Unfettered

by Terry Brooks

  But he didn’t want to be fussed over. Not quite yet. Plenty of time for that. Like a lot of people, he’d had a pretty difficult childhood. But his adulthood was just getting better and better.

  Well, what can I say about this?

  I guess I could say that it was cut from the book in which it was originally intended to see the light of day. Too repetitious. Already covered. Unnecessary. I don’t tend to argue a lot with my editors, and especially with Lester del Rey, when I didn’t have a strong fortress of arguments in which to fling down my spears and arrows of objection.

  I could say it represents the only face-to-face meeting between the two in which a conversation, of sorts, took place. The two most important figures of their respective eras, but the one was already dead and reduced to shade form, and the other was struggling with whether or not becoming a Druid was a good idea.

  I could mention that this brief encounter was not uncovered by yours truly, who, in all honesty, had forgotten it even existed. Instead, it was dredged out of the mire of words written and discarded over the years by none other than Shawn Speakman, my faithful Web Druid, who thought it would be fun to include it in this otherwise fully realized anthology of stories.

  Or I could admit I am uncertain about most of the above (well, not the Shawn part) and just ask you to read this short excerpt and accept it at face value. Think I’ll go with that.

  — Terry Brooks

  WALKER AND THE SHADE OF ALLANON

  Terry Brooks

  The shade of Allanon did not answer Walker at once, but remained silent and unresponsive, hovering like a dark cloud over the roiling waters of the Hadeshorn, all size and blackness against the starlit sky. Steam sprayed from the lake surface in sharp geysers, as if the dead trapped below were seeking to catch anew the breath of life. The moon was down, hidden behind the peaks that cupped the valley, a wary passerby on its way toward morning. Where he knelt at the water’s edge, solitary and motionless, silence cloaked the shattered landscape.

  Walker blinked away the droplets that clung to his eyelids. In the midst of ghosts that found blind release in the legendary Valley of Shale, he must remember to see clearly. It occurred to him that coming here was a mistake, that asking for help from the dead was foolish. What help they offered was forever couched in obscure references and double meanings, words that fostered confusion rather than understanding. Better to know nothing than to be misled by false interpretation. Yet whom else could he turn to besides the shade? If even a tiny glimmering of understanding could come from their meeting this night, he must not pass it by.

  Allanon stirred within his spectral trappings, cowled head inclining slightly toward the supplicant.

  —Ask what you would of me—

  Walker stared fixedly into the blackness of the cowl, into the void that opened through it. “I have been shown a way to return the Druids to the Four Lands, to rebuild the Council at Paranor, and to bring to pass all that Galaphile hoped to achieve in the rebirth of civilization so many years ago. A map of another land has disclosed magic born out of the Old World. The magic is the key. But the way to the magic is uncertain and marked with dangerous twists and turns. It requires a journey to an unknown land. It requires great risk of me and of those who will go with me. I would know more of what to expect.”

  Wind brushed his face, hot and strangely dry, blown off the surface of the Hadeshorn in a sudden gust. It caught the robes of the shade and caused them to billow like smoke.

  —If you would know the future, you would try to change it. If you would try to change it, you would damage your soul. Do you ask me to allow this—

  “No. I ask you to better prepare me for the choices I will be asked to make.”

  —You are a Druid. You cannot be better prepared than you already are—

  “Then give me a reason to think that what I do is right!”

  Walker heard the desperation in his voice and was displeased with it. The shade seemed equally so. The waters over which it hovered spat and hissed in sudden fury, boiling up like a hot kettle heated by fresh fuel. Walker felt the familiar uncertainty, the unease of speaking with the dead, of confronting one who even in life had been so much more capable than he, of one who had known no equal and experienced no defeat.

  —Take the map and follow it. Follow it as you would a thread unraveled from a cloak of darkness. Wind it about your finger and when you reach its end, weave it back together once more. You will know what to do—

  It was an unsatisfying response that told Walker nothing, and in a mixture of disappointment and frustration, he came to his feet.

