The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

  Donato pulled their vantage back quickly.

  The feeling of being torn from the inside subsided to a dull ache.

  —I forgot what that is like, Donato. Philip is there?—

  —Most likely. He rarely leaves—

  —What about his right hand?—

  —John Lewis Hugo leaves often. Battles. Political intrigue. Pure sin—

  Just as Cormac was about to ask after Philip’s advisor, a spear entered his mind, shredding coherant thought.

  He wanted to scream. Malignant darkness cut into the thoughts of the Cardinal Vicar while encircling his throat with thick-roped malice. The Cardinal tossed up what strength he had but could not stop it, his mind choked by an unseen force. The migraine grew as if someone poured flaming gasoline on it. Never had the mirror inflicted this kind of pain in the past. His mind being torn apart, Cormac could feel Donato struggling too. He realized they were being attacked, an unfamiliar mind strangling both Cardinals, the glee from their assailant thick and repugnant. It was an evil Cormac had never encountered before, crushing in its wickedness, reveling in its power to destroy the men it had ensnared.

  Donato!

  Cormac tried to scream. Nothing happened.

  Then the pain vanished, the noose pried loose by Donato with warm feelings of love born of family for Cormac. Years of using the mirror giving him a small advantage, the Cardinal Seer gave his once-student a mental shove away from the evil entity toward their world—away from the harm that accosted them.

  Cormac tumbled free of the mirror.

  Time slowed, darkness absolute.

  When he became aware again, Cormac panted real air, trying to regain control over his muscles. He pushed his body up off of the cold stone of the floor and, opening his eyes, looked to Donato.

  Fear twisting his features, Ennio crouched over the Seer.

  Donato did not breathe.

  Cormac fought his weakness and crawled to the side of Donato. His irises, which had been white in life, were obsidian orbs staring at the ceiling, the leathery skin of his face shrunken against gaunt cheeks. Nothing stirred about the man—no rise and fall of his bony chest, no movement in his limbs.

  The Cardinal Seer was dead.

  Cormac held the empty shell of Donato Javier Ramirez. Tears swept away his vision. He choked back the urge to scream. Something in Annwn had done this. As a last gift, the Cardinal Seer spent the last of his life to throw Cormac out of the mirror and away from harm, embracing his own death so Cormac may live.

  Dark emotions rolled through Cormac and two certainties shook him.

  The Vatican was now blind to what transpired in Annwn. And Cormac had lost his longest and oldest friend.

  “What happened?” Ennio mewed.

  “You will do this thing I ask of you, Ennio,” Cormac murmured, ignoring the knight.

  Ennio swallowed hard. “I will, Cardinal Vicar.”

  Cormac nodded and clutched the dead Seer close. That night, he would call Finn Arne to his chamber and prepare him to become the instrument he needed. It would be easy. The captain burned for a chance to confront McAllister again. Once the son of Ardall was his, the Church would regain the Heliwr—with Cormac as his superior. When that happened, the person responsible for killing his oldest friend would suffer unlike anyone in the history of the world.

  Sorrow rolled down his cheeks.

  Donato was dead.

  And as when he learned of his murdered family, Cormac wept vengeance.

  Slowly gaining the Carn Cavall, Deirdre rode upon Willowyn with Bran at her back when the faces in the mist quizzically materialized, just as she knew they would.

  “Deirdre…?” Bran said uncertainly.

  “It is all right, Bran, they mean you no harm. They are merely curious.”

  “What are they?”

  “The Nharth,” Deirdre said. The Morrigan, Kegan, and the other fey members in their group ignored them. “The Nharth are friends. Even in the hottest days, they cloak the strongholds of the Tuatha de Dannan, a magical wall to keep the prying eyes of Caer Llion and elsewhere out. When they gather in one place, this fog forms.”

  Bran looked closer, now as curious as the Nharth. Deirdre just shook her head. The outworlder still sat behind her but his death grip about her waist had lessened, his safety finally realized. It had come to Deirdre long before, but in its place a pervasive sadness grew. Whereas the plains of Mochdrev Reach were vibrant, the forest now around her died slowly. Fir trees once thick and green were dusty and browned, the evil power of the Cailleach more pronounced. Fog swirled in and out of the branches and the path they were on, hiding most of the ill effects, the colors washed out, brushed over with gray paint. Few animals stirred around them. The heat of the day grew despite the fog, unnatural. Streams reduced to a trickle as they ran toward the plains and the Rhedewyr—all angles and powerful grace—drank from them at rest stops while their riders stretched legs and kept an eye on possible pursuit.

