“I am a man of strong conviction,” Aengus began.
“You are.”
“And you as well,” the Arch Druid said, giving a meaningful look at the weapon upon Aldric’s back. It had been wrapped in blanket once more, hidden. “Show me your sword, please.”
“And if I do not?” Aldric asked, eyes hard as agates.
“I will already know my answer.”
For a moment, Aengus thought Aldric would deny the request. The warrior shrugged though and slid the sword free of its trappings and scabbard, giving the blade to the Arch Druid. It was of a beautiful make, simple in design, the crossbar of the hilt and the filigreed grip steel that glowed like brightest polished silver. The telling evidence: the diamond pommel bore a thick red, the symbol of the Templar Knights, made of several rubies that glowed blood. Aengus knew it to be a rare weapon. Philip Plantagenet had only one hundred swords of this type produced centuries earlier, tokens of loyalty given to the knights who sacrificed their home in the Misty Isles to lead a mighty invading force of warriors into Annwn. The beginning of a new crusade.
“Your family has long been a part of this land,” Aengus noted.
“It has.”
“Killing the fey is in your very blood.”
The other nodded. “They are an abomination, to be purged.”
“Do you know why you feel that way?” the Arch Druid pressed.
“The laws of the Templar Knights are sacrosanct.”
“Did God make those laws?” Aengus asked. “Or Philip Plantagenet?”
Before Aldric could respond with more than angry eyes, Aengus hoisted the blade anew so it would catch the sunlight. It glowed like a star. “Honorable men have carried this blade. Your family, all?” Aldric nodded. “There is loyalty in your blood. But there is no honor in hating that which you do not understand, to hate because you have been told to hate. Learned to hate, from generation to generation. Father to son. Being surrounded by like-minded hatred makes hating the fey natural. Normal. It is not.” He paused. “They look different from us. They possess a different culture from us. We all hate that which we do not understand. Sadly, humanity shares an unwillingness to understand for any reason, to maintain right out of righteousness.
“It does not make you evil, Aldric Martel,” Aengus continued, handing the sword back to its owner. “It means you have been lied to for a very long time.”
“You were not on the battlefield, Arch Druid,” Aldric said, biting the last two words like a curse. “You did not witness the very fey you favor tearing my warriors to pieces with claws, teeth, and rage. You were not splattered with the blood of friends. Or wounded.” He gestured along his cheek. “They are animals. Animals! Nothing more.” He barely contained his rage, his voice rising. “And they gathered to bring war against Caer Llion. To kill us. How can you side with them?”
“No, Philip Plantagenet brought his war to Annwn,” Aengus corrected. “The fey fled the Misty Isles in that other world’s Britain, seeking refuge from the kind of hatred you carry in your heart. And that zealotry followed them here. They were defending their right to exist, to be.”
“We will never agree on this,” Aldric spat.
“All too often men believe they know everything,” Aengus declared. “It is to the world’s detriment that they do not.”
Aldric said nothing, returning the sword to its place upon his back.
“Why have you stayed with me then?” the Arch Druid asked, the two horses beginning to climb slow rolling hills that grew into high mountains far to the northeast. “You could leave at any time. If the Vorrels are such a serious affront, why be in their presence at all?”
Aldric turned to Aengus, eyes dark. “Because killing one more witch is one more fey dead,” he said.
The Arch Druid took a deep breath. The Templar Knight was damaged. It was not surprising, the result of the battle that had transpired days earlier. The slaughter Aldric had witnessed could not be discounted. Blood. Gore. Screams. Death that would haunt the survivors for their entire lives. Aldric had seen more friends killed than most people saw in a lifetime. But it had to be more than that. Aengus knew the warrior, deep down in places Aldric likely didn’t know. He had left Caer Llion for reasons beyond the events he had witnessed outside the Forest of Dean.
“There is a great deal of good in you, Aldric Martel. You did not save me in Caer Llion. You saved those people,” Aengus asserted, as he knelt to the ground. “Do you know that? I was mere moments from killing them.”
