Bran looked around with wary apprehension. “Where are we going?”
“The capital fortress of Caer Llion in the southeastern part of the island,” Richard said.
“Where are we now?”
“In the middle southern reaches of Annwn, I believe.”
“So you’ve been here before?”
“Never.”
“What’s at Caer Llion? This Philip guy?”
“Philip Plantagenet, despot of the Tuatha de Dannan,” Richard muttered. “Caer Llion is the capital of his empire. It is there we will find him.”
“And we go to kill him?” Bran questioned.
“Perhaps,” Richard said. “He makes Hitler look like a joy. Merle believes our coming to Annwn will remove Philip. If he is truly the man behind the attack on you, I come here to find answers and destroy whatever looking glass he uses to view our world. We will start with him.”
“Why hasn’t anyone tried to stop him before now?”
“By the time the Third Crusade wrapped up in the Middle East, Philip had already conquered most of Annwn,” Richard said, weaving through the trees with care. “He has grown strong over the centuries, somehow living far longer than his natural span. That’s another mystery I intend to unravel. At any rate, his vast army and Caer Llion protect him. Stealth is about the only tactic and weapon we have going for us, unfortunately.”
“The Third Crusade. But that would make him…”
“Exactly,” Richard affirmed. “Old.”
“How can that be?”
“We don’t know. Merle suspects Philip possesses a relic of some kind.”
“A relic?”
“A longevity talisman, something from the old world probably,” Richard replied as he glanced at the forest canopy. “A necklace or ring or something.”
Arrow Jack landed on a wobbly tree branch, his dark feathers blending into the black leaves. The bird took off again, his wingspan a scythe through the blue of the sky.
“Why did the bird come?” Bran asked.
“He is our scout. He’ll keep an eye ahead for trouble.”
They hiked through the forest, the rolling land easy to navigate, Richard avoiding every overhanging limb, every exposed root. Bran mimicked him. The sun swept overhead in a golden arc, but the cool shadows of Dryvyd Wood infiltrated the knight’s clothing and left him chilled. It had been a long time since the knight had ventured from the Bricks, and suddenly being thrust into nature made him uneasy. Arrow Jack winged from tree to tree, a companion vanishing and returning at whim. No animals appeared, no sounds intruded. The forest was a burial ground. The feeling that Richard had made the wrong choice grew with every step.
The sun crossed midday, beginning its slow decent, when they came to a stream sliding like a silver snake through exposed gnarled roots, gurgling as it rode over rounded rocks.
They were fortunate to have come on a stream so quickly.
Richard removed his boots and socks, and stepped into the slow-moving stream. “Stay where you are, Bran, on the bank.”
The boy halted. “What are you doing?”
“Searching for something.”
“For what?”
“Just wait,” Richard snapped.
Bran darkened. The knight didn’t care.
Richard closed his eyes, focusing on a memory from a lifetime ago, trying to remember the spell Merle had taught him. The necessary words materialized as if he had used them that day. As he reiterated a series of five Welsh words backed with a hum, he passed his hand over the stream in slow circular motions, his palm open and face down, calling. Warmth spread from his use of the ancient magic but he barely felt it. Instead he foraged along the bed of the stream with his mind, seeking the one specially shaped rock he hoped existed.
Several feet away a white glow formed in the running depths.
“There it is,” the knight whispered.
He burned with concentration, new sweat pricking his skin as he tightened his use of the magic. The light broadened, pushing its way out of the water, the brook giving way to the power Richard employed.
“Get back, Bran.”
Before he could see if the boy heeded him, a small rock erupted from the stream, its expulsion sending water cascading in all directions. It flew through the air as it was beckoned, the stone coming to hover below his hand, a sphere tumbling with rapidity. The knight closed his fist over the stone, its smoothness like ice, a near perfect band of gray rock still wet from eons of submersion.
“What’s that?” Bran questioned.
“A fairy ring,” Richard replied, holding it up in the sunshine.
“Looks like a rock with a hole in it.”
“A hole for your finger,” Richard said, annoyed anew. “This little stone will protect you from certain appetites Mankind has among the fey.”
“And those would be?”
“Remember the cu sith?” Richard asked.
“How could I forget?”
“Fairies controlled it,” the knight said, tossing the ring to Bran who caught it. “Some creatures here in Annwn have power over others—power to control humans. That ring, born of wild nature, will protect you.”
Frowning, Bran slid the circle over his right hand middle finger.
Arrow Jack screeched from a limb high in one of the trees across the brook, the sound quick and earnest even in the deadened air of the Dryvyd Wood.
“What did he say?” Bran asked.
“I. Don’t. Know,” Richard answered angrily. “He’s your bird. You deal with him.”
“My bird?”
“Yes, your bird. Every Heliwr has a guide. I think Arrow Jack will be yours when the time comes.”
“Merle said knighthoods don’t get passed from father to son.”
“And he lies,” the knight said. “Don’t forget it.”
Richard replaced his socks and boots and without a look back jumped over the dry stones of the brook. Bran followed. The trees thinned and lost their threatening feel almost immediately, the misshapen limbs and trunks of Dryvyd Wood less twisted, its foliage greener and more vibrant. Richard exhaled from holding his breath; he was pleased they were through the unnatural forest. Birdsong reentered the world. The oppressiveness of the crooked forest vanished entirely.
