Berrytrill grunted. “It never ends.”
“I just hope we are up to the task,” Charles added. “The witch has been alive a very long time and has learned patience. We will have to do the same.”
“We will,” Berrytrill said, before looking off toward the Snowdon. “There are good qualities, like patience, learned by the passage of time—but darker qualities too.” The fairy paused. “Humans are fascinating. There are Tuatha de Dannan who live for centuries but who never succumb to the madness that clearly had taken hold of Lazarus. Why did the vampire choose death?”
“Humans aren’t meant to be long lived, I guess,” Charles reflected. “Besides, life is much more than longevity. Quality of years is more important than quantity. Lazarus learned that all too well. No quality could be gained from his continued existence—at least that’s how he felt. He therefore decided to end it on his terms.”
“What does quality mean to you?”
Charles did not answer immediately.
“A loving wife,” he said finally. “Looking into her eyes and knowing peace as I’ve never known. Sunlight on my face in spring, when the world is escaping winter in Seattle. A kind gesture from a stranger. Traveling to Annwn and seeing what this world has to offer. Having a baby on the way and all the anticipation that brings.” He smiled and looked to the fairy. “Enjoying friendship like ours at every possible moment.”
“And Lazarus no longer had those things?”
“I suspect he did. He just could no longer see them.”
Berrytrill hovered in the air quietly, thinking on that.
“There are souls who fight to live,” Charles added, also mulling it. “And there are those who give up all too easily.”
“Do you think he has found peace with his God?” Berrytrill asked. “Or is he in that place of fire and brimstone you mention all too often as a curse word.”
“Hell,” Charles said. “We won’t know until our reckoning day, I suppose.”
“Your reckoning,” the fairy admonished.
“Oh?”
“I plan to live forever.”
“You just may,” Charles said, smiling. “But you’ll miss me if you do.”
Berrytrill looked toward the horizon as if trying to see that day.
Charles grinned inwardly at his private joke and followed his guide’s gaze. Several ravens swirled in the distance, upon currents of air from Annwn’s ocean in the south. They settled back to one of the sentinel trees outside of the Forest of Dean before taking flight again. The dark birds were free, much like Lazarus. They had no reason to fear the world around them. They were unfettered but, unlike the vampire, they were enjoying the life they had been given.
“Bran,” Charles whispered.
“What?” Berrytrill questioned.
“Bran means ‘raven’ in Welsh,” the knight said and continued to watch the birds. “It’s a good, strong name for the baby.”
“Bran Ardall,” the guide tested. “I like it.”
Charles nodded.
“How do you know you are having a boy child?”
The Heliwr smiled sadly.
“Whether he knew it or not, Lazarus shared with me a gift before his death.”
“A boy child. You should name him Trill instead,” Berrytrill mused, smiling bits of leaves. “Where do we travel now?”
“Home,” he said. “And a long discussion with Merle.”
The Heliwr of the Yn Saith took a step down the steep trail that led to the plains below the granite outcropping, already removing the light cloak from his pack that would hide his world’s odd attire in the foreign territory. With Berrytrill flying ahead to keep their passage safe, Charles headed west with long strides toward Dryvyd Wood where the Seattle portal thrummed entrance to a city that held his heart.
Home to his expecting wife and their forthcoming baby boy.
And a life worth living.
The Arch Druid's Grimoires
Introduction
Long before I became friend and webmaster to Terry Brooks, I was a Shannara fan.
It is no surprise then that my writing has been heavily influenced by the bestselling author. How could it not? Terry Brooks has written dozens of novels, all of them possessing magic in the writing as well as in the stories. And when it comes to characters, those that resonate the most with me continue to be the Druids Allanon and Walker—both dark, enigmatic, and capable of treading that gray line between truth and lies to fulfill their mysterious purposes.
In homage to them, I created Aengus Doughal, Arch Druid of Caer Dathal the New, a sprawling castle keep in northern Annwn housing students and the Druids who teach them. It is a community with a dark history, one Aengus is trying to prevent from happening in the present.
So when relics from that evil past surface after the fall of Caer Llion in The Dark Thorn, Aengus takes up a quest to acquire them. But he is not the only one. And things are not what they seem.
For even a powerful Arch Druid doesn't know everything.
The Arch Druid’s Grimoires
Aengus Doughal hid in the shadows, watching a once civilized city burn.
From his alleyway vantage, the Arch Druid of Caer Dathal scrutinized the worst in humanity unleashed. The city ripped itself apart. Philip Plantagenet, the High King of Annwn, had marched to war against the gathered might of the Seelie Court in the east, wishing to end the fey forever. He had left a contingent of Templar Knights behind to maintain order. It had not been enough. When word spread that the Morrigan and her fey had obliterated the High King’s army, reports became chaos. Rumors that Plantagenet had fled Annwn for the world of his birth. Rumors that his right-hand man and long-time friend John had betrayed him and taken the throne. Rumors that a mere boy had killed Plantagenet in the field. No matter. The result was the same. When this fractured news began to spread through the streets like an ever-increasing wildfire, the people of Caer Llion panicked—or worse, took advantage. Looting. Mayhem. Killing. Death. Fires had quickly erupted, Caer Llion gutting itself from the inside out.
