The Wrath of Lords

by Kyle Alexander Romines

Berengar wasn’t most people. He understood the brokenness in Lucas’ eyes only too well, and he wasn’t about to let custom or tradition stand in his way. His rage built as he remembered the pain of his father’s fists, a hurt he knew only too well. Monsters didn’t go away until someone put a stop to them. Whispers of warning ran through his head, reminding him of the curse, only to fall aside in the face of iron-hot anger.

  When Duncan started toward Lucas, Berengar stopped holding back. The first punch broke Duncan’s nose, and only Berengar’s grip held him upright. Berengar hit him a second time, and a third. It wasn’t long before Duncan was gurgling blood.

  “Not so tough now, are you? It’s not so much fun against someone who can hit back, is it?”

  Although no one emerged to try to stop him, he knew they were watching. Perhaps the villagers thought Duncan had it coming, or perhaps they were simply afraid of the warden’s wrath. He held Duncan in place, hitting him again and again until at last the man no longer put up a struggle. The pain from the curse was excruciating, but he wouldn’t let it stop him. He was going to do for Lucas what no one did for him, and nothing could stay his hand.

  “Stop,” Lucas said. “You’re killing him.”

  Berengar’s bloodied knuckles stopped short of a final blow. Duncan’s face was now nearly unrecognizable. “You know what he is—what he’s capable of. He’ll never stop hurting you, or your mother.”

  “He’s my father.”

  Berengar threw Duncan to the ground and shook his head in disgust. “He doesn’t care about you. All he knows is bitterness and anger, and he won’t stop until you end up just like him.” He pulled out his dagger and pointed it at Duncan, who coughed up blood and phlegm, still speaking to Lucas. “Do you know what it’s like? Watching your mother die, and wishing you could have saved her? I can spare you that. I can make it so you never have to be afraid of him again.”

  He grabbed Duncan by the collar, pulled him close, and pressed the blade against his throat. Duncan stared up at him through swollen eyes, barely conscious. The pain from the curse threatened to overwhelm him, but he had strength enough to deliver the killing blow.

  Then he glanced at Lucas, who stared back at him in horror, and his hand faltered. Berengar wrestled with himself, torn between his anger and the look on the boy’s face. Duncan deserved to suffer. It would be so easy to do it. Unlike the killing of Skinner Kane at St. Brigid’s altar, the death of an insignificant drunk would go unnoticed. Nora would never know. Still, no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t kill the man in front of his son.

  He lowered the dagger and pulled Duncan closer. “I know what it’s like to be an orphan. I won’t make one of him. I’ll be gone from here soon, but I swear to you now—one day I will return. When that day comes, if I learn you’ve laid a finger on either of them, I’ll finish what we started here today.”

  He released Duncan and left him lying in the dirt.

  “Thank you,” Lucas said.

  A look passed between them, and he went on his way. Although the pain improved, and some flexibility returned to his joints, he felt no relief at having spared Duncan—only a sense of defeat. He had saved Lucas from the Dullahan, only for the boy to return to the monster who lived at home.

  It was always the same. Despite all the enemies he’d killed, the world never seemed to get any better. Maybe it was even worse. For every threat he dealt with, two more took its place. He’d been fighting all his life. In the end, had any of his actions ever made a difference? He suddenly felt tired—and not from the hag’s curse.

  When this is all over, I’m going to find a tavern somewhere in the middle of nowhere and drink myself into a stupor.

  Never one to ruminate on such matters for long, Berengar put the thoughts out of his mind. There were other things to worry about at the moment.

  He waded through the mud and made his way to the church. The place was as deserted as ever. In his time in Alúine, he hadn’t observed any villagers around the church, which struck him as unusual. Such a sight would have been in keeping in the north—where worship of the elder gods dominated that of the Lord of Hosts—or in prosperous Munster to the south, where the church played a lesser, ceremonial role. Leinster’s culture was steeped in religion, but Berengar couldn’t remember seeing a cross other than the one Godfrey wore. While rural areas often held onto customs and traditions left over from the old ways, people often sought the comfort of religion in times of hardship. If the villagers hadn’t turned to the Lord of Hosts, where had they turned? The images of the pagan shrine and sacrifices haunted his thoughts.

