you that.”

  “Don’t confuse us with priests,” Godfrey said. “I care about people, not just souls. This world can be a hell of its own, and we all must do our part to make it a better place.”

  “If you really want to help, you can start by telling me what you’ve learned of the Dullahan.”

  “Not much. Even folk who know the stories don’t like to speak of him, as they fear he will overhear. Hopefully, Saroise will be able to tell us more. I’m sending word to her with Varun O’Shiridan.”

  “That’s the man I’m headed to see,” Berengar said. “You can show me the way.”

  Godfrey raised an eyebrow but chose not to pry. “From what I’m told, with the exception of Lucas—the boy you rescued at Móin Alúin—all the missing are young women. Perhaps Leona was yet another of these victims.”

  “It wasn’t the Dullahan. Leona knew her killer. It was a crime of passion.”

  Godfrey’s brow furrowed. Something clearly troubled him. “Perhaps I can help after all. You see, Leona was to be married.”

  “Married?”

  “Aye. To Maddox, the blacksmith’s son.”

  Berengar searched the friar’s face for answers. “How do you know of this?”

  “Leona asked me to perform the ceremony. She was afraid her father wouldn’t approve of the match, so she wanted it kept secret.”