The Dark Thorn (19 page)

“Be careful of whom you offend, Lord.”

Lord Gwawl fell quiet but crimson anger spread over his face.

“The wolves will speed
your
king’s vision,” John Lewis Hugo added. “They can infiltrate into the harsh conditions in the Carn Cavall and will travel far from this world. That is all you need know. I suppose what you are
really
worried about is, yes, they will keep you and your fellow lords in their place.”

“Unnatural beasts,” Evinnysan spat.

“You don’t
have
to like them, Evinnysan,” John Lewis Hugo replied with rancor. “
You
just have to do what you are told.”

A howl erupted behind them, silencing the lords like a death stroke. As quickly as it had come it was silenced. John Lewis Hugo gave his companions a dark look and, kicking his horse into action, rode back the way they had come. The warriors around Bran did not keep their misgivings silent.

“That one was killed fast. Perhaps they are not so difficult to kill.”

“Unnatural to bring such creatures into the world.”

“Who does the king think he is, creating those beasts?”

“They are fierce. Should send them into Snowdon against the Morrigan.”

“What else are they breeding beneath Caer Llion?”

Each opinion varied, the warriors chattered on as they entered a darker patch of Dryvyd Wood; the dappled sunshine vanished. The mystery of Annwn, with its foreign setting, frightening creatures, and hardened men, heightened Bran’s anxiety. He had no weapon, no ability to protect himself. He had not understood the danger of Annwn. He had hoped for answers, even adventure. He had been an ass. The growing realization he could die in a foreign world at any moment now stung like shards of steel.

Bran might not see Seattle again.

Those he knew in the Bricks would never know his fate.

The pain at his groin intensifying suddenly, he pushed the thoughts away angrily. Thinking that way about death did him no good. He sighed and shifted his weight, trying to alleviate some of the bound pain. He would confront what came with the same hard reality he had faced on the streets and relent to nothing.

That’s when, from a brambly bush nearby, Bran saw emerald eyes staring at him.

He blinked, the ache in his body replaced by surprise. The eyes followed him from an oval face coated in colors of the forest, inquisitive and alert as they watched the captive and those around him. The rest of her was hidden from view, but curly red hair framed a young face. On a branch next to her a fairy sat, its body composed of sticks and moss fused together, a natural camouflage.

Bran was so astonished by the two he almost cried out.

The woman shook her head—and just as quickly vanished.

A screech in the trees above caught his attention. Arrow Jack jabbered down at Bran, the feathers of the merlin ruffled. Several warriors shot annoyed cursory glances upward and made warding signs of evil. Richard had mentioned the bird would be their guide. That had not worked out well. Arrow Jack continued his screaming though as if warning the world of impending doom.

Bran kept his eyes open, looking for the girl.

She did not appear.

“Who you looking for?” Evinnysan mocked. “I see nobody.”

The man next to Evinnysan laughed—just as an arrow sprouted from his chest.

Dazed, the warrior slid out of his saddle, a dead sack gurgling to the ground. Lord Gwawl, Evinnysan, and the men around them shouted in shock as they drew weapons, the ring of steel thick. They had little time to react. The forest erupted as men and women wearing leather charged from the thick brush and trees, attacking the mounted men with swords and axes. Steel upon steel rang, and the sounds of men grunting, screaming, and dying filled the air.

Fear gripped Bran even as the world tilted crazily. The giant carrying him collapsed, struck down. Bran landed hard, his head slamming into the damp forest floor, the world spinning in and out of darkness. Through the haze he saw the giant that carried Richard drop as well, two massive crossbow bolts shot through its neck at awkward angles, the wounds pumping black blood into the day.

Before Bran could attempt to free himself, calloused fingers tugged at his ropes.

“Be still, lad, don’t make the knots tighter,” the voice chided.

Bran turned to face a small man the size of a barrel, eyes as black as coal fixed on his freedom. Bran took in his rescuer. Wavy black hair streaked with gray matched his beard; the brown leather of his tunic was belted tight and displayed half a dozen knives and a coiled whip. He looked armed for war and fully capable of carrying it out.

