“An even graver risk,” the Pope finished.
“It is my role to keep the two worlds separate. If something happens, it will be obvious to the world, more than likely.” Charles paused. “To be blunt, you should not be taking part in any of this.”
“I must accept that risk,” Urban said, ignoring the Heliwr’s warning. “It is my job to end creatures like this. I also cannot lose the spear. It is one of the foremost relics in my possession and under my protection.” When Charles did not immediately agree, the Pope stepped closer. “You will do this. I take full responsibility for the magic employed upon my person. It is a necessary evil and burden I must bear,” he whispered.
Charles said nothing, simply nodding. The proper spell came easily enough. He had bound elements many times during his tenure as Heliwr and it was not a difficult way to fulfill what the Pope requested. It still bothered him to enact magic on another person though. The warning Merle had given him remained.
Even so, it had been many years—since the beginning of his apprenticeship under Merle—that his own magical abilities had gone awry in some fashion.
But that did not mean it could not happen now.
“Are you right or left handed?” Charles asked.
“Right.”
“Hold the spear as you would when striking Lazarus.”
Pope Urban did so. Charles called upon his magic, the Dark Thorn bolstering him. He wove a spell from the ether, from ancient words, calling on the power of the world through his heels as well as the power connecting him to Annwn through his staff. It did not take long. The Pope’s right hand began to glow a warm blue where it held the shaft of the spear.
After he finished the spell, the glow disappeared.
“The staff cannot be taken from your fingers,” Charles said, the flush that came with enacting magic gone suddenly. “I can undo it once we are finished. The magic has bound the carbon atoms in the staff’s wooden shaft to the carbon of your hand. Test it. Try to release the Holy Lance.”
“I cannot let it go,” the pontiff said, all too pleased. He turned his back on the knight and strode back toward the others. “Time to end this evil’s life.”
Charles followed, still wary.
“Kneel, creature,” Pope Urban said, holding the Spear of Longinus before him for emphasis. “I bring the death you have asked for.”
Lazarus released Cesare Farina and knelt as asked.
“Slay me, Pope Urban the Fingerless,” Lazarus whispered.
The leader of the Catholic Church hesitated a moment before raising the Holy Lance to strike.
The warning that had been growing in Charles’s heart shrieked to sudden life.
“No! Wait!”
Before Charles could intercede, it was too late. As the spear began to fall toward the vampire, the weapon suddenly vanished.
As did Lazarus.
Charles and the others stood frozen, unsure what had just happened. Then the horrified howls of Pope Urban filled the courtyard with chilling clarity. Blood spurted into the night from a right hand suddenly maimed, lacking every digit, the Pope bent over in wild-eyed, pained terror.
“Charles, Lazarus flees!” Berrytrill yelled.
“Follow him!” the knight roared.
Berrytrill had already done so, vanishing almost as quickly as the vampire. Charles chased after, ignoring the pain-racked sobs of the Pope and surprised anger of his captain and guards. As his guide hunted for Lazarus, Berrytrill left a trail of fairy magic dust—an old trick of Heliwr guides centuries old—and Charles followed this, having already called on the spell that would allow him to do so.
It did not take long to pick up the path. The trail glowed on the air before him, for his eyes only.
And it led into the Vatican Library.
Back the way they had come.
Charles sprinted, the Dark Thorn still called. The Heliwr could not believe what had just happened. Knowing he could not help Urban, he followed the magic trail back into the Library. It did not deviate from their previous path. The magic Berrytrill employed showed Lazarus retracing his steps toward the Secret Archives—and likely back through the passageways beneath Vatican City the vampire had used to gain the archives in the first place.
Lazarus planned on returning to the portal.
The vampire might have had another destination in mind but that did not feel right. He had come from Annwn; Annwn is where he’d return.
Unable to take the time every few minutes to magically locate the creature, it was a risk Charles would have to take.
