The Dark Thorn

by Shawn Speakman

  Then again, Philip had lived a long time.

  “Philip took Caer Llion from you then,” Bran said thoughtfully.

  “He is an ugly, ugly man,” Wart said a bit petulantly. “Not very nice at all.”

  “True words, Sir Wart,” Ambrosius concurred.

  “You cannot join with him,” Uter added. “He would use you as he uses all. With the power of Lancelot’s blade granted you by the Lady, it would increase Philip’s power a thousand fold. He will keep you alive as long as it suits him. Word and Lady willing, freedom will be your own and you can fight his evil once more.”

  “And gain the pretty cup back,” Wart piped in with a tiny voice.

  “Cup?” Bran asked, startled. “You mean the Grail?”

  “Wait,” Ambrosius said sharply. “Listen!”

  Bran did so, straining. He heard nothing.

  “I hear noth—”

  Then Bran did hear it. It was a sound but also a tremor in the wall behind his back, growing in intensity until the castle darkly hummed with it. It sounded like the great stone blocks of the castle were toppling above, as though a bulldozer drove through them.

  “It comes,” the Ambrosius said.

  “What does?” Bran questioned, bewildered by what could be happening.

  “Freedom.”

  The rumbling continued like an avalanche and became still. Shouts of bewilderment and pain followed. Outside his cell the manic voices of warriors echoed, the soldiers Philip had placed in the dungeon not far away. Whatever was going on up above had set Caer Llion ablaze with confusion, arousing the occupants of the castle into a frenzy.

  The sounds of far-off battle filled the silence. And came closer.

  Minutes passed.

  Before Bran could figure out what was happening, the locking mechanism to his cell clicked. Suddenly the door opened.

  No one entered.

  Bran stood still, trying to get a glimpse out into the hallway, when an invisible vice encircled his forearm and held it in place.

  Bran tried to pull away. “What the hell—”

  “Relax, outworlder,” a voice smelling of beer growled. “Let me free you.”

  “Ardall, you are alive! Amazing that!” Snedeker exclaimed, hovering at the cell entrance. The fairy watched the hallway, worry etching his features.

  The shackle holding Bran’s wrist fell away.

  “Who is there?” he asked.

  The light before him shifted as if through a rippling prism. It cleared and Bran stared at a floating grizzled face with a smirking, unwashed smile.

  Caswallawn stared right back.

  Richard hung from the cell wall by chains, in absolute misery.

  The Fomorian stoked the fire pit for what must have been the hundredth time, heating several irons to white-hot intensity. Richard had no idea how much time had lapsed. It didn’t matter. It was the torment that splintered his awareness, left him unsure of every instance the giant rammed a hot poker into his abdomen, broke a bone, or slashed him with a knife. Overcoming the pain skewed his understanding; every agony pushed him toward oblivion. But with every splash of water into his mouth from the Holy Grail he was reborn, brought back to his situation, forced to endure more torture.

  Physically, he was fine, his injuries healed. Emotionally he was coming undone from the inside out, his mind sundering.

  He was being driven mad.

  Arawn had no interest in keeping Richard alive. The knight had brought Bran Ardall to Annwn as a worthy consolation. Whether Richard died or joined Arawn, it did not matter. Either way, the knight was not an obstacle—and Arawn had won.

  His left arm broken and the Fomorian set to return with his next evil deed, Richard cursed himself. The Holy Grail. He had seen it with his own eyes. It had been within his grasp in the lake. The Grail was a source of unimaginable power. In the hands of Arawn and Philip, it made whatever army they raised a thousand times more powerful.

  The Dark Thorn had called him to the cavern because the lake was a powerful mirror. If Richard had thought about why the magic had called him to the lake, he would have investigated further. If he had spent more time investigating, Caer Llion would have been deprived of the Holy Grail, a weapon Plantagenet planned on using against two worlds.

  If he had taken the Grail from Annwn, the war would be over.

  If he only had a chance to confront Arawn and kill the creature responsible for Richard killing his wife…If. If. If.

  Just as the Fomorian pulled a glowing dagger from the fire, the door to the cell opened. Richard raised his tired head to view the newcomer.

