The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

  The portal glimmered as it had for centuries, as if nothing had happened.

  “Well done, Ennio Rossi,” Cormac said, pleased.

  “If the others find out…”

  “They will not,” Cormac assured. “The only one to possibly find out is Knight Richard McAllister and I promise, he will welcome the aid.”

  Ennio looked at the portal. “Why do you think Richard went into Annwn?”

  “I don’t know,” Cormac lied. “Perhaps it is Myrddin Emr—”

  “Merle has never sent a portal knight into Annwn.”

  “That you know of,” Cormac corrected. “Without a Heliwr, anything is possible.”

  At the mention of the Heliwr, Ennio averted his eyes from the Cardinal Vicar and crossed his arms. Tension formed a rift between them. He knew Ennio did not tell him all that transpired in his role as knight, had not even told Donato everything. The Knights of the Yn Saith were close, able to communicate over the vast distances that separated them, and that bond and the knowledge that came from it remained an annoyance to the Church. If Ennio knew why McAllister had entered Annwn with Ardall, he wasn’t sharing.

  “Whatever transpires, Ennio, we must be vigilant.”

  “I will fulfill my responsibility,” the knight answered.

  “As the Cardinal Seer saw in his mirror, odd elements are swarming around Caer Llion. Evil grows there. Creatures not seen before are ravaging the countryside, and we fear Plantagenet is sending his machinations into this world. The loss of a portal knight is a grave concern to the Vigilo.”

  Ennio frowned. “Richard would never join—”

  “He has had a hard life, my son,” Cormac said, sowing doubt. “We know not his reason for entering Annwn and must be wary.”

  Ennio stayed silent, but Cormac saw his arrow had struck true.

  “Be prepared for the worst if it comes to that,” Cormac said. “The Guard has already been doubled in the chambers of the Basilica above. Hundreds more are near to calling. With you warding the portal, a large force at your back and the corridors upward so narrow, we should be able to contain any attempt by Plantagenet to enter Rome.”

  “When the Captain comes back through, I will notify you,” Ennio said. “And if it comes to it, I can bring this cavern down around the portal so that no one can enter.”

  Cormac nodded politely, turned, and made his way up into the Basilica again and out through the façade into Italy’s cold air. Plans he had set into motion were out of his hands now. The Pope wanted results; Cormac would give them.

  And become favored for his next appointment.

  Pontiff of the Catholic Church.

  He sighed, suddenly tired. The loss of Donato drove him stronger than any papal authority, but he was still just a man. Myrddin Emrys could not be trusted, his knights lacking the conscience to do what was right. With Finn Arne acting as the Cardinal Vicar’s extension, the Heliwr would be his and when that happened, Plantagenet would die along with those who had joined him in Annwn.

  And any heretical enemies of the Church.

  When Cormac crawled into bed, sleep came on swift wings.

  “My king, there is nothing I can do,” John Lewis Hugo said, his voice low.

  “Nothing you can do?!” Philip raged. “Nothing you can do?!”

  John did not answer, his mask of ruined flesh impassive. Philip fought the urge to pin his oldest friend against the stairwell wall and beat him senseless. Caer Llion brooded like its king. Sunrise had not yet come, the corridors vacant of staff. It suited Philip. The spiraling staircase unfolded downward from his suites, the passage chilly and empty of servants. Whenever he ventured into the warrens beneath the castle he preferred no one to know. Gauging the progress of the witch, no matter how distasteful, had become of singular importance. The time to lead the crusade into the world of his birth was nigh upon him—the end of the war in Annwn his father had ordained and the beginning of his true calling.

  Now his longtime friend and most powerful ally informed him that McAllister and Ardall were out of reach—out of reach!

  “Answer me!” Philip commanded.

  “My king, you know as well as I the cauldron has limits,” the advisor said. “Once the knight and his charge fled into the lower reaches of the Snowdon and into the Nharth, they became and continue to be outside the range of my magical ability.”

