The Dark Thorn (60 page)

As if understanding, the Kreche came suddenly at Philip from behind, a locomotive of inertia.

Bran sent flame at the Philip’s feet, trying to trip him at a moment when the Kreche could fall upon the king and, like Gwawl, pummel him into obliteration. Philip was faster. He danced away just as the Kreche bore down on him. Lashing out with his sword, the king caught the halfbreed on the back of his leg as he passed.

The Kreche roared in pain, collapsing as he hit the ground.

The behemoth tried to rise but couldn’t, his leg crippled.

Philip was on the Kreche instantly. He brought his sword down in a blur at the neck of the halfbreed, attempting to kill him with one stroke. Roaring, Bran blasted Philip in the chest. The fire sent the king flying through the air. He hit the ground hard. Without a word, he was back on his feet, drinking the water on this back, made whole again as if nothing had happened.

The fight continued, dust from their tumult thick in Bran’s nose.

He weakened.

Biding his time, Philip countered every attack, barely flustered.

Bran burned with frustration. He knew the magic was not infinite. The inexhaustible need to win lent him more power than he had ever known but it had begun to wane. Philip on the other hand was unchanged; he had not tired or slowed. While Bran became more desperate, magic he had barely gained control over threatened to consume him, every use requiring him to dig deeper into areas of his soul, places he intuitively knew were forbidden.

The more he could not break through Philip’s will, the exponentially more he gave to keep up.

Readying to charge at Philip, the world tumbled from view.

One moment he was standing. The next he was on his back, having gotten sloppy and fallen over the carcass of a dead catlike halfbreed. He fought to regain his feet but it was too late. Philip pounced on him instantly, the blade of his sword pressed into Bran’s chest faster than the knight could stop.

“If I would have known you would be this easy,” Philip began, gloating, “I would not have tried to gain your services.”

“You will not succeed in this!” Bran choked. “Richard wil—”

“Will stop me? Friendship avails one nothing.”

The pit in his stomach went cold. Bran had failed.

As Philip brought his blade up for a killing stroke and Bran futilely fought to block the blade with Arondight, a figure hit the king in the side and sent him tumbling away from the knight.

Bran could not believe his eyes.

It was Deirdre.

The redhead held her sword before her, green eyes flashing lightning. There was a wildness about her that Bran had not seen before, a willingness to give up everything—even her life—if it meant killing Philip.

When the king spun on her, she waited, ready to fight.

“Get up!” Snedeker screamed, suddenly there.

Before Bran could gain his feet, Philip tackled the redhead. She tried to run her sword through him, snarling intense rage, but Philip knocked it easily aside and kept coming. He soon had her gripped from behind, holding the blade of his sword against her exposed neck.

“Daughter of Lord Gerallt,” Philip sneered. “To think I meant to give you everything as a queen.”

“My father is dead!” Deirdre screamed, thrashing to no avail.

“Another traitor I won’t have to kill myself then.”

“Let her go,” Bran ordered, staring into Deirdre’s eyes. The knight saw new fear there that matched his own.

“Not before I do this…”

Philip pulled the sword viciously across her throat.

Blood erupted even as he threw Deirdre to the ground.

The last dam broke inside Bran, magic rising up from depths of his soul he did not know he possessed. He charged the last few feet, Arondight blazing brighter than the sun, his rage tempering his will and the fire within endangering his very humanity.

The battlefield dropped away.

Reason left him.

Thundering his anger, he slashed at Philip with everything he had, not caring if he lived or died. Philip spun as Bran hoped he would, as he had seen the king do several times before. Instead of trying to parry the other’s sword and dance away, Bran let the sword fall exactly where he knew it would be.

And caught it with his gauntleted hand.