  Deirdre took a deep breath, free of Caer Llion and John Lewis Hugo—at least for the moment. She and her father had come to the Tuatha de Dannan city of Arendig Fawr two days earlier to discover what options lay before them. She had insisted on going; Lord Gerallt had agreed as long as he had final say in matters. The Morrigan had been gracious, offering what meager aid she could to those who would defy Philip Plantagenet.

  Lord Gerallt and Deirdre had been arguing about their course of action when the two outworlders had entered Annwn.

  The whispers from the Nharth began when Deirdre and Bran could no longer see a dozen feet away. The voices were not heard as much felt, a touch of breath on skin, a kiss of ghost lips on the nape of the neck. More faces came into view to disappear just as quickly. Deirdre sat her mount, still unused to the foreign appraisal. The Nharth came in all shapes and sizes, some with horns, single eyes, or almost-human features. More appeared in the misty shadows like smoke given substance, curious glances mingling with animosity. Hundreds visited but all vanished, the beings as insubstantial as the fog around them.

  “They are like ghosts,” Bran said. “Creepy.”

  “The Nharth are merely different,” she said. “As I said, nothing to worry about.”

  “Where are you taking me? And where is Richard?”

  “Arendig Fawr,” she said, looking at Bran. “The Queen’s capital. The knight is there right now, with healers. John Lewis Hugo and those halfbreeds hurt him deeply. I don’t know how or why he—or you for that matter—are still alive.”

  As the Nharth slowly dissipated into nothingness once more, Deirdre watched Bran rub his wrists where he had been bound. Crimson welts cut deep into them. He said nothing. Deirdre at least respected the boy, no matter where he came from. The outworlder had taken almost as severe a whipping as his companion. Bruises darkened his skin where scrapes and cuts did not, many of them probably lasting for weeks. Like the knight, he would also have to see a healer.

  “Ye seem to be faring better, lad,” Kegan said, his own horse a step beside Willowyn.

  “I am, thanks to being free.”

  “Hungry?”

  Before he could reply, Kegan tossed him a green apple from his sack and handed him a knife. Deirdre hid her amusement at how voracious Bran began cutting into the fruit.

  “Gonna cut his thumb off for sure,” Snedeker snickered from the air.

  “Quiet, you,” Deirdre chided.

  “It will take days to heal those bruises, I think,” Kegan said, pointing at Bran’s wounds and ignoring the fairy. “The Dark One wanted ye badly, it seems. Thankfully the Morrigan kept ye from him at all costs.”

  Deirdre caught the Queen of the Tuatha de Dannan looking their way. She was a tall woman, armored in blood-spattered onyx plate that appeared lighter than it probably was, her limbs lithe, raven black hair pulled back from white cheekbones. Deirdre had only met her twice now. More concerned by their safety, the Morrigan had not yet spoken to Bran. She was a soul made of steel, the wisdom of ages in her u
nlined face. Power radiated from her being and even from a distance it made Deirdre feel small and inconsequential.

  “She took a great risk ye know,” Kegan said, also noticing the attention.

  “What do you mean?” Bran questioned.

  “We are the hunted, lad. Have been for ages. The Dark One and his ilk have warred and spread from your world throughout this one, and the peace we desired so long ago—the peace we wanted to find upon fleeing your world—has become a wisp of smoke. Now they control all but these mountains and even the weather. We strike, we plunder, we survive, and we disappear to do it again. Saving ye and the knight exposed us. We will have to watch paths for months now, even more than already done.”

  “Why would she care?” Bran asked, perplexed. “Richard and I are nothing to you.”

  “Why does anyone do what they do?” Deirdre noted, shrugging. “Because they feel it to be the right thing, of course. And usually advantageous.”

  “I read about a Morrigan once,” Bran said. “In my world.”

