The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn: Preludes to The Everwinter Wraith (The Annwn Cycle)

by Shawn Speakman

There was more to this than the knight knew.

  “No,” Charles said. “You have come here for more than information.”

  “I trust witches even less than you do,” Lazarus said. “Centuries of unexpectedly entering their company have taught me that.”

  “Witches give and then collect. What have you promised?”

  “Nothing yet. She too wishes my death.”

  Charles had to admit that could be a possibility. A vampire as powerful as Lazarus would make a formidable enemy in a world that was not that large. Even though the breadth of Annwn was controlled by despot Philip Plantagenet at the behest of King Henry II, the removal of the vampire would be a boon to any witch desiring to carve out her own niche without the meddling of one such as Lazarus.

  “I see you are leery of me, Charles Ardall,” Lazarus said. “You have my word I have not come with sinister means or purpose. I do not plan to harm anyone in Rome this day or those after. Look before you. I could have easily killed these men if I so desired. Look at your earlier point about choice. If I intended to be an assassin, I would not have come to this underground library. My word is given.”

  “A false word, no doubt,” Berrytrill snorted.

  “My word matters, at least to me, fairy,” the vampire growled.

  Silence filled the room. The eyes of Lazarus met those of Charles. The Heliwr could sense no lie in them. The purpose that drove the vampire made him all too willing to give up to gain what he required.

  “Let the archive interns go free now,” Charles said.

  “I will do that, as a gesture of good will.”

  The two young men suddenly came awake, their eyes blinking as if from a long sleep. Then terror at what had been done hit them. When the vampire nodded in their direction, the two students gained their feet and fled the room, the whoosh of sterile air through the closing door following after as the Swiss Guards still standing watch grabbed them and escorted them away.

  They were gone in seconds.

  “Are you a learned man, Heliwr?” Lazarus asked.

  “I’ve done my share of reading.”

  “Then this will interest you. Lead the way, priest. Or that neck will be mine and I will turn you into the very thing you despise, to spend eternity in Hell alongside me.”

  Grown paler, Cesare Farina turned and walked toward the back of the room. Charles and Berrytrill followed. Working their way around a labyrinth of shelves, the Cardinal brought them to the far side of the room where a desk older and heavier than any Charles had seen before sat pushed against a wall. Over it, a tapestry depicting Old St. Peter’s Basilica hung. The desk contained various folders and paperwork, the bureaucratic aspect of the Cardinal Archivist’s work for the Vatican.

  “It is here,” Lazarus whispered. “The Word. I can feel it.”

  “The desk must be moved,” the Cardinal said.

  “Then move it, priest.”

  “It takes at least seven men to—”

  Lazarus did not wait. He grabbed the corner of the desk and flung it into the interior of the room. Paper and pens went chaotically flying.

  “Open the door now!”

  Cesare Farina did not wait. He gently moved the tapestry aside and placed his aged hands on the stone of the wall. The Cardinal closed his eyes and began to whisper words in a language Charles knew to be dead for centuries. Long moments passed. Then a soft white light began to expand from his fingertips, growing in intensity even as it spread outward. It glowed faintly, forming the lines of a door.

  Then a soundless explosion of light became a dim entryway. Lazarus entered, dragging the Cardinal Archivist with him.

  Charles gave Berrytrill a dark look before following.

  Stale air smelling of parchment met the Heliwr even as tiny orbs of bluish light blossomed in the corners of the room, magic illuminating deep shelves lining the walls. Scrolls, parchments, and books sat upon them, carefully organized.

  Ancient power thrummed throughout the room.

  “I will make this easy on you, priest,” Lazarus said, his pale skin tinged blue beneath the orbs. “You know this book. Better than anyone alive due to your position. Show me where the death of Jesus in the Gospel of John is recorded.”

  Cesare Farina pulled two cotton gloves from his pocket and put them on. He then slowly moved to one of the walls, eyes betraying the anger he felt at the situation, and carefully removed a series of loose parchment pages from a shelf. The Cardinal took his time, unwilling to damage the ancient text, careful in every movement. He extricated one page in particular and placed it upon a metal and glass table that sat in the center of the room, designed specifically to not contaminate the room’s documents.

