The Dark Thorn

“I will not evacuate the Basilica!” Clement roared.

Cormac stared hard at the Pope, watching the color rise in the other’s cheeks despite the chill in the chamber of the Seer. A newly lit fire crackled in the hearth but offered only light. The Vigilo convened not in their usual private room but instead in the depths of St. Peter’s, where Donato once lived. It was unchanged. It still held his books, his clothing, his belongings, and it all reminded Cormac the loss he suffered. The Cardinal Vicar hated being there. The feeling of holding his lifeless mentor stayed with him. It would never leave.

“Never in the history of Rome has St. Peter’s been evacuated!” the Pope yelled, his anger filling the caverns.

“Your Eminence, there is no choice,” Cardinal Villenza said.

“There is always a choice. Always.”

The Vigilo stood in a half circle around the Fionúir Mirror, the relic draped with its sable cloth. Like Cormac, the men gathered did not wear their ceremonial dress of office; they wore simple attire beneath black rippling robes bearing the crest of St. Peter’s embroidered onto each breast, the clothing more functional and useful if they had to move quickly to respond to the poised threat on their doorstep.

“How did it come to this?” the Pope demanded harshly, directed at Cormac.

The Vigilo grew silent under the penetrating glare of Clement. Cormac returned his stare, unflinching. He would not give the Pope the benefit of turning away. Clement blamed Cormac for what was happening. The Cardinal Vicar kept his silence. He knew voicing his anger would do nothing for his future plans and put him at risk for further lamentation by his peers.

“I wish to speak to the knight,” Clement barked. “Now.”

“He is just outside, Your Grace,” Cardinal Tucci said.

“Well, show him in. I would hear this from his own lips.”

Cardinal Tucci did as he was commanded, opening the door leading into the catacombs. Ennio Rossi entered, his gait smooth, his eyes dark pools of youth. He was young, younger than any Cardinal by decades, but Cormac had seen him age over the last week in ways a twenty-year-old shouldn’t. Ennio too had looked upon the Cardinal Seer as a mentor and he too grieved. In place of innocence, a perceivable weight hung. Only hardship in life could reduce one in such a way—like the death of loved ones—and it was apparent Ennio now suffered life’s vicissitudes.

Ennio Rossi knelt before Clement and kissed the Ring of the Fisherman.

“Ennio Rossi, Knight of the Seven,” Clement announced formally, allowing Ennio to rise. “What I hear is disconcerting. A massive army the likes the Vatican has never seen marches against us. The Vigilo would hear what you know. Let nothing keep you from telling me all.”

“It comes, Your Grace,” Ennio started nervously, the crackling of the hearth the only other sound. “As I explained to Cardinal Vicar O’Connor, I was called before the other knights mere hours ago by Richard McAllister. All Seven came, including the new knight of Seattle, Bran Ardall. Richard informed us of the impending invasion of the Vatican. Plantagenet has built an army of incredible size, one of Templar Knights and savage halfbreeds. Richard almost died twice while he fought to learn more. The army marches toward the portal leading here. Richard believes Philip intends to bring that army through and begin some kind of new world order.”

“But that is not all, is it?” Cardinal Tucci asked.

“No. Richard says Philip commands the Holy Grail.”

Grumbling once more broke out among the Cardinals.

Like those around him, Cormac could not believe the Grail had been found let alone had fallen into the hands of a man like Philip. It explained much about Annwn and how Philip had been able to quell that land while remaining alive for centuries.

And McAllister had become the Heliwr, the power now beyond Cormac. It grated on him like salt in a wound.

“Do you believe McAllister, Rossi?” Clement asked.

Ennio Rossi looked down at his feet, his features pale.

“Well?” the pontiff growled. “The answer isn’t down there!”

“Richard McAllister was quite clear,” Ennio stuttered. “And yes, I believe he speaks truly. He has seen with his own eyes the army and the Grail. He saw the effects of the Cup of Christ on several soldiers. No matter how he beat them down with the Dark Thorn they rose to fight again. The Grail makes each of their soldiers like dozens.”

“McAllister,” the Pope whispered. “The Holy Grail.”

“It matches up with the death of the Cardinal Seer,” Cormac admitted. “Philip would not want the Vatican peering into Annwn while he moves an army toward the Rome gateway. Maintaining his element of surprise would be one of his foremost strategies.”

“It almost worked,” Cardinal Smith-Johnson said. “If McAllister had not abdicated his duty in Seattle to enter Annwn, we may still not have known of this threat.”

The other Cardinals nodded their agreement.

“What of the other knights, Ennio?” Cardinal Tucci said. “Will they aid the Vatican?”