  Bran stood in the doorway, alone.

  Richard blinked, unsure if what he was seeing was real or the result of maddened hope. The Fomorian torturer turned, alerted by Richard’s look. Blunted pale features peeled back in a ferocious snarl and it charged Bran with the dagger raised high.

  With Arondight glowing in his hand, Bran waited for the giant.

  “Run, Bran!” Richard roared.

  Before the giant could finish crossing the room, it fell forward, tripped, and crashed to the stone, the knife flying out of its hand and air whooshing from its lungs.

  “Now, Ardall!” a voice screamed in the cell.

  Bran unleashed the magic of Arondight. The fire stabbed the Fomorian in its back and pinned it to the ground, incandescent flames unyielding as they inundated the huge creature. The giant roared in pain. Bran did not let up. A curling hand reached up but Bran ignored it, his eyes focused and filled with wrath.

  Richard could not believe what he saw. Roaring as flesh burned away and the smell of charred meat saturating the room, the Fomorian pleaded with frying eyes to be let free, to survive.

  Bran did not yield.

  The giant struggled on until its protestations weakened. Movements slowing until only smoke rose, the Fomorian finally stilled.

  Bran ended the torrent of flaming magic. The torturer lay unmoving. A surge of adrenaline rushed into Richard. Snedeker flew into the cell to hover before the prisoner.

  “Today luck is with you, McAllister,” the fairy said. “What did that asscudgel do to you? Are you alive?”

  “No,” Richard said. “But I’ll live.”

  Caswallawn materialized suddenly in front of him. He fought the manacles that held the knight. Richard tried to gather himself. With his arm still broken and his mind and body weak from the repeated torture, he knew he would have to get ready for an attempt to escape Caer Llion. No matter how Caswallawn had broken into the castle—a distraction from the sounds rumbling above—there would be Templars after them as soon as Richard and Bran were discovered gone.

  He knew one thing. His broken arm would not stop him from unleashing hell.

  Finally freed by Caswallawn, Richard moved past the dead Fomorian toward the door.

  “What are you—”

  “Doing here?” Caswallawn finished, parts of his body in flux. “Is it not obvious?”

  “But how did you know where we were?”

  “I have followed you from Arendig Fawr, at request of the Queen,” Caswallawn whispered, pausing at the door to peek out quickly. “We will speak of my time after this night.”

  “Time to go, knights,” Snedeker said, whirring ahead.

  “We must free the others imprisoned here,” Bran said.

  “I have already done so,” Caswallawn said. “Hear the chaos above? Better luck in escaping we will find if the guards are trying to capture all of you.”

  “What happened to your arm?” Snedeker asked.

  “Never mind,” Richard spat, looking at Bran’s stump. “Bran, grab that leather bag.”

  On the floor beside the dead giant lay the soccer ball-size pouch holding the water from the Grail. Letting Arondight vanish, Bran entered the room and grabbed the bag. He then held it out to Richard.

  “Don’t give it to me, dammit!” Richard grimaced. “Just carry it.”

  “Take a drink,” Bran insisted.

  “No! It�
��s our proof!”

  Bran slung the leather pouch over his shoulder, its contents sloshing, and called Arondight once he stepped out of the room.

  “What takes place above?” Richard asked weakly.

  “You will see,” Snedeker answered. “At times, even I am smarter than the smartest.”

  “A diversion,” Caswallawn said simply. “Let us move.”

  The four entered the torchlit hallway. Two Templar guards at either end of the corridor slumped lifeless to the stone—weapons not drawn, throats cut, surprised horror freezing their features. Richard moved down the hallway, following the lead of Caswallawn up a new flight of stairs. With every step the sounds of the above conflict grew until it permeated their entire world. Calling the Dark Thorn, Richard put more weight on it rather than Bran as they moved through the castle. Bran would need freedom to use Arondight soon judging by the battle raging above. Caswallawn wrapped his invisibility cloak closer and crept on until they climbed another set of stairs, eyes alert, making no sound, the promise of war ahead.

  Snedeker kept ahead, a tiny scout, watching for enemies. There weren’t any. Around nearly every corner more guards lay dead, the effective deeds of Caswallawn.

