Alúine lay peaceful, oblivious to the werewolf’s presence. With Phineas tied up and Tuck probably off drinking somewhere, there were no guards to patrol the village’s abandoned streets. Berengar searched through the fog for a glimpse of the beast. He heard movement at his back and spun around, half-expecting a pair of glowing eyes waiting for him. Instead of the werewolf, he saw only a harmless cat watching him from its perch atop the well.
The wind shifted, and Faolán’s fur bristled in response to the werewolf’s scent. She led Berengar down a lonely path that took them past the inn, where the moonlight revealed a trail of blue blood along the ground. The trail ended outside a rundown barn. Berengar stopped to inspect a partial footprint in the mud before staring past the barn doors, which hung ajar. He rose and advanced into the darkness within, steeling himself for what waited inside.
Apart from the creaking of wooden beams under the breeze, the barn was quiet. A musty odor lingered in the air. Moonlight filtered in through gaps in the beams. Although there was no sign of the werewolf, he felt her presence nearby.
She’s close.
A drop of blue blood fell and landed on the ground at his feet. Berengar turned his gaze upward, where the werewolf hung from the rafters. Her amber eyes gleamed in the shadows, and her jaws widened to reveal a set of monstrous fangs. He brought his axe up to defend himself, but Rose leapt on him from above. The impact carried them through the rotten wall and into the night.
Rose was on him in an instant, clawing and snapping at him. Berengar used his axe’s handle to keep her at bay long enough for Faolán to intervene. The respite was over in an instant. Rose swatted Faolán aside, and the hound slammed against the side of the barn with a whimper.
Berengar pushed himself up and swung his axe with all the force he could muster, and blood spurted from a fresh gash across her chest. Before he could bring the axe around again, Rose retaliated by lifting him off the ground as if he were weightless and pinning him against a neighboring hut. Her claws pierced his armor, digging into his flesh as he strained to keep her fangs away from his neck. He wrenched his hand free at the last second and brought the axe down, which allowed him to roll away mostly unharmed.
The wound only served to further enrage her, and she rounded on him again, attacking in a frenzy. Her claws raked along his forearm, forcing him to drop the axe.
I can’t keep this up much longer.
Berengar did his best to hold his ground, but strong as he was, going toe-to-toe with a werewolf was a deadly proposition. He felt the curse’s effects slowing his movements, and with each blow, his strength ebbed. With few options, he went for his sword. Rose seized the opportunity to pounce, and they met in a violent collision.
The sword slipped from his grip, and he hit the ground hard. Rose landed across from him, bleeding from another wound. Berengar’s gaze settled on his axe, which lay just out of reach. Battered and bruised, he spat out a mouthful of blood and crawled toward the axe. A monstrous shadow loomed over him before his fingers grasped the handle, and when he looked back, he found himself staring into a mouthful of fangs.
The beast stopped without warning and staggered back. Clouds obscured the moon from view, and the werewolf slowly shrank in size as it returned to its human form. Berengar let out a weary sigh, grabbed the axe, and staggered to his feet.
“It’s over,” he said as Rose scrambled backward at his approach. “There’s nowhere to go.”
She stared at him with defiance. “I could have let you die of your wounds, but I helped you. This is how you repay my kindness? If I’m a monster, so are you. I hadn’t hurt anyone until you came along. I kept to the farm, away from everyone else.”
Berengar ignored her pleas. She was a monster, and she had to die. It was as simple as that. Darragh would have probably found some way to break the curse, but Berengar was the Bloody Red Bear, and he did not show mercy.
“You’re a killer. You’ll always be a killer.” He raised the axe to strike.
Searing pain tore through his chest before he could deliver the final blow. Unlike before, the agony spread across his entire body, as if he were on fire. Every muscle tightened at once with uncontrollable spasms. The axe fell from his hands, and he landed on his back, where he lay paralyzed. His jaw clamped shut with such force he was unable even to speak, and every shallow breath was a struggle.
