The Dark Thorn (50 page)

Philip turned to go then and without a look backward walked out of the cell. The door relocked with quick, firm turns, and the footfalls of his leaving faded to nothing.

Silence became Bran’s only companion.

While on the cusp of dozing, Bran thought of the Holy Grail. He still had a hard time believing Philip possessed the famous cup. Bran knew of it, knew of it from what Richard had told him and what he had read at Old World Tales. After the Grail left the Holy Land and made its way to the British Isles, it had come to King Arthur at Camelot. Wounded during the Battle of Camlann by his son and mortal enemy Mordred, Arthur sailed away upon a barge to heal in Avalon until Britain needed him once more.Ever since that time, men had hunted for the fabulous life-granting cup with no luck.

What if the reason the Holy Grail hadn’t been found was because it was not in his world? What if the Cup of Christ had gone with Arthur to Annwn?

And what if Philip had discovered it?

It all made sense.

“Wake up.”

Bran snorted from his reverie, opening his eyes as he huddled amidst the straw, looking around for the source of the childlike voice.

No one was in the cell; no one was at its door.

“Huh?” Bran grunted. “Who’s there?”

“In the cell next to your own,” answered a deeper voice of calm authority.

Bran looked to the wall of stone on his left. In three spots the mortar bracing the stones had been chipped away, leaving tiny gaps. He tried to peer through to the other side, hoping to see whoever it was that spoke to him, but he saw nothing.

“Lad, you there?” the deep voice questioned.

“I am.”

“Good, good, I am pleased to make your acquaintan—”

“Of course he is there,” a third, angrier man rasped. “You heard him, did you not, Uter?”

“Leave Uter be, Ambrosius,” the boyish voice squeaked.

“My apologies, Sir
Wart
,” Ambrosius mocked.

“How long have you guys been here?” Bran asked, suddenly happy to have someone—anyone—to talk to.

“Too long.”

“Indeed,” Uter agreed with Ambrosius. “Far too long. With any hope in the Lady, you will not be imprisoned for as long as we have been. Still, all those throughout Annwn under the boot of the false king are as we—in need of retribution from his ills and evils.”

“My sword Caledfwlch shall deliver more than retribution,” Ambrosius spat. “If I am freed, I will speak an oath on it!”

“You heard my conversation with Philip then?” Bran asked.

“We heard it,” Ambrosius growled. “Could not help but overhear that
prat
.”

“His time will come, Ambrosius,” Uter allayed. “As surely as our own will. Now is not the time for anger however. Now is the time for planning.”

Bran didn’t know what to think. The two men and young boy had obviously known one another for some time, imprisoned together. Uter seemed to be a highly educated man, possessing the calm demeanor of diplomacy. Ambrosius sounded the opposite, driven by emotions, an impatient warrior. Wart could not have been more than ten; why Philip had need to jail a youth was beyond Bran. He could not believe the three of them could fit comfortably in the shared cell if it was the same size as the one Bran occupied.

“Why have you all been imprisoned?” Bran questioned.

“For the knowledge we possess,” Ambrosius mumbled.

“How so?”

“Caer Llion is our castle,” Uter responded. “It was taken from us.”

“Your castle?”

“We saw the first stone laid, lived in it, lorded over it,” Uter answered. “The knights of my table were chivalrous and courageous, and the lay of the land respected the law of love. The false king stole it and Annwn when he brought his ilk here, quite uninvited. Plantagenet has ever kept us here, in his dungeon, to revel in his victory, I believe.”

“Damnable Plantagenet,” Ambrosius hissed.

Bran once again didn’t know who to trust. From what he had seen of it, Caer Llion was an ancient fortress. For Uter to have seen its creation meant he had lived for a very long time.

Then again, Philip had lived a long time.

“Philip took Caer Llion from you then,” Bran said thoughtfully.

“He is an ugly, ugly man,” Wart said a bit petulantly. “Not very nice at
all
.”

“True words, Sir
Wart
,” Ambrosius concurred.

