The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

  Bran watched his visitor closely but said nothing.

  “Yes, I know of you—and you me. I am the High King of Annwn, Philip Plantagenet, son of Henry II of the lion line and Eleanor of Aquitaine.” The king stared harder. “As to why you are here, you have that answer for me.”

  Bran swallowed the distaste in his mouth. “If you know me, why am I in chains?”

  “For a few reasons, by your own device. First and most pressing, you trespassed into my castle. I do, however, see that as a great boon.”

  “Why?”

  Philip moved the stool from the corner and sat upon it, his focus never leaving Bran as he kept his clothing from touching the dingy cell floor. “It saved me having to find you again. The moment you stepped foot upon Annwn soil became the moment I wished to speak with you at length. After you fled from the care of John Lewis Hugo, my only recourse was to find you once more. And now…now you have come to me.”

  “I would hardly call how your witch dismembered and shackled me as care.”

  “Well, both the Cailleach and John’s methods have grown darker over time, warranted, but they have ever obeyed my orders,” Philip said. He rubbed his bearded chin in thought. “And I do apologize for any misdeed by my Templar Knights that may have caused you harm. It was not my intention. Forgiveness will have to come in time for the loss of your hand.”

  “So what was trying to kill me?” Bran asked. “An order or a darker method?”

  The man laughed. “I would never try to kill you. You would be dead if I wished it but that has never been my intention. No, no, I have far grander hopes for you than death.”

  “Then who tried to kill me in Seattle? Sent the bodach?”

  “If a bodach was indeed sent after you, I marvel at your strength,” Philip said. “As to who tries to kill you, I do not know. When I discovered the son of the last Heliwr would be visiting Annwn, I knew I had to speak with you. Regrettably, I never imagined it like this, in one of my dungeons. But life sometimes teaches humility.”

  “Well, as king you can have this chain removed,” Bran urged. “As king you can release me from this dungeon and reunite me with my companion.”

  Philip leaned back. “Perhaps. Your power has been stripped from you, for the moment at least. I do not trust you, of that I will not lie. You planned a sinister deed by breaking into my Caer Llion, on some mission from that heretical wizard, no doubt, and in company with a very powerful knight whose doctrine states he should never leave his gate. I wish to know why you entered Annwn.”

  “What has become of Richard McAllister?”

  “The Knight of the Yn Saith recovers from his injuries,” Philip said. “I cannot say the same of you yet, sadly.”

  There was something about how Philip mentioned Richard’s injuries—a glint in his eyes and a tone in his voice—that suggested a very different truth.

  Then Bran figured out what bothered him.

  It sounded like something Merle would say.

  “You lie,” he said.

  “I do not. He is being healed as we speak,” Philip said, the glint gone. “I repeat. What did you come here to accomplish?”

  “We came to destroy some kind of seeing glass, an object you use to view my world from this one,” Bran said, deciding to play along and hopefully learn more about his situation.

  “The Cauldron of Pwyll? But why?”

  “To prevent you using it. That’s all I know.”

  Anger darkened the king’s pale features. “What the wizard said is true, John does use it to peer into our birth world. But as is the case with wizards throughout time there is more behind the words of Myrddin Emrys than teeth. I may control the Cauldron but the Knights of the Yn Saith have the Fionúir Mirror, another such glass with similar attributes. It helps them view Annwn and keep it repressed.” He snickered. “Their audacity is astonishing. Using what the wizard knows of the future combined with the knowledge from the mirror, they twist events to suit their own desires. It is control Myrddin Emrys craves, to see his will done and his future come to pass. The knight aids him when that was never the function of his station.”

  Philip paused a moment. “He and the knight said nothing of that, did they?”

  Philip was right. Bran had not heard of the mirror, or thought of Merle and Richard as the worldly meddlers the king painted them to be.

  Except when Richard warned Bran of Merle.

  “I see they did not,” Philip commented. “They wish for you to remain ignorant, to keep even you under their control. And that is the very reason why I sit before you right now.”