Surprise followed by fear crossed Philip’s face. Before the king had a chance to disengage, Bran rammed Arondight through the center of the crimson lion on Philip’s breastplate almost to the hilt. Eyes wide, Philip clutched at him, trying to drink the Grail water. Bran did not care if Philip drained the pouch dry. The knight sent the power thrumming inside through Arondight, incinerating the king from the inside out. The smell of charring meat accosted Bran. He did not care. He let the magic take control, become a living thing, a torrent that would not stop.

Philip looked down at his chest, eyes bulging in disbelief, skin blanching to white. He gasped and coughed weakly once, crimson coating his teeth.

“Father,” Philip whispered.

Slumping to the plains, the light in his eyes went lifeless.

Philip Plantagenet lay dead.

Sudden weariness stole Arondight from Bran. With a shiver he drifted like a ghost to where Deirdre lay. The redhead did not move, blood covering her jerkin. Without knowing what he did, Bran fell to his knees, feeling hot tears trail down his cheeks. He held the woman, the horror he felt within growing into a ravenous scream he would never be able to release.

“Red, no!” Snedeker wailed, flying to Deirdre.

The Kreche limped to stand over Bran.

“She is gone, scion of Ardall.”

“Get me one of the bags!”

The Kreche paused a moment but ultimately did as he was bid. Bran took the bag and splashed water in Deirdre’s mouth, hoping for the miracle that had kept Philip alive for so long.

Nothing happened.

“Come on, Deirdre…” “I am sorry,” the Kreche said. “She has traveled beyond, into the dawn. She has become one with it.”

Snedeker put his head down on her unmoving chest and bawled. Bran did not move. He held Deirdre close, keeping hope alive, willing her to move, to breathe, to do anything that would not be the reality.

“She is gone, Bran Ardall.”

Through his tears, Bran looked up.

Finn Arne stared at him. The captain of the Vatican held pistols in both of his hands but had no need of them, the rest of his guard surrounding the plains and keeping them safe. The one-eyed man knelt next to Bran, his demeanor somber.

“The battle is turning for the worse,” Finn Arne said. “We had best not be here when that happens.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

“You must if you are to survive. She would want that.”

So weary he could not stand, the pain in his heart encompassing the entire world, Bran surveyed the battlefield with blurry vision. The captain was right. Without the witch keeping the halfbreeds under control, they were frenzied, giving into a bloodlust that only made them stronger, both those on the ground and the griffins in the air. As a result the Tuatha de Dannan had splintered into pockets of resistance that were being consumed. It would not take long for the Morrigan to call a retreat or die fighting.

Bran let Deirdre down gently.

When he regained his feet, fighting the tears, he took his own appraisal of the battle—and could not believe what he saw in the northern distance.

The shapes he had seen earlier grew at an accelerated rate.

Richard had been wrong. The black stains to the north were not griffins.

Not at all.

“Snedeker!” Bran shouted.

The fairy looked up from his place on Deirdre, sorrow etching his wooden features.

“Do you see!?” Bran screamed, pointing. “Look to the north!”

Snedeker did so. Surprise turned to fear.

“Right!” Bran yelled. “They come to kill with flame!”

“The Tuatha de Dannan must take cover in the trees where the dryads can protect them,” the Kreche advised.

“Snedeker, tell the Morrigan to pull her forces out of the plains!”

Face screwed up with determination born of anger, the fairy stuttered in the air, already looking for the Queen. Snedeker then shot across the battlefield like a released dart, dodging the numerous dangers of griffins and flying arrows.

With no one around, the battle raging closer and closer to the Forest of Dean as the Caer Llion horde overcame the Tuatha de Dannen with increasing ferocity, Bran sat and waited, watching his likely death descend.

“If that’s what I think it is, we must flee,” Finn Arne said.

“We can’t make cover in time,” Bran replied. “Too far from the dryads. And I know who comes. He won’t risk harm to his children, preferring to kill from afar with fire indiscriminately. That probably includes us.”

“Your father would be proud of you this day, for the fight you gave your enemy, young Ardall,” the Kreche said, his small eyes bright but his face solemn.

