The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

  Coblynau dressed in normal thick pants and flowing tunics of all shades scurried from dozens of passageways into the chambers beyond, most looking fearfully backward.

  Richard brought his companions to a halt.

  Three-dozen warriors waited, pole-axes, spears, and short swords drawn.

  “Be still, knight,” Henrick ordered Richard. “I will take care of this.”

  One of the new guards stepped forward ahead of the rest, a coblynau as stocky and thick as Henrick but younger and wearing armor as black as obsidian, his left cheek inflicted by a long gnarled scar that ran to his neck.

  “Commander Masyn,” the Master Guardsman greeted.

  “Where do you go, Henrick?” Masyn asked disdainfully. “And who are these…visitors?”

  “We must speak, Commander,” Henrick answered. “In private.”

  Masyn frowned but nodded. The two coblynau spoke at length to the side, their words lost to distance. The longer the guards spoke, the more animated Masyn became, his scar darkening to purple. The conversation mounted to an angry buzz. Whatever was being said, Masyn disagreed with Henrick. All the while, Richard grew worried; he didn’t think they would be able to fight their way free of Caer Glain if the need arose.

  When Masyn and Henrick returned, they both bore scowls.

  “Who is the knight here?” Masyn questioned.

  “I am, Master Commander,” Richard said. “I bear the Witchbane, Arondight.”

  “Show it to me then.”

  “I will not. It is for your liege lord to see.”

  “I do not agree with how you entered Caer Glain—with no invitation. It shows a clear lack of good intention.”

  “My deepest apologies,” Richard assured.

  Masyn grunted. “I must also inform you Lord Fafnir will not be pleased. He may kill you. All of you.”

  “The situation warrants that risk.”

  “Very well,” Masyn snorted. “Follow me.”

  Surrounded by dozens of coblynau guards, Richard looked to Deirdre, who gave him an encouraging smile. The company was guided from the tent city marketplace, its stalls filled with produce, wares, and art. Warmer air met them in a new passage, the odor of cooking food and baking bread strengthening until they entered a series of kitchens with blazing hearths. Richard passed through more rooms, each catering to a discipline—tailoring, cobbling, carpentry, weaving spun silk into cloth, and others he had never seen before. Masyn progressed quickly through the bustling community, his anger evident.

  The corridor finally ended, and Richard, Bran, and the others entered the throne room of Caer Glain.

  It was a long rectangular area with massive granite pillars holding a ceiling lost to the underground midnight. It was hard for Richard to see most of it; the end of the hall he had come in lacked orbs or torches. Up the middle, the aisle was open, while to either side of it benches were pushed beneath rows of tables covered in dusty linen. Long banners of colored silk fell from the ceiling over statues lining both walls: distinguished coblynau warriors displaying weapons, kings sitting in dignity, and scholars bearing large tomes and wise faces. Each statue had a different massive jewel set into its stone, twinkling.

  The only illumination in the hall came from orbs at the far end of the room where a multistep dais gave rise to a throne of ornate silver and quartz. It absorbed the light and shone like a star.

  Upon the throne, Lord Fafnir glowered at everyone.

  He was an ancient coblynau, bald with a long ratty beard hanging from a face thick with wrinkles, black eyes burning from beneath bushy white eyebrows. Pale skin spotted with age like mold in milk hung in jowls below a round face while purple robes hid an emaciated frame. With a bony finger, he caressed the leather-wrapped handle of a black steel war hammer as though it was a prized cat.

  Below the dais, six round oak tables stood, each bearing a checkered marble game board with two players seated across from one another.

  “What is the meaning of this, Masyn?” Fafnir snarled, his teeth missing or rotted to yellow nubs. “Can you not see I am entertaining a tournament?”

  “We have visitors, Lord Fafnir,” Masyn answered, guiding Richard and the others forward. “Not of my making.”

  “Well, rid us of them,” Fafnir said, waving dismissively as he watched one of the games. “I am busy.”

  “They were told this, my Lord, and refused to leave.”