  “What do you mean?” Bran asked, feeling more lightheaded every moment.

  “First, let us find a bit of trust. You are gravely wounded, having lost your hand,” Philip said. “The man who took it is dead. I do not tolerate such grievous incompetence when it comes to my commands. You have lost a lot of blood—it is everywhere—and I doubt you have much longer to live. Let us trust one another.”

  Bran said nothing, unsure of what to say. Philip undid a water pouch at his side though, its contents sloshing like those on the back of the soldiers that had attacked Bran.

  He undid the stopper and offered the pouch to Bran.

  “Take a drink.”

  Bran took it with his right hand. He realized for the first time he was thirstier than ever before, probably due to injury done him. He also knew Philip had no reason to poison him.

  Bran drank.

  The moment the water went down his throat, he almost spit it out, not from choking but from how he felt. Warmth spread throughout his body. It built from his stomach and spread through his chest out into his limbs, growing in heat until it felt like it would consume him with a well-intentioned tender touch. He ignored the taste of minerals in the water; there was something else mixed in that made him feel more alive, stronger, than ever before in his life.

  Bran gained clarity, his mind clearing of the fog that had suffocated his thinking since waking. He looked down. The stump of his left hand, bloody tissue and fevered with purple veins, began to heal over, the skin knitting anew. He couldn’t believe it. The healing continued until only pink skin covered what had a few seconds earlier been a mortal wound.

  “How did you…?” Bran managed, dumbfounded.

  “It is not important, young Ardall,” Philip dismissed, replacing the stopper and pouch on his hip. “Now, to my proposition, one given me by my father and the Word.”

  Still amazed at what had happened, Bran looked up from his healed arm to Philip. “What word? I thought you are the king and your word is gospel.”

  “I am king. But my lordship does not extend over the Word.”

  “The Word being…God?” Bran asked, almost laughing. “I think you are drinking the Kool-Aid or something even stronger.”

  “I know not what that is but I can see you know nothing of me,” the king scoffed. “I am not the villain your friends have cut me to be. I follow the tenets of the Word. It is for that reason I came to Annwn all those years past. My father had a vision of sweeping the infidels from the world, cleansing it as Saint Peter decreed. The fey are an unholy evil. Soon they and the evil that fills the world of my birth will be undone—at my hands. I wish you to embrace that calling and be an ambassador of sorts.”

  “But you said you couldn’t trust me…”

  “I see strength of character in you,” Philip admitted. “You would not possess Arondight if you were not an honorable man, fighting evil. I want you to lead my armies, be my general, protect the innocent from the dastardly.”

  Bran did not know what to say. Based on what he had already seen of the king’s rule in Annwn, he could no more trust Philip than he trusted a bully. Bran might not be able to fully believe or explain the intentions of Richard or Merle, but he knew he definitely could not take Philip at his word.

  He would have to be as wily to be released.

  “What would this entail then?” Bran asked carefully.

  “When the
sins of existence begin to outweigh the virtue of the Word, the Lord calls on those with extraordinary gifts to set His work aright. Saint Peter died to ensure his Lord’s faith took root within a pagan Rome. A sacrifice. In the fourth century, Christianity overcame those repressive pagan ways by the strength of a visionary emperor, Constantine the Great, who took the first difficult steps to allow Christian worship a safe place. Once again, sacrifice. King Edward the Martyr died to keep the Benedictine monasteries safe from the greedy nobles of England. Another sacrifice. Even my father fought against the eastern infidels, losing much of his power and wealth to maintain the integrity of the Holy Land. I carry on that tradition. And as the world spirals all too eagerly into its own excesses, I will bring the light once more and push the darkness back.

  “I have ever been a student of history. I know I need strong people of faith and strong character, men who are willing to sacrifice their lives for the greater good as so many have done before. I wish you to be a sort of ambassador, between Annwn and our world, to use your power to smooth the transition. I cannot do this alone, young Ardall.”

