The Dark Thorn (59 page)

He didn’t care. The Mastersmith had made him whole again.

A unified scream erupted from the battle, drawing his gaze. A second later, a fountain of magic blew into the sky as if a bomb had gone off, tossing fey and the dark twisted things into the air like matchsticks. Other magic permeated the battlefield from sprites, leprechauns, sylphs, and other lesser wielders, but it was insignificant compared to the concussion that shook the battlefield. Flaring colorful energy crackled in the air, forming a dome, angrily alive until it dissipated. When the magic and dust settled, a barren circular area existed, lacking all combatants but two.

The Cailleach and the Morrigan.

The two women faced one another several dozen feet apart, their magic like electricity about them. Both were grimy and ravaged. The robes of the Cailleach hung in tatters about her, revealing her wrinkled, emaciated frame. The Queen had taken a beating as well, her black armor dented and rent open in places. Circling one another like cats on the attack, limping and lacerated from multiple wounds, they ignored those who watched, their eyes cold with wild resiliency.

Hate radiated from both of them, a heat Bran could feel in his very innards.

“Ye cannot kill me, Queen of Nothing!” the Cailleach screeched.

“Even the summer falls to winter, witch!” the Morrigan challenged back. “By your death, you will release summer before the sun sets!”

“Or I will piss on yer dead royalty!”

The Queen said nothing, her fey sword glimmering a faded purple under the afternoon sun. Only stunned from the magical detonation for those brief moments, the rest of the battle continued around the two enemies, but at distance.

With words of power Bran could not understand, the Morrigan threw her sword savagely at the witch. It fell short, sticking blade-first into the grass at the witch’s feet. The Cailleach cackled again, ignoring the blade, bringing her hands up as wicked green fire gathered to attack anew.

The sword of the Morrigan erupted into a purple bonfire, engulfing the crone. She screamed, not from pain but in surprised anger, a nimbus of her own magic the only thing protecting her. Already moving, the Morrigan cut the distance between them. As the Cailleach tried to escape, the Queen leapt forward and, in one smooth somersaulting motion, pulled her sword free to slay the woman responsible for destroying the natural seasons of Annwn.

The hag regained her faculties in time. She wove her hands in the air until the spell she cast shook the land beneath Bran, a rumbling from deep in the earth. Just as the Morrigan raised her sword to strike down the Cailleach, a granite slab burst free from the grassy surface at the Queen’s feet, showering all in sharp boulders, pebbles, and dark soil.

The unearthed granite caught the Morrigan unaware. She catapulted backward, sword flying from her grasp and arms flailing. She hit the ground hard, her armor absorbing most of the damage, her left arm caught behind her as she struck.

The shattering of plate and arm echoed through the din.

Snarling her hatred, the Cailleach screamed into the world. Vines burst from the soil around the Morrigan, thick with thorns the size of daggers. They wrapped about the legs of the Queen, digging into the steel of her armor, holding her fast. She fought against them but it was of no use.

Having quenched the purple fire about her, the witch approached, a snide grin on her ancient face.

“And now,” the Cailleach said. “Finally.”

The Queen glared with cold disdain, still fighting her bonds.

“Finally,” the crone echoed.

Before Bran could vault Westryl into motion in an attempt to protect the Queen, the Morrigan grabbed the vines with both hands, closed her eyes, and began to hum, the sound overwhelming the chaos about her.

It was a melody of green things, a promise of protection and care. The vines reacted instantly. Tentacles from the same plant burst forth under the Cailleach with great force. The witch didn’t have time to react. She screamed, horrified, the realization of what was happening coming to her all too late. The vines did not stop with her legs but went immediately for her arms, pulling them back, keeping them as far apart as possible. The hag fought but her restraints were stronger. They drew her down toward the ground until she was pinned, pulled flat on her back. Unable to weave spells, the Cailleach snarled her wrath, spitting and fighting like a caged beast.

The vines holding the Queen melted back into the earth.

“The Tuatha de Dannan are friends of nature,” the Queen said, cradling her arm even as she stood over the witch. The Morrigan picked up her fey sword. “For too long you have been its tyrant. Pray you never join the wrong side again.”

