Philip drew the sword his father had given him but instead kicked violently out, slashing the blind woman along her cheek with the heel of his boot. Initially stunned and grunting with pain, she crawled to the lake and lapped at the water.
The wound healed immediately, a scar forming until even that disappeared beneath the dirty, blood-smeared face.
“They learn quickly,” Philip observed.
“Even dogs can learn at a rapid rate, my king,” John pointed out.
Philip supposed they could. “The witch watches them still?”
“Through some art of her own design, yes,” John answered. “The fulfillment of your plan is upon us. The contraptions work splendidly.”
Philip picked one of thousands from the cavern floor, observing it. It was almost as large as a horse stomach, several pieces of cowhide stitched tightly together. Two straps hung limply from the leather sack while a cork closed off a long reed tube.
“The army will be invincible,” Philip breathed.
“It will indeed, my king.”
“What of the last few regiments?”
“The last batches are growing. The griffins currently roost nearby the portal and the houndmaster curtails the bloodlust of the wolves with some staff fashioned by the witch. Even the death rate among the maulls has dropped considerably, and many are growing to destructive maturity. With your lords having gathered and the efforts of the witch coming to fruition, your army is on the cusp of completion.”
Philip had waited a long time to hear John say those words.
Chilling screams of lust echoed from a staircase leading to the breeding pens in another cavern. The foul odor Philip had barely grown accustomed to wafted into the Mhydew from that dark exit.
“The Cailleach enjoys her work,” John observed.
“Too much,” Philip said with distaste.
“It is the only way,” John assured. “Turning sin against the sinners has a certain poetic justice to it, do you not think?”
Philip didn’t answer. He hated the abominations almost as much as he needed them.
“My king?”
“I want the witch at our side, John,” Philip said. “I want her to be in full control of the army we have built.”
“Whispers and rumors already swirl surrounding the halfbreeds,” John said. “My foray into Dryvyd Wood set the men under Lord Gwawl at unease. Rumors have spread. I think it wise to hide the creatures as long as possible.”
“That is why the witch is so important,” Philip said. “There will come a time when we will unleash the full army onto the world and those same men will be thanking it. Until then…”
“I will speak to the Cailleach now.”
“Watch the plains. If Ardall and the knight appear, I want to know about it. And ensure the security of Caer Llion and our supply train. To be cut off from the castle while battling in the world of our birth would be unfortunate indeed.” Philip paused, looking at the center of the lake. “See to it this room is more securely guarded as well. Place Templar Knights you trust implicitly. I want nothing to go awry, and our power here must not be disturbed or stolen as we transition from this world to that one. To lose the relic would be a great loss. Your head, in fact.”
John nodded, seemingly unafraid of the threat.
“Make it happen,” Philip said sternly. “Failure is not an option.”
John bowed and vanished into the breeding caverns.
Philip watched his adviser leave. John had changed. When they had been young in that first century after imprisoning Arawn, John had been strong but sanguine, able to see the positive in any negative, able to take advantage of it. But over the years he had become darker, less than the friend Philip remembered. The hardship of ruling, no doubt. The earlier anger that had fed Philip now faded. He would speak to his old friend about it soon. John deserved any pleasure he desired; Philip would make sure his oldest advisor took advantage of their spoils.
The slaves on the shore continued their slow task.
Philip grinned.
He was going to succeed where his family had failed.
The kitchens of Caer Llion would be waking soon, their rising bread and simmering stews filling the needs of his people. He decided his own needs could wait. He would visit the Cathedral and pray for strength and victory before breaking his fast. He wanted to cleanse his soul. It was time the lords, after all of these centuries, discovered exactly what he planned, but he wished to do it with the filth of the Mhydew washed from him in all ways.
Philip raised the sword he had carried all of his adult days. Exquisite care had gone into Hauteclere, the fabled blade of Olivier de Vienne, one of the peers of Charlemagne. It had been in the Plantagenet family for centuries. The crystal embedded in the hilt glimmered at him where it met the golden curving cross guard, the torchlight slicking the blade with blood.
