Eyes filled with hate, the dragon did not respond.
“What drove yeh to return here, to England?” Donato asked. “Come to kill innocents?”
“My intent here is not death, but life.”
Donato frowned. “What do yeh mean?”
Anrhydedd said nothing.
“I could not very well have a discussion with yeh if with a thought yeh could kill me,” the bishop pressed, worried he had already lost any chance at gaining the trust he needed to fulfill his mission. “Beyond removing a tiny gland in the back of yer throat, yeh are unmolested. I am not here to cause yeh further harm.”
The dragon cracked a laugh. “Your Church has ever hated my kind—and all fey. Do not think ill of me if I claim utmost incredulity at that avowal especially given what has been done to me already.”
“I may be part of the Church, but I am not the Church, if yeh understand.”
The dragon seemed to think it over. Long moments passed. The bishop and the creature stared hard at one another, neither budging.
“My brothers and sisters die,” Anrhydedd said at last.
“They die?”
“Our numbers dwindle by the decade,” the dragon said with shining, melancholy eyes. “Even as the Great Usurper Philip Plantagenet and his knights bearing the red cross slay the weakest of my kind, few are birthed to replace them. Dragonkind has been reduced to dozens when once thousands entered Annwn.”
“And yeh returned here to… do what exactly?”
“There are places of power still hidden from the men in this world, secret knowledge held by those who would keep it safe,” Anrhydedd replied. “As the oldest among my kind and unable to mate any longer, I sought them out to discover a means of preserving my brethren and ensure our survival.”
“Did yeh fulfill yer quest?”
“The knowledge I discovered will save my kind, yes.”
“You met with the Elves then,” Tym interrupted.
The dragon peered at the young scholar and after several moments nodded. Donato withheld a curse. This was going to be more complicated than he realized. If the dragon had met with the Elves and received the information it needed, it would make what was to come all the more difficult.
“That does not please thee, Donato Javier Ramirez,” Anrhydedd said darkly.
“Let us get to it,” Donato said, standing with as much authority he could muster. “The Heliwr is undoubtedly on his way to end yer life. He is persistent in his duties. When he arrives any hope yeh have of freedom will disappear. The Church will not be able to stop him. He will kill yeh to end any evidence of yer existence. And ultimately the knowledge yeh acquired to save yer kind will die with yeh, useless to those in Annwn.”
“An offer thou brings then?”
“I do. Directly from Pope Pius XII,” Donato replied. “In exchange for information of a sensitive nature, I will escort yeh with these Swiss Guards to the Betws-y-Coed gateway where yeh may return to Annwn, free to revive yer brethren.”
“In exchange for what, priest?”
Donato took a steadying breath.
“From records the Church possesses, we know the Elves and sylvans returned from Annwn in the sixth century, a part of the Seelie Court that regretted retreating from this world. Since that time the world has begun to shrink and so too the places the Elves may hide. The Church has no wish for them to dwindle as dragonkind apparently has. Rather we would see the Elves sent back to Annwn. They will die here; in Annwn they will be safe. Once Rome discovered yeh had fought past the portal knight to reenter Britain, the Pope hoped yeh would share what yeh know about the Elves and the forests they once occupied.”
“The Elves are a sacred people, one of the oldest of the Tuatha de Dannan,” Tym added, looking more at Donato than the dragon. “They would not be easily destroyed by the Church.”
“Both of thee must think me foolish,” Anrhydedd snarled.
“I do not know what yeh mean,” Donato said.
“I have seen what thou hast done to these Misty Isles, my hatching home,” the dragon said, looking beyond Donato as if seeing the entire world. “Do not forget, I am old, older than many of the long-lived in Annwn. I flew these skies centuries ago. It sickens my heart to witness the travesty of what my birthplace has become. Stone structures and fields replace once proud forests. Iron machines pollute the air. Scars from some great war pock the land, testament to thy kind’s hatred of one another. With the short life spans humans carry, thou art more blind than you soon will be, Donato Javier Ramirez.”