He broke from Berrytrill’s glowing trail and, rather than entering the Secret Archives, sprinted into the Cortile del Belvedere toward St. Peter’s Basilica. He ignored the parking lot, the Borgia Tower, and the Sistine Chapel. He instead tore through corridors both secret and well-traveled during the day, hoping he did not make a mistake. The only chance he had was cutting the vampire off before he entered Annwn. If Lazarus gained Annwn, Charles would have a much harder time tracking him, killing him, and retrieving the powerful relic. The creature was unnaturally fast, able to cover distances with great speed. But the tunnels beneath the city were long and meandering. Charles had to hope he was quick enough to take advantage of a more direct route.
He had one chance and speed was his only ally.
Charles burst into St. Peter’s Square. The grandeur of Vatican City met him, ornate buildings of architectural beauty dwarfing humanity. Several dozen people still milled about the Square, some walking hand in hand, others photographing the splendor of the city at night. Charles ignored their surprise and protestations at his erratic appearance with the Dark Thorn. He soon entered St. Peter’s Basilica. Down through the nave he ran, into the heart of the massive structure. The Papal Altar and Baldacchino rose over him, the tomb of Saint Peter beneath. Ignoring the statue of Longinus holding the representation of the Holy Lance behind him, he gained the entrance to the Secret Grotto that held the hidden door into the catacombs beneath, sweat freezing his burning skin even as he ran faster into the world’s depths.
After numerous twist and turns through the catacombs, Charles came to the corridor that led to the Secret Archives in one direction and the portal to Annwn in the other. Breathing hard, he peered around him with spell-empowered eyes.
The trail Berrytrill created had not yet reached these corridors.
Which meant Lazarus likely hadn’t either.
Hoping that was true, Charles waited.
Just when the knight thought he had made a mistake in determining where the vampire intended to go or had not beaten Lazarus to the passage, he sensed something moving quickly toward him from the direction of the Secret Archives, a disturbance of air, a quiver of sound that could mean only one thing.
Calling the fire of the Dark Thorn to bolster his need and senses, he waited.
When Lazarus tried to pass in a blur, Charles tackled him.
Both of them went flying.
The vampire’s momentum threw them down the corridor a dozen yards. Magic kept Charles mostly safe as he skidded to a halt beneath Lazarus, lashing out with fire before he came to a stop. Caught by surprise, Lazarus fought back immediately. The vampire was faster than the Heliwr and quickly had the knight by his front clothing, fangs bared in anger. He brought the Holy Lance up in defense against the Dark Thorn, the dead fingers of the Pope still attached it, both of them vying for an advantage.
“Give this up, Lazarus!” Charles roared.
“I go to fulfill a debt that comes with my death!”
Charles sent the fire of the Dark Thorn into the vampire’s face. Hair singed, Lazarus roared like a lion caught in a grassfire. He trid to flee. The knight did not allow it. He tripped the vampire with hastily drawn magical tethers, sending the other sprawling to stone. Charles was on him in a second. He slammed the cudgel of the Dark Thorn into the vampire’s jaw, a strike that did nothing but anger the vampire more, and pressed the head of the staff into the other’s chest, to pin the nig
ht creature against rock.
“This does not concern you, Heliwr!” Lazarus said, unfazed. He held the Holy Lance at his side but did not use it to attack. “I go to my death!”
“I no longer believe your lies!”
“I have not lied,” Lazarus growled lowly, fangs fully extended. Charles could see in the other’s eyes a desire to kill the knight, to rend him from limb to limb—that need eroding the creature’s control and only a moment away from reality.
Charles realized this was the coin-flip moment Merle had seen.
“You stole the lance, Lazarus,” the Heliwr argued more calmly.
“I did,” the vampire admitted, the fire in his eyes banked for the moment. “But I promised I did not intend to kill anyone. I still do not. You are safe and I have killed no one. I did purchase a service though. And that service must be paid in full.”
Charles kept the magical pressure on his opponent. “Not today. I will fight you to the end. Do the right thing. Give me the Holy Lance.”
“I smell your wife on you,” Lazarus growled. “Your soon to be son! I sense you are worried you will die fulfilling your knightly duty. Do not. Not this day. But neither should you devastate their lives with your loss by pressing me, Heliwr! You have greater deeds to fulfill! And I will not take another life!”