“They lack the time to travel to Rome,” Ennio replied. “And each of their portals are too far away to join Richard and the Tuatha de Dannan at the portal in the Forest of Dean.”

“So knowing has not improved our situation much,” Clement said.

“Ennio will be prepared,” Cormac said. “Swiss Guard too.”

“You mentioned the Tuatha de Dannan,” Cardinal Villenza interrupted. “What role are the fey folk playing in this?”

“The Queen of the Seelie Court has brought together her lords and a massive army of her own. They are poised near the portal, waiting. The Queen apparently knows if Philip enters this world, the destruction of Annwn will be assured. The ultimate plunder at the expense of the fey. The Seelie Court desires the defeat of Philip as much as the Church does.”

“Two armies then,” the Pope pondered. “All too near.”

Ennio shifted his gaze away from the Pope. Cormac was proud of the boy. The scrutiny being sent him by the Vigilo would have wilted lesser men.

“And what of Ardall?” Clement asked.

“He is near my age, I think,” Ennio answered, standing straighter. “He was quiet but nodded and gave his agreement with Richard when others of the Seven pressed him. He lost his left hand but has gained a magical gauntlet. Richard had confidence in him, although I do not know how much aid he will be able to give. Sal pointed out Ardall is untrained and virtually useless.”

“It is true then,” Clement said. “The boy has taken up a knight’s mantle.”

“He has. For him to be there, with us, makes it certain.”

“Myrddin Emrys,” Cardinal Villenza hissed.

Pope Clement looked hard at Cormac. He had failed in gaining the power of the Heliwr. Now, it seemed, the Pope blamed him for not gaining two knights for the Church.

“It is settled then,” Cardinal Smith-Johnson said. “The facts of the matter do not lie. It is time to leave St. Peter’s. Time to bolster our defense here in the warrens. Too many souls work and pray and visit the hallways and buildings above, the city above. It is our role to protect them. It is our role to do what must be done.”

The Pope looked into the blazing hearth. He did so for long moments. No one interrupted him. The group waited for Clement, the pontiff having the final say in what was to come.

The call to evacuate St. Peter’s would soon come.

“How will this be done?” Clement murmured.

“One of the foremost reasons Pope Gregory IV called for the current placement of the portal beneath the Basilica was to ensure sufficient defense could be brought to bear against such an invasion from Annwn. We do have options, Your Eminence.”

“No such invasion has ever occurred in our history.”

“True,” Cormac confessed. “But as the Cardinal Seer was fond of saying, time comes for all things.”

“Bolstering our defense is paramount then,” Cardinal Tucci said.

Cardinal Villenza nodded. “What has become of Captain Arne?”

The Pope returned his hot gaze at Cormac.

“No word,” Cormac divulged. “Still in Annwn.”

“On a fool’s errand,” Clement said. “He who possesses the Shield of Arthur was ever meant to protect the Church and the Vatican.”

“I felt it more wise to send him to Annwn and gain the Heliwr before Myrddin Emrys could complete his plans, Your Eminence,” Cormac argued. “I could not have known the intentions of Philip or how they would enter our lives here.”

“Wisdom!? You know not the word!” Clement thundered.

The room fell silent. The anger of the Pope infused the air. Cormac had never seen the pontiff so enraged—and he understood, to a point. Clement felt trapped by circumstance that he had no control over. Events he was barely privy to were directly threatening all he had come to shelter and grow. Few courses of action were available to him. Cormac could deflect the fury of Clement; the Cardinal Vicar only hoped the Pope would choose to fight back.

“It might be best for Your Eminence to vacate the Vatican,” Cardinal Diaz suggested, breaking the silence. “The Lateran Palace on the other side of Rome, perhaps?”

“And present our faith to Plantagenet on a silver plate? No.”

“Your safety is more important than—”

“My safety is tied to that of the Church, Cardinal Diaz,” Clement said. “And the Church is in danger. Those of you here represent many souls around the world. It is you who must find sanctuary, weather the storm that comes into our home.”

The Cardinals spoke their protestations at once.

“I will not hear it,” Clement said loudly, raising his hand. The others fell silent. “You will leave St. Peter’s immediately and find safety from what comes. There is nothing any of you can do in the midst of this danger, but you must remain to keep the hope the Lord instilled in each of us alive.” He paused. “Cardinal Tucci, organize the Swiss Guard. Call all to arms and order them into the catacombs. They must be outfitted with the entirety of firepower the Vatican has at its disposal. Cardinal Villenza, make preparations as if the Vatican will be besieged—food caches, water, medical needs. You understand?”

The Cardinals nodded, but they were not pleased.

Clement turned to Ennio. “Do you have the power to destroy the portal?”