  Just as Richard thought the invisible lord had killed everyone in the castle, four soldiers appeared, weapons drawn, surprise etching their faces.

  Bran did not hesitate. With Caswallawn flattening against the wall, the boy sent the blue fire of his sword into the Templar Knights. They scattered like leaves on the breeze, bits of fire hungrily fighting for purchase as they screamed in terror. Caswallawn was on them like a sleek cat, knives opening the exposed neck arteries between chain mail and helmets.

  In a matter of seconds, all four were dead.

  Saying nothing, Richard and the others stepped over the bodies on their way upward. After what felt an eternity, Caswallawn edged into a passage where a door, flanked by thick lead plates bearing faintly pulsing green Celtic runes, waited.

  He pushed through into the cool night air.

  Into a courtyard of chaos.

  Caer Llion loomed overhead. Yelling echoed, conflict all too close. Across from them a giant hole gaped in the outer wall of Caer Llion; through it, dozens of Templar Knights streamed from the plains without, scrambling beyond his view, focused on what had entered the castle. Richard kept himself pressed against the tower wall, propped up by his staff, trying to become one with the shadows. The others did the same.

  The battle taking place nearby gave him pause; he did not know where to go now.

  Arrow Jack swooped out of the night, screeching.

  “How do we get out?” Richard screamed to Caswallawn. “The hole,” Caswallawn said. “And slowly. We are gravely outnumbered.”

  The invisible lord moved from the door along the rounded tower wall. Richard followed Bran, sweating freely, nausea from the pain sickening him. As they came around the corner, the melee across the courtyard came into view, and Richard nearly stopped in his tracks.

  In the midst of the castle warriors, a massive creature stood above all, thick and heavily muscled, destruction raining down from its enormous fists even as spears and arrows punctured its body like a pincushion. Horn-like nubs grew from a rounded head where lank dark hair hung. The juggernaut roared at all quarters while pummeling those adversaries who came too close. The carnage at its feet was complete, bodies twisted and broken from its rage.

  “The Kreche,” Richard breathed.

  “Halfbreed,” Caswallawn rumbled. “Doing his job.”

  Richard stood thunderstruck. The Kreche must have come all the way from Seattle. Had Merle known what transpired in Caer Llion at all times? Had he known Richard and Bran had been captured? That Richard would be tortured and Bran would lose his hand? If so, Merle had a lot to answer for.

  But sending the Kreche had been a Godsend.

  Richard turned back to the battle. He did not worry for the Kreche. If bullets could not take it down, the medieval weapons of Annwn surely would not.

  “What of Deirdre? And the Rhedewyr?”

  “She has already made her way to the Morrigan,” Caswallawn answered. “So must we.”

  The lord whistled loudly, the sound shattering the din. The Kreche spun, staring directly at Richard and those with him. It took a final roaring swipe at those who attacked him, scattering the warriors like gnats, and then charged across the courtyard, the ground thundering.

  The warriors of Caer Llion chased after but lagged behind. Caswallawn was already nowhere in sight, invisible once more.

  “Get ready, Rick,” the Kreche bellowed as he closed in. “Carrying you out of here.”

  The Kreche rolled over the last of those who stood in his way until he picked Richard and Bran up in his massive arms like rag dolls without missing a step. The breath flew from Richard as the rushing wind of their flight increased.

  He let the Dark Thorn dissolve as the world eddied.

  “We go now,” the Kreche rumbled. “Keep your head down.”

  Richard did, tucked in the left arm of the Kreche like a football. Arrows and spears zipped by as they approached the broken wall. More warriors gathered there, swords and axes drawn as if trying to build a new wall of flesh to keep the prisoners from escaping. The Kreche gave them no mind. He leapt through as if nothing could hurt him. At the last moment the warriors of Caer Llion gave way from terror or died on impact, the heavy muscles of the Kreche unforgiving and the force in which the beast ran into the hole decimating all in its path. When the Kreche hit the ground beyond, his legs tirelessly pumped through those who tried to stop them until nothing but open ground spread into the dark.