  “From what I understand, we are a source of false tales in your world,” Kegan laughed. “Time has erased us like a footprint in a stream. But I am real, am I not?”

  “All too real,” Bran replied.

  Kegan grinned. “First time ye’ve ridden, eh?”

  “It is. The pain in my ass grows worse every time I have to get back on.”

  “Then walk,” Deirdre said, grinning.

  “It will become easier,” Kegan said, smiling at the redhead. “Imagine my sons and I. We have to climb the mane like a rope in order to mount the Rhedewyr.”

  “With my luck lately I’ll fall off and break my neck,” Bran said.

  “Where there is a will, young Bran. Where there is a will,” Kegan said. “Getting thrown is not the worst that could happen. My father told a tale of my grandfather’s grandfather who, in his drunken dotage, fell off his horse and lost a leg. The hoof severed it right off.” Kegan made a quick slicing motion. “Stay on and ye will not have that problem.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Kegan?” Bran asked.

  “Always, lad.”

  “What are you exactly?”

  The Horsemaster looked quizzically at Deirdre and burst with a loud guffaw.

  “I am what I am,” Kegan chuckled. “I imagine ye want to know I am a clurichaun.”

  Bran frowned. “Is that like a leprechaun?”

  “No, no, nothing of the sort!” Kegan said indignantly. “No, I actually work for my bed and meals, lad. Lazy imps the leprechauns, the lot o’ them.”

  Willowyn brought Deirdre and Bran to the Morrigan, who had decided to wait on her own steed at the side of the trail, her piercing blue eyes never deviating from them. Deirdre knew Bran felt the power of the Queen too; the outworlder shrank a bit as they grew closer.

  “Kegan, ride ahead,” the Morrigan said simply, her lips thin.

  “My Queen,” the Horsemaster said with a nod, leaving.

  “Are you well?” she asked both Deirdre and Bran.

  “Better,” Deirdre responded for both of them. “Thank you.”

  “I apologize for not speaking with you sooner,” the Queen said, looking only at Bran. “There were…matters of safety and the wounded to consider. It is important we cover our passage fully and I oversee it personally. To make a mistake would be dire indeed.” She then noted Bran’s wounds. “You have been injured but you are strong—more so than you probably think. Like the Lady of Mochdrev Reach here. It takes such people to survive, what you have and what is to come. Has your ride been comfortable?”

  “It doesn’t matter, as long as I am not tied up,” Bran said.

  “Very true,” the Morrigan agreed. “No one likes to be under the yoke, do they, Deirdre?”

  “Aye, Queen.”

  “You are taking me to Arendig Fawr?” Bran asked.

  “Worry not that you have exchanged one captor for another. You are as free as the birds in the trees and can leave at any time, with our helpful guidance of course,” she stressed. “We are indeed going to Arendig Fawr. Those of the Tuatha de Dannan who will not live beneath foreign rule are spread out over these mountains in conclaves to not give our foe the chance at a single death strike. It is in this way we assure our way of life. Arendig Fawr is the center of our people, for the moment at least.”

  “And where did the other outworlder go?” Deirdre asked.

  “Assuredly Aife has already made it to Arendig Fawr and McAllister is being treated as I speak to you.”

  “So you know him?” Bran asked, clearly shocked.

  “Never met him,” the Queen admitted. “But the Yn Saith are known to us.”

  “Then why save us? If anything, we have endangered you all.”

  The mien of the Morrigan darkened. “Innocents shall not suffer under Philip, no matter who they are. And the vaunted High King of Annwn has interest in you that goes beyond mere curiosity. If he wanted you dead, you would be. He captured you for a reason and it could not have boded well for his enemies. That means the fey living in these mountains. That means me.”

  “I see,” Bran said, looking uncertainly at Deirdre. “I was told by John Lewis Hugo the king wanted to share his side of things and then let me go.”

  “Wanted to talk to you while shackled to that Fomorian, no doubt,” the Morrigan scoffed. “Sent the Houndmaster and the Cailleach, two of his most powerful, after you? Aye, sounds like to me Philip had a lot to speak on.”

  “How did you find us?” Bran asked.

  “We have spies who watch those who leave Caer Llion,” the Morrigan answered. “Knew John Lewis Hugo leaving meant importance. But Arrow Jack also warned us. The merlin is quite resourceful. Even now he is helping to watch our back trail to ensure we are not being followed.”