“I do not,” the young knight admitted, fidgeting under the scrutiny. “It takes a wizard of immense power to achieve an event of that magnitude. I can, however, bring the catacombs down upon the portal, closing it off for the time being.”

“It is settled,” Clement said firmly. “Carry out my wishes and then find sanctuary.” He turned to Cormac. “Cardinal Vicar, come with me.”

Cormac frowned. “Me, Your Grace?”

“You will remain by my side in this,” Clement said resolutely.

Ice filled his chest. Clement spoke a quick prayer, asking the Lord to watch over the Cardinals and keep all who required it safe. He then gave the members of the Vigilo his farewell before striding from the chamber with an urgency Cormac had never seen the Pope possess.

With the murmur of Cardinals discussing how events had unfolded and the choices the Pope had made fading behind, they both ascended the stairs into the upper levels of the Basilica.

Cormac wondered where he was being taken.

Once the two men had gained the upper corridors of St. Peter’s, Clement glanced over his shoulder.

“I know you desire the papacy, Cormac.”

Cormac walked a step behind Clement, unprepared for such a statement and unsure of how to reply. The two men made their way quietly, their soft boots barely making a sound on the polished granite floors. No one was about. The wing they were in was private, several rooms holding treasures from centuries past and housing the secondary suite of the Pope, offering a place of refreshment if he was uninterested to return to his primary Papal Palace apartments.

Cormac had rarely been here—few had—but Clement guided him with earnest purpose.

“I hope to serve the Lord in any capaci—

“No!” Clement cut him off and stopped, a finger raised like a sword. “When I say you desire it, I mean the darkest filament of desire possible runs through you. You wish the authority to protect the Church and all souls who comprise it, of that I have no doubt, but personal reasons guide you. I know of your past. The death of your family so long ago has never left you, and the revenge in your heart has been tempered over time into a driving force. The Seer knew it just as I do.” He paused. “You have done well in overseeing the spiritual needs of Vatican City during my tenure, but I fear for what you will do if given the chance.”

Old wounds opened for Cormac. “I have no reason to provoke anyone,” he said.

“I truly doubt that, Cardinal Vicar.”

Clement continued down the hall. Cormac did not know what to say. With a few pointed words, Clement had peeled back and exposed the lingering pain Cormac had carried with him for decades.

It would never die.

The two men eventually entered a suite, Clement locking the door behind them. Sunlight flooded multiple rooms through tall stained glass windows, casting various colors upon rugs, small statues, and ancient oak furniture that glowed as if newly waxed. Walls were adorned with large bookshelves laden with books; vases holding fresh flowers sat upon the tables. Several architectural maps of the former Basilica hung in encased glass. Marble, gold, silver, and other highly polished stones and metals flashed, artisanal perfection at every corner, but the beauty of the room felt sterile to Cormac. Cold. It was a suite for kings who flaunted their wealth.

Cormac looked around, drawing it all in. The suite would be his one day. If he survived whatever the Pope had in mind for him.

“I know you hoped to the gain the seed for yourself,” Clement said, moving through the vestibule into the rooms. “It explains the secrecy you employed. I am not daft. Controlling the Heliwr would make for the strongest of tools in whatever endeavor you made him embrace. You failed, however, and now the Heliwr has fallen to the wizard.”

“I did nothing but try to protect the Church and its interests.”

“If that is true, you did a terrible job of it.”

“And now you wish to castigate my good faith by putting me in harm’s way?” Cormac questioned.

“Maybe you aren’t as incompetent as you’ve demonstrated in recent days,” the Pope said.

Cormac let the rebuke fall aside.

“Then again,” Clement added. “Perhaps I am acknowledging your eventual rise.”

The Cardinal Vicar had no idea what the Pope meant. He followed Clement into an adjoining sitting room where six plush chairs surrounded a short round coffee table. The walls were draped in colorful tapestries depicting epic events from the history of the Church—the upside down crucifixion of Saint Peter upon a barren Vatican Hill, the Emperor Constantine with sword held high standing firm against paganism as he legalized Christianity with his other hand, the crowning of Charlemagne before Pope Leo III on Christmas day, and knights bearing the cross of the Crusades storming a fortress in the Middle East.

Clement walked to the bare wall beneath the Crusades tapestry.

He stopped.

“It is paramount that what I am about to show you remain between us,” the Pope said mysteriously. “You will either come to know it by way of the papacy or we both will die this day and another successor will come to the knowledge on his own. Will you bide my authority and keep this secret I am about to unveil?”

Cormac nodded, confused but curious.

The Pope grunted and stepped to the simple gray blocks comprising the wall. He ran his leathered fingers over the stone as if searching for something. After long moments had passed, he placed the palms of his hands flat to the rock and, pressing inward, closed his eyes and grew still. Sweat glistened on his wrinkled skin. Mumbling words Cormac thought were Welsh, Clement leaned in closer to the wall as if unable to hold his body up any longer.