  “Be gentle, please,” the Cardinal Archivist said, producing another set of gloves for the vampire. “What you wish to see is halfway down the page.”

  Lazarus did not take the offered gloves. He instead carefully touched the page as a lover would, as if by doing so lent him an intimacy with the object. He began at the top, eyes skimming, looking for something in particular.

  Charles leaned in to look but it was in a language he did not know.

  “I cannot read it,” Berrytrill observed, hovering over it.

  “Not many can,” Cesare Farina said.

  “I have been alive a long time, fairy,” Lazarus said, still skimming. “When you have been alive as long as I have, you learn many languages that exist to eventually die. Of course, this is my native language.”

  Charles watched the vampire closely. Something still nagged at the knight. Long moments passed. Lazarus continued with his read, almost as if he had forgotten the others in the room. The Cardinal Archivist stood nearby, his fear replaced by worry for the priceless document the vampire pored over.

  Then Lazarus stopped, his eyes doing a re-read of a particular passage.

  He closed his eyes, a satisfied smile crossing his lips.

  “It is true,” Lazarus breathed. “I am set free.”

  “Set free of what?” Berrytrill asked.

  “There is much in this life that such as yourself may never know, little fairy,” Lazarus said. “You live a finite life. As does your Heliwr there. Life holds meaning when it is short. Given a disease that robs a man of his life in a matter of years, that man will travel, see the world, eat and drink things he never would have considered before. He drinks life like a fine wine and becomes more than he was. He dies but he dies happy, knowing he has fulfilled as much of life as he possibly can.

  “That does not exist for me,” Lazarus continued. “Life steals from me even as I live forever. I am an abomination. A mistake by the Word.”

  “What do you now seek to end that mistake?” Charles questioned.

  “The weapon bathed in the blood of Jesus Christ.”

  “And what’s that?” Berrytrill asked.

  “The Holy Lance,” the Cardinal Archivist answered.

  “The priest has the right of it. The spear of Longinus. It punctured the side of the Christ,” Lazarus said, nodding as if to validate what he had just discovered. “Whether the Word intended it or not, the spear has been endowed with power upon coming in contact with the Christ’s blood. It states it simply here when it has been omitted in all Bibles since the Church took control of its message. Just as the Cup of Christ has the power to grant life—and that particular aspect of the Word’s story has also been stripped out—the spear can undo that life. I require the spear. Nothing more.”

  “How can you be sure the Holy Lance will kill you, Lazarus?” Charles asked.

  “There are no assurances in life, Heliwr,” the vampire admitted. “But it is one of the last chances that I possess.”

  “You expect to be in its presence then. To have its tip pierce your heart.”

  “That is exactly what I want.”

  “How do I know this is not some kind of trick to steal the relic?” Charles asked. “What assurance do we have?”

  “As I have said, you have my word.”

 
“You would die—quietly and cleanly—and that is all?

  “It is,” Lazarus said. “I only wish to die on consecrated ground. I have no designs to kill you, this Cardinal Archivist, or anyone else for that matter in so long as I am destroyed and released from this perpetual bondage.” He paused. “But if you do not give me what I desire, I will see the entirety of Rome made vampire.”

  “You threaten Rome now?” Berrytrill asked.

  “If it prompts you to action, yes.”

  Charles stared hard at the vampire, thinking. There was desperation to the creature that could not be denied. He wanted to die. The knight had seen frantic hopelessness in people before and Lazarus possessed it. But there was a danger in letting the creature near such a powerful relic. The Holy Lance had a storied past, filled with coronations and war, with legend recounting whoever held it controlled the fate of humanity—for good or ill. To the knight’s memory, it had vanished centuries earlier. A previous Pope had obviously discovered it, authenticated it, and kept its power secreted away within the Vatican.

  Lazarus was a formidable opponent, a creature of great power. Given the spear, he could prove insurmountable.

  Weighing his own magical skills with the Dark Thorn and the reward versus the risk, the Heliwr came to a decision.

