The Wrath of Lords Read online

  “I also suggest you consult with the castle alchemist. He might be able to brew a decoction or poison that would be of use against an ogre.”

  At this, Berengar raised an eyebrow. Despite the fact that most alchemists and herbalists had not a drop of magical blood, there were few of either left in Leinster thanks to the purges. He wasn’t particularly fond of ingesting strange potions or elixirs, but an alchemist might prove useful nonetheless. “I will. Anything else?”

  Thaddeus took a step closer and lowered his voice. “About your time hunting Skinner Kane…rumor has it the Black Hand acquired a very rare item intended for King Mór of Munster—a thunder rune, I believe? You wouldn’t happen to know what became of it, by chance?”

  Berengar didn’t trust Margolin, but he trusted his adviser even less. Whatever his interest in the thunder rune, it couldn’t be good. He looked Thaddeus dead in the eyes and shook his head. “It’s no concern of mine what happened to some relic.”

  He left the great hall and returned to the task of readying himself for what lay ahead. The alchemist, as it turned out, was not particularly adept—and also quite possibly mad as the result of inhaling too many dangerous fumes over the years. Nevertheless, Berengar left with bait to attract the ogre, along with a purported vial of poison of questionable efficacy.

  When the sun rose, he set about questioning the castle’s inhabitants about Lady Imogen’s disappearance. Most of the servants were reluctant to speak with him, and others still refused outright to do so, as if they feared to even discuss the subject. He gleaned very little about Imogen apart from her age and appearance. The poor girl seemed well liked but had few friends, and Laird Margolin kept her under strict supervision—though apparently not strict enough, as she’d managed to slip outside the castle the night she went missing. According to the servants, there was a storm that night, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility the sentries missed the ogre, but it still raised the question of what Lady Imogen was doing beyond the wall in the first place.

  The few witnesses who claimed to have seen the ogre were equally unhelpful. One described seeing a creature that could have easily been a werewolf, and another was nearly blind. Berengar, who didn’t enjoy the company of others to begin with, found the process deeply frustrating and couldn’t help feeling there was something more the people weren’t telling him. Once his preparations for the journey were complete, he was on the way to the stables to meet the soldiers Laird Margolin sent to accompany him until he came across the bard practicing in the courtyard.

  When she saw him, her fingers stopped moving, and the harp’s strings fell silent.

  “I’d like a word,” Berengar said. “I’m—”

  The bard spoke with a distinctly Caledonian accent. “I know who you are, Bear Warden. My name is Saroise. What do you want with me?” She was clearly not pleased to see him, which came as little surprise. If she believed even half of what the songs recorded about his deeds, she had good cause to be wary of him.

  “I’ve heard of you.” Saroise of Caledonia wasn’t just any bard. She was well-known across the kingdoms of Fál, her talents sought after by kings, princes, and lords alike. “What are you doing in a place like this?”

  “When my wagon broke down in the marsh, Laird Margolin offered me food and shelter in return for three moons’ stay at court.” Her tone evidenced her obvious displeasure. “What is it to you? I’ve broken no laws, Warden of Fál, and I’ll have you know I’m somewhat fond of my head.”

  “I don’t have time to trade barbs.” Saroise was an outsider at Blackthorn, which meant that she was his best chance to gather more information. “During your stay, did you spend time in the company of Lady Imogen?”

  To her credit, she met his gaze without blinking. “Aye.”

  “What kind of person is she?”

  “She’s strong, although she’d have to be to live in a place like this. Blackthorn isn’t known for its hospitality. The people miss her. Unlike her uncle, Imogen is liked and respected by Laird Margolin’s subjects.”

  “Was it common for her to go outside the castle in the evening?”

  Saroise shook her head.

  “Did you notice any unusual behavior from her the day of her disappearance?”

  The bard pursed her lips, mulling the question over. “I believe she had an argument with her uncle. The man is a tyrant, and I doubt there’s much love between them. I take it he has asked you to find her?”

  Berengar nodded. “Aye. And kill the thing that took her.”

  Saroise stared at him curiously. “Tell me—what will you do if you find her alive?”

