THE DARK THORN
Beneath the streets of Seattle, a long-forgotten war is about to be renewed…
Richard McAllister, a spiritually destitute homeless man and Knight of the Yn Saith, protects one of seven portals linking his world to that of Annwn, where the fey Tuatha de Dannan of antiquity have been relegated by a long-running religious war.
Unknown to Richard though, powerful forces are aligning against him and all he stands to keep safe. In the wilds of a discarded world, Philip Plantagenet, son of Henry II, moves to claim a birthright nine centuries in the making, one that drives him to eliminate the Tuatha de Dannan—at any cost to both worlds. In the halls of Vatican City, Cardinal Vicar Cormac Pell O’Connor schemes to control the Heliwr—the Unfettered Knight—one who possesses the great power known as the Dark Thorn.
The three men are on a collision course with history—and their futures.
For in the wilds of Annwn, death comes as easily as magic.
Haunted by a past he can’t forget and a knightly responsibility he can’t shun, Richard is drawn into levels of machinations—and two worlds—far darker than any he has prepared for.
BY SHAWN SPEAKMAN
The Dark Thorn
The Everwinter Wraith*
The Splintered King*
EDITED BY SHAWN SPEAKMAN
Unfettered
*Forthcoming
The Dark Thorn is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Shawn Speakman.
All rights reserved.
Dust jacket artwork by Todd Lockwood.
Interior map by Russ Charpentier.
Book design by Rachelle Longé McGhee.
Signed, Limited Edition ISBN 978-0-9847136-2-2
Trade Hardcover Edition ISBN 978-0-9847136-0-8
eBook ISBN 978-0-9847136-1-5
First Edition, November 2012
246897531
Grim Oak Press
PO Box 45173
Seattle, WA 98145
www.grimoakpress.com
For Richard and Kathy Speakman,
Who Loved
For Terry and Judine Brooks,
Who Believed
“Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven.”
—John Milton, Paradise Lost
“We each owe a death, there are no exceptions.”
—Stephen King, The Green Mile
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
The rat glared with beady black eyes at the broken man’s approach before scurrying away into the darkness, a lone vestige of life among the dusty bones of death.
Richard McAllister ignored the rodent’s departure and probed the deep shadows of the tunnel ahead, a ghost given the substantive aspect of life. All was still. Faint light from the city filtered through squares of purple glass set in the sidewalk above, revealing the subterranean remains of unhinged wooden doors, rusted steel beams, and piles of dirt and mummified refuse. Brick from the turn of the previous century lined the building’s wall on his left, its windowless panes gaping maws of mystery; on his right, the retaining wall of the city street’s foundation was thick and mortared, unyielding. Dust and aged spider webs covered all.
The drip of distant water was Richard’s only assurance that time had not frozen altogether.
He grew more accustomed to the weak light. It had been weeks since he had been called to the depths within which he now stood, but it was as it had been for the twelve years he had watched over it—a forgotten world by all save a few.
And those who existed in Annwn.
Wiping sweaty palms on his dirtied jeans, Richard moved forward to catch unaware what had entered his ward, his tight-laced boots barely a whisper on the uneven concrete floor. Despite wearing thermal underwear and a thick flannel shirt, a chill ran down his spine. In all the years he had guarded the city, it never got any easier.
Richard took his time down the passage, eyes seeking, body tense and ready for anything. He peered into every darkened cranny. He found nothing. Something had come through at midnight though and he would not let it pass. Couldn’t. Only two had during his tenure and he regretted those failures every day of his life.
“Where are you?” Richard hissed.
No response came. The air was as dead as when he’d entered.
He had come into the city warrens through a door at the bottom of a staircase from the sidewalk above. With a word and a touch the door unlocked, giving him access where others would not go at night. The dark building embraced him as he left behind homeless wrapped in sleeping bags, the odor of stale exhaust, and watchful police. The world that had all but disappeared with Seattle’s rebuilding after the Great Fire greeted him and, with the exception of an underground tour during the day, no one ventured here. The world of employer and employee, government and political party, kings, presidents, dictators, and subjects was left behind.
No such hierarchies existed beneath the streets. You were either hunter or hunted—or dead. The roles changed, even the last one at times, but they were the only ones that existed.
He gave his life to keep the two worlds separate.
He was about to turn the corner of the tunnel to continue on, navigating the debris on what used to be Seattle’s sidewalks, when the echo of deep voices reached him from behind.
He cursed inwardly. In his haste, he hadn’t relocked the door.
And put innocent lives in danger.
Two thin shadows separated from the gloom, hesitantly stepping into view.
“Ya down here, Rick?” White eyes gleamed from a black face bearing a scraggly beard.
“Leave, Al,” Richard growled. “You too, Walker. Now.”
