“Up, Rick!” Deirdre screamed, pulling him from behind.
Stumbling backward, Richard watched the demon wolves break upon his saviors like a tidal wave.
He sent fire at the creatures, a scream of warning frozen within.
It was too late.
Lord Gerallt and many of his warriors disappeared beneath the sharp teeth and rending claws of the coming onslaught. Without magic to aid their limited number, they didn’t stand a chance. The wall swarmed with more bodies than Richard had seen before, black twisted things compacted into a tight space, their inhuman growls and ravening nearly drowning out the dying screams of Lord Gerallt and the rest of his men.
“Father!” Deirdre howled.
As the bear halfbreed shambled over the spot where the lord had once stood, Richard hauled Deirdre back with all his might but was unable, the woman enraged beyond control.
“He’s gone!” he roared.
“No!” she screamed.
“Fall back!”
Richard brought the Dark Thorn up and willed fire passed the Rhedewyr into the bear above them. The beast roared but the fire barely had any effect. Snedeker screamed at the redhead, to flee, to find protection. It would be too late. The blackened noose tightened about Richard, Deirdre, and those warriors of her father’s retinue who remained.
If they did not fall back, Richard knew they would join Lord Gerallt in death.
He would not fail—or at least die trying.
Then a familiar sound shattered the din of the battle.
The front ranks of the charging demon wolves dissolved into bloody mess, skulls blown apart, gaping holes appearing as if by magic. Unnatural limbs broke, splintered from bodies or bent back. The bear also stumbled, its matted fir parted in hundreds of small places, black blood spattering free. Snarls changed to howls of pain. The line of evil disintegrated, the initial threat destroyed, giving Richard room to help Deirdre and the others.
“McAllister! To me! To me!”
The Dark Thorn raging magic, Richard spun around.
Finn Arne leapt over dead bodies, his assault rifle pointed beyond Richard at the toiling mass of midnight. The two dozen armed soldiers the captain had brought into Annwn spread out in formation, their firepower unleashed. The odor of used gunpowder mingled with the sour musk of the demon wolves. With the soldiers aiding their flight, Richard pulled Deirdre forcibly back to safety as Lyrian shadowed them.
The Vatican guards fired at any halfbreed that came too close. They pulled their triggers often, shielding their rear as they fled the battle.
Tears streaked down the redhead’s cheeks but her grip on Richard was steel. He held Deirdre up by his willpower and the Dark Thorn alone.
Somehow Finn Arne had found him.
“Where is Ardall?” the captain screamed over the clamor.
“No idea!”
“The portal is clear. We need to make for Rome.”
“The Queen’s army is scattering, being broken apart,” Deirdre said through her grief. “Now is not the time to venture away from this battlefie—”
“Of no consequence,” Finn Arne interrupted. “We must gather Ardall and return to the Vatican. It is the only important path at this time.”
“There won’t be a Vatican left if Philip’s army makes the portal,” Richard argued loudly.
“Why do the Templar Knights not die?”
“You see the leather bags on their backs?” Richard asked.
Finn Arne nodded.
“Water from the Holy Grail protects the Templar Knights, making them invincible,” Richard said. He looked quickly about. “If this army enters our world, it will march over the entire earth and enslave humanity. It must be stopped here! Whether they take this portal or another, it makes no difference. The only way to keep our world safe is fighting now.”
Then movement from the portal caught Richard’s eye.
Philip Plantagenet, joined by a dozen armed Templar Knights, returned to Annwn, undoubtedly to discover why the rest of the army had not entered Rome. It was terrible timing. With the Kreche in the middle of the melee, Philip was free to reorganize his army. He was already yelling furious orders at his lords and pointing wildly at various areas of the battlefield. Even as Richard watched, Philip’s army slowly congealed, regrouping, becoming an organized terror once more.
Soon the confusion that had been created by the surprise attack would be reversed.
When that happened, the Caer Llion army would reform.
And kill its much smaller foe.