  “Bring her home, of course.”

  “Don’t.”

  She left him standing there without another word.

  Another village, another monster—if the stories were to be believed, anyway. Panicked villagers running for their lives didn’t make the most reliable witnesses. Truth be told, Berengar didn’t care if it was an ogre, troll, or even a skin changer. He just wanted something to sink his axe into.

  His stallion left a trail in its wake as they traversed a field littered with puddles. Faolán followed at a distance, her fur coated with mud. It was supposed to be spring, but it felt more like fall. The untrimmed hedge of hawthorn trees was not yet in full bloom, the trees’ sweet scent masked by an earthy musk. The sun had all but disappeared. A light mist hung about the air. Already he could see his breath—not that the weather bothered him. Berengar had been born in the Kingdom of Ulster, far to the north, and seasoned by many winters there. That, and the heavy cloak he wore, rendered him nearly immune to the cold’s effects.

  He was already in a foul mood, mostly because he tried to avoid traveling this far south if he could help it. While the High Queen’s wardens shared equal authority in all five kingdoms, each assumed most of the responsibility for a specific territory. For his part, Berengar preferred to operate out of Meath, so he was not pleased to do the bidding of some rural lord from Leinster who seemed more concerned with unpaid taxes than missing villagers.

  Still, hunting monsters was better than enduring the endless web of treachery and deceit found in great halls and royal courts. He didn’t care a whit about Margolin, and the man’s niece was very likely dead, but at least he might prevent more locals from falling victim to the ogre’s monstrous appetite.

  Let Darragh and the others rescue maidens and attend peace summits, he thought. Or whatever it was the Captain of the Wardens did in sunlit Munster while men like Berengar did the dirty work. He’d already prepared the bait he would use to lure the beast. Unlike goblins, ogres possessed an underdeveloped sense of taste. As such, they were attracted to foods with especially strong aromas and flavors most humans found repugnant. The rotting, fly-infested meats Berengar had obtained from the castle’s alchemist would do the trick nicely. In the grand scheme of things, stalking and killing an ogre was a simple enough business. Berengar was a skilled tracker. Before he was a warden, he was a soldier, and before that, a hunter. Before that…well, he tried not to think about it.

  His companions were loud enough to wake a slumbering troll—no easy feat, the warden knew, though the blasted things did have a nasty habit of waking at the most inopportune moments. None of the three soldiers sent by Laird Margolin to accompany him on the hunt had said more than a handful of words to him for the duration of the journey, which was perfectly fine by Berengar. The men jumped whenever he so much as glanced in their direction.

  He brought his horse to a halt and held up a hand to silence the others. “Quiet.” Something didn’t feel right. The trail had ended some time ago, and they were close enough to the bog already.

  “What is it?” one of his companions said, staring into the encroaching darkness. “I don’t hear anything.”

  That meant nothing, though Berengar didn’t bother saying it aloud. Despite their size, ogres could move quietly enough if they had cause, aided by the soft earth of the marshes and bogs in which they dwelled.
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  The wind changed directions, and a putrid aroma tickled the warden’s nostrils. “It’s close,” he whispered just loud enough for the others to hear. Goblins and trolls weren’t particularly pleasant-smelling either, but ogres possessed a distinctive, overpowering stench.

  As he motioned for his companions to dismount, Berengar caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of his good eye, and Faolán barked a warning. The others reached for their swords, but they were too late. The ogre burst from the hawthorn hedge with a ferocious growl. With one swing of its club, the ogre knocked over one horseman in mid-dismount, and the horse collapsed on its rider, crushing him. After successfully making it to the ground, one rider tried in vain to flee only to sink into the mud, and the ogre caved in his head by bashing him with its club.

  Berengar’s horse reared at the sight of the ogre, and he allowed himself to fall away, landing on his feet.

  “Steady,” he said to the remaining soldier, who instead charged the beast in a blind panic, waving his sword about like a madman. Berengar heard bones crunch and snap as the ogre seized his companion in its massive hand. The beast sank a set of oversized if slightly dulled teeth into the soldier’s neck and ripped out a chunk of flesh, sending blood spurting freely from the wound.