Philip thought that appropriate.
Standing in the presence of the relic that had made his existence eight centuries after his birth possible, he was reminded of the appeal Saint Peter had made to the Gentiles—to bring them within the fold of the Church and teach them the grace of the Lord.
Philip would do the same to the heathens of two worlds.
And sit upon one throne forever.
With sunshine warming his cheek and a hand shaking his shoulder, Richard broke the surface from an ocean of dreams into a birdsong-laden morning.
He opened bleary eyes.
“Knight McAllister,” Kegan breathed, the clurichaun staring worriedly down on him. “You took some waking. I was about to get the others.”
Richard blinked, sitting up. “Where are we?”
“From what I can tell, a glen of sorts. One with a waterfall.”
Morning light streamed in through the eastern trees behind the clurichaun, blinding the knight with its intensity. Cool air mingled with the scent of dewy grass and churned dark earth. Muffled thunder came from the waterfall. For the first time Richard became aware of the tree above him. Branching out to all sides, the gnarled limbs of the hawthorn bore dark green leaves that absorbed the virgin morning light to shimmer with vitality. The trunk twisted from the black earth, sturdy and strong. Small pink flowers budded in the canopy; sharp thorns two inches long burgeoned like knives along every branch.
It was beautifully symmetrical except where a knob of healed wood existed, the branch having once grown there gone.
Bran lay nearby as well, also beginning to wake.
Richard took a deep breath, still unsure about what was going on. Then everything about the previous night came back to him in a sudden rush—tracking Bran through the forest; the Lightbrands and their beautiful dance; the ancient, lilting voice in his head asking if he was prepared to do what was needed; and his transformation into a tree that had also wrapped around Bran.
Richard bolted upright, scared he’d see bark for skin or tangled roots for feet.
All appeared right—two legs in pants, two feet in boots. He stared at his hands; no leaves sprouted, no thorns existed. He breathed a bit easier.
He felt normal.
“Ye are fine, McAllister,” Kegan affirmed with a bushy questioning eyebrow.
“How did you find me?”
“The fairy there,” Kegan pointed out.
Snedeker sat upon a large fern several dozen feet nearer the eddying pools of the brook, the frond bobbing under his minimal weight. Richard had forgiven the fairy due to his bravery when the bodach attacked, but he still did not trust the fey creature. With knees brought up and supporting his elbows, Snedeker stared at Richard as though he were a puzzle.
“Bran, how do you feel?” the knight asked.
The boy sat up, stood, stretched, and walked around the tree, frowning up into its limbs. Horror suddenly transformed his face.
“Yes, it happened. All of it,” Richard growled. “I told you not to trust Merle.”
“I turned into a tree!”
“Yes, you did. And you took me with you.
Keeping you safe has become a dangerous bit of business, one I’m not happy about. Damnable magic,” he said, wiping dirt from his clothing. “Where are the others, Kegan?”
“Waiting on us.”
“What happened last night?” Bran asked wildly, looking from the clurichaun to the knight and back again.
“Ye tell me,” Kegan snuffled. “Ye were both laying here beneath this hawthorn when I arrived, snoring so loudly I didn’t even need your merlin or fairy to find ye.”
Arrow Jack screeched from his perch on one of the lower limbs, his eyes piercing.
“That tree wasn’t here last night!” Bran said.
“Are ye sure you are okay, lad?”
“I’m serious.”
“Serious like a heart attack, I suppose,” Richard said. “Call the Dark Thorn, Bran.”
“What do you mean?”
Richard wanted to smack the boy. He saw fear in Bran’s eyes but excitement about what calling the staff could mean. He was the Heliwr now—it was what the boy wanted—and it was best to prepare him for any further attack the bodach or Philip made. Playing dumb would help no one and just infuriate Richard all the more.