These were the demonstrative ends of a regime, Aengus thought. This was civilization unrestrained. Without the boot heel upon the neck, law became lawless.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
He pulled his cloak tighter, ignoring the woe-begotten terror that swelled about him. He was not here to protect the city. Once, he had tried to infiltrate Caer Llion, attempting to do exactly what he did now. But wards installed to keep practitioners of magic outside the city walls prevented it.
Now those wards were no more with the death of their creator. And Aengus had traveled Annwn’s breadth in haste to prevent a grave evil from rising anew.
The chaos made the Arch Druid’s quest easier, at least.
No one paid attention to him.
Wrapping a skein of shadow magic about him in any case, he moved down the next street, following the trail of the thief. He had entered the city earlier in the day and made his way into Plantagenet’s royal residences, a path that had taken him through the city, deep into the castle, and upward into its towers. It had not taken him long to find the High King’s suites; Plantagenet possessed over a hundred magical items that called to the Arch Druid. After searching though, he realized he was too late.
The grimoires were already gone, a faint but sickening residual power left behind on one of the empty shelves. The books vanished. Stolen away.
He now tracked the thief and his prizes through a city in desperate ruin. But so did someone else. Aengus moved silently down another street, thinking. The path hadn’t deviated. The thief who had stolen the books possessed magic of some sort, probably the same kind that allowed him entrance into the most protected floors of Caer Llion. The one who followed the thief also had use of magic, a magic that tracked him not unlike the kind the Arch Druid now used.
Both paths led toward the northern gate in the city’s main wall, undoubtedly to the road that led into the plains of Annwn.
&nb
sp; And from there—anywhere.
Aengus sensed he was already losing his chance. He doubled his speed, the smell of smoke and fear suddenly very heavy on the air. Much of the city would burn, he thought. It took one person to start a fire; the flames took care of the rest. People like this were too terrified to organize, to stop it from happening. He passed them—men bearing wild-eyed horses, women clutching horrified children, and even Templar Knights in disarray. Drawn weapons added to the murder. He ignored it all. After two more streets, the Arch Druid came to the source of the smoke—an inn that burned, its stable’s occupants whinnying like trapped, screaming children. Smoke filled much of his view but the trail he followed had grown stronger, vanishing into the burning building before him.
Cursing and feeling the heat on his bearded face, Aengus went to the other side of the inn to appraise the conflagration and pick up the pursuit again.
And stopped.
Six men and two women barred his way like a wall.
It wasn’t much of a wall. In the roaring light of the flames, Aengus could see they were destitute, ragged clothes hanging from scarecrow frames. The minor weapons they all carried did not concern the Arch Druid much. Something else did though. The group had white-filmed eyes and slack faces.
They were under a magical thrall, taking direction from someone else.
When they saw him, the small mob launched like a pack of dogs unleashed by their master, rabid in silent ferocity. Aengus reacted instinctively. Fire spurted from his hands, his own magic drawing on the fire at his back and rechanneling it at his will. It didn’t stop them. They leapt through the wall of flames with no fear of burn, clearly not feeling it. Aengus retreated toward the burning inn, up the steps and onto the porch, uttering the words of a new spell. His magic pulled cool air from the night and wove it about him, a buffer against the inferno at his back even as he watched flames consume the clothes of those who were all too close to attack.
The intense heat of the burning inn did not deter the band. With hair singeing and skin blistering, they kept coming. It was clear they would not stop until they were dead.
Or he was.
Aengus attacked then, pushing aside his reservations of attacking the innocent, hoping to save them anyway. He kicked the first man who attempted to grapple him downward even as an old woman swung a club at his head. It missed by a fraction. He could smell their flesh charring. Time sped up. Instinct and training amalgamated and took over. He batted the club-wielder aside, sending her wheeling into the street. Aware his protective magic faded and soon he would be at the mercy of the inferno, he stepped aside as the largest of the men slashed with a rusty sword, overextending his assault and becoming unbalanced. Aengus pushed the man from the porch and out into the street, his rage lending him strength.
The five others were already grappling his cloak and pulling him down.
Aengus drew power from within, to shatter and kill the ravenous pack.
It wasn’t necessary. A blur from his right slammed into his enemies like a Rhedewyr mount. The assailants tumbled away from Aengus like thrown dolls. All but one. The Arch Druid punched the last man that held him and, back on his feet like a cat, jumped free of the flames that were now trying to consume them both.
The man who had saved him fought on, using his shield like a battering ram.
He didn’t stop using it.
“Time to wake up, Branighan!” The shield met face of the man with the sword. Teeth and blood exploded into the night. “You too, Esmerlde!” The shield took the old woman with the club in the side of the head. “Down you go, Jeyl!” The shield slammed between the younger man’s legs, dropping him to his knees with a sudden grunt of pain.
The thrall gone with the pummeled pain, the group began to moan and in some cases scream in agony from their injuries, the white film over their eyes now absent and their senses returning.