  “What am I to do with the magic I seek, once it is found?” The Hadeshorn hissed anew, but Walker ignored it. His voice tightened. “Yours is the collective knowledge of all the Druids. You must know of the magic’s potential, of its power. It can destroy everything regained if it is not used well.”

  —Everything—

  “Then tell me how to prevent that from happening! Am I to take everything I find—all of it? What part am I to give to the races? What should be held back and what put to use? I can’t see far enough into the future to comprehend the answers!”

  A booming cough shook the ground beneath his feet, and a growl rose from within the earth.

  —A shade has no right to tell the living what they need. Only the living can make that decision. You must make it for all, because that is what you are given to do. On your shoulders hangs the mantle of responsibility for those with lesser insight, courage, and vision. Druids are charged with no less, Walker. Be what you have been given to be—

  Walker shook his head in dismay. “I am not what you say—not smarter or braver or more insightful. I have never been that. I am simply the bearer of a blood trust bestowed on Brin Ohmsford long before I was born, a trust I carry not because I want to, but because I must and because by doing so I might one day see a time when there is no further need for Druids!”

  He leaned toward the dark shape, his voice building. “I am no better than those I seek to help. I am a poor answer to their difficult questions. What are you, then? Where is the vaunted Druid power that should give me the insights and understandings I lack? Where is that power, but buried in the pit from which you rise to taunt me! If I am to be the way, then show me something of the path!”

  Lightning crackled before him, streaking down into the Hadeshorn from the heavens. It was followed by a thunderclap of such fury that he could feel it reverberating in the air about him. He stepped back from the brilliance and the sound, shielding his face. In the aftermath, everything went completely black, and he was suddenly alone, stranded in an inky void.

  He could feel the shade of Allanon draw close to him then. He could hear the hiss of his anger.

  —You travel to secure a treasure, Dark Uncle. You journey to fulfill a dream. What you accomplish will cost you and those with you. For some, it will cost everything. Lives will be lost and dreams shattered. None of those who return will be the same again. Ever—

  A slow hissing began to build from somewhere within the invisible black that shrouded them. It came from everywhere at once, slow and steady and terrifying.

  —Of the things you seek, you shall find them all. Of what you would know, only some will be revealed. Of what you retrieve, nothing will you take away. The future is fluid and ever changing, and so it will be here. Give yourself over to it. If you would accomplish what you most desire, let go of what most weighs you down. Recognize when you have exceeded your reach. Give heed to what is meant to be and do not question or regret or try to subvert it—

  From a collage of images that formed in his mind, Walker caught a glimpse of what he was being told, yet the particulars remained just out of reach. He shook his head in confusion.

  —One dream, Walker, of those you embrace is all you are allowed. The rest, you must release—

  Allanon’s voice was a dark, sad hiss of warning. Walker caught the inflection and the tone.

  “Which dream
?” he whispered. “Which one?”

  But when the suffocating void fell away and the night sky reappeared overhead, the Hadeshorn lay before him as still and empty as dark glass clouded by smoke, and Walker was alone.

  I knew I had more stories to tell before I finished writing The Dark Thorn.

  Worldbuilding is an important aspect of writing. The world must be believable; the world must feel real. That takes planning and requires posing a lot of questions, with some answers left unresolved in the book. When I sent my spiritually broken knight Richard McAllister into Annwn, I knew he would only be able to explore a small part of that world, leaving many questions unanswered and numerous stories yet to tell.

  “The Unfettered Knight” is one such story. It takes place many years before Richard McAllister has taken up his knighthood. Instead, the tale features knight Charles Ardall and his trusty fairy guide Berrytrill, who are mentioned briefly in The Dark Thorn and who have been called to Vatican City after a great evil has infiltrated the home of the Catholic Church.

  Since I was confronted with cancer and all of its uncertainty in 2011, I wanted to write a story that took a look at life, death, and the meaning of both. I also know that at no time will vampires play a role in the Annwn Cycle. But like any self-respecting urban fantasy writer, I wanted to take a stab—pun intended—at writing a unique vampire story.