  “Then kill them, Commander,” Fafnir growled.

  Masyn turned to Henrick and, with a raised eyebrow, began pulling his short sword free as the rest of his unit did the same.

  “My Lord Fafnir!” Henrick roared.

  All eyes turned to the Master Guardsman.

  “Here is a Knight of the Yn Saith, on an errand of utmost importance for the people of Caer Glain,” Henrick introduced, gesturing to Richard. “From the Morrigan, Queen of the Seelie Court herself.”

  Fafnir darkened. “Who addresses me thus as if I care?”

  “Henrick, son of Harrick, Master Guardsman of Caer Glain.”

  “Commander, see this Guardsman is punished for insolence.”

  Before Henrick could respond or Masyn conduct his orders, Richard strode forth. “Lord Fafnir, I am Richard McAllister, Knight of the Yn Saith and emissary of the Queen. I must be allowed to speak. The courageous coblynau of Caer Glain deserve to hear the news I bear and risk their peril if they do not.”

  “What power does the Morrigan hold here, in my city?” Fafnir interrogated, gazing at the knight and still caressing the hammer at his hand.

  “I represent her wishes in this matter, with her authority,” Richard said sternly. “The Morrigan is still your Queen, whether you believe it or not is moot. Her judgment in this must be addressed and given its due.”

  Long moments passed.

  “Do so then, if that will leave me to my games.”

  “King Philip of Caer Llion amasses an army of dark halfbreeds, nature twisted to a means that will see the world of the Seelie Court reduced to ash. Even as I speak, he mobilizes a force unseen before in Annwn—former lords, the Templar Knights now thousands strong, and demon-wolves, griffins, Fomorians, who knows what else. The final days of Annwn are upon you. Philip will not stop at Arendig Fawr; he will eventually be at your entrance, and even a brute like Llassar Llaes Gyngwyd will not stop him any more than Llassar stopped me. Your world will end then, this mountain your tomb. The Queen requests the army of Caer Glain join the Seelie Court to prevent this. Only by combining what forces of good remain will you have a chance.”

  “Caer Glain remains impartial and ever shall be so,” Fafnir decreed.

  “Even if the battle comes to your doorstep?” Richard pressed.

  “I care not. Never has an army come to these halls and forever will that be true. The Snowdon is a fortress impregnable,” Fafnir dismissed. “Despite that, wisdom has ever not been a part of the Seelie Court. They quarrel and hate. Forever has leadership lacked, under Arawn and under the Morrigan. Now you expect the coblynau to inherit eons of poor judgment, even while we are safe.” He paused then waved them away again. “Take these people from my sight, Masyn.”

  “Are they still to be executed, Lord Fafnir?” Masyn asked.

  “We will not go,” Richard said loudly for all to hear, stilling Masyn with a hard look. “Wisdom calls you to action. If you do not join with the Seelie Court, Philip will see your head on the end of a spear!”

  “I have heard enough wisdom,” Fafnir croaked. “Guards!”

  Richard stared dispassionately at Fafnir, the righteousness of his role as emissary to the Queen strengthening his resolve. The surrounding guards pointed their weapons at Bran and his friends. The room was in stasis with death lingering nearby.

  Before the coblynau warriors moved, Richard reached across the ether and called Arondight.

  Nothing happened.

  Fear paralyzed him. There was something different, something he couldn’t quite place at first. It wasn’t that his faith had dis
appeared, not allowing him to call the blade. It was like the link he had with Arondight for years had suddenly vanished. It no longer existed. Feeling as though amputated, Richard thought back to the last time he had called the weapon, the night in the meadow when Bran had accepted the Dark Thorn. Arondight had disappeared when the magic of the Paladr had accidentally swept him up.

  He paused. The magic hadn’t swept him up.

  It had reached out to him and pulled him in with purpose.

  Understanding dawned. Anger hotter than any found in hell filled him. Grinding his teeth even at the thought, he reached into Annwn for what he knew existed there.

