The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

  “Now be still, my pretties,” the short man cajoled, his green eyes never deviating from Richard. “Tell ya when, tell ya when, ah will.”

  The beasts whined, their desire obvious.

  “Be still yourself, Goronwy,” the ancient woman growled, her gaze shifting from Bran to Richard as she slid off the lowered hound, rags hanging from her bones as if in afterthought. “Let me off this flea-bitten beast.”

  “We have no quarrel with you,” Richard snarled.

  Stormy eyes fixed on the knight. “Nah, not with me. With someone else. Come with me now, like a good lil’ one.”

  “Never,” Richard replied, his ire raising flames along Arondight.

  “You know me, yes?” she prodded.

  “I do. The Cailleach,” Richard answered. He looked around. “Odd summer day today, isn’t it, witch?”

  “Yar, knight,” Goronwy said beside the ugly woman. “Powerful, she is. Don’t give my dogs reason to be let loose.”

  “Bring those dogs closer and they will be whining, houndmaster,” Richard taunted.

  “Oh, they will, in time,” the witch cackled. “They love flesh and—”

  Richard didn’t give her a chance to finish. He flicked the tip of Arondight in the direction of Goronwy and sent a ball of azure flame shooting forward, a whoosh of burning air. The mount of the houndmaster shied away, eyes wild, as he cowered, fear twisting his warding limbs.

  Before it could incinerate its intended victim, the flaming ball broke course, pushed aside by a powerful gust of wind to disintegrate harmlessly into one of the malformed trees.

  “Knight of nothing,” the Cailleach cackled, her hands coated in ice.

  “What does your master want?” Richard asked.

  “You,” she said. “Both.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “In my world now, portal pup,” the Cailleach sneered. “The High King paid well.”

  “Paying you in how many lives to be his bitch?” Richard spat. “What else have you destroyed, other than the seasons?”

  “I do that for free. Eternal summer. For his war,” she said, then flicked her tongue at him with lurid suggestion. “Though I do miss my winter curves. Care to touch?”

  “Your dreams have nothing to do with this.”

  “Your loss.”

  “Will be your life,” Richard replied.

  “Ah see. A lot o’ fight in ya,” the crone mocked. She turned to Goronwy. “Make sure they don’t escape, but keep those mutts out of dis.”

  The witch didn’t wait. She attacked with a wail, a whirlwind of frigid air rushing toward Richard. The knight expected it. He jammed Arondight into the ground, its runes flaring like the sun. The world fell away while his fear turned into adrenaline. The gale shook the limbs of Dryvyd Wood and ice shot through earth, coating the world in silvered glass. But the wind lost its tenacity as it met the sword and the power Richard wielded. Gritting his teeth and hoping Bran was smart enough not to flee, the knight kept his focus on the hag, an indomitable spirit against her wintry wrath.

  The icy power of the witch could not reach them.

  The Cailleach growled frustration and ended the blast.

  The clearing coated in ice and frost, Richard pulled Arondight free of the ground to face his adversary anew.

  “That it?” Richard asked, sweat prickling his skin.

  The question had the desired effect. Face contorting in rage, the hag wove her glowing white hands in the air—until a thunder shook the wood and cut her off.

  Appearing from the east, two dozen warriors reined-in horses to surround the ring of dogs, the men dressed in black with breastplates bearing the silver insignia of a hawk below faces chiseled in hardship. Quick on their heels, a second group arrived, the white-cloaked riders wearing chrome greaves, canonical helmets, and hauberks beneath white mantles stamped with a crimson cross. All of the warriors were heavily armed, some with broadswords or axes, others with bows and quivers of arrows. The warhorses stamped impatiently, waiting on their masters.

  Richard felt the day grow dark.

  Their chance of escape had vanished.

  The warriors bearing the cross were Templar Knights.

  “Hag!” a man in black roared, his engraved breastplate of a higher quality than those around him. “Step away!”

  “Lord of Assbirth,” the Cailleach snapped. “These are more crafty than you know.”

