The Dark Thorn (55 page)

“It is the Vault. How did Myyrdin Emrys empower the Knights of the Yn Saith?”

“He gave them magical weapons,” Cormac answered. “Given such great power by the wizard, the knights can decide for themselves how to best serve the promise of the Vigilo.”

“Partly right,” Clement said. “He gave them magical weapons possessed by one person in history—the Britannian King Arthur. Along with the blade of Lancelot, the wizard chose to give the weapons he had access to.”

“And?”

“These are many
other
relics the wizard had no ability to gain and subvert,” Clement continued, gesturing at the walls and glass case. “Each of the items you see before you hold a property that science cannot explain. Magic, if you want to call it that, imbued by the Word’s will. Over the years, beginning in the fourth century with the building of Old St. Peter’s, the Church has hunted for these items, the most deliberate effort carried out by the Templars in the Crusades, invading the Middle East. Others have brought them to the Church, some out of goodness to see right done, others for political favor or financial gain.”

“Why have I not heard of this room before?”

“The best way to keep a secret is for few to know it,” Clement said. “In this case, the Cardinal Archivist also possesses the knowledge, in case of a pontiff’s sudden death.”

The Pope went to the wall of weapons. With a steady hand he reached up and carefully removed a sword, the blade shining like chrome in sunlight. It was a long broadsword, its hilt thick, golden, and slightly curved toward the tip, the double-handed grip wrapped in silver wire. The pommel glimmered gold, the disk bearing the image of an oak leaf. It was a simple piece of craftsmanship but it radiated beauty and might. Holding it upright to catch the torchlight, Clement looked it over from tip to end, admiring what he held.

“Here is Durendal,” Clement said.

“It’s a work of art.”

“It was once the weapon of Roland, a captain of Charlemagne, slaughtered in the battle of Ronceveux Pass. Legend recounts Durendal once belonged to Hector of Troy, reforged from his sword after his death at the hands of Achilles, but that has never been proven. It is a powerful weapon, unbreakable, enchanted by several Saints. It should aid us at this time of need.”

“Ahh yes, I know of it. Didn’t that sword vanish…into a river?”

“Poisoned stream,” Clement corrected. “And yes, it disappeared from the sight of man. Roland tried to destroy it, but when he failed he had to hide it from his enemies. As with many things lost, it was found—and eventually brought here.”

Cormac nodded. “We are arming ourselves then?”

“Indeed. The knights are equipped with powerful talismans. Philip Plantagenet has the power of the Grail at his command and who knows what else. Even most of the fey creatures of Annwn possess magic. The only chance the Basilica has of withstanding what marches toward it is to even the odds.” “You know the potential of each relic here?”

Clement pointed at a lone book sitting on a pedestal near the door that Cormac had missed. “The Exsequiae Codex. All of the relics here have been documented.”

“I assume you are showing me the Vault to equip me as well?” Cormac asked.

Clement found an oiled belt with a scabbard, and after tightening it about his waist he sheathed Durendal. He then pulled down a dark gray broadsword from its placement on the wall, its metal glistening like a darkened rainbow. It was longer than Durendal, longer than Cormac’s legs even, but Clement held it as if it were light as a feather. The blade was the opposite of the one Clement carried on his belt; the entire sword appeared to be iron, its hilt wide jagged blades like sharp thorns, its pommel a dagger-like diamond, the weapon absorbing the light and reflecting none.

He handed the sword to Cormac, hilt first, all too carefully.

“This is Hrunting.”

“Hrunting…?” Cormac asked, unable to remember where he had heard it before.

“Yes, Hrunting. The Demon-nail.”

“It can’t be,” the Cardinal Vicar whispered. “That’s fiction!”

“Fiction to whom?” the Pope asked. “Those who lacked the ability to document the story originally as history? Oral traditions are corruptible; they can become history or tale quite easily. Beowulf was real. Hrunting is real. It is one of the oldest relics to have been brought to the Vatican. Roman Catholic monks recovered it in Northumbria, sometime in the eighth century I believe, and they brought it to Rome. Hrunting can slice through stone. No one knows how it does this, nor how its iron can be stronger than steel.” Clement paused, prepared to release the sword. “Take it, now.”

Cormac took the blade. Hrunting was as light as a feather but he almost dropped it anyway. A tingling immediately traveled into his hand and up his arm, a throbbing like his entire limb had fallen asleep. The feeling passed after seconds, but heat continued to emanate from the hilt.

Cormac tightened his grip. He did not want to drop it.

“None of my predecessors know what that feeling in your hand is,” Clement commented. He handed Cormac a belt and sheathe. “But it matters not. Hrunting is powerful. It will keep you safe for what comes.”

“I like the sound of that, Your Eminence,” Cormac said, a bit sarcastically.

“This room must remain protected.”

“It will be,” Cormac said, belting Hrunting at his waist. “We will not fail today.”

“It cannot fall to the fey or anyone else,” Clement said. “For anyone to take these items could mean terror for the world. Philip may have the Holy Grail, but the relics here would make an army even more powerful.”

Cormac nodded.

“Cardinal Tucci and Cardinal Villenza will have already started fortifying the catacombs around the portal,” Clement continued, extinguishing the torches in the Vault. “The knight will have need of us. He is young and inexperienced. He will need our guidance.”

Cormac left the room, with its ancient relics and musty smell. When Clement had cleared the entrance he whispered a few words under his breath. The wall reformed as if it were alive, the blocks of stone returning to their original positions, mortar joining them all.

By the time they left, the Vault had become hidden once more.