  The bell tower cast a tall shadow across the ground with evening’s approach. Water cascaded down the surface of moss-covered stone, draining into puddles left by the storm. He heard muffled voices carrying from inside the church. Perhaps it wasn’t so deserted after all. Berengar hesitated on the steps and used water from one of the puddles to scrub Duncan’s blood from his hands before venturing inside. Candles illuminated the dimly lit interior.

  He found the sanctuary empty. The voices seemed to be coming from the chapel.

  “I’ve done everything I can,” a familiar voice said. “The girl might pull through. As for the others…I did my best to make them comfortable.”

  “Thank you, Rose,” replied the voice of Friar Godfrey. “May the Lord bless you and keep you.”

  Berengar quietly made his way through the sanctuary, hoping for a word with Godfrey. When two figures suddenly entered the room, he stopped and remained in the shadows, just out of sight.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” Evander asked Rose. “What about the others?”

  “I showed Friar Godfrey how to tend to them properly. I have to go, Evander. It’ll be dark soon.”

  “Then why not stay? They need you—I need you.” Evander put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m leaving the village soon. I was trying to find a way to tell you before. Friar Godfrey’s given me a task, and it needs doing soon. When I return, why don’t we leave Alúine together, for good this time? With the reward money from the ogre we’ll have enough to start a new life.” He lowered his face toward hers, and the pair shared a brief kiss until Rose pulled away suddenly.

  “I’m sorry, Evander. I can’t.” She briskly walked toward the doors.

  “Wait,” he called after her. “I don’t understand. I thought you felt the same.”

  “I did. I do. It’s just…we can’t be together. It’s not safe for me here.” With that, she hurried from the sanctuary.

  What did she mean by that? Berengar’s gaze moved to Evander, who lingered a moment longer before departing. As he had guessed, the huntsman was going on a journey of some sort. But where was he going, and what was so important about his task that it needed to be done so quickly?

  He found Godfrey at prayer inside the chapel. “Have you made anything of the pagan symbols we found?”

  Godfrey gave a grim nod and climbed to his feet. “There is an evil power at work in Alúine. The Dullahan, the sluagh… I believe they’re all connected to the cult of Balor, and I’m afraid the worst is yet to come.”

  Berengar followed him into the sanctuary. “What do you mean?”

  “Tomorrow night is the Festival of the Blood Moon. It’s one of the oldest rites observed by followers of the Fomorians. The moon represents the eye of Balor, which is thought to open during the festival. I believe all those lost souls have been building up to something—a final sacrifice.”

  Tomorrow night. That’s when the hag wants me to bring the sacrifice to her. Even if there was such a final sacrifice, he still didn’t know who she was, or where. “Who else knows about this?”

  Godfrey shrugged. “I’m not sure. When I arrived in Alúine, I worked hard to gain the people’s trust, but I’ve long sensed they’ve been hiding something from me.”

  “You’re not without secrets of your own. Avery told me about the woman who came to the church seeking aid around the same time Laird Margolin’s niece went missi
ng. Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “I don’t know where the girl is. Maybe Avery just wanted to learn what you knew about Imogen’s whereabouts.”

  “Then tell me what it is you’ve got Evander doing.”

  Godfrey’s surprise was evident, though he quickly attempted to hide it. “I can’t do that.”

  “You can’t, or you won’t? I’m not fond of games.”

  “I swear to you it’s nothing sinister. Why would I lie to you? I’m a man of the cloth.”

  “If you were an honest priest, you’d be the first one I’ve met.” With that, Berengar started for the doors.

  “You don’t know what you’re up against,” Godfrey warned. “Be careful.”

  “It’s too late for that. I’ve got Phineas tied up at the inn. He says he knows what’s behind the killings.”