  “No one speaks to the Lord of Arberth thus, witch,” a mounted blonde man said, his finely chiseled features flushed with rage. “Lord Gwawl is one of the finest men beneath the banner of the High King. He should have you skinned alive.”

  “He is under the king in some way, true,” the Cailleach screeched. “Shut the hole above your chin, Sanddev, or ah’ll do it for you. Yeh be too purty to be here anyhow.”

  Men about Lord Gwawl snickered. Sanddev glared at them.

  “Let us pass freely and I will let you live!” Richard yelled for all to hear.

  “Let us live?” Lord Gwawl barked a laugh, the Cailleach forgotten. “Look around you. Apparently the Seven have grown daft over the years.”

  More laughter echoed. Richard tensed, prepared for the worst.

  “Talk is wasted. The hunt is over. Let us take them—now,” a man beside Sanddev said, his raven hair braided and hawkish eyes fierce for confrontation.

  “Evinnysan has the right of it,” Sandevv agreed.

  The Cailleach grinned gleefully. The houndmaster whistled shrilly into the air, calling his hounds back. The ringing song of warriors freeing weapons echoed in the dark forest.

  “Enough!” thundered a voice.

  From behind the wall of lathered horses, another man rode forward. Both warrior groups parted. Richard knew the man, had learned a great deal about John Lewis Hugo from Merle during training. Wearing fine sable clothing beneath a shirt of chain mail, the rider glared at those around him, half his face a ruined mask. Despite the destroyed flesh, both eyes glared with equal ferocity at the knight, the contempt palpable. He carried no weapons but to either side of his horse lumbered two Fomorians, brutish giants Richard knew once existed in the old world.

  Richard barely gave Philip Plantagenet’s second-in-command pause. An inky blackness rippled in the shadowy background of the forest behind him, absorbing the light as it came, the stale odor of unwashed bodies permeating Dryvyd Wood. Human faces, twisted and deformed, appeared from the darkened mass, attached to short spindly limbs and crooked bodies. Down on all fours, tortured frenzy glimmered from beady black eyes. Others had snouts like wolves, eyes burning with bloodlust and fangs slavering. They came mewling low like eager cats awaiting a meal, muscles twitching for release.

  The horses balked at the beasts, panic threatening to overwhelm them. Helplessness cascaded over Richard. There were too many creatures, too many men holding weapons. Even two Fomorian giants. It was over.

  “Knight!” John Lewis Hugo shouted. “Stand down!”

  “I will not!”

  John Lewis Hugo grinned, the burned side of his face inflexible. “What fun would that be, eh? Quit this. I have no wish to harm you.”

  “That’s why you bring those abominations of nature.”

  “I believe the High King requested you be unspoiled, is how he put it,” John Lewis Hugo said. “The demon wolves are here to protect you from those who would do you harm, nothing more.”

  “Philip Plantagenet should have died in his cradle as history recounts!”

  “But that was not the Word’s will, now was it?” John Lewis Hugo countered. “Instead of spending your life enabling the hypocrisy of the Church and that senile wizard, you should embrace a larger cause to set things right.”

  “John Lewis Hugo,” Richard said carefully, curbing his anger. “Do not forget who you are. You are a good man. Let that twisted creature that has been imprisoned inside of you free and do the right thing here.”

  “So shortsighted. You know not of what you speak.”

  “You ar
e as wrong as those creatures behind you.”

  A frown shrouded John Lewis Hugo’s face as he turned to the witch.

  “Have the demon wolves take them cleanly,” he said.

  The Cailleach made a curt hand movement.

  As if a dam had broken, the creatures bound around their master and the Fomorians, coming straight for Richard. The knight did not panic; he sent his fire into the nearest of the creatures, setting it ablaze and the trees around it. More demon wolves were cut down by azure bursts, their hissing and screams madness in the air. More came on, a torrent of claws and glee, the destruction of their brethren only emboldening them further, a curtain already falling upon the knight. Richard knew he could not stop them all. With his power threatening to overwhelm him like a flood, leaving him a useless husk, the knight focused on his enemy and conserved what he could.

  Dryvyd Wood fell away as did Bran’s yelling.

  A beast broke through his defenses to slash at his exposed side, its claws burying deep.

