The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

  “No, we need the coblynau,” Kegan continued. “The magic of the Mastersmith may be able to produce countless weapons and armor in quickened fashion, but he still needs the ore of the mountain to outfit the army we will need to defeat Caer Llion.”

  “Why can’t the coblynau see they are needed for this war?” Bran asked.

  “Lord Fafnir,” Kegan snorted. “He is very old—one of the eldest of the lords, set in his ways, a curmudgeon who thinks nothing outside his mountain. They trade when they have need but beyond that they prefer not to be seen.”

  “How will we even gain an audience with him?” Lugh asked, pressing his previous point. “If Lord Fafnir can defy the Queen, how?”

  “A knight is a powerful ally,” Kegan said. “The two knights both will intrigue Lord Fafnir. He has always been infatuated in the mysterious and unattainable. The perfect gem. The perfect gwyddbwyll game. The perfect meal. Bran and Richard are different and Lord Fafnir will be intrigued by that.”

  “Also,” Richard added. “I possess Arondight.”

  “True,” Kegan said. “Lord Fafnir owes fealty to the blade.”

  “I guess I just don’t understand why this Fafnir believes he is safe,” Bran said.

  “Do you think an army can plod this trail?” Richard grunted. “That’s why he is unwilling to get involved. He believes he is safe, no matter the size of the force against him. In a way, he protects his people because to send them from the Snowdon would lead to their deaths. But he is shortsighted. There will come a time when Caer Llion sends the Templar Knights and whatever else he has bred into these mountains. The warriors of Lord Fafnir will not be able to resist that kind of force. The last of the Tuatha de Dannan will be destroyed.”

  “Indeed,” Kegan said.

  “In our world, there are several leaders who shirk any responsibility when disputes arise,” Bran offered. “They believe it wise to not take sides in war.”

  “Wisdom has nothing to do with position,” Richard noted.

  Noon became afternoon, the air lukewarm with a hint of fall that would never come. In the distance, glacial snowfields blinded the company, the remnants of a long-lost winter slowly shrinking into pockets of memory.

  Arrow Jack landed on a dwarf pine nearby and screeched.

  “We are close to the entrance,” Lugh notified Richard.

  The trail took a sharp turn upward through a copse of disfigured, wind-blown pine and fir trees into a landscape strewn with boulders as large as houses. Nothing moved, the air stale. The clop of hooves on dry-packed earth echoed from all sides. They wove single-file into the heart of the mountains, the peaks of the Snowdon like crooked skyscrapers, the path become barely wide enough for the large Rhedewyr to pass. Richard remained alert for whatever was to come.

  As the path leveled, they rode into a broad circle of grass dotted with clover. Ancient rhododendrons burst from the soil, forming a perimeter forest of their own, displaying dazzling clusters of flowers in all colors. At the back of the meadow, a glimmering granite rock face lay bare to the sky like a monolith, dwarfing the company from Arendig Fawr.

  Staring darkly at them from the granite, a rectangular hole like a mouth yawned mystery, its depths lost to the sunny day.

  Richard ignored the doorway, staring instead at the giant.

  A man as tall as a Fomorian sat upon a shorter boulder next to the entrance, leaning against the rock shelf and snoring with enormous gulps of air.

  Puzzled, Richard sat Lyrian unmoving, but Lugh, whose eyes could have pierced steel, brought Areadbhar to bear. The enormous man ignored the newcomers, sleeping the day away, his meaty arms folded over a barrel chest, the long stained and soiled coat he had wrapped about him a patchwork of rotting cloth poorly stitched and holes not yet given the treatment. A wealth of bushy yellow-red hair sprang from his head in matted clumps and a beard impaled by twigs and leaves clung to a jaw shaped like a brick. The sour stench of unwashed body emanated from him. He was a monstrous man with an evil, thieving look to him; even mounted on the high back of Lyrian, Richard felt dwarfed by the sleeper and feared what he might be capable of.

  Richard dismounted and, leaving Lyrian to Kegan, walked toward the opening.

  “Do not enter.”

  Richard stopped, turning toward the giant. The rise and fall of the man’s chest did not deviate, but the snoring had stopped.

  “Llassar Llaes Gyngwyd,” Lugh growled, gripping Areadbhar tighter.