The Morrigan raised her sword high.

And with one arm, rammed the blade through the chest of her enemy.

Ribs snapped like twigs as the sword plunged into the heart of the Cailleach and into the ground beneath her. No blood emerged. The hatred on her face was preserved but the anger in her eyes faded. She soon melted into the land, hair, skin, and bones becoming dust, leaving only the filthy rags of her robe gathered on the gritty grass.

A moan of discontent and confusion erupted from the halfbreeds. With the death of their mistress, they were no longer controlled. They lashed out at anything or anyone, maddened and unleashed. It did not end there. Darkness spread across the sky, not from the north as Bran and Richard had seen before, but from the western fringe of the plains, where the griffins were suddenly free.

“You should be fighting, Ardall!”

Bran glanced up. Snedeker flew above him, wings beating furiously.

“Still alive, I see,” Bran noted. “Where is Richard?”

“Gone through the portal, after that burned ass John Lewis Hugo!”

Bran stared at the portal. It made sense Richard would have gone into Rome. Philip had taken several hundred Templar Knights through to the other side. Even though the king had returned to Annwn, those warriors in Rome would not be sitting idly by waiting for the return of their master. Their mischief could not be ignored and John Lewis Hugo was a menace that needed to be dealt with as well.

Bran sat higher upon Westryl, looking for the other danger. He spotted Philip Plantagenet almost at once. The redheaded man yelled his orders across the battlefield, safely surrounded by dozens of Templar Knights and men from Annwn’s northlands.

Bran pushed Westryl into a gallop.

“Where are you going?” Snedeker asked, flying alongside Bran.

Bran let the magic of Arondight course through him.

“To end this war.”

But before he had made it halfway to Philip, Bran was spotted. Lord Gwawl appeared at his king’s side and, mounting his horse, drove at the charging knight. Seven of his warriors followed, each with weapons and defiance drawn. Bran raised Arondight high, screaming his challenge, the magic building inside of him like molten lava about to explode. For years he had yearned for a life of meaning, and the fire for it consumed him as he pounded across the torn plains.

Here was his chance to make all the meaning for two worlds.

Lord Gwawl roared as he bore down on Bran.

Just before the charging warriors met, a black behemoth came out of nowhere and tackled the fey lord off his horse.

Bran pulled Westryl up to stop, not believing his eyes.

It was the Kreche.

The force with which the halfbreed hit Gwawl killed him instantly. Both flew through the air until finally crashing to the rocky turf. The Kreche didn’t stop. He rained fists down onto Gwawl with such power the ground shook. The traitorous lord vanished beneath the assault, his upper body and head pummeled into the crimson-soaked sod.

While the Kreche looked for the next victim, grunting hard from exertion, his fists covered in gore, arrows flew through the air, striking several of the warriors who had been with Gwawl. Bran watched Aife ride into view, the centaur fluid and deadly. Two of the northland warriors dropped like sacks of grain. The others fled. Aife trotted to one of the warriors still struggling for breath through the holes in his chest. She notched her bow and unleashed the bolt into his neck.

He gurgled and stilled, his desire to get away forgotten in death.

The centaur nodded at Bran and rode away.

The Kreche stood, snorting his annoyance—the crimson crater and broken bones the only proof Gwawl had existed.

“There was no need. I had him,” Bran said, suffused with magic.

“There
is
a need though, scion of Ardall,” the Kreche rumbled, nodding toward Philip. “The man responsible for taking your hand awaits. The gift from the Mastersmith does not heal all wounds. And you cannot avenge if you are dead.”

Bran fixed the halfbreed with a questioning look.

“I see you, see you clearer than you will ever know,” the Kreche said lowly before looking to the portal. “Rick too. You both have something to prove this day, methinks.”

Bran took one look at Philip before nodding.

“I will get you to your moment!” the Kreche prodded. “Follow!”

With a roar, the halfbreed tore down the slope, ripping up the sod, aiming directly for Philip and those who surrounded him protectively. Bran charged after the behemoth, flames running along Arondight, his need burning. They covered the distance to Philip quickly. The Kreche hit the defenders with a force that killed men and demon wolves on impact, sending them flying through the air, crushed by brute force. Bran rode Westryl a step behind, sending his magic into those who fought past the Kreche.