  He left the church still unsure if Godfrey was telling the truth. Given his knowledge of the ancient ways, it was still possible the friar was the man in the hood seen by Lucas. He needed to interrogate Phineas to know for sure. Fortunately, the guard had almost certainly regained consciousness in the interim.

  An eerie silence settled over Alúine in the storm’s aftermath. The rains had ended, but the clouds remained. A light fog covered the abandoned streets. With night’s impending arrival, the villagers remained in the safety of their homes, hoping to endure another night among the monsters roaming the land.

  Hushed voices broke the quiet, and Berengar caught a glimpse of four figures through the fog. He recognized Evander, accompanied by Varun’s wife and daughters. Berengar approached the hut, careful to remain unseen. The women conversed in hushed tones as Evander loaded two horses’ saddlebags with supplies. Varun’s daughters were dressed for the road. Whatever they were up to, having waited until nightfall, they obviously wished to do it in secrecy.

  So this is what Godfrey has Evander doing. He’s taking the girls somewhere. Considering the friendliness with which Varun greeted Godfrey when they arrived at his door, it was likely Varun was aware of the plan. If anything, Varun’s journey to Blackthorn was a ruse to allow his daughters to slip away unnoticed.

  Before he could pursue the matter further, he spotted another figure leaving the village on foot. Berengar frowned as he watched the figure head south, toward the forest. Given the dangers lurking about, why would she approach the forest alone? It occurred to him she might be the next sacrifice, trapped under some sort of spell or enchantment. Evander and the others would have to wait. Berengar turned away from Varun’s hut and followed the stranger.

  When she neared the forest, the wind shifted, and the woman stopped to sniff at the air. She glanced around, as if suddenly aware of being followed, and Berengar crouched low to avoid being noticed. It was too dark to get a good look at her face. He needed to get closer. The fog thinned at the forest’s edge, where the woman slipped past the trees and out of his sight.

  Berengar waited a safe interval before following. She hadn’t gone far. He found her foraging through the brush, looking for herbs with her back to him. Faolán growled, causing the woman to stiffen instantly.

  “Who’s there?”

  When she turned around, he recognized her instantly. It was Rose.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I could say the same of you.” His gaze moved to her fist, in which she attempted to hide the herbs she’d collected. Wolfsbane. “It’s you. You’re the werewolf.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice betrayed her fear.

  The reason she lived alone, the absence of animals on her farm, Faolán’s instant distaste for her—suddenly, it all made sense.

  “It wasn’t an accident, finding you in the forest—was it? You didn’t come looking for Evander last night. You were there because you wanted a place where you could transform away from the village.”

  Rose took a step back. “Don’t come any closer. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I should have known. But you didn’t have a mark.”

  Her expression hardened instantly, all pretense abandoned. “That’s because I wasn’t bitten. I was cursed.”

  Berengar reached for his sword.

  “Stop,” a voice said at his back, where Evander trained a bow on him.

  He must have noticed me outside Varun’s hut, Berengar realized.

  Rose’s eyes filled with alarm. “Evander, you have to go. The transformation could happen at any moment, and I won’t be able to control it when it happens.”

  “So it’s true,” Evander said.

  Rose glanced away, as if unable to meet his gaze. “I wanted to tell you, Evander, but I couldn’t.”

  “How? How did this happen?”

  “My father was sick. He was dying, and I couldn’t save him. So I went to the hag. She told me she could help, but what she wanted in return…” She shuddered, as if the mere memory was abhorrent. “I stole one of her healing draughts instead and used it to cure my father. Everything went back to the way it was before. I thought I had escaped retribution, but then came the first full moon.

  “I killed him, Evander—my own father. That’s why I kept you away. It was to keep you safe. I’ve tried my best to find a way to lift the curse, but nothing’s worked. Wolfsbane is the only thing that helps with the transformations.”

  Berengar looked from one to the other, mindful of the bow trained on him. “She has to die, Evander.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I never meant for any of this to happen,” Rose said. “You have to believe me. I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want,” Berengar said. “You’ll kill again and again until you’re stopped. You can’t control it. You’re a monster—it’s what you do.”