  The ogre rounded on Berengar, its yellow eyes gleaming under the light of the full moon. Despite its size, at just under seven feet tall, the monstrous creature was only slightly the larger of the two. Its bulky, muscular frame was covered in fungi and vines. Its hairless skin was a muted orange, a few shades duller than Berengar’s fiery red hair.

  “You’re an ugly brute.” The warden fastened his grip around the handle of his battleaxe. Faolán growled at his side, baring her fangs. “And that’s coming from me.”

  When the ogre charged him, Berengar stood his ground, his gaze fixed on its exposed flabby belly. One well-placed slash from his axe would spill the creature’s entrails. After that, it would be a simple matter to take the creature’s head. Unfortunately, the ogre lowered its shoulder at the last second, and Berengar’s axe was dragged the length of its forearm. The impact rattled his grip enough that the following swing from the ogre’s club knocked the weapon from his hands. Before the ogre could bring the club down on him, Faolán sank her teeth into its ankle, and Berengar lunged forward and grabbed its wrists, wrenching the club free.

  With a surge of strength, the ogre lifted him off the ground and slammed him into a rock. Faolán leapt onto its back, distracting the creature long enough for Berengar to retrieve the dagger hidden in his boot and stab it through the hand. The ogre fell back with a pained cry. Though his axe remained out of reach, Berengar drew the short sword sheathed at his side and held it in front of him, ready to continue their bout.

  The ogre gazed down at the viscous, brown blood leaking from the wound, and its eyes widened in surprise.

  “Come on, you orange bastard. What are you waiting for?”

  It stared at him a moment longer before bounding away, the earth shaking under its weight.

  It’s headed for the bog. He considered reaching for the bow at his back, but the thing was moving fast. Once the ogre reached Móin Alúin, it would have the advantage. He swore and returned his sword to its sheath.

  Fortunately, his horse had the good sense not to bolt with the others, even if it had thrown him. “Looks like this one’s going to make us give chase,” he muttered to Faolán. “Hunt it down.”

  Faolán took off in search of the ogre. If their quarry did make it to the bog, the hound could guide Berengar safely to its lair.

  When the warden stooped to retrieve his axe, one of the soldiers moaned and reached for him from the ground. It was the soldier who had attempted to flee.

  “Help me,” the man croaked. “Please.”

  The soldier lay beside one of the ogre’s footprints, his face covered by mud and blood. He was still alive, but barely. His body was broken. It was clear the man would not last the hour, much less the night. Berengar stepped around his body and started toward the horse.

  “Don’t leave me here alone,” the soldier begged. “I’m so cold. Please, have mercy…”

  Any of the other wardens would have stayed behind to ease the man’s passing. Darragh would probably have even managed to find a healer, bury the fallen, and slay the ogre in one fell swoop. Remaining there was the compassionate thing to do, but the soldier was done for, and nothing Berengar did could change that. If he wavered from his task, even for a moment, the ogre would escape, and more innocent lives would suffer. Still, he let go of the reins and approached the wounded man. A fallen sword lay visible nearby. Berengar picked it up and placed it in the man’s trembling grasp.

  “This is the best I can do for you.” His meaning was plain. The soldier would either use the blade or wait to succumb to his injuries, hopefully before the wolves found him. “I’ll tell your family you died with honor.”

  Berengar swung himself onto the saddle and galloped across the plain in pursuit of the murderous ogre. He rode with the full moon to guide his path and did not look back. Ahead, a murky haze gathered around Móin Alúin, obscuring the stars above. He heard Faolán’s call through the mist. So the ogre had reached the bog. That meant he needed to proceed with an extra measure of caution, though perhaps the ogre’s lair would contain evidence as to the fate of Margolin’s niece.

  A monstrous howl caused him to jerk back on the reins. That didn’t come from Faolán. No hound could make a sound like that. The ogre didn’t make it either; the howl came from the direction opposite to Móin Alúin.