Cormac was about to step in, worried despite his misgivings for the Pope, when yellow light began to emanate from the fingertips of the pontiff, first barely perceptible but growing in brightness. With the knights of the Crusade watching from above, the cold fire seeped into the stone as if it were porous, and shot outward in various directions like cracks in a broken pane of glass. The room became drenched in golden light. Soon the outline of a tall rectangle became visible, the fire in the wall changing, molten and alive, moving fluidly as if sentient.

Just when Cormac thought fire would engulf Clement entirely, a bright, soundless flash erupted from the wall and Clement disappeared. Cormac shielded his eyes but when he looked again the fire was gone. Replacing it was a tall rectangular doorway.

And beyond, a room shrouded in gloom.

Eyes still closed, Clement took a deep breath, standing in front of the doorway, and then looked to Cormac.

“What did you do?” Cormac asked, shocked. “How…? What happened…?”

“If the white smoke blows for you one day, you will learn it,” Clement replied tiredly. “It is a very old power, one of a few passed down from Pope to Pope for several centuries. The right words, a strong will, and need.”

“What is beyond?”

“Beyond? Our salvation, I pray.”

Clement strode into the dark recess without another look at Cormac. The Cardinal Vicar followed. Air grown stale from years of being trapped washed over them, and darkness met him with a terrible chill. Cormac barely felt it. Somewhere in the chamber an unidentifiable entity stirred, thrumming with life that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Unsure suddenly about the intentions of Clement, Cormac paused, wondering if he should defy the Pope and leave.

Then he realized what he sensed. It was collected power unimaginable.

Clement struck a flame into existence in the depths of the dimness and lit a series of small torches placed in sconces at even intervals around the square perimeter of the room. The light revealed an armory of sorts. Clamps set in the wall held numerous swords, axes, spears, staves, lances, and various other weapons of war, each unique, most glimmering in the firelight as if alive. A series of shelves set in the left-hand wall stored folded blankets, robes, cloaks, and gloves, while another shelf on the right carried numerous leather-bound books and trinkets. A glass case in the middle of the chamber held the remains of hair, splinters of wood, urns, and a number of different bones, from fingers to legs to skulls. It was a macabre repository, one Cormac could not believe existed.

“What is this place?” he asked, mesmerized.

“It is the Vault. How did Myyrdin Emrys empower the Knights of the Yn Saith?”

“He gave them magical weapons,” Cormac answered. “Given such great power by the wizard, the knights can decide for themselves how to best serve the promise of the Vigilo.”

“Partly right,” Clement said. “He gave them magical weapons possessed by one person in history—the Britannian King Arthur. Along with the blade of Lancelot, the wizard chose to give the weapons he had access to.”

“And?”

“These are many other relics the wizard had no ability to gain and subvert,” Clement continued, gesturing at the walls and glass case. “Each of the items you see before you hold a property that science cannot explain. Magic, if you want to call it that, imbued by the Word’s will. Over the years, beginning in the fourth century with the building of Old St. Peter’s, the Church has hunted for these items, the most deliberate effort carried out by the Templars in the Crusades, invading the Middle East. Others have brought them to the Church, some out of goodness to see right done, others for political favor or financial gain.”

“Why have I not heard of this room before?”

“The best way to keep a secret is for few to know it,” Clement said. “In this case, the Cardinal Archivist also possesses the knowledge, in case of a pontiff’s sudden death.”

The Pope went to the wall of weapons. With a steady hand he reached up and carefully removed a sword, the blade shining like chrome in sunlight. It was a long broadsword, its hilt thick, golden, and slightly curved toward the tip, the double-handed grip wrapped in silver wire. The pommel glimmered gold, the disk bearing the image of an oak leaf. It was a simple piece of craftsmanship but it radiated beauty and might. Holding it upright to catch the torchlight, Clement looked it over from tip to end, admiring what he held.

“Here is Durendal,” Clement said.

“It’s a work of art.”

“It was once the weapon of Roland, a captain of Charlemagne, slaughtered in the battle of Ronceveux Pass. Legend recounts Durendal once belonged to Hector of Troy, reforged from his sword after his death at the hands of Achilles, but that has never been proven. It is a powerful weapon, unbreakable, enchanted by several Saints. It should aid us at this time of need.”

“Ahh yes, I know of it. Didn’t that sword vanish…into a river?”

“Poisoned stream,” Clement corrected. “And yes, it disappeared from the sight of man. Roland tried to destroy it, but when he failed he had to hide it from his enemies. As with many things lost, it was found—and eventually brought here.”

