The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

  Richard beheld Bran. Uncertainty deadened the eyes of the boy. It was a choice Bran had to make on his own, one the knight would not influence.

  “Home is not an option, is it?” Bran asked Richard.

  “It is if you wish to put yourself at risk,” Richard replied quietly. “I may not want you intertwined with what lies in that box, but what Merle said in Seattle is true. Whoever wants you dead will try until it is done.”

  Bran stared at the dead griffin on the table before looking to the daughter of Lord Gerallt. Richard did not like the look. The boy truly had gotten himself into more trouble than he’d be able to handle if he had become infatuated with the lady of Mochdrev Reach.

  When Richard glanced at her, he was surprised to find Deirdre had eyes only for him.

  “I go where Richard goes,” Bran said simply.

  “I have every faith Richard and Ardall will return the two Lords of Snowdon to Arendig Fawr along with all the might of the coblynau and dragons,” the Morrigan submitted. “The Seelie Court will be strong once more. Lugh will accompany the knight and his charge on their journey, choosing six warriors from the Long Hand for protection and answering any battle preparation questions Lord Fafnir or Lord Latobius may have. Kegan and one of his sons will share responsibility for the Rhedewyr mounts needed for the trip.”

  “See to it, Lord Lugh, the Rhedewyr are not ridden to their deaths,” Aife said with threatening scorn. “Sacrifice them to gain Tal Ebolyon like you did last year at Caer Vyrridin, and I will not be pleased.”

  “I will ride them as I deem fit,” Lugh said coldly. “You command me not.”

  “If it means regaining my kingdom all the quicker, then let nothing stand in our way—including how we ride the Rhedewyr,” Caswallawn growled. “They will live. This is war!”

  “Revenge clouds your judgment, Lord Caswallawn, as does Govannon’s ale,” Aife said, flushing with ire.

  Caswallawn stood, as did Lugh, lightning in their eyes.

  “All Horsemaster Aife requests is to ride the Rhedewyr with care,” n’Hagr growled.

  “What do you know of restraint when you fish the ocean dead, n’Hagr,” Lord Eigion spat, his gills flaring pink in anger.

  The room erupted into chaos. Each lord other than Govannon and Kegan were screaming at one another, pointing fingers, gesturing wildly. Richard looked to the Queen for guidance but she sat impervious on her throne, watching the bickering with cold eyes. Beyond her taut, pale features sadness emanated, centuries of worry weighing down the long-lived fey woman.

  It became obvious it would take more than the Snowdon lords to unite the Seelie Court.

  “Listen to yourselves!” Bran thundered.

  The chamber emptied of noise, all eyes turned to the boy.

  “You face death and you yell at one another?!” Bran roared, eyes flashing.

  “Speak not of what you do not know, lad,” Caswallawn said, loathing twisting his soured cheeks. “Son of Ardall or not, you know nothing of us, of our trials. I lost my kingdom, my people, and all that I am to one such as you. For centuries I have waited for the opportunity to strike back at the outworlders. Now is the time, and sacrifices must be made!”

  “Easy for you to say, someone who has nothing to sacrifice!” Aife shouted.

  “I know petty bickering when I hear it,” Bran shot back. “I may not know you but that much I know.”

  “Then you know nothing,” Caswallawn snarled.

  “I’m surprised you know anything, other than the bottom of a beer keg.”

  The room went deathly still. Tension tightened about everyone like a noose. Richard placed a steadying hand on Bran’s forearm while shielding him from any possible harm.

  “Insolent fool!” Caswallawn hissed. “How dare—”

  “Sit down, Caswallawn,” the Morrigan roared, her fairies fluttering behind.

  “Bran Ardall is right,” Richard said, his hard eyes warning Caswallawn away. “None of you have the right to demand anything from one another. What you face is far more dire than the seeds of these arguments.” Richard turned to Aife. “Horsemaster, the clurichaun and I will ensure the Rhedewyr are kept sound. Of that I promise.”

  “You are going to pin all of our hopes on these outworlders?” Cawallawn spat.

  “There will be much to sacrifice,” the Morrigan interceded. “From all of you. For you, Caswallawn, I demand patience. Not all outworlders are thieves of lives like Philip, just as not all drunks are wise.”