  “The Unfettered Knight” is that stab.

  I hope the story surprises you. It did me.

  — Shawn Speakman

  THE UNFETTERED KNIGHT

  Shawn Speakman

  When Heliwr of the Yn Saith Charles Ardall stepped from the portal into the catacombs beneath St. Peter’s Basilica, he entered a massacre from Hell.

  He had seen many like it during his tenure, but none quite so gruesome.

  “Unbelievable carnage,” Berrytrill whispered, the fairy flying at his ear. “This fight, the knight did not back down.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Charles agreed. “Then again, Bruno Ricci wouldn’t.”

  “Indeed. A tougher knight, I have not seen.”

  The Heliwr nodded, looking around. No immediate danger presented itself. Instead, broken bodies littered the rock bank of the Tiber River’s underground branch, the dead spreading to the far side of the cavern. There were three dozen bodies in all. With the light of the portal highlighting the bloodied environs and the subterranean chill seeping into his bones, Charles knelt beside the first corpse he came to. The man’s chest was blasted open, his black uniform free of insignia and his slackened fingers still attempting to grip a rapier. He stared upward through the knight, soul absent.

  Charles shivered. It was a face frozen in shock and pain at how life had ended.

  The warrior’s last minutes were not what drew Charles though. The dead man was pale like milk, almost translucent, and had been long before the battle.

  On a hunch, the Heliwr pulled back the man’s lips.

  Two fangs poked free, brought short in death.

  “Vampire,” Charles noted.

  “Stickfick,” Berrytrill cursed. “My princely crown, I would bet the others are vampyr as well.” The fairy flew over a few more dead bodies. “Myrddin Emrys says where one vampyr exists—”

  “Others do too,” Charles finished. He looked about the cavern. “They all are wearing similar garb. They were a company of warriors with intent. But what intent beyond breaking into St. Peter’s?”

  Berrytrill returned and, landing upon the corpse, more closely examined the vampire. Lightning had torn through its chest and exploded the creature’s heart—the power of Bruno Ricci at work. After his scrutiny, the fairy pointed underneath the torn uniform near the cauterized wound.

  “What is this?” the fairy asked.

  Charles peeled back the uniform shirt. A small Celtic rune tattoo had been inked into the unmoving chest.

  The work appeared fresh, the skin still inflamed.

  “Check the others. Are they similarly tattooed?”

  Berrytrill did so and returned. “They are. What does the symbol mean, Charles?”

  “It is an old symbol. It means ‘life after life’s death.’”

  “Failed rune magic then,” the fairy grunted. “The ink did not keep them safe.”

  “Guess not.” Frowning, Charles examined the mark more closely.

  “You see something else,” Berrytrill noted.

  “The rune is slightly…altered.”

  “How so?”

  “It has a much longer fore stroke than it should.”

  “It matters not. It failed to keep the vampyr safe. It is not the worry of the moment, Charles,” Berrytrill said, looking around for emphasis. “Did Bruno give any indication where their leader went?”

  “He barely had enough strength to draw me here, let alone tell me what happened,” Charles said, standing. “First we must find him and the Cardinal Seer. Then we hunt the one who orchestrated this.”

  “With care,” the fairy said pointedly. “Your wife and forthcoming child would not appreciate a hunt that ended in your death. Nor would she look favorably upon my royal personag—”

  “Hold!”

  Charles located the command’s source as Berrytrill hid his presence in the folds of the Heliwr’s cloak. Across the cavern, men wearing the blue, red, orange, and yellow uniforms of Vatican Swiss Guards came into view from the entrance of the catacombs, aiming rifles and pistols at the newcomer. Charles cursed inwardly. If they were present, it meant the portal knight Bruno Ricci had fallen—perhaps was even now dead. It also meant the Vigilo and likely even the Pope knew of the vampiric incursion from Annwn, making the role Charles carried all the more difficult.