  “We shall do this,” Charles said.

  “You will not!” Cardinal Farina argued.

  Charles gave Cesare Farina a knowing nod. “It will be under very controlled conditions, I assure you. Lazarus cannot be allowed to possess the spear. Not at any cost.”

  “I do not have the authority!” the Cardinal erupted. “I know not where it is!”

  “But I do.”

  Everyone in the room turned.

  Pope Urban IX stood flanked by guards at the entrance to the hidden room, Beck Almgren just behind. The pontiff was a middle-aged man, one of the youngest to come to the highest position within Catholicism, and while Charles had not met him he knew Urban to be headstrong and rash in his beliefs and how he conducted them. The Pope looked at each of the room’s occupants, conviction burning in his eyes, before they settled on Lazarus.

  Disgust fought at the corners of his mouth.

  “What has entered my home?”

  Charles cursed inwardly. The captain had notified the Pope. And put one of the world’s most powerful men in harm’s way.

  “Your Holiness,” Cesare Farina said bowing.

  “I will see this done, Cardinal Archivist,” Pope Urban said. “I have heard enough. The creature before us is a terrible entity, one that brings darkness on the world. I doubt God or His Son would create such a being. Lucifer has done this in some way. But it is God’s will that has brought him here and if he wishes to be destroyed, so be it. God will pass judgment on his soul and the world will be free of an enemy of the Word.”

  Lazarus said nothing but nodded to the Pope.

  “But my Grace,” Captain Almgren began. “It is my duty to protect you. Should you be this involved? I have to say this might be a ploy and you should leav—”

  “I will see this done. Myself,” the Pope declared. He gave Charles a dark look. “Heliwr, do you believe this abomination? Can the Spear of Destiny destroy it? Can such a one be killed in this manner?”

  “Lazarus believes it to be so,” Charles said. “Cesare Farina and I both witnessed a stake enter his heart, to no avail. He lives. So I don’t know if he can be killed. But I think it likely if the Holy Lance possesses the power legend accounts.”

  “What does your wizard believe?”

  “Merle is ignorant to what has transpired in these Secret Archives.”

  Pope Urban chuckled darkly. “I doubt that.”

  “Now that you are here, this is a choice you must make,” Charles pointed out.

  “And if I hadn’t been?” Urban said, lightning in his eyes. “No, don’t answer. You are mantled in your demon wizard’s wayward wishes. God is not so easily fooled. He put me here. I will make the choice. This is not your home after all.”

  “Where is the spear?” Lazarus broke in.

  “It is safe, protected,” the pontiff said, giving the creature a mean look. “I will retrieve it. But first, vampire, you will remove yourself from these archives. I will not tolerate your taint here, among such importance.” The Pope paused. “Cesare Farina, return the parchment page to its safe placement please and close the room.”

  The Cardinal Archivist did just that and, once finished, nodded to those in the room to vacate.

  Lazarus did not object but went willingly.

  Once everyone had emptied the room, Cesare Farina spoke a few ancient words and the wall reformed, hiding its priceless contents in secrecy again.

  “I have ordered the Swiss Guards not of my retinue to return to the catacombs below, just in case this is a ruse,” Pope Urban notified, turning to leave. “Follow me. This should not take long.”

  Cringing beneath the imprisoning grasp of Lazarus once more, the Cardinal followed his pontiff out of the Secret Archives, through several bookcases and doorways, and up flights of stairs. The Swiss Guards once outside the restoration room were indeed gone. The Pope led but he did so slowly, his personal Swiss Guard detail still protecting him, Bishop Valencia a step behind. Urban kept an eye on the vampire almost as closely as Charles did.

  The Heliwr and his guide brought up the rear of the procession, the Dark Thorn an assurance of warmth beneath his hand.