“Who are you?” Bran finally stammered.

“Does it matter?”

In seconds his rescuer cut the bonds imprisoning Bran’s hands and, moments later, those of his feet as well. Nearby two other smallish men bearing a resemblance to the other freed Richard, the knight a bloody rag doll. Around them two separate groups attacked, slicing in like swords thrust at the same time to divide Bran and Richard from the warriors of John Lewis Hugo at the front and the demon wolves at their back. All the while arrows flew from hidden bowmen in the forest, the shafts striking with unerring precision those warriors who got too close to Bran, the knight, and the three little men who aided them.

Adrenaline pumping life back into his numb limbs, Bran gained his feet only to be dragged away from the conflict, Richard carried right behind him.

“Get them!” John Lewis Hugo screamed from the melee.

The Templar Knights redoubled their efforts, hacking into their foes, but the lithe men and women of the forest were steadfast, a wall of will.

The raging battle faded behind Bran.

About a hundred yards away, he burst from thick foliage into the outer fringe of the expansive plain, the brush limited and trees sporadic. Fierce women on bareback horses confronted him, their various weapons drawn and glinting in the sunshine, most wearing sleeveless jerkins the color of dried mud and short green riding pants. The few men were similarly prepared for war, while nearby an ancient man with white hair above pointed ears stood weaponless, his face wrinkled like a prune.

Several dozen horses waited, mounts for those who fought.

In their midst, a centaur towered over the rest and stared down at Bran. Eyes as blue as ocean depths burned with authoritarian conviction. She held a long ash bow with a knocked arrow. The horse end of the creature was pristine white and powerfully built; the woman half sat naked and proud where she began just below the belly button, her arms and shoulders toned, long blonde braids hanging over pert tanned breasts.

“Got ‘em, Aife, my dear,” the tiny man said.

“Where is the Queen, Kegan?” the centaur questioned.

“Perhaps the halfbreeds were more difficult to dispatch.”

“If true, our time has come,” Aife grunted. “Belenus, look to the knight.”

The stooped old man knelt at the side of Richard, his fingers probing the knight’s limp body with precise movements of gnarled fingers. Richard moaned, his body moving weakly as if warding off the attack that had already wounded him. Belenus ignored the protestations of his patient, his concentration absolute.

“Belenus…?” Aife pressed.

“He is badly wounded, Huntress,” the healer answered. “The quicker we return to Arendig Fawr, the better chance he will have to live.”

“Conall. Kearney. Give the knight to me,” the centaur ordered.

“Wait!” Bran protested. “Who are you? What are you doing?”

“We are those who save your life, human,” Aife said icily.

The gnomish men who had freed Richard lifted him as Aife rode up. A shimmer coalesced around her, rippling like waves in crystal water. When it cleared the centaur had vanished. Instead Aife stood upon naked human legs while behind the white horse she had been a part had regained its head, pawing the earth and shaking its mane.

Aife knelt and lifted Richard free, closing her eyes.

The same flickering of light occurred again, and once more woman and horse were joined, the knight cradled to her chest.

“Horse the boy now,” Aife commanded. “We must cross the Tywi River with all possible speed.”

“What of Morrigan?” Kegan asked.

“She is able, Horsemaster,” Aife retorted before galloping northward.

“Know how to ride?” Kegan asked Bran.

“No,” Bran stammered.

“Nothing like learning on the fly, says I.”

“I’ll take him,” a feminine voice said.

Bran turned to behold the redhead he had seen earlier breaking from the trees of Dryvyd Wood. She moved with grace, each step quick and certain, her loose-fitting dark green clothing splattered with blackish blood like the sword she held. The woman barely gave him a glance, her eyes round and green as she passed to meet a chocolate mare that whinnied at her approach.

“Willowyn,” she greeted.

The fairy darted from the forest then to hover among them all. “Ashrot, Deirdre! Outworlder or no outworlder. Let’s go, let’s go!”