  “I don’t think the army outside of your walls makes you alone,” Bran remarked.

  “That may be true, but virtue is not always won with arms.”

  “What do you really want?” Bran asked.

  “I invite you, as a new knight, to use your power to help with that edict,” Philip offered. “Think about it, Ardall. You will have everything that you have ever desired. Food. Drink. Wealth. Land. A beautiful woman. All the pleasures that a life in my service would guarantee. It can be your own, if you but join me.”

  Bran drew in a deep breath. What Richard had thought was true. Philip intended to attack the world, to return home with an army, to force people to embrace his rule.

  The king also offered Bran all he had ever wanted and more.

  It didn’t take long for Bran to come to a choice. Those material things would not matter. Because the war that Philip planned to unleash would destroy everything.

  “If you attack the world we come from, Philip, and that world finds out about this one, which it surely will, Annwn ceases to be,” Bran said. “The power wielded by the governments will crush whatever you are planning. They outmatch anything you possess.”

  Philip barked a mean laugh. “You think I care about Annwn.”

  “I would think you care about your life.”

  “You are a coward, if you are not willing to die for grace,” Philip said, frowning darkly.

  “You don’t comprehend. Listen to me—”

  “No! You listen to me!” Philip roared, standing, redness rising in his cheeks. “The world of our birth has become corrupt. It takes strong men, men who are willing to do what is right before what is popular to save the souls of those who are truly worthy.”

  “Killing is not the answer!” Bran reiterated.

  “Do not presume to know me, nor what I do,” Philip sneered. “People will die, of that I have no doubt. Those who live will come to know the Word through proof of His existence.”

  “How were you ordained to do His will?” Bran questioned, growing angry. “Did you receive some kind of sign? You said something about proof?”

  “I possess the Graal, the Cup of the Word.”

  It took Bran a few moments to register what Philip had just said. Then the realization hit him. The Holy Grail. No matter how crazy the notion sounded, Philip was telling the truth. The warriors who had subdued Richard and Bran in the cavern had risen instantly, healed, sucking on some kind of liquid in bags on their backs. Bran had thought it some kind of magic but the truth was far more real—and chilling. It explained how the hordes of halfbreeds had survived their conception. It explained how the king had lived for centuries beyond his mortal death and how he could keep every man in his army alive, even during battle.

  It explained how Bran’s arm had healed so quickly.

  Lively arrogance danced behind the king’s eyes, a flicker of burning certainty. If Philip possessed the Holy Grail and used it to bolster his army…

  “When the sinners realize the power of the Word upon the world, they will be moved to obey the scripture of the Word,” Philip continued, the snide assurance in his voice maddening to Bran. “Those who do not are evil, in the face of such truth, and killing them will be the Word’s work, through my blood, my sacrifice.”

  “And those of your army,” Bran added.

  “They are willing,” Philip said simply. “And worthy.”

  Heat inside Bran grew into a blistering furnace. The conviction of the worldview Philip shared and his need to place it upon others scared Bran. It reminded him of people on the street who had nothing else to lose. It made them volatile, dangerous.

  If he could have called Arondight, he would have torn Caer Llion apart, stone by stone, and brought it tumbling on top of Philip and his army.

  “Will you join the power of Arondight to my own?” Philip propositioned.

  Bran couldn’t show his disdain for what the king offered.

  That would likely mean his death.

  “I will think on it,” Bran said noncommittally.

  “John has informed me that the last regiments of the northern cities will join the army here at Caer Llion by tomorrow,” Philip said. “Once gathered under one banner and organized, I will march toward our destiny and the birth of a new world. It will be best when you realize who it is that holds the mercy.”

  Bran nodded. There was nothing for him to say.

  “When I lead my army from Annwn, I want you to be at my side, young Ardall,” Philip offered. “I will give you the night to think on it.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “To let you roam free would be an egregious error,” the king said. “I cannot let that transpire—not from those chains and not in the release death would serve Myrddin Emrys and a new carrier of Arondight. You will remain here, shackled, until you come to believe what I say.” He paused. “Think what we could accomplish, Ardall.”