  Color drained from Caswallawn and he sat down.

  “And what of the other knights?” Govannon asked. “Are they able to help?”

  Richard pursed his lips. “They cannot. I will speak to them once we finish here, to warn them of what is coming. They fulfill the role handed them, guarding the portals with their lives. To leave their post and come here would leave the portals undefended.”

  “But you are here,” Lord Gerallt pointed out.

  “The portal is guarded, by one more than a match for anything to come through it,” Richard said. “Bran Ardall can attest to that.”

  “And of Myrddin Emrys?” Lord Eigion inquired.

  “He is weak,” Caswallawn scoffed. “Powerless.”

  “Of that, Caswallawn is correct,” Richard agreed. “The wizard is as he has been for centuries—unable to perform even the smallest aspect of his craft. If he attempted magic, he very well could lose control unleashing dire consequences for the world. He cannot help in this.”

  Silence pervaded the chamber. The uneasy truce between the lords lingered.

  “It is settled,” the Morrigan said, rising from the Sarn Throne with elegant resolve. “On the morrow, Lord Lugh will lead Richard McAllister into the Snowdon, to speak with Caer Glain and Tal Ebolyon. With the sun you will leave Arendig Fawr and return the Seelie Court to its former prominence. Caer Llion will feel the might of our resolve once more. Please gather what might remains in each of you; McAllister will not fail us, and the need to move quickly once he returns will be tantamount.”

  The lords of the Seelie Court stood and bowed, an act Richard found more perfunctory than meaningful. The Queen stepped from her dais and strode through the opening double doors of the chamber, her fairy companions following on the air behind her. Lord Finnbhennach threw the dead griffin back into its bag, and with a polite nod of gleaming white bull horns to Richard, also left the room, his tall, heavily muscled frame only covered by a kilt. The other lords and the clurichaun followed, some casting approving glances at Richard and Bran, others ignoring them entirely. After a few minutes, Richard was alone with Bran and Arrow Jack.

  “That was a brave thing you did,” Richard said.

  “Not so sure about that,” Bran said. “Why did you keep using my last name?”

  Richard stood, feeling tired. “The name Ardall holds much weight here. Your father is still greatly respected. Some of these lords, and in particular those we go to meet, will view you as an acquisition of power, one that can tip the scales in their favor against Philip. They see an Ardall and have hope.”

  “But I’m not anyone. I’m not the Heliwr.”

  “They have a perception, no matter the truth,” Richard said. “I hope it will be enough.”

  “You used me then.”

  “I’d say the Morrigan used you by your invitation,” Richard mused. “I am averting a larger threat, hoping to avert a larger war with a smaller one. If the Tuatha will unite to attack Philip, perhaps that will alter any possibility of Philip attacking through the portals, if that’s even his intent.”

  “You are getting us involved in a way that might kill us.”

  “Life changes our direction sometimes,” Richard breathed. “You could die walking down the stairs of the Cadarn. The future is not a sure thing—not in love or dreams or promises. Never forget that.”

  Bran did not look convinced.

  “Trust me,” Richard said. “I accepted the wishes of the Morrigan for a reason. It serves us and in the end will
protect us in another problem we face.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We will talk in the morning,” Richard answered. “I am tired.”

  Bran muttered something unintelligible under his breath but didn’t give Richard another look. He walked through the chamber doors into the environs of the Cadarn, Arrow Jack flying after.

  The tunnel swallowed them both, leaving the knight alone.

  He sighed. The boy echoed a growing fear in the knight. Richard risked their lives even as he questioned his ability to control Arondight. Journeying into the reaches of Snowdon aided the Seelie Court but also diverted him from facing his inadequacy to call the power of his fabled blade as well as his uncertainty of knowing how to break into Caer Llion. He hoped the trip into the mountains would give time to overcome both problems.

  Richard peered up at the numerous fey banners hanging from the ceiling, the orbs lighting their every color.

  And never felt such sure darkness.

  The foggy morning clung to Arendig Fawr like a hoarded blanket.

