The Dark Thorn (14 page)

“Damn it!” Richard exclaimed.

“McAllister!” Finn Arne yelled with eager mockery. “The old man may have the ability to disappear. You do not. Give the lad up. There is nowhere for you to go. Your wizard has left you, as has the ability he knighted you with.”

“You do not command me,” Richard bellowed. “Or the boy.”

“No?” the captain said, leveling both handguns at the knight. “Those who hold the weapons make the rules. Or didn’t you know that?”

Bran huddled behind the knight. The alley was like pitch, the shadowy outlines of dumpsters and a far-off van their only possible protection. They were pinned—certainly not able to gain the stairs Richard had pointed at.

Then a quiver ran through the bricks at his back.

“I don’t want to have to kill a knight!” Finn Arne shouted, clearly frustrated.

“You won’t have to,” Richard snapped.

In a blur of massive movement that blocked out even the weak starlight and made Bran flinch involuntarily, a creature as large as an elevator dropped between the knight and the captain from the rooftops above, thundering the street upon its landing. Screams of fear and curses mixed with the strobe flashes of renewed gunfire. Snarling with demonic ferocity, Finn Arne leveled his own gunfire at the two-legged beast, its blunted face and thick body mere yards away. Bran couldn’t believe what he saw. With lank oily hair falling from a balding pate and around sharply pointed ears, the obsidian hulk raged and, with one huge fist the size of a cinder block, struck Finn Arne in the chest.

The captain flew across the street, as though a crushed gnat. When he landed on the steel bench, his backbone and ribs snapped sickeningly in the night—the strike a killing blow.

In response, the fighters advanced despite the lack of effect their weapons had on the powerful beast. The massive protector remained fixed in his spot, shielding his face and chest with his arms, blocking the alley and its occupants from harm.

“I got this, Rick,” it rumbled. “Get your glow rod workin’ and get outta here.”

“No, I won’t leave you to them, Kreche!” Richard shouted.

Dozens of bullets struck the muscled mass of Kreche with deadened thwacks, each adding to its pain. Bran didn’t know what creature the newcomer was or how it could withstand such an assault, but he knew it was only a matter of time before it was overwhelmed.

“Can’t do this forever,” Kreche grimaced.

The being’s need bolstered Richard somehow. Where a downtrodden and lost man had just stood, a righteous knight replaced him once more.

Arondight exploded into existence.

“Go,” Kreche hissed.

On the heels of the knight, Bran stepped out of the alley, the fire of Arondight protecting them once more. Ten men bore down on them, their weapons automatic ferocity. The soldiers were not going to quit, even with their leader gone.

As he stepped clear, Bran saw the bleeding holes littering the beast’s deeply muscled chest and arms. It breathed heavily, its strong jaw clenched. Black ichor bled down a noseless flat face where a bullet had grazed its brow between nub horns. Bran didn’t know how the behemoth still stood, but he no longer took it for granted.

“Thank you,” Bran said, gazing into its black beady eyes.

“Make it count, scion of Ardall,” it grunted. “Farewell.”

Richard sent his fire hurtling toward most of the men before running from cover with Bran, trying to make it to the staircase. Once again, Arondight held off their attackers. Bullets ricocheted off of the brick buildings around them but could not hit their mark. The knight kept them safe, at least for the moment.

Bran looked backward as they ran, and was taken aback.

In the yellow lamplight, Finn Arne had returned, barking orders at those men still on their feet, as if nothing had happened to him.

Bran and Richard gained the stairway cut into the sidewalk, inky blackness below, as the sound of closing police sirens chased after them. His feet barely hitting the narrow stairs, Bran plunged downward. Richard came after, Arondight lighting their way. With Finn Arne screaming above, Richard slammed into the door at the base of the staircase. It buckled under his weight and they were through.

The world below embraced him with dank coolness.

“How did that captain survive that punch?!”