Soon soldiers and demon wolves surrounded them, attacking from all sides. The Kreche was untiring, a machine of destruction, his thick arms annihilating all who came within striking distance. Bran kept safe the halfbreed’s back, killing any man or creature that came too near. The closer the knight got to Philip, the hotter his magic burned, the faster Arondight became. He began to lose himself in the battle, the desire to prove himself driving him on.

When the day ended, people like Deirdre would look at him differently.

Then the Kreche went down.

It happened so quickly that Bran almost ran Westryl into the back of him. It took only seconds for the black writhing creatures to throw themselves at the halfbreed, swarming over him. Soon Bran found he was deep in a sea of unwashed clawed limbs, all trying to take him down as well.

“Go, Ardall!” the Kreche bellowed from the melee.

Only unsure for a moment, Bran kicked Westryl forward. The Rhedewyr barreled down any man or creature in his path and, using Arondight to keep his mount safe, Bran made his way through the army—right to Philip Plantagenet.

It didn’t take long. The Kreche had taken Bran most of the way. When Philip saw Bran, the knight could tell the king was not pleased.

“You are alive, Ardall!” Philip yelled, darkening. “Come to join me at last?”

Bran said nothing, destroying the last few halfbreeds between he and his goal. Philip radiated annoyed arrogance. He wore all black as he did in Caer Llion, but also displayed a shining steel breastplate emblazoned with a crimson lion, gauntlets on his forearms, and greaves along his legs. Bullet holes littered his person but he was unharmed, the Grail water on his back keeping him safe. He held an elegant blade with a jewel in its hilt.

He did not budge, as if waiting for Bran to make the first move.

Bran gripped Arondight and felt the blade thrum with magic, even as the bloodied Kreche returned to his side.

“You hide behind a halfbreed now?” Philip snickered.

“Not at all.”

“I see you got your hand back,” Philip said. “It appears to be the work of the fey, a relic of some worth. I suppose this means you have become one of them.”

“I do what is right,” Bran argued. “What you desire has been attempted before in history. It seems every so often some nutcase tries to enslave the world. The world fights back.”

“You willingly betray the Word then.”

“On the streets, when confronted by a bully, there is no Word,” Bran said, growing more annoyed by the king’s grin. “There is only you against them. I have seen homeless beat the hell out of a bully enslaving them with fear. I see that bully in you.”

“You are young. And naďve.”

“And you are an extremist who needs to be put on his ass.”

The arrogant smile on Philip’s face dropped. “Apparently I should have let you die from your injury.”

“Apparently,” Bran agreed.

“Look at what you wish,” Philip said, scowling. “The world of my birth is gone. The world it has become,
your
world, is a horrible cesspool. I have seen it from afar. Sin. Disease. Greed. Hatred. Sloth. God never intended Satan to have such firm control of his creation. Divine providence brought me a tool to see goodness returned. When the Word needs service, it sends His warriors. I am that warrior.”

“Do not listen to him, Ardall,” the Kreche snarled.

Bran kept Arondight leveled at the king, his anger simmering.

“Do not let the pagan wishes of the demon wizard or the weakness of the Church blind you to what is right,” Philip added, ignoring the Kreche. “Join me.”

Long moments passed. The dying continued around them.

In answer, Bran launched at Philip.

The king of Annwn sidestepped the attack easily and parried Arondight. “You
fool
!” Philip hissed. “You will join your rotting father for that!”

The king countered. Bran brought his sword up, his blade blocking the attack like an azure shield. The opponents circled one another. Bran could tell immediately he was outmatched. Philip had lived centuries, undoubtedly training during them, his movements nimble as a cat when it circled prey. Bran had no such training. He had the instinctual fire of the magic at his command and that was it. It was barely enough. For every injury Bran visited on Philip, it healed as quickly as delivered, the power of the Grail sustaining him. As the fight progressed, a part of Bran knew he couldn’t maintain the magic for long. It wore him as nothing ever had and ultimately, with the Grail water, Philip would win.

Already wearied, Bran would have to do something soon.