Aldric nodded but said nothing. Finally he said, “It is the past.”
Aengus didn’t know if the warrior was agreeing or making an unrelated statement.
The two men kept riding as evening settled in about them, the hum of insects coming to life, lending music along their way. The Scots pine, silver burch, and spruce thickened; the ground rolled heavier with broken stone. Aengus had never been in this part of Annwn before but he knew they approached Longee, the last large city along the eastern mountain range that had kept them company on their journey. Beyond Longee, the plains expanded into Annwn, a vast open space where one major city, Mochdrev Reach, existed, a last bastion of free humanity who had wilily defied Philip Plantagenet for centuries. Beyond, the Snowdon broke the sky and Annwn in half; the Arch Druid’s home, Caer Dathal, existed on the other side.
Bringing his mount to a halt, Aengus dismounted and tested the trails of magic they had been following. The thief had been quite resourceful thus far. But the Arch Druid sensed the two trails syncing in time.
“We are gaining on them but so is the witch on the thief,” Aengus said, remounting his horse. “If they hold direction, it appears as though we will be visiting Longee.”
“We are entering a human city with the fey?” Aldric questioned.
“They are more adept at hiding in the shadows than you know. They will not be seen. And will not put us at risk.” He clicked his mount onward. “So long as another magic user is not part of the guard, that is.”
Aldric frowned but said nothing more. The trail they were on broadened, pushing back the forest, until the two men crested a final hill and viewed Longee. The Vorrels sat next to the trail, having joined them in the shrouded gloom, eyes glittering, waiting for the Arch Druid. Torches flared to life in the large city, its populace preparing for the deepening night. It was now clear the thief had entered Longee. Aengus wondered why. Was he delivering the grimoires to someone there? Was he trying to shake the witch who followed him? Or did he merely seek aid? There were too many questions.
“Stay close to us, Vorrels, but out of sight,” Aengus ordered.
Both fey creatures mewed consent.
“Keep that sword where it can be seen—and drawn quickly, Aldric,” the Arch Druid ordered. “There is a thief, a witch, and a great many people in that town. Who knows what we will find in Longee?”
With that, Aengus pushed them into Longee, the Vorrels shadowing within the forest gloom. Aldric brought up the rear. The group wound their way into a large valley that had been cleared of timber, the city grown within it, a river running from the eastern hills through its heart. Stars began to puncture the descending night sky where clouds allowed it, as the Arch Druid passed through the outermost wood wall of Longee. The streets were like many in Annwn. Hard packed dirt avenues bound by wood housing eventually giving way to more permanent roads and structures made of stone. Inns, taverns, living quarters, smiths, butchers, and small farmers markets—some of which were as old as Annwn, he wagered. Thousands of people lived within Longee. At its center, a set of larger buildings grew above the rest, the structures gaining stories with their importance. The path of the thief and witch led directly into their midst.
“Will you kill the witch?” Aldric asked after the Vorrels had vanished into the shadows. “Kill one of your precious fey.”
“Evil exists in all forms, all creatures, all cultures,” Aengus said, keeping his eyes on the city and what evil might lurk within it. “Do not th
ink for a moment that I believe all fey are innocent. They are not. Just like men can be evil, so too can the fey. I will kill her if I have no other choice. I would rather discover why she wanted the books. But I won’t hesitate to kill her if I am given reason.”
“Has she not given you reason enough?” Aldric remained alert to his surroundings as well. “Kill her and be done with it.”
“Witches often have plans within plans,” the Arch Druid shared. “She is likely quite old. How would she know of the books—books that have been secreted away for centuries—if she too was not centuries old? And since she broke into Caer Llion at exactly the moment she could, I believe this witch has pursued the grimoires for many, many years.” He paused. “It is better to not only know your enemy but know their plans as well. Leaving her alive even an extra moment is a risk but a calculated one.”
“Do you at least know where she is?”