“You cannot join with him,” Uter added. “He would use you as he uses all. With the power of Lancelot’s blade granted you by the Lady, it would increase Philip’s power a thousand fold. He will keep you alive as long as it suits him. Word and Lady willing, freedom will be your own and you can fight his evil once more.”

“And gain the pretty cup back,” Wart piped in with a tiny voice.

“Cup?” Bran asked, startled. “You mean the Grail?”

“Wait,” Ambrosius said sharply. “Listen!”

Bran did so, straining. He heard nothing.

“I hear noth—”

Then Bran did hear it. It was a sound but also a tremor in the wall behind his back, growing in intensity until the castle darkly hummed with it. It sounded like the great stone blocks of the castle were toppling above, as though a bulldozer drove through them.

“It comes,” the Ambrosius said.

“What does?” Bran questioned, bewildered by what could be happening.

“Freedom.”

The rumbling continued like an avalanche and became still. Shouts of bewilderment and pain followed. Outside his cell the manic voices of warriors echoed, the soldiers Philip had placed in the dungeon not far away. Whatever was going on up above had set Caer Llion ablaze with confusion, arousing the occupants of the castle into a frenzy.

The sounds of far-off battle filled the silence. And came closer.

Minutes passed.

Before Bran could figure out what was happening, the locking mechanism to his cell clicked. Suddenly the door opened.

No one entered.

Bran stood still, trying to get a glimpse out into the hallway, when an invisible vice encircled his forearm and held it in place.

Bran tried to pull away. “What the hell—”

“Relax, outworlder,” a voice smelling of beer growled. “Let me free you.”

“Ardall, you are alive! Amazing that!” Snedeker exclaimed, hovering at the cell entrance. The fairy watched the hallway, worry etching his features.

The shackle holding Bran’s wrist fell away.

“Who is there?” he asked.

The light before him shifted as if through a rippling prism. It cleared and Bran stared at a floating grizzled face with a smirking, unwashed smile.

Caswallawn stared right back.

Richard hung from the cell wall by chains, in absolute misery.

The Fomorian stoked the fire pit for what must have been the hundredth time, heating several irons to white-hot intensity. Richard had no idea how much time had lapsed. It didn’t matter. It was the torment that splintered his awareness, left him unsure of every instance the giant rammed a hot poker into his abdomen, broke a bone, or slashed him with a knife. Overcoming the pain skewed his understanding; every agony pushed him toward oblivion. But with every splash of water into his mouth from the Holy Grail he was reborn, brought back to his situation, forced to endure more torture.

Physically, he was fine, his injuries healed. Emotionally he was coming undone from the inside out, his mind sundering.

He was being driven mad.

Arawn had no interest in keeping Richard alive. The knight had brought Bran Ardall to Annwn as a worthy consolation. Whether Richard died or joined Arawn, it did not matter. Either way, the knight was not an obstacle—and Arawn had won.

His left arm broken and the Fomorian set to return with his next evil deed, Richard cursed himself. The Holy Grail. He had seen it with his own eyes. It had been within his grasp in the lake. The Grail was a source of unimaginable power. In the hands of Arawn and Philip, it made whatever army they raised a thousand times more powerful.

The Dark Thorn had called him to the cavern because the lake was a powerful mirror. If Richard had thought about why the magic had called him to the lake, he would have investigated further. If he had spent more time investigating, Caer Llion would have been deprived of the Holy Grail, a weapon Plantagenet planned on using against two worlds.

If he had taken the Grail from Annwn, the war would be over.

If he only had a chance to confront Arawn and kill the creature responsible for Richard killing his wife…If. If. If.

Just as the Fomorian pulled a glowing dagger from the fire, the door to the cell opened. Richard raised his tired head to view the newcomer.

Bran stood in the doorway, alone.

Richard blinked, unsure if what he was seeing was real or the result of maddened hope. The Fomorian torturer turned, alerted by Richard’s look. Blunted pale features peeled back in a ferocious snarl and it charged Bran with the dagger raised high.

