The Dark Thorn (58 page)

The other fey lords swam in and out of his vision, fighting, killing, and dying. Together, they had dropped age-old animosities to save one another.

Richard got a glimpse of the portal. The Kreche had massacred until he had reached the plains, the huge halfbreed killing the Templar Knights despite the Grail water they carried.

No one else entered the portal.

Though hundreds of Templars had gotten through, Rome was safe—for now.

Then the Dark Thorn was almost ripped from him.

He held on, barely, his fingers clamping down on the warm wood as he confronted his assailant. A werewolf-looking creature gripped the staff, snarling as it wrenched on the source of the knight’s power. Lyrian kicked out, panicked, but the creature was too close. Other demon wolves came on, bolstered by what their brethren had done.

Richard did not hesitate.

He sent magic coursing through the staff into the beast. The creature absorbed it, hair curling, flames vomiting forth from its gaping, fanged mouth, its muscles rigid in apoplexy.

The beast exploded, bits flying in all directions.

Richard kept his seat, if barely. Cursing his distracted carelessness, he continued to mow through the dark masses. A bit lightheaded, he swallowed dust from the air, and appraised the battle. The Tuatha de Dannan were mostly emptied from the Forest of Dean, trying to keep their lines from folding beneath the overwhelming numbers. Richard was now deep into the plains, overextended. Lyrian navigated the uplifted white granite with uncertain steps, even the surefooted horse having a hard time with the natural minefield.

Fearful his Rhedewyr might trip, Richard fought to return to the fey, knowing if the Caer Llion army broke through the Tuatha de Dannan, all would be lost.

Just as he began to fight free, a monstrosity almost as large as the Kreche roamed into view and came right for him. It shook the ground, its wide head shaped like that of a bear, its foamy roar of anger filled with long saber-like teeth. The brown shaggy fur acted like a shield, but the monster bled from numerous wounds. It ignored the dark kin around it, until it picked up one of the smaller catlike demon wolves and threw the beast at Richard.

Lyrian reacted instantly.

The Rhedewyr reared in challenge, killing the creature with its hooves even as he knocked it out of the air—and tripped upon a molehill of broken granite.

Lyrian stumbled backward.

Richard fell into demon horde shadow.

The ground almost paralyzed him when he struck it. Fear coursed through his veins. He pushed it down, sending fire in a broad circle from the trod grass of the plains. Enraged by their failures and sensing an advantage, the smaller halfbreeds rushed the fallen, mewling and spitting their hatred, breaking through the fire of the Dark Thorn to rend his life and end it.

Lyrian fought them, his whinny terrible.

Struggling to regain his feet, Richard knew the end was near.

He had failed.

As he hurled his magic in a last prayer, a massive man with sword held high leapt over the knight in defense, hacking at the demons in unbridled fury. Lord Gerallt was an unchained animal, joined by a dozen warriors from Mochdrev Reach. The men threw themselves at the oncoming mayhem, armor forming a barrier. With swords wielded and battle cries screamed, they blocked the tumult from Richard as a human shield.

“Get back, Heliwr!” Lord Gerallt roared. “Now!”

“Up, Rick!” Deirdre screamed, pulling him from behind.

Stumbling backward, Richard watched the demon wolves break upon his saviors like a tidal wave.

He sent fire at the creatures, a scream of warning frozen within.

It was too late.

Lord Gerallt and many of his warriors disappeared beneath the sharp teeth and rending claws of the coming onslaught. Without magic to aid their limited number, they didn’t stand a chance. The wall swarmed with more bodies than Richard had seen before, black twisted things compacted into a tight space, their inhuman growls and ravening nearly drowning out the dying screams of Lord Gerallt and the rest of his men.

“Father!” Deirdre howled.

As the bear halfbreed shambled over the spot where the lord had once stood, Richard hauled Deirdre back with all his might but was unable, the woman enraged beyond control.

“He’s gone!” he roared.

“No!” she screamed.

“Fall back!”