At that, he heaved Charles backward, sending him flying.
He slammed against the wall with such force it would have killed a normal man.
The Dark Thorn saved him though, softening the powerful brunt of the assault, but his magic could not prevent it entirety. His head slammed against the wall, the breath in his lungs left like a gale, and all went dark as he slid down to the ground against his will, struggling against unconsciousness.
He had no idea how much time had passed when a shrill voice filled his ear.
“Where’d he go?!” Berrytrill screamed.
“The portal,” Charles mumbled, shaking his head. “Follow him!”
The fairy guide did, leaving the Heliwr behind. Sweat pouring freely, Charles regained his feet, fighting the wave of nausea and weakness that threatened to overcome him. He fought both and won. Soon rage took over—at what had been done to him and how the situation had unfolded—strengthening his resolve.
Stumbling a bit at the start, he went after his guide.
The catacombs took him back to where it all had begun. As he followed the trail left by his guide, a cacophony of broken sounds rolled through the underground tunnels, getting louder with every step. Then he realized what it was.
It was the sound of echoing gunfire.
Another battle raged. Had the portal been compromised again? Or did the Swiss Guards fight only against Lazarus?
When Charles finally burst into the portal cavern, he could not believe his eyes.
A new threat had not entered Rome.
A dead threat had.
The vampire corpses that had littered the cavern were now reanimated through dark arts, attacking Beck Almgren and his Swiss Guards, trying to break through to the entrance where Charles now stood. In front of him, Bruno Ricci fought, arm bandaged, looking every bit as dead as those he fought. But Carnwennan was blinding white-hot power, the magic of the Arthurian knife bolstering its bearer’s strength and resolve. The portal knight sent swaths of lightning deep into the zombie midst, keeping them at bay long enough for the Swiss Guard to form a counter attack. The vampiric zombies came on, an unending torrent that felt no pain.
Charles hadn’t seen it in time. The runes tattooed on their skin.
Life after life’s death.
“I hate zombies,” Berrytrill growled. “These are worse.”
Charles couldn’t agree more. “Be careful. To get caught by one would be your certain death.”
“Look to the portal!”
Charles did so. Lazarus stood before the Annwn gateway, calmly, still holding the Holy Lance. He had either made his way through the melee or enacted the rune magic after he had gained the portal, creating a zombie diversion while he waited. But for what?
Or who?
Then Charles saw movement within the shimmering portal.
An old woman stepped free of the void, ratty gray hair hanging limply about a pinched, wrinkled face. Her clothing was destitute like a homeless person’s but rings with various priceless gems that would have made the greediest coblynau miner envious sat upon every finger of her hands, verifying her identity.
The witch Lazarus had made his bargain with.
Charles suddenly understood.
“Don’t do this, Lazarus!” he roared.
The vampire ignored him. He handed the Holy Lance to the witch and knelt.
Raising it and wasting no time, the old crone struck.
Lazarus met the thrust with his entire being as if offering himself in sacrifice to the witch. When the metal pierced his heart, every muscle in his body snapped taut. He leaned back and, coughing crimson into the air twice, gasped several unintelligible words before going limp. He then slowly slid off the spear to the cold stone floor as the witch wrenched the weapon free.
The vampire did not move.
The witch straightened and finally looked at the cavern and those within it for the first time. Charles locked eyes with her. Like Lazarus, she was ancient, her eyes shining victory and malice. Charles saw a fire there that burned eternal. It was clear to him the witch had a plan and a major piece of it had just come into her possession.
With a smile devoid of humor, she vanished into the portal with her prize.
It did not take long for the Swiss Guard to finally create a hole in the wall of zombies. With Bruno Ricci keeping the undead at bay with his magic, the Vatican soldiers shot their rifles and pistols into the skulls of the zombies. Charles did not wait for the inevitable victory. He ran through the din, keeping clear of the danger surrounding him, encased in an armor of magic in case the Swiss Guards were incapable of hitting only their targets. Soon, he was free of the horde and running full out for the gateway into Annwn.