“Right now, the path leads into the city’s center.”
Aldric grunted. “Where there are more places to hide, more people for her to use.”
Aengus had to agree with the other’s assessment.
As the group passed through the outer wall of Longee, people walking the streets paid them little attention. They were not the only visitors to such a sprawling city. And news of Philip Plantagenet’s defeat had not spread this far north yet. Longee sat with a quiet ignorance inside its valley.
In a day, maybe two, that would no longer be the case.
Aengus wondered if a city not the capital would fall to chaos as well.
A different sort of chaos met his ears then—the sound of music and drunken revelry. The Arch Druid and Aldric walked by a tavern, one filled with hard men and the women who had to be strong to endure them. The path of the witch and thief had taken a turn, leading them into the darker, seedier party of Longee. No Templar Knights were in evidence; thieves and those with darker intent were everywhere. With his black cloak drawn close, Aengus could pass among them with ease, his size alone imposing to all but only a few. With his face’s mean-looking scar, Aldric glowered at anyone who looked at the two men.
Of the Vorrels, Aengus was not aware. As it should be.
The path of the thief and witch wormed its way through the city where few torches lit the darkness. Aengus took a final corner and stopped.
Both magical
It was a large tower, made of the same stone that much of Longee had been built from, unassuming in its design, a lone spire jutting up six or seven stories and surrounded by other but smaller, similarly built buildings. It had few windows. In the shadows of the alleyways around it, Aengus could just make out the black outlines of sentinels on watch.
The building was important to someone willing to pay for the help. If the thief had tried to find solace there, had the witch gotten in somehow?
Or had the two entered together?
“Vorrels, can you sense the witch nearby?” the Arch Druid asked.
Both materialized from the shadows of a wall nearby.
—We do—
—Beyond. In the man-structure—
Aengus sent his senses into the tower. He could sense the magic too. But it was not the witch.
It was the books he discerned. So close he could feel their malevolence.
“Are there other doors in that tower, Vorrels?” he asked.
The two Unseelie creatures vanished. In mere moments, they returned, whispering their guttural language.
—One door—
—Only. That one—
Aengus looked from the inky forms of Paetyn and Kehndyl to assess the tower again. Two large oak doors gave entrance on the ground floor. But Aengus was no fool. Buildings like this one—undoubtedly built or purchased by someone who could also buy the sentries—had many ways to enter and flee. Below the streets. Upon the rooftops. Or hidden doors between buildings. There could be any number of ways in and out.
Yet the paths of both the thief and the witch entered through the front doors.
Just as Aengus was about to circle the tower himself to ferret another way in, the doors opened—emitting two large men carrying a woman.
He had seen enough dead to know she no longer lived.
The Vorrels pushed up against his legs, hissing, claws angrily clutching his boots.
—That is—
—The witch—
“That is not possible,” Aengus growled.
The Vorrels looked at one another, the fire of hatred in their beady eyes.
The Arch Druid kept his eyes on the woman, knelt to the ground and, frustrated, sent his seeking magic into the building.
Both trails he had followed from Philip Plantagenet’s suites remained. The thief and witch were both in the tower.
Unsure what it meant but knowing time to find out lessened every moment, he gestured for Aldric to prepare. The warrior did, silently, unsheathing his blade within the shadows of the street, his eyes on Aengus for a signal. Nodding to the warrior, both of them charged the two men who had just left the tower. By the time the ruffians dropped the dead woman to fight back, Aengus fell the smaller of the two, a spell-strengthened fist breaking a jaw, the sound echoing in the night. Aldric joined and, before the larger foe could undo his own weapon, the warrior ran his sword through the other’s chest. The man tried to weakly roar warning to the tower before dying next to the woman.
Aengus barely had time to turn around before the two sentries were on them, long knives flashing in the shadows.
The Arch Druid lost sight of Aldric as Aengus battled the sentry. Knives only finding his cloak, he quickly grabbed the smaller man’s wrists, twisted, resulting in the knives clattering to the ground.
