ALSO BY
SHAWN SPEAKMAN
The Annwn Cycle
The Dark Thorn
The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn
The Everwinter Wraith*
The Splintered King*
Anthologies
Unfettered
Unbound*
Unfettered II*
* Forthcoming
The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Shawn Speakman
All rights reserved.
Book design by Shawn Speakman
Cover art by Todd Lockwood
For Todd Speakman,
Who shares the same magic his brother possesses
Introduction
Short stories. They possess magic.
Before I even finished writing The Dark Thorn, I had several additional stories I wanted to write that were not long enough for the novel format. I had no idea when I would have time to write them. Before I even finished editing my debut novel, I had begun writing its sequel, The Everwinter Wraith. That would take precedence.
Then two editors invited me to contribute short stories to their respective anthologies. I couldn't very well say no. These were the type of opportunies that would let me expand the mythos I had created in The Dark Thorn.
But what if the stories I wrote were preludes to my next novel? What if I could weave foreshadowing elements into four stories that wouldn't be obvious to readers until they finally read my sequel?
The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn is the result. It contains four novelettes—The Twilight Dragon, The Unfettered Knight, The Arch Druid's Grimoires, and The White Rose Thief—all of which prelude my next novel. And as a bonus, I have included the first three chapters from that novel, The Everwinter Wraith!
I truly enjoyed writing these stories of magic.
I hope you enjoy reading them!
—Shawn Speakman
The Twilight Dragon
Introduction
There are times when a book surprises its writer—and times when readers surprise you.
When I was writing The Dark Thorn, there were several twist and turns that I did not originally envision. One of them dealt with the Cardinal Seer, Donato Javier Ramirez. He is an old man, frail, but he has one of the most important responsibilities in the Catholic Church—watch the fey land of Annwn from afar and warn if it threatens our world. He does this to the best of his ability, a blind man with great power at his disposal, bearing his burden with resolve and grace.
While Knight of the Yn Saith Richard McAllister is the driving character in The Dark Thorn and readers have asked for the continuation of his tale, there have been several readers who have requested more stories about the Cardinal Seer.
It was an easy decision to write The Twilight Dragon. Even I wanted to know more about Donato Javier Ramirez. The answers I desired though had to tie into The Dark Thorn and its forthcoming sequel, The Everwinter Wraith. That meant dragons. And Elves. It meant a time period long ago when the Cardinal Seer was much younger, only a bishop and still possessing his sight. And it meant a hard lesson in honor.
The Twilight Dragon is a story that takes place sixty years in the past but will become all too important in the present Annwn Cycle novels. I hope you enjoy it.
The Twilight Dragon
Bishop Donato Javier Ramirez stepped from the new ’52 Silver Wraith onto a frozen layer of snow, the ruination of Glastonbury Abbey staring at him like a dead skull.
It took his failing eyes a few moments to gaze back.
The leaden sky spat periodic snow but Donato ignored it as he buttoned up his heavy winter long coat, his breath a cloud on the air before him. Two Swiss Guards joined his side from the glossy black car while four more emerged from the trailing automobile, their traditional yellow-and-purple uniforms replaced by fur-lined gray coats that concealed pistols and swords even as they warded off the winter. No one else was about. As per his instructions, the grounds had been cleared of visitors two days earlier and remained closed.
Looking out over the snow-covered remains of what once had been one of the most powerful monasteries in the British Isles, Donato steeled himself for what was to come.
Rome suddenly felt very far away.
Tym Catherwood, the Vatican scribe accompanying Donato on the journey, joined him, the lad’s chiseled cheekbones as pale as milk.
“Nice to return home, Scribe?”
Tym pulled his coat close, its hood covering his long auburn hair. “It is a chilly welcome, Your Lordship.”
“My Spanish bones feel the same,” Donato said, waylaying a shiver. “I suppose it is a godsend though. Without this inclement weather, I doubt our discovery would have been kept a secret as long as it has.”
“Indeed. From ancient records I have seen, snow is fairly rare in lower England,” Tym said, wiping his freckled nose. “Of course, I could have told you that, having grown up here, Your Lordship.”
“It is dreary.”
“It is England, Your Lordship.”
Donato suppressed a smile. “I am pleased His Holiness asked that yeh accompany me, Tym Catherwood. The past has entered the present and become relevant once more. The focus of your Celtic studies makes yeh uniquely qualified for our charge.”
“The history of the Isles is a proud one,” Tym said, shrugging. “From kings and queens to wars and religion to invasion and occupiers. It is fascinating.”
“It will come quite in handy today, I think.”
“Sir, will you return to your diocese… once you have met the beast?”
Donato nodded despite his uncertainty. With the others in tow, he walked across the parking lot toward the ruins. In truth he didn’t know where his path would lead next. The bishop had been away from Spain for three weeks, his duty carrying him to Rome for meetings with the College of Bishops. But a night before returning Pope Pius XII requested a clandestine audience with him in the private Papal Suite of St. Peter’s Basilica. Once the bishop had been given his orders and having had his many questions answered, Donato left for England with all haste.
