He looked at Bran. The boy stared at them hard.
“Deirdre, I hope we survive the day,” Richard said simply.
She squeezed his arm and smiled, her freckled face lighting up. She returned to where her father held Willowyn and his own Rhedewyr mount.
“She likes you,” Snedeker said.
“Shut up. I know this,” Richard growled. He looked around. “Are you prepared, fairy? We will have to be swift if we are to kill John Lewis Hugo.”
“Prepare yourself, Heliwr,” Snedeker said tersely. “I am ready.”
“I hope so. Today is likely the day of our deaths.”
Snedeker said nothing. Richard did not continue. In his heart, he did not care about the outcome of the battle, not in a way that would affect his decisions on the field. He only wanted a chance to kill Arawn. He had spent the entire night thinking about it. Despite the horrors he had endured in the dungeon of Caer Llion, he had risen that morning stronger in some way. Tempered steel now ran through him.
Nothing during the fight would stand in his way.
The Morrigan stood at the forefront of those who watched from their forest cover, her chin held high, eyes stabbing her enemy. Even though dryads, with their fists thrust into the ground and lips humming an alien song to the foliage, were shielding the Tuatha de Dannan from the locust-like horde, the Morrigan stood just beyond, seeming to invite the coming fight.
The rest of the Seelie Court watched nearby, lost to their thoughts. Caswallawn glowered behind his Queen, sullen and silent. Lord Eigion crouched with fellow Merrow, gills fluttering, eyes wide. Lord Faric stood with Commander Masyn and Captain Henrick, whispering tactics for when the battle began. Lord n’Hagr waited next to Lord Finnbhennach, each dressed in full battle gear, the former carrying large swords and a pole axe strapped to his broad back, the latter leaning on a giant mace, his horns shimmering. Lugh sat in a tree above, gaining a better look at what they faced.
Closest to Bran stood Lord Gerallt and Deirdre, father and daughter, both humans out of place amongst so many fey. Only Aife and Govannon were absent, the centaur vanished and the smith still producing armor and weapons deeper within the Forest of Dean.
The Kreche had left with the dawn, to take up his position according to the plan.
Richard knew what they all were thinking.
The growing army before them was far more powerful in numbers and magical protection than the Tuatha de Dannan.
Behind him, spreading into the far-reaching depths of the forest, the majority of the Tuatha de Dannan army lay silent. All of the fairy creatures were present, beckoned by their lords to fight for Annwn and their freedom, awaiting the command that would send them into conflict. Others had joined as well—massive hairless trolls from the coast with skin like rock, and spriggans hiding under bridges with dirty matted hair and wild wiry dispositions. With the addition of the coblynau and the men and women Lord Gerallt had amassed from his province—all wearing armor hammered together by the Mastersmith—the Queen of the Sarn Throne’s army was formidable.
It was an army composed of dreams.
And nightmares.
But it was nothing compared to the hellish creatures Philip and the Cailleach had bred in the depths of Caer Llion. Fairy and pixie scouts had reported the approach of Philip. It had been hard to believe the reports but now, seeing the horde trail west for miles, they all did. Upon returning, Caswallawn had corroborated it.
Richard had given what opinion he could but the members of the Seelie Court now saw with their own eyes.
Now he waited.
Like the rest of the Tuatha de Dannan.
“How did you find us?” Richard asked the fairy. “In Caer Llion.”
“The halfbreed met Deirdre where you left us, after dark,” Snedeker said, wings fluttering. “Appeared out of nowhere. Caswallawn, the man with the magic cloak, met us almost at the same time. Deirdre was unsure of them both but they spoke a long time. The halfbreed said much, like it knew the drunk lord would come.”
“And then what happened?”
“Then they left and asked me to aid them. Smart asking me, do you not think?”
“But why send Kreche?” Richard murmured to no one.
“Caswallawn knew he could not enter the castle,” Snedeker explained. “Magic in the walls that would detect his magic cloak, he said. But the halfbreed created a diversion. Smashed down the wall, just so, and that nasty drunk lord and I snuck in. He is worth his salt, that one. Then we found you.”