Donato grew angry. “I do not think yeh apprecia—”
“And now the audacity to ask this of me,” the dragon growled. “To kill more of my kinfolk, no matter if they are Elves, no matter how far removed they may be. To ruin the world further. To adopt the very worst quality thou possesses—selfishness. For my freedom.”
“And the survival of yer kindred,” Donato pointed out. He knew his chance was slipping away. “It is a choice only yeh can make. I wish it were otherwise.”
Anrhydedd looked into the sky, lost in thought. Donato could not decipher what choice would come. He did not feel confident. The conversation with Anrhydedd had not gone as the bishop had hoped. But he also knew nothing he could say now would change the outcome.
The dragon exhaled sharply, sending the snow swirling.
“The Elves will never let thou discover them.”
“Perhaps,” Donato said, nodding. “Still, they deserve the chance to relocate back to a world closer to that of ancient Britain. Yeh could save them.”
“Thou believes the Elven nation cannot adapt?”
“Is that a risk they should take?”
“If their forest home became discovered, it is apparent thou would not recognize an Elf even if he walked beside thee.”
“What do you mean?”
The old beast chuckled, exposing dagger-like teeth, but said nothing more.
“What is yer answer to be then, Anrhydedd?”
“I choose no,” the dragon replied darkly, looking straight at Tym. “I will not make a choice that will lead to the death of the Elves and sylvans. Honor forbids it. May my Lord Latobius forgive me.”
Donato nearly stopped breathing, stunned. “I do not think yeh understand, Anrhydedd. If yeh choose to not help, yer kin dies.”
“I know full well the implications, Donato Javier Ramirez.”
“How can that be?!”
“There are things more important, priest, than doing what is best for oneself,” Anrhydedd replied, his sorrow palpable. “There is a balance in the world thy kind will never understand. If I told thee where the Elves live, I would destroy one race for another. I will not do that. Not when there is still hope for my people.”
“The Church has no interest in killing the Elves!”
“That may be,” the beast said. “I will not take that risk.”
“Then yeh have chosen death by the Heliwr.”
The dragon looked from Donato to Tym to where Abbot Whyting stood at the entrance. “My death comes already,” Anrhydedd said softly.
“What do yeh mea—”
Before the bishop could finish his question, Abbot Whyting began screaming. Donato spun.
Horror written on his face, the abbot pointed frantically back the way they had come as he stumbled toward Donato—until an arrow silenced him with stunning force through the neck.
Screams of pain, terror, and guard gunfire erupted from beyond the walls of the Great Church. Captain Rohr leapt over the dead abbot giving him no thought, pulling two pistols from the folds of his coat as he tried to get a better view of what was happening. Tym drew closer to Donato. Hunkering against the wall, the bishop fought panic. The firing of guns echoed in the wintry stillness, each report driving new fear, the odor of spent gunpowder becoming thick amidst the snowfall.
“Stay down, Bishop Ramirez!” Captain Rohr ordered from the entrance of the transept crossing, pistols held at the ready.
“What
is going on?!” Donato roared.
Before the captain could answer, several arrows sprouted from his chest in quick unison. He did not collapse. Instead he sneered hatred and unleashed his pistols at targets Donato could not see. When his magazines were empty, he pulled the arrows free with a ferocious grimace and continued to shout orders to his men, trying to keep them focused on their assailants.
Outside of the ruins, shadowy figures dashed low across the snow.
“Captain!?”
“Elves!” Captain Rohr shouted.
Chaos further consumed the abbey grounds. Donato held Tym down. Elves! The word crystallized into understanding. They had somehow discovered the dragon and were attempting to protect their existence from the Church by killing Donato and his retinue.
All too quickly, the gunfire disappeared entirely.
“My guards are overrun!” Nicolas Rohr yelled, dropping his empty pistols and pulling free his longsword.
Dread shot through Donato. They would not be able to escape the lithe fey. Completely helpless, he watched as out in the nave six Elves strode toward them, swords bloodied or arrows nocked in ash bows. Each was dressed like any other Glastonbury man or woman, blending in when they were anything but normal. Most had long auburn hair, pulled back away from fair, chiseled faces. Donato would have thought them men, if not for the seething hatred in their eyes and the weaponry they carried.