“Letz git outta here, man,” Walker squeaked, his haggard pale face smudged with dirt, his drug addiction plainly marked upon him. “Dis place givin’ me jeebies.”
“Shuddup, Wakkah,” Al said. “You a gurl or sumthin’?”
“You do not know what you do!” Richard said firmly, moving to escort them back to the surface, a cold sweat springing up on his skin.
“Whatcha doin down here then?” Al questioned, ignoring Richard and looking around. “Nuthin down here but big ole rats. Warmah though, spose.”
Richard had almost reached them when the sharp scraping of claws against stone chased him through the air, followed by a low, reverberating growl. He spun, unsure of what he would find, his eyes probing the darkness ahead for the sound’s maker. It wasn’t evident; all appeared as it had for years. But the odor of new fog coupled with dewy grass, purple lilacs, and vibrant growing vines
and trees filled the air, overwhelming the underground’s century of misuse, the precursor to what he knew was coming for them.
The growl came again—nearer—painful to Richard’s ears with its implications.
“Whatz dat?” Al warbled with fear, taking a step back.
“Get the hell out, Al!” Richard yelled, his focus fixed on the tunnel before him.
As his order echoed throughout the underground, he caught movement where the passage veered, a sooty smudge that grew impossibly large as it came into their tunnel.
“Little man thingsss,” a deep voice snarled. Its features were still hidden by the gloom. “Where do you leave to?”
“Nowhere,” Richard replied, planting himself between the creature and the two homeless men. “And neither are you.”
A mewling hiss punctuated the air like released steam, a mocking laugh of self-assurance. Richard did not like it. The outline of the creature became more distinct as it entered the purplish light: broad shoulders and thickly muscled haunches, rounded head with stubby ears, long limbs covered in short black fur. Its large padded paws bore it silently across the floor like a prowling tiger, each languid step filled with power. Blazing from its barreled chest was a white mark like a crescent moon. The creature was alone; it was a beast that hunted alone. Richard knew what it was—had fought its kind before and had the scars to prove it—and he knew he wasn’t going to have an easy time of it now either.
“What da fu—” Al whispered behind Richard. Frozen, Walker sobbed.
“Shut up, both of you!”
The cat looked past Richard with keen interest. “Brought fresssh meat, I see.”
Richard kept his gaze firm. “Begone, cait sith.”
“No weapon,” growled the creature, grinning fangs like daggers. The cat’s ears flicked at every sound as if they had minds of their own. “You are overconfident or faithless. Both see you dead.”
“Return to your world,” Richard ordered. “This one is no longer yours.”
“And you hold no authority over me, knight.” This last word came out as a cursing spat. “I serve—”
“A master who has no authority here.” Richard braced his need and prepared for the inevitable. “Not any longer.”
Two pinpricks of sharp crimson light flared in the beast’s eyes, live embers ready to consume.
“You know not who I serve, fool.”
Richard said nothing. There was nothing else to say.
But something plagued him—something not quite right. Cait siths were cunning and intelligent but rarely spoke. They preferred lethal action to words.
What was going on? Seconds ticked by.
The cat growled low then. “You are weak. I sense it.”
“Find out,” Richard shot back.
The cait sith’s tail flicked infuriatingly as muscles bunched in knotted patterns beneath its black coat, its eyes never leaving those of the man before it. A part of Richard acceded to the creature’s insult. He was weak. He knew it. The faith needed to sustain him came and went, a light bulb with a short in its electrical wiring. Now could be a time it went dark.
As if sensing his fears, the giant cat leapt into motion, a dark blur of rippling fur and terrible promise. Giant paws clawed at the concrete, its fangs bared. Gimlet eyes bore into Richard as the hulk of muscle, bone, and fury came on.
Richard took an involuntary step back but then held his ground. The tunnel with its dead air dropped away. The screams of Al and Walker—even the cat’s growls—melted into a rush of white noise. The beast and the feral gleam in its eyes were all that remained.
He reached across the tenuous fabric between the two worlds, a call of heart that was his right—that had been bestowed upon him by Merle many years earlier.
Nothing happened.
He barely had time to react. The cat was immediately upon him, leaping with claws extended. Richard dove to the side, letting the beast fly past, his scream of fear mixed with defiance inhuman in his own ears. Searing pain flared to life along his left arm as he spun like a top from the slashing assault, knocking him backward and to his knees. He gritted his teeth and in a fluid motion turned to again confront his foe.
The cait sith bounded through a window in the brick building, melting into blackness.
Al and Walker cowered fifteen feet away—the former with a crazed look while the latter continued to weep.
A rumbling laugh filled the underground.
“Weak knight,” his enemy mocked, gone from view. “I was told you would be. I will drag your corpse back with me through the portal as a trophy.”