  Philip mastered his frustration, if barely. The stairwell they descended opened into the expanse of the Great Hall where two Templar Knights snapped to attention from their post at the main entrance, the enormous banner of the Plantagenet House hanging above them, its roaring golden lion staring down with authority from a crimson field. Not capturing the knight and the boy rankled him. He wanted to add their power to his own. Philip had instead been forced to undo the magic chains binding the bodach for centuries and unleash the predatory Unseelie creature upon the boy. The smoke-like beast had sniffed Ardall’s coat and bounded from the castle like a sable bolt shot from a crossbow. The bodach was now within the Snowdon hunting. Or feasting on the dead.

  It irked Philip that he didn’t know which. John hadn’t been able to view what transpired in the Snowdon and the Carn Cavall, leaving Philip in the dark.

  Passing carved stone statues of stoic knights and ancient tapestries depicting victorious battles from his Annwn arrival, Philip and John traveled deeper into the castle and took a broad staircase down, its steps worn from ages of passing feet. Caer Llion had been built upon a large abutment of rock overlooking the sea, long before Philip was even born, and he had taken it as his main capital after invading Annwn. Over the centuries, he had fortified his new holding and conquered most of the island. By bribing the Cailleach to keep it eternally summer, the economy of the land grew as his people multiplied. With the growth of the great northern cities of Caer Dathal, Mur Castell, and Velen Rhyd in Gwynedd, Philip strengthened his rule and most of Annwn was quelled. His land, his rule.

  With Philip watching the hall, John opened a secret passageway set behind a large wall-hung tapestry, its thickly woven fabric obscuring the entrance into the dungeons. Philip flinched as cool air mixed with the tang of human waste and unwashed bodies swept over him. He pushed down the bile rising in his throat; he hated going into the dungeons almost as much as he hated the fey and their ilk.

  “What have you seen in the cauldron then?” Philip questioned.

  The wall grinding to a close behind them, John mumbled a combination of words until a blue flame materialized in the air to light their way down the staircase. “Before the sun set last evening while you met with the lords, I traveled over the breadth of Annwn. The fey are moving. Thousands of Merrow have come ashore near Mynyw at Porth Cleis, armed and ready for spending long days on land. Up the coast, many of the buggane have left the ruins of Caer Harlech, heading toward the Snowdon. Both groups have entered the Nharth mists. There may be other fey joining them, but I cannot view the entirety of Annwn every moment.”

  “Mobilizing.”

  “Mobilizing,” John agreed. “And there are others.”

  Philip frowned. “Others?”

  “Lord Gerallt and his daughter have vanished. My spies know not where they have gone, but they are no longer in Mochdrev Reach. I believe they have betrayed Caer Llion,” John said, gliding like a stain down the stairwell. “The Morrigan could be drawing these groups together for an offensive of some kind, one that would put our current plans at risk.”

  “You are certain of this? About Lord Gerallt joining the Tuatha?”

  “It makes sense, my king,” John said. “Mochdrev Reach has ever had ties to the Carn Cavall, playing both sides to remain at peace. Lord Gerallt offered his daughter, but apparently she is stronger than even I observed when I met her.”

  “You have been wrong another time, John,” Philip said, angry all over again with his advisor. “And you wanted me to marry that traitorous whore? Redheaded bitch. I want Lord Gerallt dead. His daughter dead. The Reach made a Templar garrison!”<
br />
  “The boy and the knight could be driving the resistance.”

  “If the bodach does what you say it will, there are no worries,” Philip said.

  “The bodach is formidable. But the power of the knight, combined with members of the Seelie Court, could withstand it.” John paused. “I think we should reconsider our plans. I think it would behoove us to sweep the Snowdon clear before proceeding into the portal, my king. It is apparent the Seelie Court is not as weak as we had once thought.”

  Anger that had been smoldering reignited. In one swift motion Philip gripped his old friend by his black robe, fists wanting to fling the advisor down the staircase.

  “You tell me all of this now!” Philip yelled.