Between him and death stood the Swiss Captain of the Vatican.
The Elves charged.
Nicolas Rohr jumped into their midst to defend the wide transept crossing with only his sword and skill. It didn’t take long for him to use either. Arrows flew at him, burying deep as they struck, but the captain ignored them again, the invulnerability of Prydwen saving him from harm. The Elves swarmed the entrance, howling like enraged wolves, but Nicolas Rohr returned their hatred with war. He sliced the first elf from hip to shoulder, his innards spilling free even as the blur of lethal steel caught a second elf’s neck, almost decapitating him.
Hot crimson erupted everywhere.
The other Elves took advantage of the time it took to dispatch their brethren. They infiltrated the captain’s defenses, two of the fey subduing the strong man as the third ran him through with a curved blade. Nicolas Rohr howled pain but it only seemed to enrage him further. He broke free and, with a snarl, drove his own blade through his enemy’s heart. Kicking the dead body away, he rammed the hilt of his own sword into the jaw of the closest elf. Teeth and blood exploded free as the elf’s shattered skull ended his life.
Then the snow stealing their footing, Nicolas Rohr and his last adversary went down in a tangled heap.
Donato barely had time to register the grisly scene or worry about the captain. The final elf, who had not entered the fight, charged through the clear transept crossing, a knife drawn to kill the weaponless bishop and his young companion.
Aware of the danger, Tym ripped away from Donato and escaped toward the dangerous dragon.
“No, Scribe! Don’t!”
The elf pulled a different knife with wicked-looking serrations and with cold calculation threw it at Tym.
It missed the scribe by a narrow margin, to land in the snow near the dragon.
That was the last Donato saw. The elf charged. The bishop was young and strong but inexperienced as a fighter at any level and, worse, he knew it. Donato retreated in a panic, his eyes never leaving his agile foe, hoping for a miracle. It didn’t come. The elf slammed into the bishop, his alien eyes filled with wrath, his blade falling for the kill. Donato reacted on instinct. He went down, rolling with the other’s momentum, fixated on the knife and its path. Before it met him, he gripped the elf’s wrists in iron clamps, stopping the death stroke even as he jarringly hit the ground.
The breath in his lungs exploded into the chilly air. Almost before he could register it, the elf was on top of him, pinning him to the snow, trying to overcome the bishop’s meager strength through brute force. Time slowed. Donato was suddenly aware of every minutia. Each snowflake as it melted and died. The lavender-green irises of his attacker’s eyes. The sweet smell of wild nature. The gaze of Anrhydedd as the dragon watched the confrontation. The prickles of sweat beneath his own clothing. The grip that weakened on his attacker’s wrists with every breath. The bishop spent every ounce of who he was trying to keep the dagger from his neck, grimacing. He knew his strength would not last. He understood he was doomed. The elf would drive the blade into Donato and end his life.
After what felt an agonizing eternity, the tip of the knife mere inches from penetrating, darkness edged out his vision, threatening oblivion.
It would be over soon.
He had failed his Pope and his Church. He closed his eyes and waited on the inevitable.
Then the weight on top of him vanished with a harsh grunt.
Breathing hard, Donato looked up. Free from his last foe, Nicolas Rohr stood tall over the bishop, the elf kicked a yard away. The assassin hissed curses in a language Donato had never before heard, but the Vatican protector ignored it and attacked anyway. The elf attempted to flee but it did not matter. The captain knocked him back down with a ferocity Donato had never seen, fell on him with swift, highly trained purpose, brought his sword up, and drove its blade through the chest of the fey into the frozen ground beneath.
After less than a few minutes, the six elves were dead, steaming ruin into the winter.
Captain Rohr pulled his sword free, breathing hard, and probed the bloody holes in his clothing.
No wounds existed where wounds should have been.
“Sometimes I hate this job, Your Lordship,” he growled, offering his hand.