He still could not believe his errand. If it had not come from his pontiff, he would have questioned its validity—as well as his own sanity.
“I understand that yeh sent word to your family?”
Tym looked a bit nervously at Donato. “I hope to see them while here, if briefly.”
“The Lord has a way of bringing family together under the oddest of circumstances,” the bishop said. “Yeh sent yer missive once we crossed the Channel?”
“The moment we landed.”
“I hope yeh made no mention of why we are here.”
“Of course not, Your Lordship.”
“Smart lad.”
Tym said nothing. Donato increased his pace across the trampled snow of the crocus-lined path toward Glastonbury Church. He had spent his journey studying the history of the abbey, the first traditional Christian church in England. Legend recounted its foundation by Joseph of Arimathea as he brought the Grail from the Holy Land to the Isles. From Pope Pius, Donato knew legend to be truth. For centuries the monastery grew in prestige and power—even publicizing that King Arthur and his wife were buried on the grounds—until King Henry VIII ordered the Dissolution
of Monasteries in 1539.
After four centuries of ransacking and degradation, the Church of England now preserved the ruins. Donato shook his head, thinking. It was a history connected to a secret so vast it was only known by a few in the Church, an ancient wizard, his portal knights, the Heliwr, and those who still remained in Annwn.
Did that past draw the beast?
Or was it coincidence?
A priest rushed from St. Patrick’s Chapel then, his feet uncertain on the ice, his desire to please flushing his cheeks and his eyes fixed on Donato. He was not alone. Beside him, striding with crisp steps, came a tall man with Scandinavian features, his broad shoulders dwarfing those of his companion.
“Welcome to Glastonbury Abbey, Bishop Ramirez,” the thin priest said, out of breath and bowing before Donato to kiss his ring. “I am Abbot Jonathan Whyting of the Bath and Wells Diocesan Trust. Long has my family cared for these grounds. With the Lord as witness, I am honored to meet you.”
“Thank yeh, kind abbot,” Donato said, annoyed by the pomp.
“This is a momentous day, Your Lordship.”
Donato glanced around. “How many of yer men know the reason for my visit, Abbot?”
“A handful, sir. Utmost secrecy has been kept, at your request.”
“Good.” The bishop turned to the blonde man. “Is the area secure, Captain?”
“The best I can make it, Your Lordship,” Captain of the Swiss Guard Nicolas Rohr said, eyeing Tym with suspicion. “My men
surround the perimeter of all 36 acres. No one will intrude upon the Abbey.” He paused. “It is fully chained and no one has approached it since it awoke a few hours ago.”
“It slumbered when yeh drugged it, yes?”
“For three nights it retired here, unmolested,” Captain Rohr said. “The last night, I used a powerful elephant sedative and trapped it.”
“Yeh have done yer job well, Captain,” Donato commended. “Ensure yer soldiers hold their posts until I notify yeh. This should not take long. Did the surgery go as planned?”
Distaste came over the Captain’s face but it vanished quickly. “It did. I performed it myself, being the most… capable.”
“I hope it went well. If not, we will die quickly.”
“The ignition gland was where the Vatican book recounted it to be,” Captain Rohr assured. “You will be safe.”
Donato nodded, hoping the captain was right. One poorly made step would mean their ruin. The Swiss Guards had secured the grounds at his command; Captain Rohr and his soldiers defended him with their lives. Tym Catherwood offered his expertise.
Donato quelled his fear. He hoped he had done enough.
The abbot fumbled for words at his sleeve. “Is it true, Your Lordship?”
“Is what true?”
“That Annwn sent the beast for our destruction?”
Donato nearly struck the abbot. The idea was preposterous. Loose tongues and roguish rumors could wound the Church as surely as the truth.
“I suggest yeh leave such nonsense to me, Abbot Whyting,” he chastised.
The abbot wilted and went silent.
“Take me to him now, Abbot.”
“Yes, Your Lordship.”
Donato and his retinue followed the abbot as he shuffled over the snow toward the Great Church. Despite his failing eyesight, the bishop looked for the Glastonbury Thorn. It didn’t take him long to find it. The hawthorn tree stood just to the east, its leaves dark green and its white blooms bright against the gray sky. Donato felt a deep, sudden awe. Almost two thousand years earlier, Joseph had jammed the staff given him by God into this very ground and from it sprouted the Holy Thorn. The faithful visited an offspring from that miracle tree year round, drawn by its prestige, paying homage to its origin, and praying for God’s entrance into their lives.
Donato knew the Holy Thorn to be much more than that. The Heliwr carried a staff from its branches, Joseph’s power now commanded by the Unfettered Knight, to keep the fey world of Annwn separate from this one.
The bishop kept his mind on the present.
He would pay his respects to the tree once he had finished his interrogation.
