The Dark Thorn (38 page)

“My grandson Faric against your own boy there, he who possesses Arondight,” Fafnir said, pointing a crooked finger at Bran. “They are close to the same age, I wager.”

All eyes turned on Bran.

“But I have never played,” he stammered.

“That is…problematic,” Fafnir said darkly. “Set up the board, Faric.”

A coblynau with the same piercing gaze as the lord of Caer Glain except younger and fair-haired moved to one of the empty tables and began setting up game pieces, some in a diamond in the middle of the board and others in groups around the edges. When he was done, Faric bowed, looking directly at Bran, before sitting in one of two chairs.

Letting his rage at what Merle had done to him dissipate and focusing on the moment, Richard let the Dark Thorn fade away. He came to Bran, guiding him forward.

“Let the sword go, Bran.”

The boy did so. Arondight vanished like smoke.

“What did you
do
?” Bran hissed.

“Ever play chess?”

“
I can’t do this!
“

“You can and will,” Richard assured. “Just as you stood up against Caswallawn, you will do what is right here. Have you played chess or not?”

“I told you in Seattle. I played with my father. Haven’t in years.”

“Gwyddbwyll is like chess. See the board?” Bran nodded as they stopped a dozen yards away. “A king starts in the middle of the square board. The eight pawns of the same color around him are guards, there to protect the king from the sixteen attacking soldiers around the perimeter. The guards, attackers, and even the king move like rooks, in straight lines. A piece is removed from the game only when two same-colored pieces sandwich an opposing piece. The point of the game is to move the king to one of the four borders without being surrounded on all four sides by the attackers and taken. For the king to be cornered without a move is a loss.”

“Can I move one of my pieces between two of his pieces without being taken?”

“Yes, you can,” Richard answered. “It is a simple and elegant game. But it does require strategy. So be careful.”

Bran didn’t seem convinced. Richard studied the game setup. It was a beautiful board, with shining silver and onyx squares alternating nine wide and deep. A king carved from amethyst stood in the middle, encircled by the pawn-like guards. In four groups along each border, attackers carved from black marble waited to ambush the king.

“Think ahead many moves,” Richard advised.

“If it
is
like chess, I understand.”

The knight nodded. Bran turned and sat in the small chair, barely fitting in it and towering over his opponent. Faric sat across from him, twisting the mustache of his beard as he appraised his opponent. He smiled politely. Bran did not.

“Let it begin then,” Fafnir commanded, glee in his eyes.

“I am Faric, son of Fannon,” the grandson of Lord Fafnir greeted.

“Bran Ardall.”

Raising an eyebrow, Faric looked to his grandfather. Fafnir frowned deeper but waved his grandson on. Faric selected a black marble attacker and slid it forward. Bran took a deep breath, gave Richard one last look, and moved a countering guard.

The game progressed slowly. Richard realized Lord Fafnir had trapped them already. The game was difficult even for the experienced. The coblynau who had been playing at other tables now watched the new game, whispering to one another with every move. Faric was quick to move, having obviously played the game many times in the past—certain and fearless. Richard observed every move made and tried to ascertain how it benefited Faric’s play, as if he could will the information directly to Bran. The boy did take his time, looking at all angles, deciphering how one move could work in conjunction with other moved pieces. Just like chess, the killing attack in gwyddbwyll could come from any angle, any front. Seeing that attack before it was too late was the key.

The game played on, the throne hall silent, an hour gone. Bran had taken five pieces but had lost two. Most of the force brought to bear by Faric surrounded Bran, with attackers spread around the board staring directly at the endangered king. Richard found that he held his breath, knowing attacks could come from several fronts, leaving him frustrated that Bran might not see something until it was too late.

“Now it comes down to it, eh,” Lord Fafnir crowed.

“Think it through, Bran. Think it through,” the boy whispered to himself. “Take your time.”

The pieces had gravitated toward one of the corners nearest Bran and he was close to reaching a border with his king. Six of his guards remained in a protective ring about the king. Faric blocked him from reaching the corner. Pieces on both sides would tumble like dominos in the next six or seven moves—the win or loss would happen fast.

Then Richard saw it, the opening for Bran. He hoped the boy did too. Bran reached to move a guard to block an attacker and break through to win—and then paused. Richard stopped breathing. So did the throne room. Bran withdrew his hand and stared at Faric. The coblynau ignored him, lost in the pieces, and then furtively glanced up at Bran.

Both understood. The game was over.

Grabbing the wrong piece, Bran moved one of his guards, cutting off the closest border and the win.

“What did you
do
?” Richard growled, exasperated. “Stupid!”

“Had the game won, ye did!” Faric said, shaking his head. Then made a move.

“I did win,” Bran said.

“Ye did not!” Faric shot back, gesturing at the board. “It is a draw.”

“That’s right,” Bran said with certainty. Richard saw what he meant. The king moved back and forth over two squares, unable to be captured by Faric in the safety of the quartz guards but also unable to reach one of the corners to actually win the game due to frozen attackers. The guards were also safe from Faric, leaving a stalemate.

Faric just sat there, looking puzzled.

“You knew,” Fafnir criticized, his face wrinkled in his frown.

“No one wins in war,” Bran said, standing up. “It’s the same on the streets; it is the same everywhere, I would imagine. War is what you are going to have if you don’t believe Richard McAllister and agree with the Queen’s request, and it
will
be a war you will lose.”

Lord Fafnir looked from the board back to Bran and back again. Richard could not believe what had just happened. The boy looked at him uncertainly before meeting the gaze of the coblynau lord. Bran had taken a grave risk. All in the chamber knew it and waited for the outcome. Richard hoped Bran knew what he was doing.

Otherwise he was going to beat him within an inch of his life.