Richard straightened, still on his knees. He would not fail. Not while his only friends had need. Ribbons of liquid fire ran along his arm, soaking his shirt, but he barely felt the wound. A white-hot pressure arose inside, quick and sustaining, coming from the depths of his chest, mind, and even from without. It blossomed as a tingling sensation and spread outward into his limbs. The pain dulled; the shock disappeared. It was not anger or vengeance that came over him. It was the calm that came with the Yn Saith’s service—giving up his own desires to protect others.
He reached back into the other world.
Where empty air had filled his hand a moment earlier, Arondight materialized into existence, the hilt and blade of the broadsword marked with ancient druidic runes, its length smooth and polished, the silver filigreed handle cool under his grip.
Magic encased him like an invisible armor and sent azure fire through his being.
Fearing the change in their friend, Al and Walker backed away.
“Don’t move!” Richard screamed, regaining his feet.
It was too late.
As the homeless men passed a derelict window, the cait sith burst through the opening to kill.
With a thought, Richard struck, the runes flaring to life and blue fire lancing from Arondight. The magic hammered the creature in midair, tossing it aside like a doll before it could reach the men. It crashed to the heavy stone floor, howls of pain and anger filling the tunnel.
Back on its paws before its burning fur was extinguished, it charged Richard instead, knowing its true enemy.
Richard brought his power to bear. Blinding fire filled the passage again. The cait sith dodged it, faster and more nimble this time, and with a great leap pummeled him against the brick wall with its immensity.
Richard collided with jarring force, his eyes darkening for a second. The cait sith was on him, tearing. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Richard kept his focus on the sword before him, keeping the fire that ran along its length between himself and his foe, a protective shield of his soul’s making.
The cat tried to fight through the defense even as its fur singed, the reek of burning flesh thick and pungent. Despite its ferocity, the cait sith’s raking claws and fangs could not break through Richard’s magic. It pressed inward, the glare from its maddened red eyes burning into him; it would not let him free and would die to see him destroyed.
But even as Richard was protected, his strength waned. The called fire took a toll on him physically and emotionaly, sapping his strength.
He had to end this.
The cat was nearly close enough to rend Richard’s neck when its head suddenly jerked as if struck from behind. The creature’s weight left the knight.
Behind the cait sith, Al stood, his black skin glossy with sweat, conviction raging in his eyes. In his grimy hands, a long, heavy pipe was poised for another strike.
“Get off ‘im, devil,” Al screamed, swinging again.
Enraged, the cat knocked the pipe from Al’s hands and pounced, leaving Richard free. The homeless man’s screams soon changed from anger to the anguish of one being torn apart.
It gave Richard the freedom he needed. He sent Arondight’s fire raging into the back of the beast with all the magic he carried within, his anger fueling his power. It knocked the cat off the helpless man and slammed it against the thickly mortared wall.
The hollow crack o
f breaking bones filled the passage.
Richard was on the beast in a moment, a surge of certainty giving him strength. With the tip of his blade, he pinned the creature to the rubble at its neck but Richard knew it could not feel the heat or the blood he drew. The cat had broken vertebrae. It was no longer a threat.
Behind him, Al wept in agony, his clothing rent and bloodied.
“I’ll make this quick, cat,” Richard grated. “Why did you come through the portal?”
“Too late,” the cait sith wheezed. It bled from dozens of wounds, and most of its chest and forelegs had been reduced to smoldering flesh. Its right hind leg twitched weakly. “You failed. The death rattle of your faith in the Word is beyond you. Behold.”
Richard followed the cat’s eyes. Where the stairway to the city above began, four furtive shapes not much larger than robins flew in the shadows around the rusted pipes of the arched ceiling. Instinctively, Richard cast fire toward them. The tiny beings rushed forward, chittering with sudden fright. Lagging behind, the last creature burst into flame as if doused in kerosene.
The rest escaped. They would be in Seattle proper within moments.
Fairies.
The cait sith had been a decoy.
“Where do the bastards go?” Richard rasped, twisting the blade’s tip deeper into the cat’s neck. “What is their intent?”
“Go to your hell, knight,” the cat spat.
“I’m already in it,” Richard growled.
He sent magic coursing down through the weapon, surging into the immobilized creature. One moment the cait sith was there; the next, it was reduced to smoldering ash and dust. It didn’t make a sound. All that remained was a large blackened scorch mark on the floor.
Richard probed the surrounding warrens. Sensing nothing else had come through the gateway, he let Arondight and its fire evaporate into nothing.
He turned, feeling decades older than he had fifteen minutes earlier. His left arm ached and, remembering what the cat had done to it, he inspected his slashed checkered shirt. The claws had cut his bicep deep; his arm still bled but it was slowing, the flesh around the wounds angry and hot to the touch. He grimaced. He would take care of it as best he could for the night, and the next day visit the bookstore to have it looked at properly.
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