“He’s unique,” Richard answered hotly, moving through the tunnel’s gloom as quickly as he could. “I’ll explain later.”

“What about that thing?”

“The Kreche can take care of himself,” the knight snorted. “Nothing can withstand him, nothing in this world anyway. Those Church soldiers will flee or die for it.”

The underground opened up to Bran, a world lost to another age—broken stone and brick in dusty piles, ancient corroded steel beams, glass and old faded signs in the corners. The light bulbs above dark, Arondight offered the only illumination. Disorienting shadows flitted about them like elusive companions. Bran moved among them through the passageways.

Arrow Jack shot past Bran, sending electricity coursing through him. The bird flew ahead, having escaped the mayhem.

“Why would the Church want me?”

“Lapdogs of the Church,” Richard corrected. “Who knows why they want anything.”

“You mean—”

“Yes,” Richard grated. “I don’t know. All I know is the Cardinal Vicar wants you as badly as the Lord of Annwn apparently.”

“I don’t understand!”

“Well, I don’t get it either!” Richard thundered.

“Where is this portal?”

“We’ll find it sooner if you shut up,” Richard shot back.

They moved down the dead corridors, the walls close. Several twists and corners later, they stood before a glassless window that looked into what appeared to be an old bank. Richard left the corridor and moved into the shell of the building; the ancient vault door hung off its hinges and dust coated everything. Trash from the turn of the century filled all corners; ancient spider webs hung from the beams, caked in grime. Richard ignored it all and moved deeper into darkness.

The world Bran knew disappeared with every step.

In the middle of the concrete floor a hole opened, stairs leading into a depthless gaping maw waiting to swallow them. Holding Arondight high like a torch, Richard made his way down carefully, unperturbed by the rotten odors emanating from the hole. Into what appeared to be a basement of Old Seattle, Bran followed, the air a chill ghost on his skin.

They entered an empty square room made of jagged, worn red brick, uncluttered by the refuse that had marked the floors above.

None of that mattered to him.

In the center of the wall in front of him, the bricks had fallen away to reveal a hole in the earthy clay, shimmering with fog. Arondight could not penetrate its depths. Emerald ivy grew around the opening, its vines pushing the brick free, nature destroying what man had built. Bran had been expecting something more grandiose—more magical—a gate bearing carved Celtic runes or a tunnel leading into the earth. The portal was instead a swirling void.

Then a breeze as soft as goose down nudged his cheeks, filled with the mingled smells of dewy grass, growing trees, and intoxicating flowers.

“How can this exist here?” Bran breathed, dumbfounded.

“A sorcerer named Tathal Ennis created it, meant to hide it for his own personal gain. He was attempting to import items from Annwn and sell them to the highest bidder in Europe. The Church discovered the portal after Seattle’s Great Fire and hunted him down, but with no luck. Once a portal is opened it cannot be closed, and clever spells in the room above help keep people from venturing here.”

Bran looked back to the portal. He didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t panic,” Richard ordered. “There is more for you to know once we are on the other side. Keep moving forward once you step in.”

“What’s it like?”

“You’ll see,” the knight said before murmuring. “So will I.”

Arrow Jack flew in ahead of the two men. Bran took a deep breath. As Merle had said, there was no turning back.

With Richard in the lead, Bran entered the portal.

“I have returned from Mochdrev Reach, my king.”

Philip Plantagenet ignored the entrance of John Lewis Hugo and stared out the uppermost window of Idyll Tower, watching dawn come alive as the Harp of Tiertu attempted to soothe his stress. It didn’t help. He had seen thousands of sunrises grace Annwn, each one carving the peaks of the distant Carn Cavall Mountains from the night sky and burning away the gray fog from the Forest of Dean east of Caer Llion, but no sunrise during his centuries living in the land of the Tuatha de Dannan had brought such high stress—and such promise.

He rubbed the reddish stubble along his jaw, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep. It was a critical time and much demanded his attention.