  A polished black staff with a rounded cudgel-like knot for a head entered his hand immediately as if it had ever been there, runes along its top pulsing white ethereal light that pushed back against the darkness.

  He had lost Arondight. In its place, he gripped the Dark Thorn.

  The staff of the Heliwr.

  “Merle,” Richard hissed.

  “It seems you possess tricks, human,” Lord Fafnir cackled. “They do not impress me. Only a clever gwyddbwyll game and not much else does that these days. Guards, take them away!”

  As the Arendig Fawr companions looked as shocked as Richard felt, he grabbed Bran and pushed him to the forefront.

  “Bran, call Arondight!”

  “I don’t kno—”

  “Do it or we are dead! Will it in your hand!”

  Bran closed his eyes; concentration hardened his face.

  In a second, the great sword bloomed sapphire, bathing the entire chamber in light that cast the torchlight aside like the rising sun did the stars. Bran held the fabled blade high before him, surprise filling his eyes.

  “Witchbane,” Fafnir said, awe in his papery voice.

  “By the knights who have served Arondight, you and your people have been kept safe from those who coveted your mines, your jewels, your ores,” Richard voiced firmly, taking advantage of the coblynau lord’s awe. “In the days of the Misty Isles, twice this blade came to your aid and removed evil from your halls and killed witches whose craft depend on precious crystals. Honor this blade for it has saved you!” He paused. “Yet another time has come. The Cailleach sides with Philip and desires this mountain city her own—to bleed it dry like Rosairh the Eld tried so long ago. If you deny this blade and the shared histories you and it carry, you will die in a matter of moons.”

  “That is the course of action you ask of me?” Fafnir questioned, all awe gone, the ancient fey gripping his hammer. “To give my people’s lives for a war that will never come here?” The coblynau became angrier. “The Seelie Court faltered long ago. How do two talismans like those you possess change anything?”

  “It is not the sword but the knight,” Deirdre interrupted loudly. “It is also this man standing before you with the Dark Thorn of the Heliwr. A more powerful knight the world has never known.”

  “You are pert and young—and empty,” the old coblynau said as he appraised the redhead. “What do you know of war, woman?”

  “I know what comes does so to destroy all,” Deirdre said, unflinching beneath the hot gaze of Fafnir. “Not just the Merrow, not just the clurichauns or fairies. Not just my home of Mochdrev Reach. But all.”

  “She speaks truly, my Lord,” Lugh added.

  “And you think you make a difference, Richard McAllister?” Fafnir asked.

  Richard let the fire running the length of the Dark Thorn die.

  “I know I would die for your people,” he said.

  “Why?” Fafnir argued. “You hold no responsibility here.”

  “The greed in my world would see the resources of Annwn bled, your beloved Caer Glain stripped of riches and life,” Richard said. “Even if you do not join the Seelie Court and go to war, once Philip finishes in Annwn he will take his army back into my world. It is the nature of such men to want more. When the powerful men of my world learn of Annwn, they will stop at nothing to possess it.”

  “And when that happens, all you know dies,” Bran added.

  Richard was suddenly very proud of the boy. Succinct and to the point.

  The old coblynau sat unmoving. Long moments passed. The hall had gone quiet; tension returned once more.

  “A game then,” Fafnir said finally.

  “My Lord?” Masyn questioned.

  “The best decisions are made over games,” Fafnir said, gesturing at the tables before his dais. “A game of gwyddbwyll will decide whether Caer Glain joins the Seelie Court or remains apart.”

  “This is more important than some ga—” Richard began.

  “My grandson Faric against your own boy there, he who possesses Arondight,” Fafnir said, pointing a crooked finger at Bran. “They are close to the same age, I wager.”

  All eyes turned on Bran.

  “But I have never played,” he stammered.

  “That is…problematic,” Fafnir said darkly. “Set up the board, Faric.”

  A coblynau with the same piercing gaze as the lord of Caer Glain except younger and fair-haired moved to one of the empty tables and began setting up game pieces, some in a diamond in the middle of the board and others in groups around the edges. When he was done, Faric bowed, looking directly at Bran, before sitting in one of two chairs.