  Blue eyes slid open, bloodshot and yellowed.

  “Lugh of de short spear.”

  “We wish you no harm, watchman,” Richard greeted.

  Llassar barked a laugh and leaned forward, his massive girth broadening in the sunshine. “Ah see whoeveh ye are, yeh’ve got a pet warrior wit ye.”

  Lugh darkened, his fair coloring burning. “Llassar, you—”

  “Ah oughta kill ye dehr and now,” Llassar said, eyes blazing.

  “Areadbhar awaits,” Lugh answered firmly. “What you did in Arendig Fawr has no place in this world. The Queen should have ended you right there and then.”

  “Fault lies with ye and yer hellyll,” Llassar rumbled. “Ah only wanted a few days of meals and ale.”

  The warriors moved to the forefront of the group, alongside their leader. Lugh did not deviate. “And you got that. Then after getting drunk on Govannon’s ale, brawled with your wife until several homes were destroyed and three people were severely hurt. You are welcome no more for good reason.”

  “And dey shoulda minded der own business!”

  “Silence!” Richard roared. He looked back to the giant. “Your petty arguing has no place at this moment. Where is your wife?”

  “Gone ahuntin’,” Llassar said, snorting phlegm and spitting it in front of Lugh’s horse. “Should be back nigh, ah’d wager.”

  “We seek audience with Lord Fafnir,” Richard said.

  “Be awaitin’ a long time den. Fafnir has no wish to see ye.”

  “How can you be certain of that?” Richard asked. “Lord Fafnir should have been notified of a summons by letter days ago. Surely you saw to this request.”

  “Ye mean dis letter?”

  The giant pulled the rotting husk of a bird from the interior of his jacket. On its leg, a wound piece of parchment dangled freely.

  “That one, yes,” Richard said. “We have come—”

  “Fafnir wishes to be left alone,” Llassar grunted. “Ah make sure dat happens.”

  “Left alone?”

  “Aye,” Llassar said, standing with a deftness that defied his size. He blotted out the sun; he towered over everyone. “Left alone.” Silence captured the moment. Richard did not move. Battle infused the air, the tension thickening every moment.

  “Kegan, please tie up the horses,” Richard requested simply.

  “Leaving me food, ye fool?” Llassar grinned. “Horse has a greasy taste ah favor.”

  “I was hoping to not do this.”

  “Do what, leader of dolts?” the big man snickered.

  “This.”

  Richard murmured ancient words beneath his breath. With their cadence bearing lilting Welsh, warmth crept from Richard’s chest as he tightened his control over them. He called on the grasses of the world. He called for a trap. He sent his energy into the ground through his feet, hoping it would be enough.

  Llassar did not move, confusion heavy on his face.

  As soon as words came, they vanished into a fading whisper.

  “Let us go then,” Richard ordered the group.

  The rest were hesitant, but Richard strode forward, passing the enormous man as if he were a harmless tree. Llassar made a move to block the knight but instead fell to his knees when his feet refused to free themselves from the ground.

  “My apologies, Llassar Llaes Gyngwyd,” Richard said, waving the others forward.

  “Wizard!” Llassar roared ineffectually. He fought to free himself from the grasses of the meadow that had entwined his boots.

  “Keg
an, see that the horses are watered,” Richard commanded. “We will be gone from here by sunset, if I have my way. Deirdre, see that fairy stays here. No reason to tempt the ire of Fafnir.”

  “I have no desire to see that old wrinkled arse anyway,” Snedeker said.

  The clurichaun rounded up each horse as the rider dismounted.

  “What if the bodach returns?” Kegan asked.

  Richard frowned before eyeing Llassar. “Hope this ruffian is as strong as he looks.”

  “Rue de day, wizard!” Llassar shouted as the group filed passed the guardian. “Ah will not help ye, no mattah what beastie comes!”

  Ignoring the vehemence sent his way, Richard strode toward the maw of the mountain and vanished into its warrens. Bran and the others followed. Darkness swallowed the portal knight instantly as the cooler confines of the mountain wrapped around him. He wondered how they would navigate the interior of the Snowdon, when soft white illumination spread along the wall and ground, growing with every foot placed on the rock. The tunnel broadened as it traveled, its flat floor dry but covered in a film of dust few footsteps had unsettled. Flecks like embedded jewels in the granite walls caught and refracted the light, dazzling in beauty. The air was clean, without taint or staleness. It was hard for Richard to fathom the dedication or ability it would take to carve the corridor from the living rock of the mountain.