With Arondight glowing in his hand, Bran waited for the giant.

“Run, Bran!” Richard roared.

Before the giant could finish crossing the room, it fell forward, tripped, and crashed to the stone, the knife flying out of its hand and air whooshing from its lungs.

“Now, Ardall!” a voice screamed in the cell.

Bran unleashed the magic of Arondight. The fire stabbed the Fomorian in its back and pinned it to the ground, incandescent flames unyielding as they inundated the huge creature. The giant roared in pain. Bran did not let up. A curling hand reached up but Bran ignored it, his eyes focused and filled with wrath.

Richard could not believe what he saw. Roaring as flesh burned away and the smell of charred meat saturating the room, the Fomorian pleaded with frying eyes to be let free, to survive.

Bran did not yield.

The giant struggled on until its protestations weakened. Movements slowing until only smoke rose, the Fomorian finally stilled.

Bran ended the torrent of flaming magic. The torturer lay unmoving. A surge of adrenaline rushed into Richard. Snedeker flew into the cell to hover before the prisoner.

“Today luck is with you, McAllister,” the fairy said. “What did that asscudgel do to you? Are you alive?”

“No,” Richard said. “But I’ll live.”

Caswallawn materialized suddenly in front of him. He fought the manacles that held the knight. Richard tried to gather himself. With his arm still broken and his mind and body weak from the repeated torture, he knew he would have to get ready for an attempt to escape Caer Llion. No matter how Caswallawn had broken into the castle—a distraction from the sounds rumbling above—there would be Templars after them as soon as Richard and Bran were discovered gone.

He knew one thing. His broken arm would not stop him from unleashing hell.

Finally freed by Caswallawn, Richard moved past the dead Fomorian toward the door.

“What are you—”

“Doing here?” Caswallawn finished, parts of his body in flux. “Is it not obvious?”

“But how did you know where we were?”

“I have followed you from Arendig Fawr, at request of the Queen,” Caswallawn whispered, pausing at the door to peek out quickly. “We will speak of my time after this night.”

“Time to go, knights,” Snedeker said, whirring ahead.

“We must free the others imprisoned here,” Bran said.

“I have already done so,” Caswallawn said. “Hear the chaos above? Better luck in escaping we will find if the guards are trying to capture all of you.”

“What happened to your arm?” Snedeker asked.

“Never mind,” Richard spat, looking at Bran’s stump. “Bran, grab that leather bag.”

On the floor beside the dead giant lay the soccer ball-size pouch holding the water from the Grail. Letting Arondight vanish, Bran entered the room and grabbed the bag. He then held it out to Richard.

“Don’t give it to me, dammit!” Richard grimaced. “Just carry it.”

“Take a drink,” Bran insisted.

“No! It’s our proof!”

Bran slung the leather pouch over his shoulder, its contents sloshing, and called Arondight once he stepped out of the room.

“What takes place above?” Richard asked weakly.

“You will see,” Snedeker answered. “At times, even I am smarter than the smartest.”

“A diversion,” Caswallawn said simply. “Let us move.”

The four entered the torchlit hallway. Two Templar guards at either end of the corridor slumped lifeless to the stone—weapons not drawn, throats cut, surprised horror freezing their features. Richard moved down the hallway, following the lead of Caswallawn up a new flight of stairs. With every step the sounds of the above conflict grew until it permeated their entire world. Calling the Dark Thorn, Richard put more weight on it rather than Bran as they moved through the castle. Bran would need freedom to use Arondight soon judging by the battle raging above. Caswallawn wrapped his invisibility cloak closer and crept on until they climbed another set of stairs, eyes alert, making no sound, the promise of war ahead.

Snedeker kept ahead, a tiny scout, watching for enemies. There weren’t any. Around nearly every corner more guards lay dead, the effective deeds of Caswallawn.

Just as Richard thought the invisible lord had killed everyone in the castle, four soldiers appeared, weapons drawn, surprise etching their faces.