Cormac nodded. “We are arming ourselves then?”

“Indeed. The knights are equipped with powerful talismans. Philip Plantagenet has the power of the Grail at his command and who knows what else. Even most of the fey creatures of Annwn possess magic. The only chance the Basilica has of withstanding what marches toward it is to even the odds.” “You know the potential of each relic here?”

Clement pointed at a lone book sitting on a pedestal near the door that Cormac had missed. “The Exsequiae Codex. All of the relics here have been documented.”

“I assume you are showing me the Vault to equip me as well?” Cormac asked.

Clement found an oiled belt with a scabbard, and after tightening it about his waist he sheathed Durendal. He then pulled down a dark gray broadsword from its placement on the wall, its metal glistening like a darkened rainbow. It was longer than Durendal, longer than Cormac’s legs even, but Clement held it as if it were light as a feather. The blade was the opposite of the one Clement carried on his belt; the entire sword appeared to be iron, its hilt wide jagged blades like sharp thorns, its pommel a dagger-like diamond, the weapon absorbing the light and reflecting none.

He handed the sword to Cormac, hilt first, all too carefully.

“This is Hrunting.”

“Hrunting…?” Cormac asked, unable to remember where he had heard it before.

“Yes, Hrunting. The Demon-nail.”

“It can’t be,” the Cardinal Vicar whispered. “That’s fiction!”

“Fiction to whom?” the Pope asked. “Those who lacked the ability to document the story originally as history? Oral traditions are corruptible; they can become history or tale quite easily. Beowulf was real. Hrunting is real. It is one of the oldest relics to have been brought to the Vatican. Roman Catholic monks recovered it in Northumbria, sometime in the eighth century I believe, and they brought it to Rome. Hrunting can slice through stone. No one knows how it does this, nor how its iron can be stronger than steel.” Clement paused, prepared to release the sword. “Take it, now.”

Cormac took the blade. Hrunting was as light as a feather but he almost dropped it anyway. A tingling immediately traveled into his hand and up his arm, a throbbing like his entire limb had fallen asleep. The feeling passed after seconds, but heat continued to emanate from the hilt.

Cormac tightened his grip. He did not want to drop it.

“None of my predecessors know what that feeling in your hand is,” Clement commented. He handed Cormac a belt and sheathe. “But it matters not. Hrunting is powerful. It will keep you safe for what comes.”

“I like the sound of that, Your Eminence,” Cormac said, a bit sarcastically.

“This room must remain protected.”

“It will be,” Cormac said, belting Hrunting at his waist. “We will not fail today.”

“It cannot fall to the fey or anyone else,” Clement said. “For anyone to take these items could mean terror for the world. Philip may have the Holy Grail, but the relics here would make an army even more powerful.”

Cormac nodded.

“Cardinal Tucci and Cardinal Villenza will have already started fortifying the catacombs around the portal,” Clement continued, extinguishing the torches in the Vault. “The knight will have need of us. He is young and inexperienced. He will need our guidance.”

Cormac left the room, with its ancient relics and musty smell. When Clement had cleared the entrance he whispered a few words under his breath. The wall reformed as if it were alive, the blocks of stone returning to their original positions, mortar joining them all.

By the time they left, the Vault had become hidden once more.

Clement exited his suite. Cormac once again followed. They traveled back downward, through the elegant halls of granite and beautiful tapestries, passed marble statues in piety, back to the nave of the Basilica and into the warrens carved out of the rock of Italy. All that Cormac saw he now fought to protect, with his life if it came to that. Both men did not speak; the time for speaking had ended. The exacerbated animosity they both held was relegated to the past and held no place in the present.

That might change after Philip Plantagenet. If they survived.

For now, they were willing companions.

By the time they had returned to the barren underground world beneath St. Peter’s, much had changed. Hundreds of Swiss Guard flooded the catacombs, each fulfilling some order they were given, all bearing semi-automatic weapons, pistols, and additional ammunition. Clement and Cormac parted them like a sea, authority and purpose written on their faces and in their strides. The air grew cooler as they descended farther, and soon they were standing on the subterranean shore of the underground branch to the Tiber River. Provisions for a long siege had been brought to the catacombs and defenses erected to aid them.

None of the soldiers questioned their orders, but they all sent awkward glances at the shimmering portal from time to time.

Cormac fingered the hilt of Hrunting, standing behind the line of soldiers and next to the Pope. Power emanated from the sword, his at command. He was ready. He suppressed his fear with anger and memories. Someone in Annwn had murdered his mentor and friend, and it gave him renewed strength to see right done.

He hoped he would have the opportunity to avenge that death.

Hours passed. Nothing happened.