“Who is within?” Aengus hissed, grabbing the man’s throat.
“Won’t. Say,” the other wheezed.
“That would be very bad for you, my friend,” Aldric growled, having already subdued and knocked unconscious the other sentry.
“We will find out ourselves then,” Aengus said. He slammed the head of his sentry against the tower. The man crumbled to the street like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The Arch Druid then went to the dead woman.
“How did she die?” Aldric asked.
Aengus shook his head. The woman had been young and strong. “I cannot tell. There is no mark upon her, no poison I can detect. And yet, look at her fingers.” The Arch Druid showed indentations on every finger—where a ring had been not too long before. “Witches use rings as settings for gems to enact their craft. Based on this, she is likely the witch.”
“Could the fey creatures be wrong? Could you be wrong?”
“I doubt it. And I believe them. And yet… my magic says the witch is inside.”
Aldric dragged the bodies into the alleyway. “We should find out.”
“We will have to be quick,” Aengus said.
Once they had quickly moved all five bodies, the Arch Druid nodded. And both men pushed the door open.
A short hallway led to the interior of the tower, a space as ornate as the outside plain and as light as the outside dark. Two-dozen lit torches set in sconces circled the tower’s large single room even as a candle-thick chandelier hung from the ceiling, the light illuminating plush couches, beautifully wrought oak chairs, tapestries of grand scenes, and several round tables bearing games of all sorts—chess, gwyddbwyll, fidchell, and various card decks and dice sets for different gambling purposes. Items of polished silver gleamed in the red and orange light while decanters of various liquids filled a short bar in the middle of the room. Steps at the rear of the room twisted, to vanish upstairs.
None of that mattered though. A dozen men and several women who played or lounged in the opulent room now stared at the Arch Druid—all surprised by the sudden appearance of the two men.
Before anyone could even rise, Aengus raised one magic-enflamed hand.
“Do not move!” he thundered.
Those occupying the room gawked at him, paralyzed. Most were the affluent, out fo
r fun—and the women helping them to enjoy their evening. Two larger men at the rear of the room though were not there for revelry and gambling; both drew swords even as one roared warning up the stairs into the heights beyond.
In response, Aengus called to the fire in the torches. The flames answered. They leapt from the sconces and candles, lighting tables, cushions, and rugs on fire. In a matter of moments, the entire room was engulfed, a growing roar filled with hunger, one that threatened every life in the room and above. The men and women who were only there for a good time rushed past Aengus and Aldric and fled screaming out the door.
The two guards fought the growing inferno, using rugs and tapestries that only fanned the flames. But soon they were fleeing as well, up the stairs, seeking safety only they knew about.
The Arch Druid did not hesitate. With Aldric on his heels, the two men went after the retreating guards, leaving the intensifying heat of the blaze behind.
No one waited in ambush on the second level; it was empty, a series of ornate bedrooms for prostitution. Taking another staircase and magic bolstering his strength and speed, Aengus came to the third floor, another large room that took up the whole level that contained plush surroundings, chairs, several tables, and beautiful paintings.
A personal office. And upon a massive polished desk that took up most of the space, the objects of the Arch Druid’s pursuit.
The grimoires.
More than two-dozen men—hard men by anyone’s measure—stared at the Arch Druid, various weapons drawn, ready to fight the two men like hornets protecting their nest. In their midst, the thief Aengus had pursued from Caer Llion lay held to the ground by a massive bald man whose fists were the size of summer hams. A young man, the thief was lithe as thieves tended to be, wearing dark garb, bruising already purpling his left cheek where he had been struck. Behind them and leaning against the desk stood a thin man, as fit as he was tall, the first hint of gray touching his still-thick black hair. He wore fine clothing, the sort that princes of Annwn wore and at great cost. He appraised a ring in his right hand, the glint of a large ruby set within gold.
The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn: Preludes to The Everwinter Wraith (The Annwn Cycle) Page 10