“Welcome back, old friend,” Philip greeted finally, silencing the self-playing fey harp with a thought and turning to his long-time advisor. “I trust your trip was uneventful?”

“It was, thankfully,” John said, half of his face a hideous mask Philip had never grown accustomed to viewing. “Meeting with Lord Gerallt and his daughter went as planned. As I knew it would. The lord gave his blessing in private. Lady Deirdre is ordered to court in one month and will bring her retinue. And my king… she is a beautiful woman, strong of spirit and body. She will produce you a fine heir, one worthy of two worlds. You both will unite two peoples.”

“I am still not entirely sure it is the right time for me to marry, to have children,” Philip thought out loud, crossing his arms. “There is much work left. My father ordered the destruction of the Tuatha de Dannan and the annexation of Annwn. That has not yet happened. Does your use of the cauldron truly portend the time is now? Are you sure she is the right woman?”

“I am,” John said. “Marrying the daughter of Mochdrev Reach will unify the peoples from Britain. With the additional might, you will crush the Tuatha de Dannan and fulfill King Henry’s crusade. Is that not the trust you have been charged?”

It was, of course. Philip turned back to the sunrise. There was still a part of him that resented leaving his war unfinished, putting individual happiness before completing his father’s commandment. A man had his duty first; what came after was his alone. Over the eight centuries of his war, many women had enjoyed the pleasure of his sheets, all of them broomed from his royal suite just as quickly. None had produced children. John blamed it on use of the relic: such a potent magic rendering Philip impotent. Stoppage of its use—or so John believed—would lead to the heirs his long family line required.

Philip did not question his advisor. But his purpose in Annwn was yet to be finished, and it remained a festering wound to his honor.

“What did Gerallt’s daughter say?” he asked finally.

“She is angry, as is usually the case with arranged marriages,” John said. “Yet she knows her obligation to Caer Llion, and it will lend her the strength to do what is right.”

Philip wondered. If he did marry Lord Gerallt’s daughter, Mochdrev Reach would become a powerful new asset to his empire. The breadth of Annwn he had already conquered was vast but the populace sparse, particularly in the south. The men and women of the Reach were the descendents of the first humans to enter Annwn, coming to the sacred isle with the fey long before Philip had been born. He knew his history. He also knew countries could not be conquered without consolidation of force, and that meant bringing the Reach into his army and plan. John was right. The best way to do so was through marriage.

“My king,” John said, hands folded before him. “Gwawl, son of Clud, requests an audience. He can wait if it pleases you.”

“Are the preparations complete for Annwn’s newest visitors?”

“They are,” his advisor answered. “Master Goronwy and his hounds will lead a large company of Templars to the portal. The Cailleach has agreed to go for her normal price, of course. It should be enough.”

“The hag should be more than a match for the knight,” Philip said. “You are sure the boy and knight will enter Annwn?”

John did not answer but instead stepped to the middle of the room where the Cauldron of Pwyll sat upon its granite pedestal, the water in its silver mouth flat like ice. The rest of the study was much as it had been for most of Philip’s life—a refuge for the High King of Annwn. The room held many of the possessions he brought with him from London, but it had also become a journal of his time in the Sacred Isle. On one wall, opposite the world map of his birth, a map of Annwn hung, its breadth exposed for easy viewing. Shelves lined the other walls, filled with tomes from the library at Oxford, his own personal writings, and the combined knowledge of the dead rebel druids from the university at Caer Dathal. Rugs, ornate chairs, an oak desk buffed to a deep gloss, and acquired magical artifacts filled out the room.

“You look tired,” Philip said.

“The cauldron…taxes me, my king,” John said, touching the silver lip of the wide bowl. Philip observed the ruined mess that was the left side of John’s face, as it had been for centuries. The unpolluted childhood friend of Philip had vanished long before, the sad consequence of imprisoning one of the most fearful and powerful fey lords. “I am but a shadow of my other’s former self,” John admitted.