  Letting his rage at what Merle had done to him dissipate and focusing on the moment, Richard let the Dark Thorn fade away. He came to Bran, guiding him forward.

  “Let the sword go, Bran.”

  The boy did so. Arondight vanished like smoke.

  “What did you do?” Bran hissed.

  “Ever play chess?”

  “I can’t do this!“

  “You can and will,” Richard assured. “Just as you stood up against Caswallawn, you will do what is right here. Have you played chess or not?”

  “I told you in Seattle. I played with my father. Haven’t in years.”

  “Gwyddbwyll is like chess. See the board?” Bran nodded as they stopped a dozen yards away. “A king starts in the middle of the square board. The eight pawns of the same color around him are guards, there to protect the king from the sixteen attacking soldiers around the perimeter. The guards, attackers, and even the king move like rooks, in straight lines. A piece is removed from the game only when two same-colored pieces sandwich an opposing piece. The point of the game is to move the king to one of the four borders without being surrounded on all four sides by the attackers and taken. For the king to be cornered without a move is a loss.”

  “Can I move one of my pieces between two of his pieces without being taken?”

  “Yes, you can,” Richard answered. “It is a simple and elegant game. But it does require strategy. So be careful.”

  Bran didn’t seem convinced. Richard studied the game setup. It was a beautiful board, with shining silver and onyx squares alternating nine wide and deep. A king carved from amethyst stood in the middle, encircled by the pawn-like guards. In four groups along each border, attackers carved from black marble waited to ambush the king.

  “Think ahead many moves,” Richard advised.

  “If it is like chess, I understand.”

  The knight nodded. Bran turned and sat in the small chair, barely fitting in it and towering over his opponent. Faric sat across from him, twisting the mustache of his beard as he appraised his opponent. He smiled politely. Bran did not.

  “Let it begin then,” Fafnir commanded, glee in his eyes.

  “I am Faric, son of Fannon,” the grandson of Lord Fafnir greeted.

  “Bran Ardall.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Faric looked to his grandfather. Fafnir frowned deeper but waved his grandson on. Faric selected a black marble attacker and slid it forward. Bran took a deep breath, gave Richard one last look, and moved a countering guard.

  The game progressed slowly. Richard realized Lord Fafnir had trapped them already. The game was difficult even for the experienced. The coblynau who had been playing at other tables now watched the new game, whisperi
ng to one another with every move. Faric was quick to move, having obviously played the game many times in the past—certain and fearless. Richard observed every move made and tried to ascertain how it benefited Faric’s play, as if he could will the information directly to Bran. The boy did take his time, looking at all angles, deciphering how one move could work in conjunction with other moved pieces. Just like chess, the killing attack in gwyddbwyll could come from any angle, any front. Seeing that attack before it was too late was the key.

  The game played on, the throne hall silent, an hour gone. Bran had taken five pieces but had lost two. Most of the force brought to bear by Faric surrounded Bran, with attackers spread around the board staring directly at the endangered king. Richard found that he held his breath, knowing attacks could come from several fronts, leaving him frustrated that Bran might not see something until it was too late.

  “Now it comes down to it, eh,” Lord Fafnir crowed.

  “Think it through, Bran. Think it through,” the boy whispered to himself. “Take your time.”

  The pieces had gravitated toward one of the corners nearest Bran and he was close to reaching a border with his king. Six of his guards remained in a protective ring about the king. Faric blocked him from reaching the corner. Pieces on both sides would tumble like dominos in the next six or seven moves—the win or loss would happen fast.

  Then Richard saw it, the opening for Bran. He hoped the boy did too. Bran reached to move a guard to block an attacker and break through to win—and then paused. Richard stopped breathing. So did the throne room. Bran withdrew his hand and stared at Faric. The coblynau ignored him, lost in the pieces, and then furtively glanced up at Bran.

  Both understood. The game was over.

  Grabbing the wrong piece, Bran moved one of his guards, cutting off the closest border and the win.