Richard cursed inwardly. Merle knew too much and hid all of it. Had the wizard seen Richard and Bran in danger? He must have, if he sent the Kreche. Merle would know curse tablets warded Caer Llion and the moment the Kreche broke in, Philip and Arawn would think their alarm tripped by the halfbreed rather than the real culprits—Caswallawn and Snedeker.
It was a simple plan and it had worked. But, as he had done with so many others, Merle had used the Kreche.
One day, if Richard survived the coming battle, the wizard would have to answer for it all.
It did beg questions though: What other wheels could Merle be setting in motion, particularly on this day?
Separating from the others, Bran came over to Richard.
“I know you are ready for this,” Richard said without preamble.
“What will we do?”
“Try to stay alive,” Richard snickered. He crossed his arms. “What happens to a snake when you cut its head off?”
“It dies,” Bran replied.
“No,” the knight said. “The body lives but no longer functions rationally.”
Richard pointed out into the plain. The undulating ribbon from Caer Llion wove toward the small mountain granite outcropping at the edge of the Forest of Dean. Philip, Arawn, and the Templar Knights who made up the forward battery had already begun their ascent. The portal glimmered, waiting. It would not be long before they would pass into Rome.
“Why are we allowing this?” Bran questioned.
Richard ignored the question, an unsettling sight to the north.
“Look at that.”
Bran turned and peered through the canopy leaves. In the far distance black specks flew, miles away. Richard could not make out what they were but he was fairly certain he knew.
“Damn griffins,” he growled.
“Why are they separated from their host?” Bran asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps Philip feels they have no use in the crypts of St. Peter’s. To be honest I don’t care,” Richard answered. “The dryads shield us as best they can and at this distance the halfbreeds can’t know we are here anyway. If those griffins are that distant they won’t be in our way and won’t alarm their master to our presence.”
Bran said nothing. Richard gave the tightly packed groups of griffins another cursory glance. Instincts grown comfortable with time set alarms. Something was not right. The half-bird, half-fey creatures were Philip’s power in the sky. It made no sense for them not to be patrolling over the massive host.
“Can’t the Nharth help us? Conceal our attack?” Bran asked.
“The mountain fog fey cannot leave their heights,” Richard said and then pointed ahead. “It is as you said, Bran. Look.”
Philip left his horse at the base of the rocky pinnacle and traversed the trail upward. Arawn walked a step behind. Templar Knights followed, several thousand strong, their white mantles and gray steel forming a walking wall of death upon the outcropping. Philip, Arawn, and their Knights all possessed leather bags. Richard had wished to attack them early, kill the leaders quickly, but the power of the Grail would let no such plan succeed. Below, the two standards that had led the army now stood to the side of the trail entrance, each bearing a golden lion against a field of crimson. The Cailleach remained far back in the ranks, still within the plains and among the creatures she had bred, controlling them with her magical arts. To the side of the host galloped Lord Gwawl and the other men and fey who made up Caer Llion.
&nbs
p; Philip stepped into the portal, absorbed by the gray light—and leading his army just as he had told Bran he would.
A flutter of wings above heralded the return of Arrow Jack.
“It is time,” Richard said, patting Lyrian. “Get mounted, Bran.”
While Kegan helped Bran mount Westryl, Richard swung up on Lyrian. The Rhedewyr pawed the ground, anticipating what was to come. The former portal knight marveled over the fiery energy beneath him. Lyrian had been a husk of an animal when Richard had met him. Now he lent strength to the knight instead.
“He has become your own,” Deirdre said from Willowyn. “He would die for you.”
“I hope it never comes to that.”
“We all hope for that, McAllister,” Kegan said as he and his son Kearney aided the lords to mount. “Best of luck to ye.”
The lords of the Seelie Court dispersed, disappearing into the depths of the Forest of Dean to lead their respective peoples. The Morrigan remained while Lugh climbed down from his tree and brought up the bulk of the Long Hand.