“I must enter Rome,” Richard said.
“What do you mean?!” Deirdre yelled, her eyes wild. “We need you here!”
“Captain Arne,” Richard said. “Find Ardall. Keep the boy safe. He will help protect Annwn. You have to go after Philip! Now!”
“What will you do, McAllister?”
“Kill his second in command, kill the Templar Knights who have already gone through. Ennio Rossi will do his best on the other side, but it won’t be enough against the Grail-infused Templar Knights,” Richard shouted, gripping the shoulder of the Swiss Guard captain. “As Heliwr, I go after them to keep Rome and the secret of Annwn safe!”
“You should go after Philip!” Finn Arne roared.
“There is more here than I can tell you, Arne,” Richard continued, burning with conviction as he pointed out into the battle. “We don’t know what Philip and his second in command intend while in the Vatican! There are items to protect in St. Peter’s. I must keep them safe. And bring down the cavern in the catacombs if needs be!” He paused. “Trust me. Now go!”
Richard expected the captain to fight back. He did not. “We have limited rounds,” he said.
Fighting weariness, Richard mounted Lyrian.
“If that’s the case, pick up a sword!”
After giving Finn Arne a nod, Richard gave Deirdre a sad smile. She just looked at him, sorrow and anger mingling in her eyes.Before he said something he would regret, Richard kicked Lyrian into motion. With the fairy flying beside him, the Rhedewyr shot like a dart around the melee toward the portal and Rome. The battle spread out over the plains from his higher vantage point, dust polluting the scene and the hot, sticky air. The whole event sickened him. When Merle convinced the knight to enter Annwn, Richard had hoped he could prevent the very thing he now witnessed. He had failed at that. Now it engulfed him.
He hoped he could prevent it from spreading into Rome.
He would not fail again.
“Snedeker, I need you to watch over Bran,” Richard said.
The fairy frowned. “No, I will not leave your side.”
“You cannot go where I go!”
“I am to be your guide!” Snedeker said, flying, barely able to keep up as Richard pushed Lyrian to faster speed through the tumult. “Keep you safe!”
“Bran needs to be kept safe,” Richard offered, worried for the boy. “He needs you now. Protect him as best you can. I have faith in the Oakwells, faith in you. Even a portal knight needs a guide sometimes, right?”
“Where do you go then, McAllister?”
“Obey my command, Snedeker!” Richard roared. “Now!”
The fairy gave a quick nod before flying back into chaos.
As Richard battled his way through nightmare anew, hoping the fairy kept Bran safe, the shimmer of the portal and his revenge drew him on.
He would not be denied.
The white fire of the Dark Thorn raged like the sun.
As he broke from the maelstrom of battle and the sounds of the fighting and dying fell behind him, Richard turned away from it all, the staff clenched before him. He galloped Lyrian to the rocky base where the portal shone above. He dismounted and rushed up the trail, avoiding the bodies of Templar Knights killed by the Kreche. Philip had long since vanished into the host below, trying to regain control over it. Richard was alone and soon stood before the gateway. He turned from it and viewed the war of two very different nations as it ebbed and flowed ove
r the expansive plains.
Keeping the staff in hand and bringing its protective magic to the fore, Richard took a deep breath and entered the portal. He went in hunt of Arawn.
But what he last saw on the plains filled him with ice.
The defeat of the Tuatha de Dannan was at hand.
When Bran saw Philip Plantagenet reenter Annwn, he knew he could end the war if he was strong enough.
The new portal knight was severely battered. After the initial charge by the Morrigan, Bran had lost sight of Richard, Deirdre, and most of the members of the Seelie Court. It had not been easy to enter the rending tide of halfbreeds created for Caer Llion’s war, but before he had time to think on it, the wrath broke over him like a wave, reducing him to reaction. With Arondight a blur of azure metal and fire, Bran barely kept the death from himself, the euphoria from using the magic ebbing as he grew accustomed to it. Several times he almost lost his seat on Westryl, the battle on the plains threatening to end both their lives at every moment, but his perseverance saw him through.