Rose’s eyes fell on the bandage she’d wrapped around his hand. “We’re both cursed, it seems.” Her gaze moved to his sword, which lay nearby. Berengar could only watch, helpless, as she retrieved the blade and held it over him.
“If I were the monster you believe me to be, I’d kill you right now without a thought.” Rose threw away the sword, which slid across the ground. “But I’m not a murderer. Remember this, Warden Berengar—that a monster showed mercy where you did not.” She took a fleeting glance at the sky and hurried away while the moon remained concealed by clouds.
Then several things happened at once.
Berengar heard the screams first. He tried to crane his neck to see their source, but his body refused to obey. Instead, the spasms racking his body only intensified, forcibly arching his back. His labored breaths were rendered visible as the temperature plummeted and frost crept along the ground. A chorus of otherworldly whispers carried through the night, and frightened villagers emerged from their homes to investigate.
Then all hell broke loose.
Villagers scattered as chaos consumed the whole of Alúine. From his position on the ground, Berengar couldn’t get a good look at what they were running from, but he knew it wasn’t anything good. Crazed animals broke free from their pens and enclosures in their terror. No one took notice of him in all the confusion, and he was nearly trampled more than once. He managed to roll over onto his side, where he finally saw the source of the commotion: a humanoid, corpse-like figure wreathed in shadow.
The spirit, nearly identical to the sluagh Berengar encountered at the ransacked farm, advanced—or rather, glided—toward the nearest villagers, grasping at them with a withered hand. More of the restless spirits followed. The sluagh roamed Alúine, moving from home to home as if searching for something. His gaze fell on Varun’s daughters, who were hiding under a wagon nearby. They were close enough that he could hear them over the confusion. Berengar tried reaching out to them, but they failed to notice him. The elder daughter held out her hand, and the girls emerged from cover and fled Alúine as Berengar looked on.
Hooves sounded just outside the village, where a pair of riders approached. One wore a black robe, and a hood covered his face. Beside him sat a rider with no head.
The Dullahan. Berengar struggled in vain to move, but unlike before, the curse did not relent.
The riders stopped just short of where he lay and surveyed the chaos.
“Find her,” the hooded rider commanded the Dullahan.
The Dullahan dismounted without question, and his boots hit the ground with a thud.
The hooded rider’s gaze fell on Berengar’s fallen sword. “The warden. He’s here.”
The Dullahan stopped, awaiting orders. Berengar lay helpless off to one side of the road, just out of their sight and hidden by darkness. It was only a matter of time before they found him lying there. Suddenly, a hand grabbed him from behind, and he felt himself dragged into the barn.
It was Godfrey.
“Quiet,” the friar said, unaware he couldn’t speak.
Berengar watched from the barn as the Dullahan strode past them. The hooded man lingered a while longer before turning his horse around and riding into the fog.
Time passed, and Berengar drifted in and out of consciousness. Godfrey left to help the villagers and failed to return. For all Berengar knew, he might be dead.
Even without the added effect of the curse, he was weary from his battle with Rose. The pain only fed his rage, but the angrier he grew, the more he felt the curse take told. He longed to move, to take up his arms and fight something—anything. Instead, he
was trapped, alone with his own thoughts.
Evander’s words came back to him. You really are a monster.
Berengar remembered the fear in Rose’s eyes when he drew near. When he told her she would always be a killer, he might just as easily have been referring to himself. It was something he’d accepted a long time ago. It was a path he walked without wavering, and yet, for the first time, he felt a seed of doubt. Rose spared his life when she could have killed him. He had always believed he could recognize evil when he saw it, but what if he was wrong? What if his heart had hardened to the point he could no longer recognize evil even in himself?
Sometime in the night—he wasn’t quite sure when—the screams finally stopped. Intermittent sobs from beyond the barn punctuated the silence. The Dullahan and the sluagh were gone, though he didn’t know where to.