Richard brought the Dark Thorn up and willed fire passed the Rhedewyr into the bear above them. The beast roared but the fire barely had any effect. Snedeker screamed at the redhead, to flee, to find protection. It would be too late. The blackened noose tightened about Richard, Deirdre, and those warriors of her father’s retinue who remained.

If they did not fall back, Richard knew they would join Lord Gerallt in death.

He would not fail—or at least die trying.

Then a familiar sound shattered the din of the battle.

The front ranks of the charging demon wolves dissolved into bloody mess, skulls blown apart, gaping holes appearing as if by magic. Unnatural limbs broke, splintered from bodies or bent back. The bear also stumbled, its matted fir parted in hundreds of small places, black blood spattering free. Snarls changed to howls of pain. The line of evil disintegrated, the initial threat destroyed, giving Richard room to help Deirdre and the others.

“McAllister! To me! To me!”

The Dark Thorn raging magic, Richard spun around.

Finn Arne leapt over dead bodies, his assault rifle pointed beyond Richard at the toiling mass of midnight. The two dozen armed soldiers the captain had brought into Annwn spread out in formation, their firepower unleashed. The odor of used gunpowder mingled with the sour musk of the demon wolves. With the soldiers aiding their flight, Richard pulled Deirdre forcibly back to safety as Lyrian shadowed them.

The Vatican guards fired at any halfbreed that came too close. They pulled their triggers often, shielding their rear as they fled the battle.

Tears streaked down the redhead’s cheeks but her grip on Richard was steel. He held Deirdre up by his willpower and the Dark Thorn alone.

Somehow Finn Arne had found him.

“Where is Ardall?” the captain screamed over the clamor.

“No idea!”

“The portal is clear. We need to make for Rome.”

“The Queen’s army is scattering, being broken apart,” Deirdre said through her grief. “Now is not the time to venture away from this battlefie—”

“Of no consequence,” Finn Arne interrupted. “We must gather Ardall and return to the Vatican. It is the only important path at this time.”

“There won’t be a Vatican
left
if Philip’s army makes the portal,” Richard argued loudly.

“Why do the Templar Knights not die?”

“You see the leather bags on their backs?” Richard asked.

Finn Arne nodded.

“Water from the Holy Grail protects the Templar Knights, making them invincible,” Richard said. He looked quickly about. “If this army enters our world, it will march over the entire earth and enslave humanity. It must be stopped here! Whether they take this portal or another, it makes no difference. The only way to keep our world safe is fighting now.”

Then movement from the portal caught Richard’s eye.

Philip Plantagenet, joined by a dozen armed Templar Knights, returned to Annwn, undoubtedly to discover why the rest of the army had not entered Rome. It was terrible timing. With the Kreche in the middle of the melee, Philip was free to reorganize his army. He was already yelling furious orders at his lords and pointing wildly at various areas of the battlefield. Even as Richard watched, Philip’s army slowly congealed, regrouping, becoming an organized terror once more.

Soon the confusion that had been created by the surprise attack would be reversed.

When that happened, the Caer Llion army would reform.

And kill its much smaller foe.

“I must enter Rome,” Richard said.

“What do you mean?!” Deirdre yelled, her eyes wild. “We need you here!”

“Captain Arne,” Richard said. “Find Ardall. Keep the boy safe. He will help protect Annwn. You have to go after Philip! Now!”

“What will you do, McAllister?”

“Kill his second in command, kill the Templar Knights who have already gone through. Ennio Rossi will do his best on the other side, but it won’t be enough against the Grail-infused Templar Knights,” Richard shouted, gripping the shoulder of the Swiss Guard captain. “As Heliwr, I go after them to keep Rome and the secret of Annwn safe!”

“You should go after Philip!” Finn Arne roared.

“There is more here than I can tell you, Arne,” Richard continued, burning with conviction as he pointed out into the battle. “We don’t know what Philip and his second in command intend while in the Vatican! There are items to protect in St. Peter’s. I must keep them safe. And bring down the cavern in the catacombs if needs be!” He paused. “Trust me. Now go!”