As he rode away from the mayhem to catch his breath, Bran looked over the battle, not liking what he saw.
The plan Richard and the Tuatha de Dannan had conceived had worked—for minutes only. Without Philip in control, his army floundered beneath the surprise attack of the fey, causing leaderless pandemonium. It became clear to Bran it would not last. The Tuatha de Dannan were hopelessly outnumbered, and after the initial shock given by the stampeding Rhedewyr, they were losing. The Grail-infused Templar Knights coupled with thousands of halfbreeds were wearing the forces of the Morrigan down.
The lines of the fey were collapsing.
When they failed entirely, the final resistance would die.
Bran flexed his new hand. The blood-spattered gauntlet gleamed under the sun, the runes blazing. He could feel everything as if the steel had nerves, but the metal was cold.
He didn’t care. The Mastersmith had made him whole again.
A unified scream erupted from the battle, drawing his gaze. A second later, a fountain of magic blew into the sky as if a bomb had gone off, tossing fey and the dark twisted things into the air like matchsticks. Other magic permeated the battlefield from sprites, leprechauns, sylphs, and other lesser wielders, but it was insignificant compared to the concussion that shook the battlefield. Flaring colorful energy crackled in the air, forming a dome, angrily alive until it dissipated. When the magic and dust settled, a barren circular area existed, lacking all combatants but two.
The Cailleach and the Morrigan.
The two women faced one another several dozen feet apart, their magic like electricity about them. Both were grimy and ravaged. The robes of the Cailleach hung in tatters about her, revealing her wrinkled, emaciated frame. The Queen had taken a beating as well, her black armor dented and rent open in places. Circling one another like cats on the attack, limping and lacerated from multiple wounds, they ignored those who watched, their eyes cold with wild resiliency.
Hate radiated from both of them, a heat Bran could feel in his very innards.
“Ye cannot kill me, Queen of Nothing!” the Cailleach screeched.
“Even the summer falls to winter, witch!” the Morrigan challenged back. “By your death, you will release summer before the sun sets!”
“Or I will piss on yer dead royalty!”
The Queen said nothing, her fey sword glimmering a faded purple under the afternoon sun. Only stunned from the magical detonation for those brief moments, the rest of the battle continued around the two enemies, but at distance.
With words of power Bran could not understand, the Morrigan threw her sword savagely at the witch. It fell short, sticking blade-first into the grass at the witch’s feet. The Cailleach cackled again, ignoring the blade, bringing her hands up as wicked green fire gathered to attack anew.
The sword of the Morrigan erupted into a purple bonfire, engulfing the crone. She screamed, not from pain but in surprised anger, a nimbus of her own magic the only thing protecting her. Already moving, the Morrigan cut the distance between them. As the Cailleach tried to escape, the Queen leapt forward and, in one smooth somersaulting motion, pulled her sword free to slay the woman responsible for destroying the natural seasons of Annwn.
The hag regained her faculties in time. She wove her hands in the air until the spell she cast shook the land beneath Bran, a rumbling from deep in the earth. Just as the Morrigan raised her sword to strike down the Cailleach, a granite slab burst free from the grassy surface at the Queen’s feet, showering all in sharp boulders, pebbles, and dark soil.
The unearthed granite caught the Morrigan unaware. She catapulted backward, sword flying from her grasp and arms flailing. She hit the ground hard, her armor absorbing most of the damage, her left arm caught behind her as she struck.
The shattering of plate and arm echoed through the din.
Snarling her hatred, the Cailleach screamed into the world. Vines burst from the soil around the Morrigan, thick with thorns the size of daggers. They wrapped about the legs of the Queen, digging into the steel of her armor, holding her fast. She fought against them but it was of no use.
Having quenched the purple fire about her, the witch approached, a snide grin on her ancient face.
“And now,” the Cailleach said. “Finally.”
The Queen glared with cold disdain, still fighting her bonds.