  “Let me go,” Rose pleaded. “Before it’s too late.”

  The clouds parted above before she could reply, and the light of the moon washed over her.

  It’s already too late.

  “Run,” Rose said, and her eyes turned dark amber.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rose’s pained cry deepened and became a howl as fangs sprouted in place of her teeth. Her fingers twitched and elongated into claws, and patches of fur appeared over her skin. With Evander’s attention otherwise occupied, Berengar drew his sword and sprinted forward. Rose was defenseless at the moment, but a full-fledged werewolf would be much harder to stop. He had to finish her before the change was complete. A few hits with his sword would leave her vulnerable enough for his silver dagger to finish the job.

  She stared at him with an almost pitiable expression, her face still half-recognizable despite the change. Berengar left no room for pity. Compassion was a weakness he couldn’t afford. It didn’t matter that Rose wasn’t in control of her actions, or that she was a kind and decent person when the beast didn’t hold sway. If he let her live, she would only continue to kill. Berengar refused to let that happen. If that meant taking one life to save dozens more, so be it.

  Evander slammed into Berengar before he reached Rose, and the two rolled across the wet earth. He tossed the huntsman off him with ease, but by the time he recovered his footing, it was too late. Rose, now a fully transformed werewolf, opened her jaws and let out a bestial roar. Evander looked on in horror at the sight. There was no humanity left in her eyes. Under the moon’s light, only the monster remained.

  Rose’s gaze moved to the sword in Berengar’s hand.

  “Come on,” he said to taunt her. Werewolf or not, this time he had his weapons, and he was ready for battle.

  She moved with supernatural speed, leaving him with no time to react. Fortunately, she was so focused on him, she forgot to pay attention to Faolán, who jumped out of the darkness and onto her back. Rose’s momentum carried her forward, leaving Berengar free to dodge her attack and slash across her flank with his sword.

  He started to go for the dagger, but again Evander threw himself in the way, and they struggled for possession of the blade. Rose
, having reached a stop, looked down at her bleeding side and let out an angry howl. She crouched, as if to pounce, and Berengar pushed Evander out of the way. However, instead of attacking, Rose leapt over their heads and took to all fours, vanishing into the fog.

  Blast it. She’s headed toward the village. Berengar swore and picked up his sword. “Let’s go, Faolán. We have to find her before she hurts someone.”

  Evander barred his path, once more training the bow on him.

  “Get out of my way,” Berengar said.

  “I won’t let you hurt her.”

  Berengar’s expression darkened. “Let me guess. You think your love will save her.”

  “I’ll find a way to lift the curse. I know I can. Please, let me help her. I can take her away from here—somewhere safe.”

  Berengar shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you? There’s nowhere safe for you. There’s no happy ending for the two of you. Even if you ran, eventually, she would kill you.”

  “You’re wrong about her,” Evander said with the brash, naïve confidence of someone in love.

  Faolán ran at Evander, drawing his attention long enough for Berengar to hit the bow with his sword, and the arrow careened into the darkness. Berengar ripped the bow away and quickly subdued the huntsman.

  “Enough.” He trained his sword on Evander. “Don’t make me use this.”

  Evander struggled to rise to his feet. “So you’re just going to put her down, like a mad dog? You really are a monster.”

  Berengar kicked him in the side. “Stay down.” He headed for the village and whistled for Faolán to follow, leaving Evander behind. Evander didn’t see it, but he was doing him a favor. By killing Rose, he was saving Evander from having to do the job himself.

  Berengar sheathed his sword and took out his axe. Now that Rose had fully transformed, inflicting significant damage was more important than speed. Most werewolves possessed enhanced healing, and it was likely the wounds he’d inflicted earlier were already healed. He needed to do enough damage to immobilize her so he could get within range with the silver dagger without having to worry about her fangs and claws—an unenviable task by any measure.