  After what he could only surmise as being near a quarter of a mile, flickering torches cast their yellow-orange glow ahead additional light for those who lived nearby.

  “Someone is home,” Deirdre whispered.

  “Let’s hope that someone is nice,” Bran interjected.

  “Stay close to me,” Richard ordered, his deep voice echoing. “We are unwelcome guests, from appearances.”

  “Lord Fafnir would never think to attack this delegation,” Lugh said.

  “Still, things are not right here,” Richard warned. “When and why did he begin to refuse communication with the Morrigan? Why set the brute Llassar at his gate? Remain vigilant.”

  The tunnel ended at a much larger, octagonal chamber with high ceilings supported by four large columns. Eight torches set high over long, jewel-encrusted mirrors illuminated eight stone chairs in the middle of the room, each lined with dark purple cushions and circling a fire pit filled with long-dead ash. Vases devoid of flowers sat on several tables, a thin layer of dust and gossamer cobwebs over all. With the exception of the maintained torches, it was a room unused for quite some time.

  The footsteps of his companions echoed in the stillness.

  “Beautiful room,” Bran acknowledged.

  “The Hannerch Hall,” Lugh said. “For visiting lords from afar to refresh themselves before meeting the Lord of Caer Glain.”

  “Not much of that happening now,” Richard observed. “Lugh, do you know the way to the court and throne room?”

  “I believe the throne room is to the left, Knight McAllister.”

  Richard ventured into the dark passage. He suppressed a shiver. Being in the depths, closed in by shadows and rock, left his skin crawling. With the Cadarn, the sunshine of the day had been close at hand if he so chose; in the Seattle tunnels of the Underground Tour, the street had been right above his head through a narrow slab of sidewalk concrete. In the depths of the Snowdon, however, the mountain closed a fist about him. His skin prickling, he realized to be lost in the tunnels of Caer Glain would be a death sentence for all who did not have the passages memorized.

  And he didn’t.

  “Halt. Now.”

  At the unfamiliar baritone voice, Richard spun just as the rock of the tunnel came alive.

  Double spearheads, their tips glinting in the weak light, pointed at Bran’s neck, bare inches from killing the boy. Richard froze; Bran surrendered his hands. Even as Deirdre, Lugh and the hellyll drew their blades, men short like Kegan but far thicker through the shoulders wormed their way out of hidden crevices in the walls, the holes invisible to those not looking for them.

  “Put your weapons away,” the apparent leader said. He had a grizzled appearance, a black bushy beard shot through with gray. Plates of armor sewn into chain mail covered his frame. “Or the human lad in the middle dies.”

  Four other guards stepped into the corridor, similarly armed.

  “You, at the front. You trespass. Why?” the old guard questioned Richard, never taking his eyes off of Bran. “Answer truth or your companion dies.”

  “We mean to share counsel with Lord Fafnir, wise leader of Caer Glain,” Richard said quickly. “We mean you and the colblynau no harm.”

  “That is for me to decide,” the coblynau rumbled. “What is your business with Lord Fafnir? You are not dead only because of the Arendig Fawr armor your hellyll wear.”

  “We bring a request and news from the Queen.”

  “That may or may not be true,” the guard said. “The Queen is rarely spoken of in these halls. It is a crime to do so now, punishable by death. Regardless, you are here uninvited and have entered our home without the consent of Lord Fafnir. Tell me what you will and I will decide its import and your fate.”

  “It is for Lord Fafnir alone,” Richard continued.

  “He has made it clear he is to not be disturbed.”

  “War is upon the world, coming to all heights of the Snowdon,” Lugh interceded, his spear glimmering lethal gold. “To your people. To my people.”

  “We are impervious to war here. It has been ever so.”

  “No longer,” Lugh argued.