Donato took it and got to his feet. He calmed his nerves, disbelieving how quickly the fight was over and how close he had come to dying. The carnage was absolute. Blood stained the snow, and bodies littered the sanctity of the Great Church—bodies of the fey. If not for Nicolas Rohr and his Shield of Arthur, Donato would be dead like Abbot Whyting a few yards away.
He didn’t even want to think about the dead Swiss Guards out on the abbey grounds.
Donato still couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“Yeh did yer duty, Captain,” he responded simply.
“What happened to the beast?”
Panic seizing him anew, Donato whirled about.
Anrhydedd laid still, peacefully so, head lowered to the slushy snow and eyes closed as if in slumber. The great bellows of his lungs, however, did not move.
The dragon was dead. Donato barely breathed. “Where is the Scribe?” he asked, muddled by adrenaline. “Tym!”
There was no answer.
Donato stumbled forward, barely keeping his feet, a weary, tired void replacing the fire of battle. The lad could not have gone far.
It didn’t take him long to find the boy.
Where the chained tail of the dragon met its body, Tym Catherwood lay unmoving, sprawled on his back in the snow. Donato hurried and slid to his side, Captain Rohr a pace behind. The scholar was alive, if barely, his breathing shallow, his lips tinged dark blue. Small purple veins crept across the pale skin of his face like rabid ivy, slowly throbbing with the beat of his heart. Unsure of what was happening to the Vatican scribe, Donato gripped his hand and noticed it had been slashed across the palm where it still freely bled.
In his other hand, Tym held the blade that the Elf had thrown.
“You are… a good man, Bishop,” he gasped, fighting for breath. “Not… like… others…”
“What is happening to yeh, son?” Donato whispered.
“My life… for my people…”
Suddenly understanding, the bishop nodded.
“Not at war… with… you…”
Unable to help, Donato watched the scribe take a last struggling breath, his eyes rolling wildly in his head as his body contracted into an agonized arch. The bishop felt helpless. Slowly the lad settled back to the snow one last time, finally growing still like the dragon, his
breath—and life—no more.
“He has passed unto the Lord,” Donato said. “Or whatever deity he prayed to.”
“What do you mean other deity?” Nicolas Rohr asked.
Donato closed the scholar’s eyelids and then pushed the auburn hair above his left ear aside to see what he already knew.
The ear was pointed.
“He is Elven,” Captain Rohr hissed.
“Indeed.”
“He was a traitor!”
Donato glanced around at the dead bodies. “To whom? Those he cared about?”
Captain Rohr did not reply. Donato took the knife. The handle was a simple white wood but the blade was sleek and curved—one side notched, the other smooth and deadly sharp. Runes unlike any Donato had seen swirled along its length while the metal shimmered with a venomous green hue.
The blade tingled in his hand, a whisper of dark power.
“A poisoned blade?” the Captain asked.
“A magical one,” Donato surmised, standing once more to look at the dragon, sorrow at the loss mingling with anger at his failure. “Either way, Captain, the damage has been done. Look here.”
Purple veins spread from a freshly delivered wound across the hind leg of the great beast. Tym Catherwood had killed Anrhydedd with the blade before taking his own life.
“The dragon should have saved his people,” Nicolas Rohr said.
“He did,” Donato said, still kneeling and already feeling his limbs stiffening from the fight for his life. “They both did. They felt like they could not betray the very spirit of their races. Robbing Peter to pay Paul has ever been folly. They both knew it.”
Captain Rohr frowned but said nothing more.
“Drag the bodies and lump them with the carcass of the dragon,” Donato ordered as he stood, the snowfall already covering the dead. “We will wait for the Heliwr to dispose of them and any other evidence with the Dark Thorn.”
“What of Abbot Whyting and those who know him?” Captain Rohr asked. “The families of my Swiss Guards will understand their loss. It is a part of the role. The abbot, however, has a family and friends who undoubtedly will question his death.”
The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn: Preludes to The Everwinter Wraith (The Annwn Cycle) Page 2