The man bearing the shield turned back to Aengus, breathing hard from the short battle. The Arch Druid did not know him. They appraised one another as strangers often do, and Aengus could feel the steel in the other. He was lithe and rangy, made strong by hard work. Or training. On his back, a sword rested, wrapped in a blanket, mostly hidden from the world. The clothes he wore were brown and new.
And a fresh wound ran along his jaw on the left side of his face. It had been sewn and recently, the stiches still puckered.
“I thank you,” Aengus said, straightening his disheveled garb.
The man grunted. “For a magic user, you sure let them put you in a bad place.”
“They were under a spell,” Aengus said, feeling stronger every moment he did not use his gifts. “Innocent. And I try not to harm the innocent.”
“Not so innocent looking to me,” the other snorted, glancing at the decimated.
“You know them.”
“I did. I grew up here. Lived here. Until today,” the man said, looking away. Hiding something, Aengus thought. Anger? Shame? “Trust me, they aren’t so innocent. Someone wanted you dead though, if not them. Another magic user?”
“Yes,” Aengus admitted.
“You do not sound surprised.”
Aengus gave the man a grave look. “Look about you. There is always something in life trying to kill you. Life itself, sometimes.” He paused. “But you know that, by looking at you.”
The other looked away. “I do.”
Aengus nodded. “You have been recently wounded. How did that happen?”
“The battle east. The fey did this.”
Aengus could see the anger seething right below the man’s surface. The Arch Druid didn’t want to suggest that Philip Plantagenet had ultimately put the young warrior in harms way. But he didn’t think it prudent at the moment. Instead he looked deep into the other’s gray-green eyes, to discern the kind of man who had come to his aid. The man was haunted, Aengus could tell that much. Wounded deep in his soul beyond the injury done his face. Some life-changing event had happened and it was not the war, although war could have that effect. His sorrow was of a different kind. More personal. Loss. Close to him. The Arch Druid could only guess what had happened but he certainly was not going to pry. That was not his way.
“My path is taking me from the city,” the Arch Druid said as part of the inn fell in on itself a tumult of sparks and smoke. “And you appear as if you are leaving as well. I wish you luck in your travels.”
The man shifted the sword and bedding on his back, still holding his shield. “There is nothing for me here now.”
Aengus wrapped his cloak closer even as another scream punctuated the night. “Nature abhors a vacuum,” he said. “There will be another monarch or lord in Caer Llion, all too soon. And that man or woman will need good men to reestablish what is being lost all about us.”
“Another man with the same poor judgment?” The other almost laughed. “I have no desire to fight for such a man.”
“There are men of good judgment.”
“There is nothing for me here now,” he repeated grittily.
Aengus simply nodded. A man’s affairs were his own.
“Two is better than one,” the man said. “Safer. This city is ripping itself apart. I would be safe rather than dead. Another at my side makes it safer.”
“I work alone,” Aengus said.
“If that were true, you would be dead now, magic user,” the scarred man argued. “I saved your life. And I wish to come with you.”
In all of his long years, Aengus rarely worked with others outside of Caer Dathal. It tended to complicate matters. During his clandestine efforts to secure Annwn from its very worst nature, he had preferred to be on his own, enjoying the return of his unfettered days before becoming Arch Druid, only needing to rely on himself. Companions could be a great boon. But all too often they created additional problems. He had other people’s blood on his hands as surely as Philip Plantagenet had, their deaths and guilt his to know forever. The difference, he thought, was that Aengus cared to not become like Philip
.
Still, the man with the shield had shown himself to be resourceful. And as evidenced by the men and women who had attacked, the Arch Druid could use someone watching his back against such a potent enemy.
“If you wish to leave Caer Llion, protect me as I hunt the thief and the witch that hunts him. Yes, a witch. A particularly nasty one given what she did to those you had to fight. Help me and I will see you a new offered life,” the Arch Druid said. At mention of the witch, an angry glint took over the other man’s eyes but it was gone almost as quickly as it had come. Aengus knew he had struck a chord. This man hated witches; he hated the fey. Hate had its uses. “The witch wishes to enact great evil once she catches that thief. I would not see that evil come to pass.”
“A witch,” the other said, nodding. “What are we waiting for?”
With that, the Arch Druid renewed his hunt. He picked up the faint trail of the thief’s magic on the street to the north of the burning inn and strode to find him. The sounds of fighting, the screams of atrocity, and the intermittent moments of silence continued. Aengus ignored it all.
This was not his fight. He worked to stop this happening in all of Annwn’s cities.
“What is your name?” he asked, pleased he could ask the question.
“Aldric Martel,” the other said, having followed. “And you?”
“Aengus Doughal.”
* * * * *
The path only Aengus could sense wound through the city.
“Do you know this witch you track?” Aldric asked. The man had been quiet for most of the night thus far, both men passing through Caer Llion and the chaos that gripped it. He had taken up a position of defense behind while Aengus had taken point.
The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn: Preludes to The Everwinter Wraith (The Annwn Cycle) Page 8