“Something has been bothering me,” Bran said. “Why didn’t the Church captain kill you? He had his chance, both guns pointed at you. It would have been easy.”
“He couldn’t,” Richard said with distaste. “He was attempting to wound me—or at least lead me away from you. The Vigilo would never condone the death of a knight, no matter how grave the need or the grievance.”
“The Vigilo?”
“That’s a long story.”
“Seems we have the time.”
Richard exhaled sharply. “The history of the knights. Where to start.” He organized his thoughts, hating the sudden role of teacher. “After His crucifixion, Jesus Christ came to His remaining disciples and instructed them to make followers of all nations. Arguably the most important apostle, Peter traveled throughout that ancient world and to Rome where he founded the Catholic Church. At that time Rome was pagan, so Peter spent years sermonizing to and baptizing thousands of people, converting them to Christianity. Those early Christians were persecuted and hunted for the next three hundred years, until Emperor Constantine legalized and legitimized Christianity in the Roman Empire.”
“I know most of that,” Bran said.
“What you don’t know is Peter was a sly old bastard. Before his death, he founded a secret group within the fledgling Church, and it was this tiny society of trusted men that was given the duty to protect the tenets of Christianity and its daily gain at all costs.”
“And this group, the Vigilo, commands the Church?” Bran questioned. “I find that really hard to believe, to be honest. Conspiracies swirl in our world. Why have I not heard of this?”
“Not really that hard to believe,” Richard snorted. “Vigilo means ‘watchful�
�� or ‘vigilant’ in Latin. To be a watcher is to not be directly involved. Some of its members are high-ranking Cardinals in the Vatican who maintain anonymity with absolute discretion. Others are hidden from even me, their identities secret. They don’t influence doctrine. Instead they protect it and the power they have accrued—at any cost.”
“How do you and the knights fit in all of this?”
“Over the centuries that followed Peter’s own crucifixion, the Vigilo worked hard to ensure Christian persecution was as limited as it could be. But the group was mostly religious scholars and strategic planners; they had no strength of arms to carry out their desires. The Vigilo needed brawn. They got it with the Order of Virtus—a precursor to the knights of the Middle Ages— hundreds of soldiers spread over the continent and later, the world. With them in place as a stabilizing force, the Vigilo began working in earnest to erode pagan influences in the Empire to secure Peter’s direction.”
“The Celtic gods,” Bran said. “And the Vigilo rid the world of them?”
“In part,” Richard replied. “The Vigilo asserted itself in the Isles like everywhere else, influencing with machinations, paying off clan leaders to pressure their people to embrace Roman culture. Greed is a powerful motivator. Eventually the Celts pushed their own gods and goddesses away into the wilds of what would become Wales and Ireland; all the while the Christianity of the Vigilo filled the void left behind. It didn’t all happen at once; it took several centuries. But during that time, as the Order of Virtus secretly spread across the Isles bribing people and killing any fey creature they crossed, they found the first portal.”
“And placed men to guard it,” Bran said. Richard nodded. “But if you are part of the Vigilo, why didn’t you give me to Finn Arne? I thought Merle was responsible for your role as a knight, which means he’d be a part of this secret organization as well.”
“In a way, Merle is. But he freed the Order of Virtus from the authority of the Vigilo by giving us power of our own—power that separates us from the Church and the strength it now possesses. For many centuries Vigilo soldiers were the scourge of Europe and the Middle East. Behind the scenes, they began most of the Crusades and many of the other wars that plagued the world. But with one of his last acts of magic, Merle gave the portal guards each a relic of great power and therefore autonomous will, to balance the growing power of the Church and the Vigilo. He knew if the Vigilo had its way, it would destroy Annwn and all who resided there, it would erase what the Church thought of as blasphemous. I control the entrance to a portal, and nothing passes without my leave. It is in that way the portal is not controlled by any one group.”
“That is why you might not kill the Lord of Annwn,” Bran added.
Richard shrugged. “True enough. I am my own man.”
“And you are still a part of the Order of Virtus?”
“The Order disintegrated long ago,” Richard said. “Only seven of us remain at any given time. It is all that is needed—one for each portal. We are now the Yn Saith, the Seven.”
“If all of that is true, how did Philip enter Annwn? No knight stopped him?”
“Remember how I said the Vigilo has started many of the religious wars?”
Bran nodded.
“The irony is that they are partially responsible for our foray into Annwn. In the twelfth century, Henry II, the father of Richard the Lionheart and John Lackland, raised Philip in secret. The King of England decided to make an assassin of his fifth born. With the aid of the Vigilo, Henry set into motion a crusade against Annwn, using Philip as a weapon. With an army behind his son, Henry sent them through, condoned by the Vigilo. It was after that act of warfare that Merle gave the first Yn Saith power, to prevent such acts from happening again.”
“This is all too much,” Bran said in disbelief. “These things happened centuries ago.”