  Philip turned to go then and without a look backward walked out of the cell. The door relocked with quick, firm turns, and the footfalls of his leaving faded to nothing.

  Silence became Bran’s only companion.

  While on the cusp of dozing, Bran thought of the Holy Grail. He still had a hard time believing Philip possessed the famous cup. Bran knew of it, knew of it from what Richard had told him and what he had read at Old World Tales. After the Grail left the Holy Land and made its way to the British Isles, it had come to King Arthur at Camelot. Wounded during the Battle of Camlann by his son and mortal enemy Mordred, Arthur sailed away upon a barge to heal in Avalon until Britain needed him once more.Ever since that time, men had hunted for the fabulous life-granting cup with no luck.

  What if the reason the Holy Grail hadn’t been found was because it was not in his world? What if the Cup of Christ had gone with Arthur to Annwn?

  And what if Philip had discovered it?

  It all made sense.

  “Wake up.”

  Bran snorted from his reverie, opening his eyes as he huddled amidst the straw, looking around for the source of the childlike voice.

  No one was in the cell; no one was at its door.

  “Huh?” Bran grunted. “Who’s there?”

  “In the cell next to your own,” answered a deeper voice of calm authority.

  Bran looked to the wall of stone on his left. In three spots the mortar bracing the stones had been chipped away, leaving tiny gaps. He tried to peer through to the other side, hoping to see whoever it was that spoke to him, but he saw nothing.

  “Lad, you there?” the deep voice questioned.

  “I am.”

  “Good, good, I am pleased to make your acquaintan—”

  “Of course he is there,” a third, angrier man rasped. “You heard him, did you not, Uter?”

  “Leave Uter be, Ambrosius,” the boyish voice squeaked.

  “My apologies, Sir Wart,” Ambrosius mocked.
r />   “How long have you guys been here?” Bran asked, suddenly happy to have someone—anyone—to talk to.

  “Too long.”

  “Indeed,” Uter agreed with Ambrosius. “Far too long. With any hope in the Lady, you will not be imprisoned for as long as we have been. Still, all those throughout Annwn under the boot of the false king are as we—in need of retribution from his ills and evils.”

  “My sword Caledfwlch shall deliver more than retribution,” Ambrosius spat. “If I am freed, I will speak an oath on it!”

  “You heard my conversation with Philip then?” Bran asked.

  “We heard it,” Ambrosius growled. “Could not help but overhear that prat.”

  “His time will come, Ambrosius,” Uter allayed. “As surely as our own will. Now is not the time for anger however. Now is the time for planning.”

  Bran didn’t know what to think. The two men and young boy had obviously known one another for some time, imprisoned together. Uter seemed to be a highly educated man, possessing the calm demeanor of diplomacy. Ambrosius sounded the opposite, driven by emotions, an impatient warrior. Wart could not have been more than ten; why Philip had need to jail a youth was beyond Bran. He could not believe the three of them could fit comfortably in the shared cell if it was the same size as the one Bran occupied.

  “Why have you all been imprisoned?” Bran questioned.

  “For the knowledge we possess,” Ambrosius mumbled.

  “How so?”

  “Caer Llion is our castle,” Uter responded. “It was taken from us.”

  “Your castle?”

  “We saw the first stone laid, lived in it, lorded over it,” Uter answered. “The knights of my table were chivalrous and courageous, and the lay of the land respected the law of love. The false king stole it and Annwn when he brought his ilk here, quite uninvited. Plantagenet has ever kept us here, in his dungeon, to revel in his victory, I believe.”

  “Damnable Plantagenet,” Ambrosius hissed.

  Bran once again didn’t know who to trust. From what he had seen of it, Caer Llion was an ancient fortress. For Uter to have seen its creation meant he had lived for a very long time.