“Where are you going, Ardall?!” Bruno Ricci yelled over the din, his Arthurian knife Carnwennan lightning-infused war.
“After the spear!”
Within moments, he and Berrytrill gained the shimmering void. The knight did not enter immediately. He gave the body of Lazarus a quick, wary eye. The spear had worked. The vampire lay dead, eyes filled with wonder.
The man Jesus Christ had brought back to life had finally found peace.
With a nod to Berrytrill, Charles entered the portal.
The power of the gateway engulfed them. Even as Charles walked forward into the void, the smell of mulch-fueled growing plants accosted him, a sweet, heady odor leading him to Annwn. Berrytrill was nowhere in sight but Charles knew the fairy was flying close behind. Soon, the knight began to be reduced in size, the air being forcibly drawn from his lungs. Even though he had grown used to passing between the two worlds, it never got any easier.
Just when he thought he would pass out, Charles crossed into Annwn.
He stood upon a massive finger of granite extending out of an emerald carpet of grass plains to the west of the Forest of Dean. The sun sat overhead in an azure sky and the hum of insects surrounded the Heliwr and his guide even as the day’s warmth chased the catacomb chill from their bones. To the northwest, the massive spikes of the Snowdon Mountains were in evidence in the far distance, a last bastion of freedom for the Tuatha de Dannan; to the west, Charles knew Caer Llion sat on the ocean, the capital city of the self-crowned high king Philip Plantagenet controlling most of Annwn.
Flanked by two dead trees, the portal to Rome shimmered behind him.
Charles did not dwell on the beauty of the day or the political imbalance in Annwn. With Berrytrill watching, he called the Dark Thorn and sent its butt into the soil, searching for the Holy Lance and the witch who had machinated it from the Vatican.
Cursing inwardly, he let the Dark Thorn vanish like smoke.
“The witch has disapp
eared,” Charles said angrily. “Cloaking herself in magic, knowing we would come after her, no doubt. I cannot track her or the Holy Lance.”
Berrytrill flew in midair before him and frowned. Long moments passed. There was nothing more Charles could do. He was the Heliwr, given a grave responsibility and gifted with great power, but even he could be bested at times.
“That’s that then,” Berrytrill said at last.
# # # # #
“Why did the vampire aid the witch?” the fairy asked.
The two stood again on the outcropping of rock that held the portal to Italy, the sunshine warm and inviting. Once Charles had realized they were powerless in regaining the Holy Lance, they had returned to Rome, to set right many of the wrongs still there. The zombies had been dispatched with few losses; the portal was once again protected. Retracing his footsteps, Charles ensured all aspects of the invasion were put right. With the help of Bruno Ricci, he had wiped clean dozens of guard memories, Beck Almgren watching to ensure it was done properly. It had taken hours of work but it was done.
Bruno Ricci would heal. Pope Urban had the worst of it but even the Church would construct a plausible reason for the loss of his fingers. Italy and the world knew nothing of what had transpired. And life would go on much as it had for centuries.
“It was a means to an end,” Charles answered finally, still thinking on it.
“The end of the spear, literally.”
Charles couldn’t help but grin. “I suppose so.”
“Still. The Spear of Longinus is out there. Somewhere.”
“It is,” Charles said, the notion sobering. “The witch had other intentions, of that we can be sure. Perhaps Merle will have an answer. Until we locate the Holy Lance, we must be vigilant and look for it whenever we tread Annwn. It is too important—and powerful—of a relic to remain in the hands of such a creature. The witch sent Lazarus into the Vatican to secure it for her own reasons. Few could have crossed into Rome and bested its portal knight, especially one as strong as Bruno Ricci. Fewer still would have enough knowledge of our world and that of the Bible’s history to make his way to the Vatican Library and eventually gain the staff from the pontiff. No, it was a bold move and well orchestrated. We will hear from the witch again.”
The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn: Preludes to The Everwinter Wraith (The Annwn Cycle) Page 7