“What say you, Lord Fafnir?” Richard asked.

“It is an odd situation in game play. Made more odd by your need,” Fafnir admitted in his raspy voice. “This young man has shown more wisdom in playing a game than I or my forefathers have seen from that vaunted Seelie Court in previous centuries. He pulls a draw? On purpose? To make a point?” The ancient coblynau laughed. “He is rare, that one.”

Richard did not answer. The hall was silent once more.

“Truly an Ardall?”

“He is. Son of Charles,” Richard answered. “Philip has tried to kill him twice.”

“Let him speak for himself,” Fafnir commanded. “What has
he
seen?”

Bran hesitated before bowing. “Knight McAllister has said a war is coming to your home. He tells the truth. I have seen these evil creatures and those who drive them with my own eyes, unleashed by Philip. I met the Queen and other gathered lords, and they are prepared to fight—together. They need your aid and they need your resources. I cannot see how you will be safe if you alone stay here and do not join nor how they will be strong without your strength.”

“I see,” Fafnir said, pursing his already thin lips and gnashing his teeth. Long moments passed. No one said a word. “One course then, like your game. Both Faric and my other grandson Forrenhahl will join you and this war you believe will come. Caer Glain will supply the lords of the lowlands the ore they need. The fires will be stoked; iron will flow to Arendig Fawr.”

Richard breathed easier and bowed.

“The warriors of Caer Glain will join the Seelie Court in Arendig Fawr within three days,” Lord Fafnir promised as he stood unsteadily, even though the boney hand that gripped his war hammer was firm and strong. “May Ser Hendel protect us all.”

“Thank you, Lord Fafnir,” Richard said.

“Let us feast then,” Fafnir replied and pointed at Bran. “And perhaps a game against Ardall there.”

Richard brooded as he walked behind his companions, his thoughts splintered with rage, the reality of what had been done to him threatening his composure.

Myrddin Emrys had tricked him—again.

Even thinking the words sent fresh ire through his blood. He was now the Heliwr. The Unfettered Knight. It was his duty and his alone to patrol the two worlds and keep them both separate. If the two worlds blurred when a fey creature crossed over or someone from his world broke into Annwn, it was now his responsibility to track them down, return them—or kill them. No longer chained to the portal in Seattle, he could venture where he wished as long as he had access to Annwn and its seven gateways.

The freedom gave him no solace. Richard had not been given a choice, and that betrayal gnawed at him like a splinter in his soul.

Merle had seen this. The wizard had known.

And he had not told Richard.

After the gwyddbwyll match between Bran and Lord Fafnir the previous evening, the leader of the coblynau had offered warm beds and meals. The group from Arendig Fawr took the offer with pleasure. The deaths of Connal and the two hellyll lay heavy on their hearts.

Not so with Richard. The duplicity that had knighted him Heliwr would not allow it. Deirdre had tried to prompt the knight into conversation. He had ignored the redhead as if she had played a part in the travesty. The way she looked at him made him angrier than he had a right to be, the pain from his past mingling with the present to form a self-loathing that boiled.

Before he had finished his meal, Richard left the throne room to wander the halls of Caer Glain and think on what had happened. No one stopped him. Coming to a small waterfall, and in the dark, alone, he thought back on the events that led to his melding to the Dark Thorn. Merle had told him knighthood would not pass from father to son. He had been right. Govannon could not give Bran a weapon. The boy now carried Arondight. The Lady in the glen asked if he would protect the office of Heliwr with his life. Richard had accepted. It was the reason Bran hadn’t been able to call the Dark Thorn when they awoke under the hawthorn tree; it was the reason events had played out the way they had.

There was nothing Richard could do to change it.

And it pissed him off.

Merle had played his chess game and won a major battle in the war. Richard had been used as a pawn once more. So had Bran. When Richard had returned to his quarters, the boy had been there with questions more numerous than flies. Richard answered them, if barely. The boy’s newfound authority was exciting to Bran; the new Seattle portal knight did not care how Merle had set him up. It made Richard want to rage against everything.

Even now, watching the boy as he strode ahead and his exuberance in learning all he could about the coblynau, Richard wanted nothing more than to drag him out of Annwn by the nape of his neck and be done with this business entirely.

“And which Ser is Merrick?” Bran asked Hollick.

The guard grimaced. “Ye really do
not
know the ways.”

“No, not at all.”

“Ser Merrick is the governing Ser of Pathways,” the young coblynau said. “He keeps our way safe from the shadows of the Unseelie and protects all those who walk alongside him.”

“I’ll never remember all of this,” Bran said.

An overwhelming rush of hatred spread through Richard. Not for Bran, but for what the boy represented—a willing apprentice of Merle.

Along with Henrick, Hollick, and two coblynau guards named Charl and Gat, the Arendig Fawr delegation made their way through the bustle and out of Caer Glain. Fafnir kept good on his promise; hundreds of coblynau mobilized for war, and carts of iron ingots already made their way down the mountain for Govannon. The grandsons of Fafnir would also lead a contingent of coblynau warriors down the slopes to Arendig Fawr, giving their aid as best they could. While a part of Richard wished he and the others could stay a few days to recover from the attack of the bodach, he also knew time was of the essence.

The sooner he finished with Tal Ebolyon, the sooner he could confront Merle.

Thinking about how to convince Lord Latobius to rejoin the Seelie Court, Richard almost ran over Gat. In front of him the group had stopped. Beyond them, the torchlight had gone out, the only illumination a weak light emanating from the floor.

“Sometimes this happens,” Hollick said. “Odd gusts, odd wind.”

“Well, I don’t believe in
sometimes
,” Richard said, calling forth the Dark Thorn.

“No chances?” Bran asked.