  Richard stood outside of the Cadarn with Bran, the grogginess of early waking leaving him grouchy. Kegan had woken them but not returned, still visiting the Morrigan inside the mountain. Nearby, six black-haired warriors of the Long Hand ignored him as they prepared their Rhedewyr for the journey, the dark elvish hellyll lithe and powerful in white and gold armor, their slanted dark eyes stern above chiseled high cheekbones. The city slept, cradled in gray gloom, only a few risers mingling between the darkened buildings and peering at the gathering warriors with wary glances.

  Arrow Jack sat perched on a tree growing from the rock cliff, watching all.

  From the Awenau path, Deirdre led her mount and two other Rhedewyr out of the forest shadows, her fiery hair hidden by the cowl of an ashen cloak. While her steed held its head high, the accompanying horses plodded like decrepit old men.

  “Are you coming?” Bran asked her.

  “Good morn,” Deirdre said. “I am. And so is Willowyn, of course.”

  “I know you wish to aid us, Lady,” Richard said. “But I do not remember the Queen asking you to be a part of our journey into the Snowdon.”

  Deirdre stared hard at Richard, her green eyes flashing even as they punctured his soul. “My father, Lord Gerallt, wishes it,” she said. “If my people are to go to war with the Tuatha de Dannan against Caer Llion, I will express his wishes to Caer Glain and Tal Ebolyon. Mochdrev Reach will be represented.”

  Richard sighed. She gave him a final pert smile before turning to Bran.

  “This is Westryl,” she introduced. “Your Rhedewyr.”

  “Mine?”

  “You did not think we would be riding double again, did you?”

  The boy flushed. Richard didn’t like the look he gave the girl. If Bran spent more time fawning over the redhead than focusing on survival, he may not make it back home.

  “I guess I hadn’t considered it,” Bran said.

  “Westryl is a bit spirited,” she said, flashing a smile and patting the horse. “But so are you, standing up to Caswallawn the way you did. Westryl will keep you safe just as I would.”

  “I think I’ll manage.” Bran cupped the nose of Westryl, who stared at him with deep, sorrowful eyes. “Why so sad, Westryl?”

  “Westryl lost his rider a few days ago, as did Lyrian here,” Deirdre said, introducing Richard to the second mount. “Both are Orphaned and having a hard time of it.”

  “Their riders died rescuing us, Bran,” Richard added.

  “They did,” Deirdre continued sadly. “Seven became orphaned in Dryvyd Wood alone, as Kearney explained to me. The Orphaned are a sad aspect of being at war with Caer Llion. They bond with a single rider and carry him or her until their end. When a rider dies, the Rhedewyr become stripped of identity and, wallowing in loss, usually die within two moons. Sometimes they bond with another, but more likely die from heartbreak.”

  Richard patted Lyrian. The power in the massive Rhedewyr reverberated through the magnificent animal. The knight felt bad his freedom had come at such a high cost.

  “You fit in better now,” Deirdre said, noting Bran’s new clothing.

  The boy shifted uncomfortably, the new shirt, tunic, pants, and boots Kegan had supplied fitting loose beneath his cloak. If the lord of Caer Llion meant to recapture them, it would be more difficult if they blended in with the surrounding fey.

  Out of the foggy woodland, Lugh materialized, leading two dozen more hellyll into the clearing. The defender of Arendig Fawr spoke low as he gestured south toward the plains and Dryvyd Wood, his warriors listening intently. The group separated into three equally sized groups then and faded into the ether, leaving their leader to walk toward Richard alone. He carried Areadbhar, his spear, its long-bladed burnished steel tip glowing like enflamed silver.

  “What’s going on?” Richard asked.

  “The Nharth have warned the Morrigan of an intruder,” Lugh said, standing solid alongside his spear. “I have dispatched the Long Hand to investigate.”

  “What could it be?”

  “It is probably a wayward Nordman or a lost banshee, but caution warrants care, especially after your rescue and journey to Arendig Fawr. Whatever it is, it will either be guided back to the plains or killed outright.”

  Richard nodded to the dark elf as Kegan and his son Connal emerged from the Cadarn. The Morrigan, Lord Eigion, and Horsemaster Aife followed to stop at the open doorway, speaking in low tones.

  “We are prepared to leave now, Knight McAllister,” Kegan said, hiking up a large bag on his back. “Best to leave before others wake.”