  A tall thin man wearing all black with the Swiss Guard crest sewn into his sweater stepped to the forefront, no fear in his icy eyes. Pistols remained holstered on his hips, hands near enough to draw but far enough away not to provoke. Charles knew the role the man fulfilled for the Vatican despite having never met him.

  “I give no cause for alarm,” Charles greeted, raising hands in supplication. “I am here to set right the wrong that has transpired today.”

  “I will be the judge of that,” the man said gruffly. He raised his chin ever so slightly. “Cardinal Seer Ramirez said a man would exit the portal, one bearing a black staff.” He paused. “I do not see a staff.”

  “Who are you?” Charles questioned sternly, bringing his own authority to bear.

  “I am Beck Almgren, Captain of the Vatican’s Swiss Guard.”

  “And bearer of Prydwen,” Charles said. “Shield of Arthur.”

  Surprise flickered in the other’s eyes but it was quickly banished.

  “I am.”

  “Captain, I am Charles Ardall. I am no threat to you. I am the Heliwr of the Yn Saith. It is my responsibility to ensure this world and that of Annwn remain separate if a portal knight fails in their duties. That failure occurred, so I am here to end the threat that has entered your home.” He paused. “Please, have your guards lower their weapons.”

  “That may be,” Beck Almgren said. “But I still need to see that staff.”

  Charles nodded, slightly annoyed. He reached into the ether between his world and that of Annwn, calling the badge of his office, drawing the fount of his power. It happened easily. The staff materialized, the wood black and comforting in his hand, its top gnarled like a cudgel. Faint white light pulsed along its length. The Dark Thorn had been his now for many years, the responsibility he carried become such a part of him he couldn’t remember a time without it. It aided his hunt for those who wrongfully crossed; it also kept him safe against creatures his world knew nothing about.

  The guards didn’t lower their weapons, though. Instead, fear filled the cavern. Remembering the panic he had felt the first time Merle had shown him magic, Charles kept the power of the Dark Thorn between him and the Vatican forces.

  In case one of them did something quite foolish.

  “Stand down, Captain,” Charles ordered.
“I am no threat.”

  Beck Almgren immediately understood the gravity of the situation. The men under his command knew nothing of Annwn and the responsibility he carried, the need for secrecy vital in keeping the two worlds separate. None of them knew he possessed Prydwen, an Arthurian relic fifteen centuries old that protected him no matter the damage visited on his person. They also did not know the duty Charles carried. They were pieces in a secret chess match privy to a chosen few.

  With a curt order from their captain, the guards lowered their weapons, although the distrust did not disappear.

  “I think the Swiss Guard should remain here,” Charles said.

  “To ensure nothing else enters from Annwn,” Beck Almgren agreed. “I will escort you to the Cardinal Seer’s chambers then.”

  Charles crossed the cavern, stepping carefully around the corpses. Berrytrill kept hidden, wise to the necessity of secrecy. The Swiss Guards may have seen the Heliwr call magic, but seeing a real fairy—the fey creature blasphemous to the Catholic Church and those who followed it—would likely have been more than many could bear.

  As the Heliwr drew close, Beck Almgren pulled free a single pistol and clicked the safety off.

  “I won’t hesitate to use this if your intentions are ill.”

  “Then there won’t be need to use it.”

  “Cardinal Seer Ramirez awaits. If you truly are the one he has called, Charles Ardall, I believe you know the way.”

  Charles did. With Beck Almgren walking behind, pistol at the ready, the Heliwr made his way through the underground, the Dark Thorn striking the stone of the cavern with every other step. The tunnel wound like a snake through the bedrock of Italy, the walls chiseled smooth by stonemasons more than a millennia dead. Charles shuddered. The chill infiltrated deep, and the odor of stale death surrounded him. It was a world few had seen, one as unchanging as a graveyard. After minutes, they stood in a large room where a well had been driven deep into the Earth, a winch and bucket ready to draw water, the only evidence that someone lived in these environs. The room had three other doorways leading to different parts of the catacombs, two snaking beneath Rome and the other cutting up toward the city.