Having passed the Lady Chapel, the group entered what once had been the nave of the Great Church, winter intruding on the sacred ground by way of the long-vanished roof. What remained was beautiful even in its decayed state. Tall fractured walls gave evidence to the former Gothic scale of the abbey, their lancet arches carved with eroded scrollwork and the colored glass long since vanished. Remnants of stone now littered the area, history and design brought low. Donato took it all in. It was a peaceful setting where once, many centuries earlier, a bustling community of worship had existed.
When he stepped through the transept crossing into what had been the High Altar and Choir though, Donato was not prepared for the sheer grandeur of what he saw.
Not at all.
The dragon lay in the middle of the cloistered area, the bulk of its body barely contained by the shattered walls around it. It was old, scales lacking the beautiful luster reported in the secret Vatican archives, its claws yellowed and worn. Ancient scars covered its gray-blue hide and plated armor gave rise along the ridge of its back like a serrated knife, ending at the end of its powerful tail. Each slow breath of the beast vibrated the air.
Even in the chill of the winter, Donato smelled the pungent and wild odor of Annwn emanating from fey myth made real.
Hundreds of chains criss-crossed the dragon’s back, its limbs and wings shackled by links of steel.
“Priest,” the beast growled low, his azure eyes stabbing Donato at the bishop’s approach. “I have no wish to speak to thee. Leave me to misery or be done with it.”
The surreal nature of the beast almost paralyzing, Donato took a deep breath. “I come in peace and with sincerity, Great Dragon.”
Eyes baleful, the fey creature looked past the bishop. Tym stood nearby, glancing about nervously as if expecting something else magical to appear. Abbot Whyting remained at the entrance of the High Altar. The Swiss Guards huddled near Donato and their captain, hands on rifles and swords, dread furrowed deep in their faces.
If Donato could smell the fear on the air, the dragon could too.
The beast did not show it. Instead he gazed at his captors, finally settling on Tym and Nicolas Rohr.
“Thou art in odd company, priest.”
“I am a Bishop of the Catholic Church,” Donato said, the chill of the afternoon replaced by the heat of adrenaline. “It is customary to travel with a protective retinue.”
The dragon grunted. “Indeed.”
“I am here to—”
“Bishop of the Catholic Church, I am not interested.”
“Dragon, there is no reason to not be civil.”
“Civility has never been a strong calling of thy kind.”
“I agree that humanity has much to learn,” Donato said, trying to keep his fear from his voice. “I do not blame yeh for your mistrust. I am not, however, here to harm yeh or add to the transgressions yeh have witnessed in Annwn.”
The dragon’s eyes penetrated those of Donato, bright blue into milky brown. Long moments passed, but the fey visitor said nothing in return.
“I know names among yer kind hold power,” Donato said, trying a different angle while withstanding the discerning gaze. “May we share our names as friends, to meet in good faith?”
“Thou art at least educated in the ways of dragonkind,” the beast rumbled. “Still, held captive as I am, I cannot distinguish the good faith of which thou speaks.”
Donato sighed quietly. The dragon had a point.
“It is regrettable,” the bishop said. “Yeh will be freed at the end of our conversation if yeh speak truly.” He paused. “I am Bishop Donato Javier Ramirez.”
The dragon said nothing, thinking. Donato waited.
Snow continued to silently fall over long moments.
“I am named Anrhydedd, sire of Rhelynn, Sorhyrr, and Anrhell,
” the dragon said finally, inclining its massive head as far as it could in greeting.
“It means ‘honor’ in Welsh,” Tym whispered from nearby.
“Donato Javier Ramirez, thou art a man of importance,” the dragon continued. “Despite thy youth, there is to be a heavy burden placed upon thee, of that I see quite clearly.”
“I will become the Cardinal Seer one day, yes,” Donato said. “My eyesight will fail until I am soon blind. I will become responsible for watching your home from afar.”
“Annwn is not my home,” the dragon rumbled. He flicked his eyes to Captain Rohr. “Thou art he who captured me.”
“I am,” the Swiss Captain replied, standing firm.
“There is magic about thee, like a mist. I can sense it.”
“Captain Rohr carries Prydwen, the once Shield of King Arthur,” Donato answered for the guard.
“The Forever King,” Anrhydedd growled lowly.
“How do yeh know of King Ar—”
Before Donato could finish, the dragon strained forward, the chains barely holding, and roared at Nicolas Rohr with unleashed vehemence. Donato fell back out of instinct. Gunfire erupted from the guards. Chaos ensued as all present dove for cover from what the dragon intended. Instead of the flame the bishop half expected, a thick plume of noxious gases hit the air only to quickly evaporate and disappear.
“Hold yer fire!” Donato screamed.
“What has thou done to me?” Anrhydedd croaked, angry bewilderment falling over his alien features. “Friends do not cripple one another!”
Pleased he was not a charred bishop, Donato regained his faculties and stood resolute. “Friends do not try to kill one another either. Yeh must hate Arthur a great deal for slaying those of yer kind that were unruly in Britain all of those centuries ago?”
The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn: Preludes to The Everwinter Wraith (The Annwn Cycle) Page 1