Electricity infused the air and the Forest of Dean.
“Wait for my signal,” Richard cautioned Lord Faric, who held a silver horn.
Almost a quarter of the Templar Knights, most being the command elements of the horde, had ventured into the swirling mass, the remaining soldiers entering two at a time and vanishing like they never existed.
“Wait…”
Lyrian shivered beneath him, muscles shaking and tense. Several hundred more Red Crosses entered Rome.
“Now!” Richard hissed.
The coblynau lifted the ornate Caer Glain horn skyward and blew. The clarion blast shattered the stillness of the day. As the sound diminished, Richard watched the Kreche drop from the heights above the portal upon the Templar Knights below. The bluish-black behemoth landed like a boulder, crushingly, killing the knights who had been about to enter Rome. The halfbreed was maddened and roaring, barring the way into the portal, unleashed and flinging knights from the granite pinnacle like a child throwing dolls. The warriors tried to fight back but it was useless; they screamed until the rocks below silenced them.
The Kreche had come down on the front of the army, unrelenting and loud, like a hammer striking an anvil.
As the halfbreed wrecked havoc, pushing the Templar Knights back down toward the plains, a sound like thunder grew in the forest, intensifying with every passing second.
“Let’s hope this works,” Richard said. “Ready?”
Summoning Arondight, Bran nodded.
Richard called the Dark Thorn, gaining strength from the magic flowing through him. The reverberation from the forest intensified until the ground shook, the mulch quaking and the leaves overhead trembling.
From out of the trees near the portal, a centaur rushed into the plains, her sword held high in anger and pride.
“For Annwn! Annwn!” Aife screamed, swinging her blade.
She was not alone.
Rhedewyr streamed after, almost a thousand powerful horses tearing up the sod of the plains and sweeping toward the advancing army. The men and creatures on the plain reacted immediately, spinning to confront the stampede, weapons raised in protection. It was to no avail. The horses were upon the army quickly, tearing through the ranks of the host like a scythe through wheat. The Templar Knights on the plains vanished under churning hooves, trampled into Annwn—their blood, armor, and separated limbs flying into the air.
Hundreds of lives were extinguished in moments beneath the charge of the Rhedewyr.
The silver horn erupted again, this time at the command of the Queen, and with Richard at her side and the might of the Tuatha de Dannan at her back, they charged from the Forest of Dean to be free.
Richard did not wait to see if Bran joined.
The Cailleach screeched shrilly, aware of the danger, knowing the king and his second in command were gone, leaving her with lords too far in the rear of the train to make an immediate difference, all exposed to the Tuatha de Dannan. With sharp barks, she released the halfbreeds from her restraint. The unnatural beasts came at once. They bounded across the turf to meet the fey folk, jaws slavering and red eyes glowing. Demon wolves of all shapes and sizes—some tiny and mewling from all fours like cats with human faces, others charging on two feet with sharp claws and canine heads—intermingled in a sea of rushing nightmare. Larger creatures, humans bred with animals much larger than a wolf, came after, the same hatred mirrored in their actions. All growled and spat venom as they came, a tide of unbroken, unnatural evil.
“For Annwn!” the Morrigan yelled, driving directly at the Cailleach.
The witch waited, an inhuman sneer darkening her features, robes pulled back and arms already spitting wicked green pestilence. Almost upon the crone, the Queen brought her own power to bear, her sword burning white.
It was the last thing Richard saw.
Dark, twisted bodies swarmed over him, a tidal wave of biting teeth and tearing claws. Most of the Tuatha de Dannan vanished from sight. Richard kept the Dark Thorn before him, protecting Lyrian as best he could, already sweating from exertion. His steed fought against the demon wolves like a rabid wolverine, fore- and rear legs shattering skulls and limbs and opening up bodies with ease. Richard sent his magic lancing at any dark thing that came, killing dozens of the manic halfbreeds, keeping them at bay with white fire. Black blood and ichor splattered him but he ignored it.