  The night embraced them as they ran into it.

  Richard protected his broken arm and slept.

  As the pink tinge of morning light peeked through breaks in canopy foliage, Richard awoke to a new day and to freedom.

  He glanced around at the plains. Caer Llion was long behind them now, the orange glow of the army’s campfires outside its walls a memory. No one was about; the stars were giving way to day. The Kreche still carried him and Bran, the halfbreed a machine, unstoppable, despite the dozens of arrows sticking from his body like a porcupine. After about an hour he took them across a wide river and into a part of the land that gently sloped upward where rounded mounds slowly gave rise to trees that thickened into a forest, blotting out the sky.

  Richard perked up to get a better view. A hellyll wearing the armor of the Long Hand stood poised with a spear pointed directly at the Kreche.

  “I have come with the two knights,” the Kreche rumbled.

  The guard lowered his weapon. “Follow me.”

  The Kreche lowered Bran to the ground. The boy stretched the kinks out of his muscles while looking at his absent hand. Richard remained in the cradling arms of the Kreche, not sure what to say to Bran about his amputation. He had warned Bran about Merle and about coming to Annwn. In his heart, though, Richard felt pain for him. Bran had learned his lesson the hardest of ways and had paid the gravest of costs.

  With the Kreche unwilling to put Richard down and Snedeker hovering nearby like a nurse of some sort, the hellyll guard brought them through a screen of trees into an open forest encompassing thousands of warriors, each fully armed and armored for war, each watching the Kreche with a mixture of open curiosity and fear. Upon first glance Richard thought they were all hellyll, but as they made their way through the throng he realized they were dozens of fey—merrow, sprites, clurichauns, leprechauns, wood nymphs, fairies, minotaurs, bugganes, coblynau, and many more.

  The Queen of the Tuatha de Dannan had called for war.

  And that call had been answered.

  As the Kreche carried Richard deeper into the forest, a pointed sweeping tent grew out of the land, its height almost as tall as the trees around it. The pavilion was a huge construction of thick silk and ornate planning, shimmering beneath the lightening sky and blending in with the green foliage and brown bark. Fey came and went from
it, the center of command.

  Guards waited stoically at the wide entrance.

  They nodded access to the Kreche.

  When Richard, Bran, Snedeker, and the Kreche entered, dozens of eyes shifted toward them. Orbs hung high within the interior of the tent, casting warm white light over the gathered Lords of the Seelie Court. The Morrigan stood before a map displayed on a broad oak table, the leader of the Tuatha de Dannan wearing sleek black armor, her eyes hard. Horsemaster Aife and Lord n’Hagr stood near her, listening to what she said. To the side Lord Eigion spoke to two other merrow and the stocky coblynau Lord Faric, grandson of Lord Fafnir of Caer Glain. Lord Finnbhennach and four very tall minotaurs discussed their armor with Mastersmith Govannon, who examined the steel and straps with diligence. Kegan looked up from a plush divan where he whittled a piece of wood into the shape of a Rhedewyr and honest happiness covered his features at seeing them. Deirdre and her father, Lord Gerallt, were also present, standing apart.

  Out of all those who had been present at the Seelie Court meeting, only Lord Caswallawn was absent, unable to keep up with the Kreche while fleeing Caer Llion.

  “You found them,” the Queen said, nodding her approval.

  When the monstrosity put Richard down upon the soft rugs, the Morrigan called for Belenus immediately. The ancient healer appeared from the depths of the tent and rushed to his side, the wizened old man’s eyes soulful and worried. He immediately began to probe for injuries.

  “Stay your place, healer. I have a broken arm,” Richard said. “Bran. The bag.”

  “You need aid,” the Morrigan asserted.

  Bran unslung the leather sack he had taken. He gave it to Richard who uncorked it and drank from its contents.

  The change was instantaneous. Richard felt vitality flow into him. The broken arm, at an odd angle and purpled down its length, straightened itself, the bruising vanishing as the bones grew back together on their own. The smaller wounds, bruises, and the weariness on Richard melted like ice under the sun. After seconds, no injuries or scars marred him.

  Those around him stared in awe, and whispers filled the tent.