  With a howl of fury and pain, Richard split the creature in two. Black blood showered the air, the demon wolf’s cleaved halves hitting the ground.

  More beasts gathered beyond the carcass-ridden ground, waiting to attack.

  “Lord Gwawl!” John Lewis Hugo commanded.

  The beasts came again. This time Gwawl commanded Sanddev to lead his warriors alongside the onslaught of blackened razor-sharp teeth and claws. Concealing his grin at the opportunity given him, Richard swiped the air with Arondight anew, the flames leaping off the blade in thick spurts that shot at the legs of the attackers. The beasts and horses leapt aside.

  It was what Richard wanted. The knight sent his power between them, driving them to alter the path of their attack—to slam against the tree trunks, limbs, and roots of Dryvyd Wood.

  The forest exploded.

  The trees, so packed together, came alive, snatching whatever intrusion awakened them. The demon wolves came on; the horses screamed in terror. Limbs shot out like lightning to wrap about the struggling twisted limbs and legs they encountered, squeezing with intensity born of wood and sap. The warriors struggled to get free, hacking at the limbs in horror, but for each one cut free several more took its place. Panic ensued. The roots greedily bore their captives into the black soil, men, horses, and demon wolves stuffed beneath the ground—some already dead, most suffocating as dirt choked their screams away.

  One of the last caught, Sanddev slid into his grave, screaming incoherently for aid. He disappeared in moments.

  John Lewis Hugo and Gwawl yelled orders at the remaining panicked men. The demon wolves milled about, unsure what to do.

  “Keep bringing your pets to me!” Richard shouted. “They die!”

  “Like Elizabeth McAllister?” John Lewis Hugo returned at a distance, his voice oily. “Without a real man to protect her.”

  “What did you say?” the knight hissed ferociously.

  “Your dead wife!” John Lewis Hugo yelled. “Or have you forgotten her already?”

  Disbelief and anger filled Richard. The past he so wished he could forget came to the fore. He stepped ahead, leaving Bran against the granite outcropping, his rage pushing him to destroy the dozens of enemies between the two men.

  Arondight winked out of existence.

  Richard fought to reclaim the blade but it was too late. Maddened by the pain inflicted upon them and driven into motion by the disappearance of Arondight, the beasts flew forward in a frenzied rush, bounding between the animated trees to come straight at the knight. Richard charged forward, his anger overwhelming his faith and sense, until ice from the Cailleach pelted him backward.

  He brought his arms up to ward off the frozen assault of the witch—just as the hideous things swarmed him.

  Richard spun like a top and crashed into Bran before righting himself, dozens of shredded holes in his clothing and mewling bodies upon his back.

  The knight locked eyes with Bran.

  Revenge left as the knight knew he had to protect the boy. Arondight answered his call again, flames chasing its length. With a heave of desperation, the knight threw off his assailants, blasting the demon wolves still on him and around him, pushing them back. Fire hurtled from the sword in a concentrated arc, setting fire to wolves, horses, and the Templar Knights who fought to enter the fray.

  A sudden hole of possible freedom opened.

  “Run!” Richard screamed.

  Bran whirled to flee. He vaulted over the charred bodies of blasted men and animals, given an advantage by the consuming chaos. He was through the gap in a moment, tearing across the hillside with Richard a step behind, the angry shouts of pursuit quickened.

  “Where?” Bran cried.

  “Anywhere,” the knight shouted. “Just keep running, no matter what.”

  Dryvyd Wood passed in a blur. Guttural growls chased them. Richard ran all out, ignoring his wounds and not looking back, keeping away from the trees. Terror gave him powerful strides, enough heart to take him back to the portal.

  Before he knew it, claws clamped over his legs.

  Cradling Arondight, Richard went down into the forest mulch.

  As the knight blasted the demon wolf off of him, Bran was there, his face ashen. Grabbing Richard’s bloody arm and torso, the boy hauled the man to his feet and forced him to stumble away. Richard felt his adrenaline fading to haziness. Behind them demon wolves and Templars tore toward them, mere yards away.

  “Go!” Richard roared, pushing Bran.