Just when Cormac began to wonder if Ennio Rossi had been misled, the gray sheen of the portal shimmered, darkening movement stirring within it.

Cormac tightened his grip on Hrunting and drew it forth.

And waited for the inevitable.





The heat beat down on Philip, matching his will to see his crusade through.

The day was beautiful, as clear as any that had come before it the past eight centuries. He could not have created a better one for conquest. The way was clear, his course set. The army he had amassed trailed behind him. It had taken generations of population growth since entering Annwn with the initial campaign of Templar Knights to have enough warriors to overcome the fey and return home. It had taken even longer to discover if the Graal could be useful beyond his own longevity. Capturing Arawn and using his knowledge had been key. Weakening the portals had been the last event. Each plan lay complete.

Now Philip yielded unimaginable power. When night fell, he would be returned to the world of his birth, a conqueror of worlds.

The only thing he lacked was the power of the Yn Saith.

Philip suppressed rage at the thought. Losing McAllister and Ardall still grated on him. Neither knight nor their weapons were his. The attack on Caer Llion had been a bold one, bolder than he thought capable of the demon wizard. He knew the Seelie Court had not conducted it. The reports from his soldiers indicated the halfbreed from Seattle, which pointed at Myrddin Emrys. Philip still did not know how the knights had escaped—the huge halfbreed could not have entered the close-quartered dungeons and released them, let alone kill his guards unaware—but it did not matter. The knights were gone and beyond his reach.

Philip pushed the matter aside. He would not let the small setback ruin his day.

The portal mountain appeared through the heat haze of the plains, beckoning to him and his destiny. Formed of white granite that lay beneath the emerald carpet of grass, the mountain jutted out of the world as if a giant had pushed its thumb up through the land and left it there.

To the east, the Forest of Dean spread like a green stain.

“The Cailleach is prepared, my king,” John said, riding up next to Philip.

“She had better be, if this day is to go as planned,” Philip said sharply. “The halfbreeds under her rule must be controlled if we are to have full command of our power.”

“You are still worried about the loss of the knights?”

“It would do you well to be as worried,” Philip said. He forced himself to be calm. “A king must be wary. There are other powers at play in this besides the wizard. Arrogance could kill us. Even the fey cannot be discounted.”

“They will not be,” John said. “The Tuatha de Dannan would not dream of attacking such a large force as you have assembled. If they do, it would be like a fly to a lion. Once we enter Rome and gain the Vault in the Basilica, fortune will be yours. With the relics housed there, none will defy you. Not there. Not here. Time will prove me right.”

“There is more transpiring here than what we know, John. My instincts roar at me,” Philip frowned. He looked around at the day as if able to find the problem. “Something is not right. I can feel it. We have left enough warriors at Caer Llion to keep our interests secure, and you have assured me the fey are inconsequential despite gathering their forces, but still I worry.”

“Battle apprehensions, my king,” John consoled. “As you have said, the Tuatha de Dannan are a broken group, unable to rouse their former might. I tell you the same, based on what I have seen the last few weeks. After this day, it will not matter.”

“I want you at my side during the entirety of today,” Philip ordered, still uneasy. He held the gaze of his advisor meaningfully. “It will take our combined war histories to overthrow the Vatican. Those in command of St. Peter’s know of their danger. They will be prepared. And they possess power that we cannot afford to forget.”

“I will do what I can to remain at your side,” John replied, looking at the sky. “As Master Wace used to say, there are no guarantees in war. Only glory to take.”

Philip did not reply. John had grown increasingly distant in the last few days. There was a hollowness to him, as if he were thinking of events that had nothing to do with capturing Rome and returning home. There were times Philip wondered if his friend still held the same ideals as he did. The Vault seemed foremost on his thoughts, as if gaining it meant the end of war. Philip did not agree with that. Magical implements were important, but he believed what Master Wace had taught so long ago.

Through arms, came strength.

Philip just hoped John had the ability to see the day through to its end.

As the mid-afternoon came so too did Philip to the mountain portal, the heat an itch on the back of his neck. The peak was larger than the distance had displayed, thrusting into the sky. Twisted trees clung to its side, the soil too thin to grow much else. About halfway to its summit, Philip could just make out two dead stumps between which a void of air shimmered in the day, the portal waiting for the High King of Annwn. No wind blew. No animals stirred. It was as though only Philip and the portal existed, each drawing the other onward.

He dismounted and glanced up the mountain. The trail to the portal above waited. It was far too steep for horses but that did not matter. Horses were not required for conquering Rome. Philip curbed his instincts that continued to scream at him. He would climb. He would bring his army through. He would regain the throne of his family, the blood running in rivers if needs be, and fulfill what his father had ordained.