Clement exited his suite. Cormac once again followed. They traveled back downward, through the elegant halls of granite and beautiful tapestries, passed marble statues in piety, back to the nave of the Basilica and into the warrens carved out of the rock of Italy. All that Cormac saw he now fought to protect, with his life if it came to that. Both men did not speak; the time for speaking had ended. The exacerbated animosity they both held was relegated to the past and held no place in the present.

That might change after Philip Plantagenet. If they survived.

For now, they were willing companions.

By the time they had returned to the barren underground world beneath St. Peter’s, much had changed. Hundreds of Swiss Guard flooded the catacombs, each fulfilling some order they were given, all bearing semi-automatic weapons, pistols, and additional ammunition. Clement and Cormac parted them like a sea, authority and purpose written on their faces and in their strides. The air grew cooler as they descended farther, and soon they were standing on the subterranean shore of the underground branch to the Tiber River. Provisions for a long siege had been brought to the catacombs and defenses erected to aid them.

None of the soldiers questioned their orders, but they all sent awkward glances at the shimmering portal from time to time.

Cormac fingered the hilt of Hrunting, standing behind the line of soldiers and next to the Pope. Power emanated from the sword, his at command. He was ready. He suppressed his fear with anger and memories. Someone in Annwn had murdered his mentor and friend, and it gave him renewed strength to see right done.

He hoped he would have the opportunity to avenge that death.

Hours passed. Nothing happened.

Just when Cormac began to wonder if Ennio Rossi had been misled, the gray sheen of the portal shimmered, darkening movement stirring within it.

Cormac tightened his grip on Hrunting and drew it forth.

And waited for the inevitable.

The heat beat down on Philip, matching his will to see his crusade through.

The day was beautiful, as clear as any that had come before it the past eight centuries. He could not have created a better one for conquest. The way was clear, his course set. The army he had amassed trailed behind him. It had taken generations of population growth since entering Annwn with the initial campaign of Templar Knights to have enough warriors to overcome the fey and return home. It had taken even longer to discover if the Graal could be useful beyond his own longevity. Capturing Arawn and using his knowledge had been key. Weakening the portals had been the last event. Each plan lay complete.

Now Philip yielded unimaginable power. When night fell, he would be returned to the world of his birth, a conqueror of worlds.

The only thing he lacked was the power of the Yn Saith.

Philip suppressed rage at the thought. Losing McAllister and Ardall still grated on him. Neither knight nor their weapons were his. The attack on Caer Llion had been a bold one, bolder than he thought capable of the demon wizard. He knew the Seelie Court had not conducted it. The reports from his soldiers indicated the halfbreed from Seattle, which pointed at Myrddin Emrys. Philip still did not know how the knights had escaped—the huge halfbreed could not have entered the close-quartered dungeons and released them, let alone kill his guards unaware—but it did not matter. The knights were gone and beyond his reach.

Philip pushed the matter aside. He would not let the small setback ruin his day.

The portal mountain appeared through the heat haze of the plains, beckoning to him and his destiny. Formed of white granite that lay beneath the emerald carpet of grass, the mountain jutted out of the world as if a giant had pushed its thumb up through the land and left it there.

To the east, the Forest of Dean spread like a green stain.

“The Cailleach is prepared, my king,” John said, riding up next to Philip.

“She had better be, if this day is to go as planned,” Philip said sharply. “The halfbreeds under her rule must be controlled if we are to have full command of our power.”

“You are still worried about the loss of the knights?”

“It would do you well to be as worried,” Philip said. He forced himself to be calm. “A king must be wary. There are other powers at play in this besides the wizard. Arrogance could kill us. Even the fey cannot be discounted.”

“They will not be,” John said. “The Tuatha de Dannan would not dream of attacking such a large force as you have assembled. If they do, it would be like a fly to a lion. Once we enter Rome and gain the Vault in the Basilica, fortune will be yours. With the relics housed there, none will defy you. Not there. Not here. Time will prove me right.”

“There is more transpiring here than what we know, John. My instincts roar at me,” Philip frowned. He looked around at the day as if able to find the problem. “Something is not right. I can feel it. We have left enough warriors at Caer Llion to keep our interests secure, and you have assured me the fey are inconsequential despite gathering their forces, but still I worry.”

“Battle apprehensions, my king,” John consoled. “As you have said, the Tuatha de Dannan are a broken group, unable to rouse their former might. I tell you the same, based on what I have seen the last few weeks. After this day, it will not matter.”

“I want you at my side during the entirety of today,” Philip ordered, still uneasy. He held the gaze of his advisor meaningfully. “It will take our combined war histories to overthrow the Vatican. Those in command of St. Peter’s know of their danger. They will be prepared. And they possess power that we cannot afford to forget.”

“I will do what I can to remain at your side,” John replied, looking at the sky. “As Master Wace used to say, there are no guarantees in war. Only glory to take.”

Philip did not reply. John had grown increasingly distant in the last few days. There was a hollowness to him, as if he were thinking of events that had nothing to do with capturing Rome and returning home. There were times Philip wondered if his friend still held the same ideals as he did. The Vault seemed foremost on his thoughts, as if gaining it meant the end of war. Philip did not agree with that. Magical implements were important, but he believed what Master Wace had taught so long ago.

Through arms, came strength.

Philip just hoped John had the ability to see the day through to its end.

As the mid-afternoon came so too did Philip to the mountain portal, the heat an itch on the back of his neck. The peak was larger than the distance had displayed, thrusting into the sky. Twisted trees clung to its side, the soil too thin to grow much else. About halfway to its summit, Philip could just make out two dead stumps between which a void of air shimmered in the day, the portal waiting for the High King of Annwn. No wind blew. No animals stirred. It was as though only Philip and the portal existed, each drawing the other onward.