  Surprise on John’s face became a dark cloud, his eyes hard like black agates of hatred. The friend Philip knew disappeared; in his place a terrifying creature stared back.

  “Do not forget what I have become, my king.”

  Philip let John go but did not retreat beneath his hot gaze.

  “My king,” John said softly, his hate gone as quickly as it had come. “The choice will always be your own. I have done what I can to advise you with the knowledge I gained under Master Wace as well as that gleaned from the fey creature Arawn, whose being I trapped and consumed. War is uncertain. Once forces begin moving, the enemy counters. That is the nature of such endeavors. We must embrace all tangible probabilities, analyze them, to make the wisest course of action.”

  Philip stared hard at John. “We shall not deviate from my cause.”

  “Of course we will not, my king.”

  “We must leave behind a larger force than planned to maintain all that we have gained,” Philip thought aloud. “Protect all that we have fought for.”

  “That would be wise,” John said. “Master Wace would agree.”

  Philip backed away from his advisor and took a steadying breath. Rarely had they come to such angst-ridden moments in the past. He and John had always been close, despite the change made to rid Annwn of Arawn—a terrible and powerful fey lord. Other than the brief pleasures afforded him by a woman, Philip let no one but John near him. Together they had begun this conquest and together they would finish it.

  “And the portal is secure?” he asked.

  “It is,” John said evenly. “The Templar Knights command every crag and trail. Nothing will prevent our entrance when the time is right.”

  “That is well,” Philip commended. “I want to lead my army through the portal myself, without disruption. And I want you following right behind. I loathe Annwn. It is time we returned to the world of our birth—as conquerors.”

  “It will be so, my king.”

  “Is our way clear?” Philip questioned. “On the other side?”

  “I cannot see within the Vatican,” John answered. “But the catacombs beneath are empty of all but the dead and the knight.”

  “And what of him?”

  “The whelp knows not what comes,” John assured. “He is not even there half the time, carousing in inns and pubs with brew and women. Such a sinful world, ripe for our purposes. With the Cardinal Seer dead and the knight preoccupied by his flesh, when we enter the Vatican to reclaim your birthright, my pets will carve a way past the curse tablets and into the heart of the very Basilica itself. We will gain the Vault and the relics that lie within. With their power added to our own, we will crush the resistance here. Then the cleanse shall begin in that world as well.”

  “As it should, a long time in the coming,” Philip acknowledged.

  “What of the Morrigan, my king?”

  “I want eyes patrolling the sky,” Philip commanded. “Send the griffins into the Snowdon today at sunrise, reporting back in short intervals. They have bred like rabbits, and sacrificing a few will give a greater understanding of what the Morrigan is planning. Regardless of her design, it will be moot if Caer Llion is made aware in time.”

  “In whose keeping will you leaveCaer Llion?”

  Philip had spent great amount of time considering that very point. The last few days had seen many meetings. Not all of the lords under his banner were trustworthy. With no heir due to the affects of the magic that kept him young, Philip did not have anyone to trust.

  “Lord Evinnysan,” Philip ventured.

  “The wisest choice of the group I think.”

  “Not smart enough to take the throne, vicious enough to protect my interests,” Philip continued. “He will need to be watched.”

  “Much will need to be watched other than the Morrigan and Caer Llion,” John said, turning down a new staircase where the air grew damp. “You should be made aware, my king, that a flock of griffins attacked a young dragon. It survived, if barely, winging back to its kin.”

  “And you worry that could motivate Tal Ebolyon?”

  “Long has Latobius remained separate from the Seelie Court,” John said. “Even if the dragon lord lends his power to the Morrigan, the griffins will protect the air. We have nothing to fear from that dying race. Their time passed with the shadow of the wind.”

  “Watch them anyway,” Philip ordered, blocking the way. “Remember what Master Wace always taught during war seminar?”

  “Overconfidence kills a leader.”