Unleashing Hauteclere from his hip, he said a prayer before turning to his friend.

“John Lewis Hugo, our destiny awaits.”

Not waiting for a reply, Philip entered the trail, John a step behind. It was not as difficult as it looked, his desire to gain the portal driving him upward. It took only minutes for him to gain the large ledge where the portal shimmered between two oak tree stumps of immense size. He looked out over the plains behind him. His army spread as far as the eye could see, a dark stream of death for any who tried to get in his way.

Philip smiled. After more than eight centuries, it was time.

Sucking on the tube leading to the sack on his back, Philip entered the portal.

Time seemed to freeze.

The portal felt the same as the one he had entered in London. The gray swirled around him, a void of unsettling vertigo. The path before him was blank. He walked forward anyway. He had done it before and knew what to expect. When the light intensified and pressure built on his chest until he could barely breathe, he girded his soul for the battle he knew would come, one he had always known would be a part of his destiny.

Philip Plantagenet returned to the world of his birth.

Chaos and pain came the moment he tumbled free of the portal. The cacophony of weaponry pummeled him as soon as he stepped into the cavern, an assault like none he had witnessed against any person in his life. He grimaced but kept his fear in check, the contents of the bag on his back keeping him alive as he freely drank. John followed him, doing the same, as did the first Templar Knights to enter Rome. Before them hundreds of Swiss Guardsmen fired their weapons from all quarters, the projectiles threatening to drive Philip backward. He held his ground, sneering. With every bullet that entered him, the Graal pushed it out; the moment a bone or his skull was struck, it healed. It would take more than the weapons of man to kill him and his men.

The Templar Knights continued to swarm out of the portal wearing leather bags of their own; dozens upon dozens of soldiers came forth, until hundreds formed an arc around the portal, keeping their king safe from the Vatican defense.

All were invincible. All were ready to die if need be.

The gunfire ceased suddenly, the silence deafening, as the roar of a man beyond the Swiss Guards lorded over all.

“Philip Plantagenet!”

With the assault’s reprieve, Philip gained a better look at who had called his name. Two older men and a boy of barely twenty years stood beyond the defensive arcs of soldiers, all focused on the portal and the Templars that continued to stream through. The boy held a flaming knife that marked him as the portal knight; the men gripped long broadswords and wore black robes, one of which bore the papal crest of arms.

“Pontiff of Vatican City,” Philip greeted, his contempt thick. “It appears you have a wonderful welcoming party here. Have you brought more worthy warriors to my cause?”

“I am Pope Clement XV,” the oldest of the men said. “Beside me is the Cardinal Vicar of Rome, Cormac Pell O’Connor. St. Peter’s Basilica is a sanctuary, one for the devout and one for the good. This day has sadly long been in coming. The Vigilo has witnessed your rise in Caer Llion, the growth of your people, the construction of an army filled with dark purpose. We will not abide its existence in this world. You must return. Now.”

“I do not believe so,” Philip said. “I have spent centuries in Annwn. The fey have been quelled. It is time. Time to fulfill the promise to my father made so many centuries ago. Time to wash this world of its evil as I did in Annwn. Time for you to join me or die. There are no other options, Pope Clement XV.”

“From what I understand, you have not completed your duty.”

Philip smiled. “I control Annwn.”

“The Templar Knights at your side were banished for heresy centuries ago,” the Pope continued, his voice firm. “You will take them from these sacred grounds. Or we will see them sent to Hell where they—and you—belong.”

“My king has come to fulfill Saint Peter’s direction for the world,” John said beside Philip. “You are both of the Vigilo. I sense that much. Embrace us as brothers, not as enemies! It is time we work together, to establish the world as God intended, to see the Word spread through this world as it has never been before.”

“You are a rotted man, John Lewis Hugo,” the Cardinal Vicar spat, his red hair almost as white as his companion’s. “Your selfish appetites while in Annwn have been well documented over the centuries. The Cardinal Seers have witnessed much. The last Seer in particular.”

“The dead spy, you mean?” John said, smiling.

The Cardinal Vicar crimsoned.

Philip half expected the man to charge them.

“He was…weak,” John said, a grin pulling at his decimated face. “As was his faith. He died a traitor’s death. I read on you his memory, Cormac Pell O’Connor. It was you with him, was it not? Do not answer. I sense it to be true. You ran from me like a coward who nears wetting himself.”

The Cardinal Vicar darkened with fury, his grip tightening on the sword he carried.

The Pope placed a warning hand on the other’s forearm.

“I will kill you, John Lewis Hugo,” Cormac Pell O’Connor said.