Richard expected the captain to fight back. He did not. “We have limited rounds,” he said.

Fighting weariness, Richard mounted Lyrian.

“If that’s the case, pick up a sword!”

After giving Finn Arne a nod, Richard gave Deirdre a sad smile. She just looked at him, sorrow and anger mingling in her eyes.Before he said something he would regret, Richard kicked Lyrian into motion. With the fairy flying beside him, the Rhedewyr shot like a dart around the melee toward the portal and Rome. The battle spread out over the plains from his higher vantage point, dust polluting the scene and the hot, sticky air. The whole event sickened him. When Merle convinced the knight to enter Annwn, Richard had hoped he could prevent the very thing he now witnessed. He had failed at that. Now it engulfed him.

He hoped he could prevent it from spreading into Rome.

He would not fail again.

“Snedeker, I need you to watch over Bran,” Richard said.

The fairy frowned. “No, I will not leave your side.”

“You cannot go where I go!”

“I am to be your guide!” Snedeker said, flying, barely able to keep up as Richard pushed Lyrian to faster speed through the tumult. “Keep you safe!”

“Bran needs to be kept safe,” Richard offered, worried for the boy. “He needs
you
now. Protect him as best you can. I have faith in the Oakwells, faith in you. Even a portal knight needs a guide sometimes, right?”

“Where do you go then, McAllister?”

“Obey my command, Snedeker!” Richard roared. “Now!”

The fairy gave a quick nod before flying back into chaos.

As Richard battled his way through nightmare anew, hoping the fairy kept Bran safe, the shimmer of the portal and his revenge drew him on.

He would not be denied.

The white fire of the Dark Thorn raged like the sun.

As he broke from the maelstrom of battle and the sounds of the fighting and dying fell behind him, Richard turned away from it all, the staff clenched before him. He galloped Lyrian to the rocky base where the portal shone above. He dismounted and rushed up the trail, avoiding the bodies of Templar Knights killed by the Kreche. Philip had long since vanished into the host below, trying to regain control over it. Richard was alone and soon stood before the gateway. He turned from it and viewed the war of two very different nations as it ebbed and flowed over the expansive plains.

Keeping the staff in hand and bringing its protective magic to the fore, Richard took a deep breath and entered the portal. He went in hunt of Arawn.

But what he last saw on the plains filled him with ice.

The defeat of the Tuatha de Dannan was at hand.

When Bran saw Philip Plantagenet reenter Annwn, he knew he could end the war if he was strong enough.

The new portal knight was severely battered. After the initial charge by the Morrigan, Bran had lost sight of Richard, Deirdre, and most of the members of the Seelie Court. It had not been easy to enter the rending tide of halfbreeds created for Caer Llion’s war, but before he had time to think on it, the wrath broke over him like a wave, reducing him to reaction. With Arondight a blur of azure metal and fire, Bran barely kept the death from himself, the euphoria from using the magic ebbing as he grew accustomed to it. Several times he almost lost his seat on Westryl, the battle on the plains threatening to end both their lives at every moment, but his perseverance saw him through.

As he rode away from the mayhem to catch his breath, Bran looked over the battle, not liking what he saw.

The plan Richard and the Tuatha de Dannan had conceived had worked—for minutes only. Without Philip in control, his army floundered beneath the surprise attack of the fey, causing leaderless pandemonium. It became clear to Bran it would not last. The Tuatha de Dannan were hopelessly outnumbered, and after the initial shock given by the stampeding Rhedewyr, they were losing. The Grail-infused Templar Knights coupled with thousands of halfbreeds were wearing the forces of the Morrigan down.

The lines of the fey were collapsing.

When they failed entirely, the final resistance would die.

Bran flexed his new hand. The blood-spattered gauntlet gleamed under the sun, the runes blazing. He could feel everything as if the steel had nerves, but the metal was cold.