“Believe it, boy. It’s all true,” Richard said. “But one thing you need to remember. Do not trust Merle. Often his intention is good but rarely for those he finagles in these charades. When he says he has a mere shadow of a doubt about your future, what he really means is he has seen the path you will walk and it suits his wishes just fine, while affecting your life forever.”
Richard watched Bran chew on that statement. The sooner the boy began questioning every aspect of coming to Annwn, the better.
“What happened to his magic?” Bran asked finally.
“He is demon spawn, baptized by the Church at his birth and pulled away from the evil impulses of his father. He does age, albeit slowly, and the older he gets, the less control he has over his power. He has now become so old he can no longer control his magic—it is wild and unpredictable, his weakening human form unable to fully contain the demon magic if used. He could lose control; he could destroy the world.”
“Well, how can he keep things from us?” Bran questioned, a bit angry.
“How the hell should I know? Do I look like Merle?” Richard asked angrily, temper flaring. “Let’s get one thing straight. He may like you. I don’t. You are a kid and one who might get me killed here. So just…stop asking me questions.”
Richard stormed ahead before Bran could reply. Even though he had gone along with Merle’s wish, a part of Richard rebelled against the boy. Demons. Magicians. Fey creatures and Church conspiracy. The world he had spent years protecting now at his back. While he knew a great deal about Annwn, it could kill him if it discovered his presence.
He was not the Heliwr with authority here.
And all the while he had to survive with a boy who barely shaved.
Before the knight took a dozen steps, Arrow Jack screeched loudly in the trees above just as a series of deep resonating coughs thundered in the distance. The sound was unmistakable.
The braying of hounds on hunt.
“Damnit,” Richard muttered, eyes combing the forest.
“What is it?”
“We are caught.” Anger replaced shock in the knight. “They knew we were coming.”
“Who?!”
“Who do you think!?” Richard exploded, already turning around. “While I was gabbing with you, our entrance into this world was discovered!”
The barking grew louder.
“What can we do?” Bran asked hurriedly.
“I don’t know! Go back, find some kind of protection.”
“The portal is hours away! There is no protection for us back there!”
“Oh?” Richard shouted. “We’ll see about that.”
Richard flew, his long limbs carrying him forward back the way they had come. Bran kept up. The knight could not believe his luck. They were already hunted.
But by whom? Through the holes in the forest canopy where the rolling hills rose toward mountains, the sickened areas of Dryvyd Wood became visible again, a throbbing stain of decay with a powerful disdain for life.
Richard ran straight toward the heart of it.
With Bran a shadow on his heels, Richard fled through Dryvyd Wood’s dark confines as if chased by death itself, with one thought ricocheting through his mind.
Escape.
The harsh deep braying of the hounds penetrated him like splinters, the sound closer with every running step. Richard kept his anger focused on flight. No matter how many directions taken or hills crossed, the hounds were an indelible presence, unshakeable in their hunt. The brook where he called the fairy ring had long-since been crossed, the ill-twisted trees that protected the portal surrounding them once more. Through the canopy the Carn Cavall and Snowdon grew in the far distance, the mountain heights an unattainable safe haven the knight now wished more than anything to be within reach.
“Where are we going?” Bran breathed hard.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
“The stream back there maybe?” Bran suggested. “Hide our passing?”
“A movie cliché, nothing more,” Richard said. “These hounds are far too well-trained to be thrown off our scent so easily.”
The pursu
it echoed everywhere, no longer just behind, the barks on top of them. Richard slowed to a quick walk, eyes casting about for the right spot.
“What are you looking for?”
“There,” Richard pointed out, moving up the gradual slope where anorexic trees grew in stagnated competition with one another. There wasn’t much space between them. In their midst, a tiny outcropping of granite broke free from the forest, a serrated throne within the malformed, dark wood.
“This is your plan?” Bran asked increduously.
“Stay close behind me,” the knight ordered. “And remember what I said about the trees.”
Bran flinched where he was almost touching one.
“Exactly,” Richard said simply as he backed them against the thrust of rock.
Minutes passed, each one an eon as the inevitable approached. It didn’t take long. The first hound burst into view, as large as the cu sith but sleeker and faster, like an Irish wolfhound. Dirtied white wheaten fur coated its frame as the canine barked low to the ground until it sighted Richard and Bran, red ears flattened against its box-like head. Others quickly joined it. Twelve dogs circled them, each threateningly cutting off escape.
Richard stood in front of Bran, muscles taut for the fight. He called Arondight and it materialized into his hand without difficulty, the runes along its silvery blade throbbing azure.
The dogs growled lower in response but did not flinch, digging in.
Minutes passed in stalemate.
Then a hound more powerfully built and larger than the others emerged from the path of their flight. Upon its back rode a short, stocky man with a matted copper beard and matching wild hair.
The hounds moved aside, their eyes still fixed on their quarry.
With both hands gripping the thick fur of his mount, the rider grinned maliciously, his hunt over. Only when the houndmaster drew close did the knight see he was not alone; behind him rode an ancient woman, her cheeks gaunt and wrinkled, her stringy gray hair falling over blue-tinged skin as if dunked in ice. Death hung upon her, permanent and unyielding, but in her watery orbs a fire of terrible life burned with murderous malice.
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