They were searching for someone, Berengar realized. The next sacrifice, most likely. With the Festival of the Blood Moon fast approaching, the hooded rider needed one of the young women from the village. But who? There was nothing out of the ordinary about the girls abducted so far. What was so special about the final sacrifice?
The man in the hood controlled the Dullahan—that much was clear—as well as the sluagh. He was probably a spiritist or dark magician, and a powerful one at that. There was also something vaguely familiar about the man’s voice that Berengar couldn’t place.
A pair of eyes gleamed from the shadows that clung to the rafters, and he became aware of another presence in the barn. At first, he thought his eye was playing tricks on him, until a grotesque face slowly emerged from the barn’s dark recesses. The hag’s mouth twisted into a cruel, pitiless smile.
“Look how you have fallen, man of stone—brought low by your own rage.” She vanished almost as soon as she appeared.
Berengar’s sense of relief was short-lived, as he heard her breathing behind him. He tried to call for Faolán, but no sound escaped his mouth.
She put her lips to his ear. “No one will come. You are all alone. You care for no one, Berengar One-Eye, and no one cares for you.” The sound of her mocking laughter filled the barn. “Fear not. Soon your pain will end, and the death you long for will come at last.” Her voice changed, becoming a harsh, angry hiss. “But first you must bring her to me.”
Who, blast it? Berengar thought.
“You know who she is,” the hag said, as if in response to his thoughts. “You have always known. You have sought her all along, unknowing. But your time grows short, and I must have her before the spiritist. Find her before the sun sets and bring her to me. You will find me waiting in the bog. You have one day.”
With that, she was gone. Berengar’s eyes grew heavy, and despite his efforts to remain conscious, sleep took him.
It was morning when he woke. Weak sunlight filtered into the barn, which still bore the marks of his battle with the werewolf. His body ached in more places than he could count. Berengar unclenched his jaw and sucked in a deep breath. Although the curse had abated enough for him to move, its effects continued to weigh him down, and considerable soreness and stiffness lingered in his joints and muscles.
Faolán lay curled up beside him, as if to ward against evil. While he was sure she found him sometime in the night, Berengar had no memory of it. Everything following the hag’s visitation remained a blur. Upon seeing him stir, Faolán uttered a tired yawn and licked his face, and Berengar sat up and patted her head. She seemed no worse for wear, despite her run-in with Rose. Like him, Faolán wasn’t so easily killed.
“We’re not done just yet.” The residual tightness in his jaw left his words muffled.
They were alone. Godfrey had failed to return, which wasn’t an encouraging sign. Berengar used the wall to steady himself and staggered to his feet. There were questions that needed answers, and he wouldn’t find them sitting on his backside. He emerged from the barn unsure of what waited outside.
Alúine was still standing, for the most part. The Dullahan and the sluagh had moved on, but not without leaving their mark. Many villagers were hard at work inspecting or repairing the damage left behind in the aftermath of the attack. Most appeared to have survived, suggesting the hooded man was indeed searching for a specific individual. Whether or not he found her was another matter entirely. An ominous mood hung over the village, and with good cause. Whatever had happened the previous night wasn’t over.
On his way to retrieve his weapons, Berengar sidestepped a frustrated man attempting to round up a herd of escaped pigs. He made his way to the well, where a group of villagers were discussing what to do about the water, which had taken on a sickly green color, as if befouled by the presence of supernatural evil. A few doused Tuck with a bucket of water in hopes of awakening the sleeping guard, who had likely fallen into a drunken stupor prior to the attack and slumbered through it all.
When Berengar stopped to inquire about the events of the previous night, each villager remained strangely silent on the topic. The looks he received were even more hostile than usual, probably on account of his appearance. Gray discoloration had spread across his hardened outer layer of skin, covering his entire body. Even his heartbeat was nearly imperceptible, as if his heart too had almost finished turning to stone.