“I’m sure it works like Arondight, Bran,” the knight said. “Calm yourself. Close your eyes if you think it will help. Take time to reach out with your mind and soul toward a staff of dark wood, about your height, and will it into your hand.”
Bran closed his eyes. He held out his hand as if he was going to grasp something. After a few moments where only the birds sang, a frown crossed his face.
He opened his eyes.
“Nothing.”
“Hmm,” Richard said. “For some calling a weapon is not easy. Think about it while we ride to Caer Glain this morning and when we stop for the night we will try again. We cannot spend all day training you. There are far greater events we must deal with and the first is Lord Fafnir and his coblynau.”
“Aye, there are,” Kegan said.
Now that he was more awake, Richard took note of Kegan. Sorrow suffused the caretaker of the Rhedewyr. Dark hollows hung beneath reddened eyes, but it was the overwhelming weight in his every movement that punctuated his pain. He had spent the night burying his son, holding vigil, and despite wanting to give the short man a few words of solace, Richard no longer knew how to broach such topics.
The knight knew no words would ever be enough.
As they returned to the others, Richard thought more keenly on the previous night. The boy was now the Heliwr, for better or worse. Merle was not to blame. It had been Bran’s choice and he had to own it now. But something did not feel right about what had transpired in the glen. The Erlking’s beasts had not attacked as Richard would have thought; they ringed the waterfall in a half circle, almost like they were curious. There was something else, though, that bothered him. At the moment when Bran had transformed into the hawthorn and taken the knight with him, Richard had felt out of place, as if he had lost a part of himself and later regained it.
None of it made sense.
Then again, when it came to magic, it rarely did.
“I know why ye came up here, lad,” Kegan said behind them, as the path dipped down toward the trail where the others waited.
The words hung in the air between the clurichaun and Bran.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Bran murmured sadly.
“I know ye are,” Kegan said. “Connal was a fine son. He has become part of a broader fabric, one that serves other ends.”
“Richard told you why I came up here?”
“No, but it is written on ye as plain as the day.”
“Then you know why I had to come here, accept responsibility,” Bran said.
“Connal was brave,” Kegan said, shaking his head. “He was the type of clurichaun who never would have been able to live with himself if he had not tried to help ye. Of that ye can be sure. He died doing the right thing, protecting the Rhedewyr and others. It was not your fault.” The darkness around his eyes intensified. “I admire how ye feel, I really do, lad, and there is no better way for ye to revere his sacrifice. Connal died honorably. But life takes winding paths into shadow at times and nothing can be done about it. It is enough for a father sick with grief to know, and ye owe him—and me—nothing.”
“Life is no excuse, Kegan,” Bran said. “I should have been able to protect myself, should have been able to help and stop what happened from happening.”
“Should is not part of life,” Richard argued over his shoulder. “It is what it is.”
“Indeed,” Kegan agreed.
Snedeker flew from tree limb to tree limb, never alighting for very long, oddly ignoring Bran, his face screwed up in thought. Richard did not know what the fairy was up to, but at least the fey creature could no longer try to steal the Paladr.
“Fairy, what happened last night?” Richard asked.
Long moments passed. Snedeker lightly touched down on a boulder in front of them and stopped to stare at Richard and Bran, looking so confused it was almost comical to the knight.
“Well, fairy?” Richard said.
“You became a tree, jackwagon,” Snedeker answered, looking at both of them. “What do you think happened?”
“What happened afterward?”
“Nothing,” the fairy said. “The tree just stood there beneath the stars. The Lightbrands were gone. The forest was silent. I hid from an owl that landed on you, but that was it.”
“Well how did we become ourselves again?”
“How the brimquick should I know!” Snedeker replied with annoyance as they walked by his boulder. “When the sun rose I went in search of the clurichaun. Got back and you were there on the ground asleep, no longer part of the tree.”
Richard grunted.
Apparently their ignorance would continue.