  It was too late. In moments, Templar Knights circled the companions. The remaining demon wolves slinked across the ground, madness distorting the once human and wolf faces, but they did not attack.

  Weakness stealing over him, Richard fought the darkness. It was inevitable. The fight would be over soon.

  No longer able to will it into being, Arondight vanished.

  “Richard!” Bran screamed.

  Richard tried to stand but couldn’t.

  “It is over, McAllister,” John Lewis Hugo condemned from the safety of his steed.

  Breathing hard and weakened by loss of blood, Richard watched Bran pull a brown wooden box from his pant pocket. The knight thought he should know what the box signified but understanding had fled him like his wits. It didn’t matter anyway. Before Bran could do anything with it, the beasts swarmed them, the demon wolves’ eyes shining as they gripped him and Bran in bands of iron.

  The black angular bodies bore Richard down like a wave.

  The new day brought Bran cramped muscles, the odor of fresh horse dung, and a headache as strong as the leather bonds handcuffing him.

  He stirred from false sleep, the nightlong pain racking his body heralding the morning. Around him the camp awakened, warriors rising to gather their bedrolls and possessions, preparing to leave. Bran took small note of the activity, the misery of being shackled to a pole for the night foremost in his thoughts. Other than his pack and coat being taken from him, Bran had not been touched; John Lewis Hugo had ordered his men to ignore the two prisoners under penalty of death.

  Now with the golden aura of the rising sun spreading through the forest, Bran wondered anew what he had gotten himself into.

  He looked over at Richard. The knight lay nearby where the giant had dropped him, similarly bound but unconscious, his bloody clothing hiding the wounds beneath. Richard breathed shallow, and it was harder for Bran to discern than the night before.

  Trying to relieve a throbbing ache near his groin, Bran shifted his weight around on the pole. It didn’t help. Ever since the demon wolves had swarmed him, the pain had intensified.

  Worried he was wounded, Bran looked down.

  As before, there was nothing amiss.

  “Awake, are we.”

  Bran twisted to see John Lewis Hugo staring down at him.

  “You know,” the leader said. “None of this would be necessary if I felt you would listen to truth and not flee. Your knight lies there. Dying. Broken. Why? Because centuries of
lies precede this moment.”

  Bran ignored him as he had the previous night.

  “Still stubborn, I see,” John Lewis Hugo observed. “It is common in your world, from what I understand. The knight and his wizard in particular. Fools. Made a fool out of you also, did they not? They fail to tell you all. Does that not anger you?”

  Bran turned away. The man echoed Richard’s warnings.

  “That’s right,” John Lewis Hugo continued. “I see you know of what I speak. Myrddin Emrys hides much. There are factions everywhere, each trying to gain the advantage. The wizard represents one such group and he meddles, twists lies to truths to achieve an agenda. What does the wizard know of this world?”

  “He says your king is a tyrant,” Bran said finally.

  “And Myrddin is so wise, having not visited Annwn in centuries?”

  Bran didn’t know what to say. Merle had coerced Bran to enter Annwn and yet had not come, his intentions riddled with mystery. Merle had also left Bran with a knight incapable of maintaining his power. It raised questions he did not have the answers for.

  “I know you feel gratitude toward Myrddin Emrys,” John Lewis Hugo said. “It is only natural given your situation.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Everything,” John Lewis Hugo said. “Those who are lost can be found. Those who desire a path have it offered. There are those who ensure the sheep are shepherded by sheer will. Philip Plantagenet is one such shepherd. You are too if we have surmised rightly, if you are given the chance of course. The High King extends his welcome to you and offers a place at his side. No more sleeping out in the open; no more worrying about when your next meal will take place.”

  Bran flushed angrily. “You have been spying on me.”

  “We leave nothing to chance, Bran Ardall.”

  “If that is true, then why try to kill me?”

  “Is that what the knight and his master told you?” John Lewis Hugo clucked. “Do not be so quick to trust McAllister. He has failed a great many times in his life. Care he does not fail you.”

  “I’m here because a cu sith attacked me,” Bran said. “I wanted answers.”