The world he knew fell away, the sun almost gone from his view by the unending torrent, his awareness reduced to adrenaline, twisted limbs, and bony spikes.
The need to stay alive, to enact revenge, burned through him, lending him strength.
Chaos ruled.
Like death, it had consumed Annwn.
As he charred the aberrations dead, flashes of the familiar came to him from other quarters at his peripherals. One moment a brigade of coblynau led by Lord Faric would push their way through the malformed bodies, hacking with axes and hammers, the fighters gruesome in their precision before disappearing again. Another moment the mighty Lord Finnbhennach appeared, his white horns caked with blood and gore, his mace a blurred weapon as it crushed all who came within reach. From far away he gained glimpses of the Merrow slinging tiny balls of white light that concussively exploded into the demon wolves until the water folk were chased down by a division of Templar Knights; Lord n’Hagr drove his buggane to their aid, unable to outright kill the Grail-protected warriors but pushing them back from the deadly Merrow.
The other fey lords swam in and out of his vision, fighting, killing, and dying. Together, they had dropped age-old animosities to save one another.
Richard got a glimpse of the portal. The Kreche had massacred until he had reached the plains, the huge halfbreed killing the Templar Knights despite the Grail water they carried.
No one else entered the portal.
Though hundreds of Templars had gotten through, Rome was safe—for now.
Then the Dark Thorn was almost ripped from him.
He held on, barely, his fingers clamping down on the warm wood as he confronted his assailant. A werewolf-looking creature gripped the staff, snarling as it wrenched on the source of the knight’s power. Lyrian kicked out, panicked, but the creature was too close. Other demon wolves came on, bolstered by what their brethren had done.
Richard did not hesitate.
He sent magic coursing through the staff into the beast. The creature absorbed it, hair curling, flames vomiting forth from its gaping, fanged mouth, its muscles rigid in apoplexy.
The beast exploded, bits flying in all directions.
Richard kept his seat, if barely. Cursing his distracted carelessness, he continued to mow through the dark masses. A bit lightheaded, he swallowed dust from the air, and appraised the battle. The Tuatha de Dannan were mostly emptied from the Forest of Dean, trying to keep their lines from folding beneath the overwhelming numbers. Richard was now deep into the plains, overextended. Lyrian navigated the uplifted white granite
with uncertain steps, even the surefooted horse having a hard time with the natural minefield.
Fearful his Rhedewyr might trip, Richard fought to return to the fey, knowing if the Caer Llion army broke through the Tuatha de Dannan, all would be lost.
Just as he began to fight free, a monstrosity almost as large as the Kreche roamed into view and came right for him. It shook the ground, its wide head shaped like that of a bear, its foamy roar of anger filled with long saber-like teeth. The brown shaggy fur acted like a shield, but the monster bled from numerous wounds. It ignored the dark kin around it, until it picked up one of the smaller catlike demon wolves and threw the beast at Richard.
Lyrian reacted instantly.
The Rhedewyr reared in challenge, killing the creature with its hooves even as he knocked it out of the air—and tripped upon a molehill of broken granite.
Lyrian stumbled backward.
Richard fell into demon horde shadow.
The ground almost paralyzed him when he struck it. Fear coursed through his veins. He pushed it down, sending fire in a broad circle from the trod grass of the plains. Enraged by their failures and sensing an advantage, the smaller halfbreeds rushed the fallen, mewling and spitting their hatred, breaking through the fire of the Dark Thorn to rend his life and end it.
Lyrian fought them, his whinny terrible.
Struggling to regain his feet, Richard knew the end was near.
He had failed.
As he hurled his magic in a last prayer, a massive man with sword held high leapt over the knight in defense, hacking at the demons in unbridled fury. Lord Gerallt was an unchained animal, joined by a dozen warriors from Mochdrev Reach. The men threw themselves at the oncoming mayhem, armor forming a barrier. With swords wielded and battle cries screamed, they blocked the tumult from Richard as a human shield.
“Get back, Heliwr!” Lord Gerallt roared. “Now!”
The Dark Thorn Page 43