  It did not take long for the odd group to leave the ancient building and enter the cool night air of Rome. Charles knew the area. The Cortile della Pigna surrounded them, the courtyard bounded by other Vatican buildings, the walls featuring alcoves filled with tall statues from antiquity and more modern artwork placed sporadically about the grass lawn. To the south through the library, the Borgia Tower stood, its heights a sentinel over the Cortile del Belevedere. The Sistine Chapel lay just on the other side with the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica lording over all. Charles could feel the portal thrumming nearby, deep in the catacombs, far from where they stood if one did not know the secret passageways that littered Vatican City.

  With the high walls of the courtyard boxing them in, the Pope had brought the vampire to an area not easily fled from.

  “Wait here,” Pope Urban instructed.

  “Where is the spear?” Lazarus asked.

  “That is none of your concern,” the pontiff chided. He looked at Charles. “If the vampire attempts to flee or cause other mischief, Heliwr, I trust you can subdue him until my return. In this, you cannot fail.”

  “I would follow you, Your Eminence,” Captain Almgren said.

  “You will not. This I must do alone.”

  Not waiting for a response, the Pope strode south toward St. Peter’s Basilica, his guards remaining a shield about him. Charles waited like the rest beneath the stars. None of them spoke. The Cardinal Archivist prayed in whispers, an act that clearly unnerved Lazarus. Captain Almgren scowled nearby and did not take his eyes from the vampire. Berrytrill sat upon Charles’s shoulder, arms folded, his leafy face scrunched up in barely-contained irritation.

  Charles felt as his guide did. No matter his desire to see Lazarus destroyed, he did not like that the vampire was near to getting what he wished. That wasn’t all though. The knight did not like the deadly sin of power craved in the eyes of the Pope. He did not like being effectively removed from decisions, Urban now in control. And was the Pope in control? A vampire as ancient as Lazarus undoubtedly had duplicitous tricks to use when it suited him. And even though the Cardinal Archivist had corroborated the identity of the vampire, something felt missing, a truth that could haunt them for days yet come.

  The feeling they were being misled grew like an angry itch.

  One Charles could not scratch.

  “Why did your witch not simply tell you where the spear was located, Lazarus?” Charles asked finally. “Surely she could have if she could divine where the Bible was located for you. Why involve the Cardinal Archivist and
the book he protects at all?”

  “I wished that, Heliwr,” the vampire admitted. “She would not share that knowledge though.”

  “Why not?”

  “In her words,” Lazarus said, disgust on his face. “Letting the wolf loose among the sheep is far more interesting.”

  Charles mulled on that, still trying to unravel the puzzle that was Lazarus. After long minutes, Pope Urban returned and strode toward them across the courtyard lawn, bearing a long item wrapped in white cloth. Without a word, he unwrapped it and brought free a spear from antiquity, its design clearly Roman, its long tip glinting in the weak starlight.

  “The Holy Lance,” the Pope presented, letting the cloth fall to the ground.

  “It looks new,” Berrytrill observed.

  “The wood shaft has been replaced several times, fairy, but the point has never lost its edge in all the centuries since that day it punctured the side of Christ.”

  “What now, Your Holiness?” the Cardinal Archivist asked.

  “I will speak with the Heliwr. In private.”

  Unsure what Urban wanted to discuss, Charles followed the Pope deeper into the courtyard where distance and night cloaked them in privacy.

  “Do you sense any intention other than what the creature said in the depths of the Secret Archives, Charles Ardall?” the Pope asked.

  “I do not know,” Charles said, glancing back at Lazarus. “Something is not right. The vampire speaks true but not. There is something in all this he is not telling us.”

  “The Holy Lance cannot fall into its hands. Do you understand?”

  “As wielder of the Dark Thorn, I agree.”

  “I wish something of you then,” Urban continued. “I do not want to be parted from the spear, not for any reason. There must be a spell you can weave to make this so. My forbearers have protected the Holy Lance for millennia. I must do so as well.”

  “That could be very dangerous,” Charles said, apprehension filling him. “Magic is not something to be taken lightly. Merle has been very adamant about situations like you suggest. For a knight to enact magic on another person is a grave risk. Magic can go wrong; it can be unpredictable. The danger involved, no matter how practiced a user I am, could harm you. And you being the Pope with great responsibility and with intense public scrutiny makes it—”