The hag told him the sacrifice was someone he knew—someone he’d been seeking all along. Laird Margolin’s niece was the only person who matched that description, but he was no closer to finding her than he was when he first arrived at Móin Alúin. He thought again of the mysterious individual in the hood. If the hag wasn’t behind the killings and the Dullahan, then who was?
Fortunately, there was one person who could provide him with the answers he sought. Berengar started toward the inn, where a number of villagers had gathered.
“I tell you, it was Rose,” said a villager addressing the crowd. “She transformed into the beast. I always thought there was something odd about the way she stayed at that farm after her father died. She probably killed him herself, come to think of it.”
Iain shook his head. “Absurd. I’ve known Rose since she was a child. She’s no monster. After last night, we have troubles enough of our own without you making up tales.”
“It’s no tale, Iain,” another said. “I saw it with my own eyes. In a fight with the warden, she was—around the time everything went south.”
A round of intense murmurs greeted this proclamation, and Berengar knew it would not be long before the rumors spread throughout the village.
“Poor girl,” Iain muttered. “Did he kill her?”
“She fled the village just before the spirits invaded,” the first man said. “I say we round up the men and find her before the blood moon.” He stopped short when he noticed Berengar.
“I’d like a word,” Berengar said to Iain, ignoring the others.
The crowd dispersed at the sight of him, no doubt to discuss their plans to go after Rose elsewhere. It was something else he’d have to deal with. Werewolf or not, he wasn’t about to let them lynch her in the center of the village—not while she was still human. Then again, he’d been willing to kill Rose prior to her transformation, so was he really any better? The hag’s curse couldn’t have taken hold unless his heart was already hardened. Maybe she was right about him.
He decided to forget about Rose and focus on the final sacrifice before the hooded figure or his minions found her first. No matter what he ultimately decided, he wouldn’t harm her during the day, while she was in control of her actions.
The moment he set foot inside the inn, his gaze fell on the door to the storeroom, which had been left open. The room was empty.
“Where’s Phineas?”
Iain and Silas exchanged a pained glance before the innkeeper finally cleared his throat and spoke up. “I’m afraid he managed to escape amid all the confusion.”
Berengar brought his fist down on the nearest table in a fit of rage. “Blast it!” By now the pain had become so familiar it hardly bothered him anymore. He doubted that meant any
thing good.
He’s probably on his way to Margolin this very moment. Events were quickly spinning out of his control.
“Are you sure you’re all right? I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but you look even worse than you did the last time I saw you.”
“Never mind that,” Berengar muttered. “Tell me what happened here last night.”
“Everything happened so quickly, it’s hard to say. We heard the screams and went to see what the fuss was about.” Iain shuddered involuntarily. “That was when I saw them, heaven help me. What were those things?”
“Sluagh. The lost souls of those who’ve gone missing. They’re under the control of some kind of spiritist—the same man responsible for all the disappearances.” Berengar thought back to the familiar quality of the man’s voice. He’d heard it somewhere before, even if he couldn’t remember where. “Did either of you get a good look at him?”
Silas opened his mouth to speak, but Iain elbowed him in the ribs, and he fell silent.
“I’m afraid not,” the innkeeper volunteered. “We hid behind the bar until the danger passed.” He averted his gaze when he spoke, like he had something to hide.
The behavior seemed unusual for the innkeeper, piquing Berengar’s interest.
“They came here looking for someone, and if they find her, they’ll kill her. Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell me about what happened here?”
Again Iain looked away. “No.”
He’s either lying, or he’s afraid of something. Maybe both.
“Not everyone is accounted for,” Iain said, as if aware of the warden’s suspicions. “Friar Godfrey was looking for Evander earlier, and Avery was asking after a pair of girls this morning.”
“Avery?” Berengar hadn’t forgotten how the tanner had spied on him during his conversation with Oriana, or the man’s peculiar interest in Lady Imogen. “Let me guess—he was searching for Varun’s daughters.”
The Wrath of Lords Page 16