“Finally,” the crone echoed.
Before Bran could vault Westryl into motion in an attempt to protect the Queen, the Morrigan grabbed the vines with both hands, closed her eyes, and began to hum, the sound overwhelming the chaos about her.
It was a melody of green things, a promise of protection and care. The vines reacted instantly. Tentacles from the same plant burst forth under the Cailleach with great force. The witch didn’t have time to react. She screamed, horrified, the realization of what was happening coming to her all too late. The vines did not stop with her legs but went immediately for her arms, pulling them back, keeping them as far apart as possible. The hag fought but her restraints were stronger. They drew her down toward the ground until she was pinned, pulled flat on her back. Unable to weave spells, the Cailleach snarled her wrath, spitting and fighting like a caged beast.
The vines holding the Queen melted back into the earth.
“The Tuatha de Dannan are friends of nature,” the Queen said, cradling her arm even as she stood over the witch. The Morrigan picked up her fey sword. “For too long you have been its tyrant. Pray you never join the wrong side again.”
The Morrigan raised her sword high.
And with one arm, rammed the blade through the chest of her enemy.
Ribs snapped like twigs as the sword plunged into the heart of the Cailleach and into the ground beneath her. No blood emerged. The hatred on her face was preserved but the anger in her eyes faded. She soon melted into the land, hair, skin, and bones becoming dust, leaving only the filthy rags of her robe gathered on the gritty grass.
A moan of discontent and confusion erupted from the halfbreeds. With the death of their mistress, they were no longer controlled. They lashed out at anything or anyone, maddened and unleashed. It did not end there. Darkness spread across the sky, not from the north as Bran and Richard had seen before, but from the western fringe of the plains, where the griffins were suddenly free.
“You should be fighting, Ardall!”
Bran glanced up. Snedeker flew above him, wings beating furiously.
“Still alive, I see,” Bran noted. “Where is Richard?”
“Gone through the portal, after that burned ass John Lewis Hugo!”
Bran stared at the portal. It made sense Richard would have gone into Rome. Philip had taken several hundred Templar Knights through to the other side. Even though the king had returned to Annwn, those warriors in Rome would not be sitting idly by waiting for the return of their master. Their mischief could not be ignored and John Lewis Hugo was a menace that needed to be dealt with as well.
Bran pushed Westryl into a gallop.
“Where are you going?” Snedeker asked, flying alongside Bran.
Bran let the magic of Arondight course through him.
“To end this war.”
But before he had made it halfway to Philip, Bran was spotted. Lord Gwawl appeared at his king’s side and, mounting his horse, drove at the charging knight. Seven of his warriors followed, each with weapons and defiance drawn. Bran raised Arondight high, screaming his challenge, the magic building inside of him like molten lava about to explode. For years he had yearned for a life of meaning, and the fire for it consumed him as he pounded across the torn plains.
Here was his chance to make all the meaning for two worlds.
Lord Gwawl roared as he bore down on Bran.
Just before the charging warriors met, a black behemoth came out of nowhere and tackled the fey lord off his horse.
Bran pulled Westryl up to stop, not believing his eyes.
It was the Kreche.
The force with which the halfbreed hit Gwawl killed him instantly. Both flew through the air until finally crashing to the rocky turf. The Kreche didn’t stop. He rained fists down onto Gwawl with such power the ground shook. The traitorous lord vanished beneath the assault, his upper body and head pummeled into the crimson-soaked sod.
While the Kreche looked for the next victim, grunting hard from exertion, his fists covered in gore, arrows flew through the air, striking several of the warriors who had been with Gwawl. Bran watched Aife ride into view, the centaur fluid and deadly. Two of the northland warriors dropped like sacks of grain. The others fled. Aife trotted to one of the warriors still struggling for breath through the holes in his chest. She notched her bow and unleashed the bolt into his neck.
He gurgled and stilled, his desire to get away forgotten in death.
The centaur nodded at Bran and rode away.
The Dark Thorn Page 44