  Before he could explore further, a human-shaped form emerged from the bog and fled on foot, headed east. For a moment, he thought it might be Imogen, but the figure was too small to belong to Margolin’s niece. The clouds peeled away from the moon, and Berengar realized the fleeing figure was a child.

  Where did he come from? Berengar wondered. What was a boy doing alone at night? More importantly, what was he running from?

  The boy tripped over something in his path and glanced over his shoulder at Móin Alúin, where a rider emerged from the mist in pursuit. The rider was dressed entirely in black, as if cloaked by the night itself. Clutched in its right hand it carried what appeared to be a lantern, which illuminated its path in an otherworldly light. It sat astride a mount with glowing red eyes and hooves matted with crimson blood. A cruel greatsword was sheathed at the rider’s side, and in its left hand, it wielded a peculiar-looking whip.

  The boy quickly scrambled to his feet, but the black rider closed the distance between them with inhuman speed.

  Berengar took out his bow, the ogre momentarily forgotten. The first arrow missed and sailed into the fog behind the rider. He nocked a second arrow, taking his time even as the rider reached for the child with a gloved hand. The next shot found its mark and struck the rider’s mount, which collapsed to the earth in a heap.

  Berengar spurred his horse forward and extended his hand toward the child, who regarded him with a terrified expression. “Take my hand, boy. This is no place for you.”

  A coarse, rasping noise sounded nearby, and the child slowly turned in the felled rider’s direction. When Berengar followed the boy’s gaze, he found himself looking at a creature unlike any he had ever encountered.

  The rider had no head—at least not one that was currently attached to its body. The “lantern” it carried was in fact the decaying remains of its head, which shimmered with an unnatural light, and its whip was fashioned from human spines twisted together.

  “What are you?” Berengar demanded.

  The rider responded only by pointing a finger in the direction of the boy. Though it did not speak, he understood the creature’s meaning perfectly. It wanted the child.

  “Get out of here, boy.” Berengar took hold of his axe and rounded on the rider. “If you want him, you’ll have to go through me.”

  The rider held out the head it carried, and its eyes fixed themselves on the warden’s mount, cau
sing the horse to go wild. Having been unhorsed once already that evening, Berengar held onto the thrashing animal with all his might and charged the rider, who held fast at his approach. They met in a violent collision, and the impact carried them through the fog and into the marshy bog.

  The rider brandished its whip with lightning speed, and the bony lash tore through Berengar’s leather armor and into the flesh of his back. As the horse landed on its back, Berengar spilled from the saddle, losing his grip on his axe in the process. He lunged for the weapon, but the rider wrapped the whip around his hand, causing dozens of bony spurs to tear into his skin. Rather than resisting the pull of the whip, Berengar drew his short sword and hurled himself at the black rider. The struggle took them deeper into the mist, until finally Berengar forced the blade into the creature’s chest.

  The rider took a few steps back, and for a moment Berengar thought the fight was done. Then the rider pulled the blade from its chest and cracked the whip, which wrapped around Berengar’s ankle like a vise. He found himself on the ground and barely rolled away in time to avoid the sword, but before he could fully recover his footing, the creature lashed him again with the whip. He stumbled forward and grabbed hold of a tree to steady himself, and the whip drew blood from his exposed side.

  Unarmed, Berengar attacked in a blind fury, using his rage to propel him. He struck the rider again and again, bloodying his fists to no avail. His brashness was rewarded with a shallow slash across the chest from his own sword, quickly followed by a blow from the creature’s steel gauntlet that sent him spinning away. Panting for breath, Berengar stared at his enemy. He tasted blood, and his vision was starting to swim. He could hardly stand.

  “You’re tough. I’ll give you that. But I won’t go down so easily.”

  Before the rider could again crack the whip, Berengar lowered his head and tackled it. As the pair tumbled downhill, the creature lost its grip on him. When he grabbed a branch to slow his momentum, it snapped, and he fell off an embankment and landed in the swamp. Berengar staggered to his feet. The rider was gone, at least temporarily. At the moment, he was in no condition to continue the fight. He needed to find his way out of the swamp before the rider found him again. Bruised and bloodied, he dragged himself through the mud until finally he collapsed from sheer exhaustion.