  “You understand him?”

  “One must listen to hear,” the Morrigan said.

  “Sounds familiar,” Bran said. “Merle said that to me once.”

  “Myrddin Emrys,” the Morrigan sighed. “A wiser man you will not meet. You do well to listen. He has aided the Tuatha de Dannan over the ages. It is hard finding allies in this war but he has ever been one.”

  Deirdre looked to the Queen but didn’t say anything. The redhead had spoken to the Morrigan at length about Mochdrev Reach joining the cause of the Tuatha de Dannan. It had caused a rift with her father but it was necessary. The Queen had offered protection for a time but there was more to discuss after saving the outworders. At least the Morrigan was open to adding allies, especially human ones, and that gave Deirdre hope.

  “I overheard many of the men around Lord Gwawl say they don’t agree with Philip,” Bran offered. “They all hate the demon wolves. Perhaps you have more allies than you know?”

  “Gwawl,” the Queen growled. “Always a snake, that one. He sides with power rather than honor, what is right. It is hard to see those we once called friends side with an enemy who wishes our destruction.”

  “Mochdrev Reach is an ally of the Tuatha de Dannan,” Deirdre finally spoke up with a certainty that surprised even her.

  “That remains to be seen, Lady Deirdre. Your sire has yet to make that clear,” the Morrigan said. She turned back to Bran. “The last true ally we had came from your world—the last Heliwr.”

  “The last Heliwr?”

  “The Unfettered Knight,” the Morrigan said. “The last being Charles Ardall.”

  “My father,” Bran echoed. “You knew him? Knew I was his son?”

  “Aye. Arrow Jack said as much,” the Queen said. “Charles Ardall visited these same mountains several times in the past.”

  Deirdre had not heard anything about Bran’s parentage. The knowledge surprised her. It seemed the appearance of the knight and Bran could not therefore be happenstance. She didn’t know why they were in Annwn, but if the knight survived his wounds there was a chance they would consider joining the Seelie Court against Caer Llion.

  And help sway Lord Gerallt to join Arendig Fawr.
/>   “You favor your father a great deal,” the Morrigan said. “In many ways.”

  “I didn’t know him well. He died when I was young.”

  “He was strong and kind, a rare man who never made a mockery of the world, the kind who leaves it a better place than when he entered it. I know very few I can say that about, but he was one of them.”

  “Why did he come here?”

  “Why does any Heliwr come into Annwn? To make amends.”

  “I don’t know what that means, to be a Heliwr,” Bran confessed.

  “I see. The wizard is playing the game close to his heart,” the Morrigan said. “The Heliwr is the Unfettered Knight—not chained to govern any portal between the two worlds. Whenever a crossing occurs from either world, the Heliwr is responsible for setting it right again if one of the Yn Saith fail.”

  “Well, who is the Heliwr now?” Deirdre asked.

  “There is not one.”

  “So my father…hunted people down, then?” Bran asked. “Like a bounty hunter?”

  “Aye, and when other mischief transpired,” the Queen replied. “But now is not the time to speak of such things. Deirdre has no wish to hear a history lesson, methinks. We can make Arendig Fawr before nightfall. There is much we must discuss in the presence of McAllister and the remnants of the Seelie Court. You are safe for now. Relax and enjoy the ride.”

  The Morrigan trotted away but turned back suddenly. “These demon wolves you speak of. Did it sound like there were more of them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I see,” the Queen said.

  With the Morrigan leading, the group continued through the rugged terrain of the Carn Cavall. Deirdre guided Willowyn as a quiet Bran finished his apple. She wondered about the outworlders again. The visions her shade mother had shared included her tie to some outworlder. Could Bran be the one her mother had spoken about? Could Richard McAllister? She did not know. The two had come into Annwn for unknown reasons. Were those reasons linked to her life? Could her mother be that clairvoyant? Whatever the case, events had gone tragically awry for them. Was John Lewis Hugo tracking them? Was Richard dying? What would Bran do if the knight did die? The Morrigan seemed fairly certain the knight would recover. If he did, Deirdre wondered how the outworlders would shape her future.