“You will return to Annwn voluntarily—or in a casket,” the Pope declared to Philip. “Even with your polluted use of the Word’s most cherished remembrance of His power on this Earth, it will be for naught. The knight at my side will stop you.”

“It is clear to me you both are as weak,” Philip sneered. “This world is weak. It has lost its way. You have been poor caretakers. I am here to rectify that. The Yn Saith who entered Annwn have both been ineffective in their quests. One is so faithless he can barely call his power. The other has lost a hand and his way. Neither is here to protect you, and one portal knight cannot possibly stand in my way. The Vigilo is a shadow of what Saint Peter intended. I will see his glory done and Rome returned to its former heart of spiritual guidance.”

“I will not let that happen,” the Pope said firmly.

“We will see.”

“Show them the Word’s wrath!” the Pope yelled.

Gunfire erupted again, the bullets cutting into the Templar Knights in front of Philip. He was safe, the wall of flesh and Graal might between him and harm. The soldiers advanced, a few dying as bullets infiltrated eyeholes in helms or soldiers not drinking from their bag at the right time, but most pushed forward as they cut down any Vatican guard that got in their way. It was slow moving. But in time, Philip knew, the cavern would be in his possession.

The rest of the Vatican would fall as well.

Seeing the obvious, the Pope and his Vicar joined the fray. Alongside the portal knight, they slashed into the center of the Templar Knights. It was clear they were uneducated in the use of such weapons, but what they lacked in ability they gained in magic. The swords they wielded were not ordinary. They cut through weapons and armor alike, eviscerating the men of Annwn before the Graal could heal. Arms and legs were severed from bodies, heads were decapitated from necks; the two men were soon covered in blood and gore.

The Pope and his Vicar fought valiantly but Philip knew the Vigilo leaders would eventually fall. The army from Annwn was too large.

When they were dead, Philip would take the swords.

The first of many useful trophies

The battle was deafening, the close quarters echoing the chaos. The knight fought like an enraged tiger, lashing out with fire and lightning born of his Arthurian dagger, Carnwennan. The fire consumed the Templar Knights, incinerating those who did not protect themselves with the Graal. The greatest losses were near the knight, who had moved toward the side of the cavern in an attempt to flank the warriors of Caer Llion.

Before Philip could order a counterattack, John charged with a wedge of Templar Knights to the right side, his burned face snarling an inhuman rage. The armored group tore into the Swiss Guards there, swords, axes, and maces chopping down men whose last thoughts were of horror and death. John roared encouragement even as Philip tried to bolster those soldiers in the middle against the Pope. The portal knight fell back toward the middle again as the Templar Knights barreled their way through the Swiss Guards.

The defense there collapsed completely, giving John and several Templars the chance through. Carnwennan slashed in the air, lightning like a whip and blinding all in its path, closing the gap as the Swiss Guard regrouped and held the line once again.

Hacking through the last few soldiers, John and those with him made for the entrance into the cavern and vanished into the upper reaches of St. Peter’s Basilica above.

Leaving Philip alone in the cavern to lead the assault.

Yelling orders at the knight to hold the cavern at all cost, the Pope and his Vicar chased after John.

John’s disappearance irked Philip but it had also rid the cavern of the Vigilo. The battle continued, unchecked. Blood ran in rivulets down the embankment toward the river behind the glimmering portal, most of it from unmoving Swiss Guards who littered the stone floor like dead leaves in fall. Still, Philip was unhappy to realize the fight was not ending as quickly as he had hoped, his forces from Annwn needing to increase to finish the Vatican once and for all.

Gauging how best to ensure a quickened victory, Philip felt ice run through his soul.

He realized no more of his soldiers came through from Annwn. The portal was still open, shining its ethereal glow, but his army no longer crossed over.

Something was wrong.

Philip cursed, gripping Hauteclere tighter, angrier than he’d ever been before. The instincts he had ignored in the moment of his triumph rang louder—their warning all too real.

With John gone, he would have to discover the reason himself.

Philip knew the Templar Knights he had brought through could hold the inadequate power of the Swiss Guard. For every warrior who fell and needed time to recover, two more pushed forward, cutting deeper into the hundreds of defenders who tried to keep Philip from his birthright. With the Pope and Vicar gone, it would not take long for Caer Llion to control the cavern. Neither the Swiss Guard nor the wizard’s knight had the power to drive his warriors back through the portal. It gave Philip the time he needed to learn what had become of his army.

Then the cavern would fall. St. Peter’s would be his. Vatican City would embrace him for the hero of the faith they yearned for. Then Rome.

The world would be next.

Philip needed the rest of his army to do so though.

Barking orders at one of his commanders and taking a dozen of his Templar Knights with him, Philip strode toward the portal back to Annwn.

The shimmering void swallowed him again.