“Ride hard, Lady of Mochdrev Reach,” Kegan said as she mounted.

“Like the wind,” Deirdre said.

Kegan made a makeshift stirrup with his linked hands. “Up you go, lad.”

“I don’t—”

“Now!”

Bran stepped into it and Kegan boosted him up with more strength Bran thought the Horsemaster could possess. He settled in behind the woman, still unsure. The fairy followed, giving Bran what he thought to be a dirty look before flying ahead.

“You had better not let go,” Kegan said with a wink. He turned to the redhead. “Aife is already making for the river and the city. We will follow anon.”

“Ready?” Deirdre questioned over her shoulder.

Bran gripped her hips loosely. “Where are you taking me?”

“Away.”

Before Bran could ask more, the quivering muscles beneath him leapt into motion, hooves pounding the soft ground. Bran threw his arms around the rider’s waist from sheer fear.

As they entered the plain’s rolling expanse, a horn blew behind them, its blast deep and penetrating.

The sound of the fight faded quickly.

Willowyn carried her two riders northward, her gait powerful and even. The fairy was nowhere to be seen. Bran’s extremities came back to life in painful alarm as he held tight. Even as the realization of his freedom stole over him, he wondered if he had merely left one ill only to embrace another.

Willowyn galloped on.

And the Carn Cavall loomed, a hazy smear of promise on the horizon.

Cormac stared hard at Finn Arne, nearly at a loss for words. The captain gazed back across the desk like a statue, his report finished.

The events in Seattle had not gone as Cormac had hoped. Not at all. The Ardall boy had escaped, aided by McAllister and the wizard, able to flee into the portal with help from that monstrous halfbreed that lived along the pier. The company of Swiss Guard Finn had taken with him lay broken, several of them severely burned, others sustaining broken ribs, legs, or arms. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to set them free from authorities. Finn bore no wounds, the Shield of Arthur bequeathed by the Vigilo protecting him from harm.

Cormac wanted to throttle Finn Arne, shield or no shield.

The Cardinal Vicar fought to maintain his composure. But he saw what failure had done to the captain. It infuriated Finn Arne that McAllister had bested him.

Cormac would use that vengeance to gain advantage.

Donato Javier Ramirez, the Cardinal Seer, sat in a ridged high-backed wood chair, his presence almost invisible. Cormac needed his long-time friend in the room more than ever.

“I am more than disappointed, Captain,” Cormac said finally.

“Understandably, Your Eminence.”

Cormac chose his words carefully. “Do you wish to make atonement for your failure?”

“More than anything.”

Long moments passed. “I will call on you this evening. Leave us.”

Finn Arne vanished from the room, leaving the two Cardinals in privacy. Alone with his mentor, Cormac dropped his guard and let the stress he felt out.

“My old friend, this is intolerable!”

“Patience,” the Cardinal Seer said. “Remember the Lord’s will.”

Cormac nodded absentmindedly, frowning into space.

“Cormac Pell O’Connor,” Donato prodded. The Cardinal Vicar looked up. “Got yer attention, I see. Yeh have always been an academic and political student. I’ve seen ambition drive yeh to yer current position. But let me remind yeh of one thing, the most certain thing I have learned in my long life. God has a plan beyond any that yeh may have. To rebel against it for yer own desires is evil’s purpose.”

“I wonder if I will feel the same once I enter the twilight of my own life,” Cormac sighed.

“Twilight, my boy? Twilight can come at any time, regardless of age.”

“I suppose you are right,” Cormac said, not truly believing it. “The others should be gathered by now. Shall we proceed and relate what trouble I’ve started?”

Donato barked a weak laugh and rose on legs grown far too spindly. Holding the withered arm of his oldest friend, Cormac guided Donato out of the room and down the polished hallways of the Vatican, the weight of ages pressing in around them. The two men had walked these same steps countless times, but he knew few such walks remained. Donato only had a few years left. Cormac didn’t want to think on it, but he knew it was coming.