By the time they reached the others midmorning had come, the day warming but still dark from the previous day’s deaths. Kegan left to prepare his belongings and those of his dead son for the continued journey, leaving Richard and Bran exposed to multiple sets of eyes peering at them with scrutiny. Deirdre changed a bandage on Willowyn in the middle of the clearing, curiosity filling her emerald eyes. Lugh frowned where he sat sharpening his blade, the side of his face bruised, while the four remaining hellyll were silent. All had bruises and cuts, clothing torn or armor dented by the bodach.
“I owe you all an explanation,” Richard said after he had gathered his own things and mounted upon Lyrian. The rest of the company listened. “The bodach is more than likely still following us. Such Unseelie creatures are hard to kill. Once one gains a scent, either it or its prey dies.” He paused. “Last night, Bran left the campsite to embrace the calling that had once been his father’s own. He succeeded in enacting the magic. I went with him to ensure his safety. That is past now, and we must focus on the future.”
“Is he the Heliwr then?” Deirdre asked.
“He is,” the knight said. “But he is young and knows nothing of the craft. He will be as he was before, mostly helpless, at least until I can teach him a few things at our next stop of Caer Glain. We will hope Lord Fafnir at least respects the Heliwr by name, along with my blade.”
Bran looked away, clearly angry.
Richard ignored him. “Are we ready to go?”
“Three of us are dead, Knight of the Yn Saith,” Lugh said. “Two of my guards and Connal O’Farn. Is this quest not for naught? I have to wonder if the lords in question will adhere to the request of the Queen just because two knights tell them they must?”
The Captain of the Long Hand pinned Richard’s own worry.
“Death cannot slow us, let alone stop us,” he said simply. “They will join the Seelie Court. They must. It is up to us all to make that happen. Otherwise Annwn will be lost.”
The others grudgingly nodded as they gained their own mounts.
The morning passed uneventfully. The horizon came into view as they climbed, the elevation thinning the trees of the mountains
ide. Lyrian took a slow but steady gait even as cliffs encroached on the group. The heights were dizzying, but Richard ignored them, focused on the task at hand. Evidence of melted glacial fingers existed at every turn, highlighting barren rock and soil. As the sun climbed into the sky, Lugh inexorably led the group farther into the wilds of the Snowdon, and Kegan, one horse heavy, watched the rear with Deirdre and Snedeker. No one spoke. The only sound was the clop of the Rhedewyr as they gained the heights. Richard found himself using the time to form the argument he would need to convince Lord Fafnir and Lord Latobius to join the Seelie Court once more.
“Who are the coblynau?” Bran asked Deirdre, who rode just behind him.
“Mountain dwellers, miners of wealth,” she answered. “They are a bit taller than clurichauns and are broader through the chest and arms. Few have visited Mochdrev Reach in my lifetime or Arendig Fawr from what I understand. They tend to keep to themselves.”
“They sound like dwarves to me.”
“I do not know that word,” Kegan said with a frown.
“A fairy tale creature, always mentioned with elves and orcs and trolls in our world,” Bran said. “Why are the coblynau necessary? No offense, but men of short stature have a harder time reaching their enemies.”
“We are good fighters, Bran,” Kegan snickered, the darkness in his eyes leaving for a moment of mirth. He patted the knives belted at his side. “The coblynau are excellent fighters. With maces and axes, they can decimate enemies as a warm knife cuts through cream. Being in the dark depths, they work hard to bring the ores and jewels of the mountain depths to Annwn. Moving all that rock and equipment builds strong statures, no matter the size. They might not be able to run very fast, but put an armed line of them together and they are nigh unstoppable.”
“Not to mention we need their iron,” Richard interjected.
“Why is that?” Bran asked. “Govannon requires it if we are to be equipped properly for war.”
“I had always thought the fey hated iron or steel.”
“Ha!” Lugh laughed. “We are not the Unseelie Court. Those of the shadows hate it.”
Richard shook his head. The boy had a lot to learn about Annwn.
The Dark Thorn Page 26