  Philip moved on. Master Wace of Bayeux. Centuries had passed since Philip and John had studied with their mentor in a tall tower rising just outside Oxford. The Master had given fourteen years of his life teaching tactics in warfare, philosophy from the far east and Greek antiquity, the history and politics of Europe and the Isles, and the intricacies of the Church and its followers. When Philip was young he had longed to be part of the family his father Henry II denied him, but growing into manhood under the tutelage of Master Wace had opened his eyes to the hypocrisy in the world—starting with his own kin. The bickering of his father and brother Richard over northern France, his father banishing Philip’s mother to the Tower of London, the attempt by John to claim the crown while Richard fought in the Third Crusade—the sin of greed and jealousy drove wedges between his family members and the Word of the Church.

  Philip promised he would never succumb to the sinful vicissitudes that had ruined his family and those he had seen in the poverty-stricken streets of London.

  He repressed a snort.

  The Seelie Court quarreled like his family.

  Now, having lived longer than any of his father’s descendents, he meant to finish what God and Henry II had ordained all those centuries earlier.

  Bring religious order to the world—with the sword, if necessary.

  The staircase ended and both men stepped into a vast empty cavern, their footfalls echoing off the foundation of the castle. Of the four available doorways, John selected the one on their right, away from the dungeons, his flame above lighting their way.

  “Will the Cailleach be ready with the strap bags?” Philip asked.

  “She will. Enough cattle hide has been acquired to make it so.”

  “It is almost time then.”

  “Lord Gwawl and the rest have sworn their allegiance,” John said. “And given of their men and resources.”

  “Give them the bags then,” Philip said. “Test them and ensure the water works. Explain what the bags are for. Do not tell them where they came from. I doubt any of them will turn on me after they realize the power I possess and control.”

  John nodded and continued onward.

  “And if they do challenge me,” Philip added. “They will be fed to the halfbreeds.”

  The staircase continued to wind down, but the stone of the walls changed from mortared blocks to slick rock, cut from the natural lay of the land. The corridors were ancient, having been there since the Celtic gods and goddesses had entered Annwn to escape their persecution from the Isles. Philip possessed it all now, to use as his whim dictated.

  After what seemed an eternity walking in the clammy depths, they came to a locked door, one newly fashioned from thick oak and banded in unforgiving iron. A giant Fomori
an stood guard, his broad shoulders filling up much of the hallway. He bowed, his eyes lost behind the visor of a helmet. A giant sword lay propped against the wall nearby.

  “My king, the witch may not appreciate our visit to these depths,” John said.

  “I pay her price,” Philip said. “She will do as I tell her or she will be fed to her creations.”

  John shrugged. He produced a key from the folds of his robe, and upon opening the door, he stepped by the Fomorian into the subterranean.

  The Mhydew spread out as far as Philip could see, a lake as black as obsidian, its depths lost to the imagination and the air filled with the rancorous combination of minerals and feces. The blue flame rose high, revealing giant cones of rock clinging to the ceiling like dozens of teeth frozen in place. In the middle of the lake, a pyramid of organized stone jutted, and at its apex his ancient prize sat, catching dripping water from the ceiling that overflowed into the cache below. Flickering torches set into wall sconces faintly lit their area and that was all.

  The Mhydew was a dark world of sharp points and cutting edges, shut away from the emerald lush grasses and hills of Annwn above. Every time Philip entered the immense cavern he felt small and insignificant.

  He hated the feeling.

  Along the shore, dozens of men and women bound to the rock by thick chains poured water from the lake into large leather flasks with stoppers and straps. With grime-covered skin, hair, and clothing, they looked like nothing human. Disgust rose up within Philip. They were those of his subjects who had broken the law, from murder to petty thievery to sodomy. For their transgressions they had been blinded by red-hot pokers, tongues cut from their mouths, and brought here to serve. Some died quickly, the fire to live extinguished as soon as they entered the Mhydew; some served the witch in other ways he no longer wanted to know about.

  Either way, there were always others ready to fill the shackles; lawbreakers were all too easily found in Annwn.

  One of them reached out and touched his foot then.