“Thank you,” Bran said simply. “You should try to get away.”

“You go, I go,” the Kreche said.

When the black shapes in the air lost altitude and rushed to meet the plains and those upon it, Bran called and held Arondight aloft, fire licking the blade, knowing it to be the last time he would hold the talisman. The first flames from the falling shapes erupted from between jagged teeth and opened maws, the wide wings of the descending beasts fanning the scorching heat into those caught out on the plains southward.

The dragons of Tal Ebolyon had come.

Latobius flew beside his son Saethmoor and Nael, all blazing fire in a wide swath that ignited anything it touched. The flames incinerated thousands on the first pass alone, the fire burning through the leather packs carried by the Templar Knights and northland men, evaporating instantly the life-saving water of the Holy Grail and reducing the men to ash. Those who survived the first rush fought to retreat into the west, but the halfbreeds formed a wall, the demon monstrosities induced to chaos. Griffins attacked the behemoth fliers but they died in midair, set afire before most could reach the dragons.

Bran felt himself screaming—at the dragons, at the world, at life, at death.

A cheer went up from the Tuatha de Dannan but was quickly silenced as a spear thrown by a Fomorian ran Nael through his left wing. The dragon tumbled to the earth, crashing into ranks of demon wolves. The evil halfbreeds leapt onto the enraged beast, some still on fire and maddened by the dragon assault. Nael fought, spinning in confusion, wings and claws tossing halfbreeds in the air. There were too many though. The dragon was being ripped to shreds.

Latobius and Saethmoor roared as they banked, too far away to save their companion.

Followed by other dark elves, a hellyll warrior wearing the golden armor of Arendig Fawr rushed into the fray and jumped from an outcropping of granite onto the back of Nael, stabbing demon wolves dead in a blur with his spear. It was Lugh. The captain drove Areadbhar with both hands at his enemies, protecting the dragon, roaring battle. The other members of the Long Hand followed. They swept the burdened beast free of the dark flood. The demon wolves did not even notice their dead brethren; they continued to swarm only to die, fighting to kill the hellyll and dragon alike. In a heave of incredible power, Nael sent the next wave of demon wolves scrambling backward, leaving him and the Long Hand able to flee. With the dragon free, Latobius and his son kept at the halfbreeds until most had been consumed by the hellish remittance of dragon might.

The conflagration met Bran in a hot wind but that was all.

The wrath of the dragons hammered into the Forest of Dean as well where the Tuatha de Dannan fought to keep Philip’s army from entering safe haven. The canopy of the trees caught fire but the dryads held back the worst. Soon smoke obliterated his view and the screams of the dying filled the afternoon, but Bran thought he heard the sound of fey cheering amidst the tumult.

Lord Latobius and Saethmoor passed overhead numerous times. The Caer Llion army was broken. Several thousands stragglers lived but they fled into the wild.

Bran breathed in death but he remained.

The army of Philip Plantagenet was no more.

The smell of charred bodies in his nostrils, Bran let Arondight dissolve and sagged to the ruined plains over Deirdre’s body.

And wept.

Richard stepped from the chaos on the plains into bedlam underground.

Ear-shattering bursts of gunfire and bullets whining passed, Richard ran for cover behind one of the rune-carved stone pillars that made up the gateway, his magic brought up in protection. The knight was on the shore of a subterranean river, the portal casting light upon a cavern filled with hundreds of Templar Knights fighting Swiss Guardsmen defensively positioned before a tunnel entrance. Dozens of the Vatican guards lay dead among fewer Templar Knights, the arms fire having little effect on the Grail-protected.

It was clear to him the fight would not last long; the Swiss Guards fought admirably but the Templar Knights outnumbered their foes and would eventually gain the city above.

Richard frowned. Arawn was nowhere to be seen.

Bringing the Dark Thorn up to attack the warriors of Caer Llion, he paused.