  “We must make one stop first,” Richard said.

  “Where are we going?” Bran asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  The knight and the boy traveled west out of Arendig Fawr, beyond the outlying homes of its denizens. Birds chirped, heralding the new day, while the fog began to burn off. It would be another hot day. Kegan, Deirdre, Lugh, and the hellyll warriors were left behind to complete the preparations. Soon they would be on their way to the dungeons of Caer Glain and Lord Fafnir, and there was much left to do.

  “We go to Mastersmith Govannon,” the knight replied finally. “You cannot go into the heights of the Snowdon weaponless. From what I learned while speaking with the Morrigan, the Mastersmith will have something for you. He always does.”

  Eagerness lit Bran’s face. Richard hoped the Queen wasn’t making a mistake.

  After ten minutes of walking, smoke tickled his nose. They moved out of the forest into a meadow where the only stone building Richard had seen in Arendig Fawr sat backed up against the cliff, the structure made of finely cut gray-black stone blocks in the shape of a castle turret that seemed to absorb the sunlight. A massive chimney sprouted from its side where pungent smoke exhaled, and at its back, rivulets of water ran down the rock wall directly into the building’s interior.

  Fiery light flickered through narrow windows, angry eyes watching.

  “What is that stench?” Bran asked.

  “Smithing is not a clean art,” Richard said. “The reason Govannon is way out here, on the outskirts of Arendig Fawr.”

  Richard entered the building, Bran a step behind. The thick odor of hard work and fermented sweet beer swallowed them. Eyes adjusting to the gloom, the knight saw he was in a large armory filled to bursting. Weapons hung from walls and crammed entire corners—swords of all shapes and sizes, battle and pole-arm axes, spears of varying lengths and design. A table showcased hundreds of daggers and longer knives while beneath shields—some round, others as tall as a man—were stacked neatly. Various pieces of armor dangled from the ceiling and littered any available space, vacant steel clothing waiting to be filled.

  There was enough smithy work to outfit an army.

  In another corner a distillery sat, surrounded by closed barrels.

  From the fire-soaked shadows of the rear, the forceful pounding of a hammer meeting steel and anvil pierced hi
s ears, steady and rhythmic.

  “Govannon!” Richard yelled. “Mastersmith!”

  The fall of the hammer ended, it’s last strike ringing throughout the room.

  “Chyneuwch!“ a deep voice rumbled from the darkness.

  Faint marble-sized orbs of milky light came into being, hovering just below the ceiling, growing stronger until they illuminated the entire armory and highlighted the swirling rune work on each artfully crafted item.

  “Well met, Richard McAllister of the Yn Saith, well met,” the burly shadow welcomed as he navigated the mess of his making. “And the scion of Ardall. Greetings to you as well this morn.”

  As the man came into the light, Richard got a good look at the fey smith in his natural environment. He was the largest man the knight had seen. Wiping grime-stained hands on a towel at his waist, the Mastersmith had massive shoulders and arms to apply his trade, balanced out by a huge paunch and thick, tree trunk-like legs. Blue eyes glittered beneath craggy eyebrows, his skin flushed with heat, black hair pulled back beyond a thickly bearded face.

  “How fare you, Govannon?” Richard asked.

  “The fire is neverending, my friend,” Govannon said with a grin. “It calls and demands like the Dryads of old. What do I owe this visit?”

  “My companion. He requires a weapon.”

  “I see.”

  “You are quite talented,” Bran said, looking around.

  “Like many things in life, what calls to a person is what is meant,” Govannon replied. “I don’t command talent as much as it commands me.”

  “I can’t believe all of this exists,” Bran admitted. “It’s like I’m in a dream.”

  “No dream, of course,” the smithy bellowed a laugh, winking at Richard. “I remember when I first arrived here in Annwn, I too could hardly believe it. Belief can be a tricky thing. Do you know there are men and women here—people who were born here and know no different—who don’t believe in your world?”

  “People tend to not believe what they can’t see,” Richard stated.

  “Good your sense of wonder is strong then.”

  “A hidden world is one thing though,” Bran said. “Dragons, goblins, fairies, elves, leprechauns, witches—these are tales where we come from.”