  The guard frowned deep into his beard. He gnashed his teeth and took a look at the rest of the company. His light blue eyes settled on Bran again before he turned to Richard for the first time, his spear still held rigidly at Bran’s throat. The portal knight could see a war taking place within the guard, his duty conflicting with the common sense that so many in power did not have.

  Richard hoped common sense would prevail.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “I am Master Guardsman Henrick.”

  “You have my word as a Knight of the Yn Saith,” Richard said, approaching the two guards with mere feet between. “Of what I speak is true.”

  “The Seven?” The short man mulled it over. “Children’s stories.”

  “Really?”

  “The last knight to tread Caer Glain was named Mather Hobbes,” Henrick said. “He wielded Witchbane, also known as Arondight, and protected the colblynau from the witch—”

  “Rosairh during the Shadow Rise several centuries ago,” Richard finished, growing impatient. “That’s why you can trust what I say. I am a knight and know the history.” He smiled his most dark smile. “If you don’t remove those blades from my companion’s neck, you will see Arondight’s wrath, and not much will be left of you, Master Guardsmen.”

  “You are in no position to threaten us, whoever you think you are,” the coblynau said.

  “You presume I care about my companion,” the knight said. “Besides, it’s not a threat. It’s a promise. Arondight has never suffered fools well. Not while I’ve wielded it, anyway.”

  Henrick peered at Richard.

  “If you possess Witchbane, reveal it.”

  “That is for your liege only,” Richard said.

  At this, Henrick grunted but removed his spearhead from Bran’s throat. His companion did the same. Bran relaxed visibly.

  “Now, when was the last time someone visited Caer Glain from the mountain below?” Richard asked.

  “At least a decade. Maybe more.”

  “You know I speak truly then,” the knight said. “We would not be here unless the direst of circumstances warranted it. And they do. For the entirety of Annwn, they do.”

  “Lord Fafnir will know of your arrival. More than that, I cannot say,” Henrick said, stroking his beard. “I cannot remember a time when he welcomed visitors with anything but a kick out the front door.” He paused. “Grace me with your name?”

  “Richard McAllister.”

/>   “How did you get past Llassar, Richard McAllister?”

  “He was…indisposed.”

  “I see,” Henrick snorted. “I just hope Lord Fafnir does not force me to join you in death.”

  Richard stepped aside, allowing the Master Guardsman through. Henrick gave him and the others a cursory glance before striding down the hallway, the broad man mumbling darkly below his breath. The portal knight followed after Henrick, knowing he had won at least one battle in the war to reunite the Seelie Court.

  Richard also knew there were more battles to come.

  If he survived meeting Lord Fafnir.

  The other coblynau guards closed ranks on the group from Arendig Fawr. Richard and the others were prisoners now, whether they liked it or not.

  He hoped his bluster hadn’t ended their quest.

  Or their lives.

  Blackness cascaded before Richard, a vertical speeding ribbon of water, the sheets disappearing into the oblivion below like a deafening, runaway train. The origin of the waterfall was lost in the ceiling above, the light of the rock under their feet unable to infiltrate the gloom. Cold spray licked the world in wetness. The footing treacherous, Richard skirted the wall, as far from the yawning maw of the chasm as he could get.

  “The Bydew,” Hollick shouted in front of him, the young guard unworried, his blonde short beard beading with dampness.

  “It is an amazing site,” Richard yelled back.

  The single file group passed the waterfall into a new series of dry corridors that steadily led into upper reaches. Smokeless torches lit the hallways every hundred feet. New corridors came and went, a vast array leading in all directions. Henrick did not once deviate, his path certain. More aware of them, the holes the guardsmen had been hiding in littered the walls of the honeycomb, able to hide an army if the need presented itself. Looking closer, Richard saw traps set in the ceiling, allowing rockslides to hinder the advance of any assault upon the mountain.

  Caer Glain would be defended well during an attack.

  Of that, Richard had no doubt.

  After an indeterminate march, the passageway they trudged through opened into an enormous cavern where stationary bluish-white orbs cast their light over all from positions near jagged stalactites. Dozens of colorful silk tents, multi-poled constructions as large as any circus big top, pointed back at the serrated teeth of the ceiling, the stone floor beneath Richard’s feet worn flat. The cavern was unexpected, a beautiful menagerie of warmth in the heart of cold rock. The knight had never seen anything like it.