The Dark Thorn

The army of Philip Plantagenet spread across the grasslands like a black stain.

With Snedeker on his shoulder, Richard watched in horror as the army plodded forward, unable to take his eyes off it. The sheer volume of Templar Knights, unaffiliated warriors of the lords Philip had conquered, and various darkly spawned creatures staggered the mind. He had seen thousands of soldiers camped north of Caer Llion; it had been barely a twentieth of the host now on the plains. Philip led his throng around outcroppings of shattered white granite bursting from the ground, toward the hills fronting the Forest of Dean where a portal shimmered between two leafless oak snags upon the middle of a sentinel mountain almost a mile away.

Arawn rode up to join Philip as the despot led his army.

Hate like he had never known coursed through Richard.

The fey creature undoubtedly had his own plans. Richard had kept the knowledge of John Lewis Hugo’s true identity secret. Arawn had once led the Tuatha de Dannan. Richard could not share the truth. To do so could splinter the unified fey army, old factions given new life, destroying any chance of saving both worlds—and getting revenge against Arawn.

He looked over at Bran. The boy looked scared. He fidgeted with his new steel hand as he watched the progress of the host with trepidation.

“What are you thinking?” Deirdre asked Richard, the redhead appearing beside him.

“I am thinking…this is the day of your true freedom,” he said, hoping he sounded stronger than he truly felt.

“I hope so.”

“Confusion and surprise are our only weapons, I fear.” “They will have to do,” Deirdre said, pausing. “No matter what occurs today, know that I care for you, Richard McAllister.”

Richard looked into her eyes. They were a dark green like a deep sea. He had been hard on her the previous night and a part of him regretted it. He had no idea why she felt the way she did—the wiles of youth or a deeper connection he no longer understood—but it didn’t excuse his harshness. Still, it was best he not give her hope for love. Not with him anyway.

He looked at Bran. The boy stared at them hard.

“Deirdre, I hope we survive the day,” Richard said simply.

She squeezed his arm and smiled, her freckled face lighting up. She returned to where her father held Willowyn and his own Rhedewyr mount.

“She likes you,” Snedeker said.

“Shut up. I know this,” Richard growled. He looked around. “Are you prepared, fairy? We will have to be swift if we are to kill John Lewis Hugo.”

“Prepare yourself, Heliwr,” Snedeker said tersely. “I am ready.”

“I hope so. Today is likely the day of our deaths.”

Snedeker said nothing. Richard did not continue. In his heart, he did not care about the outcome of the battle, not in a way that would affect his decisions on the field. He only wanted a chance to kill Arawn. He had spent the entire night thinking about it. Despite the horrors he had endured in the dungeon of Caer Llion, he had risen that morning stronger in some way. Tempered steel now ran through him.

Nothing during the fight would stand in his way.

The Morrigan stood at the forefront of those who watched from their forest cover, her chin held high, eyes stabbing her enemy. Even though dryads, with their fists thrust into the ground and lips humming an alien song to the foliage, were shielding the Tuatha de Dannan from the locust-like horde, the Morrigan stood just beyond, seeming to invite the coming fight.

The rest of the Seelie Court watched nearby, lost to their thoughts. Caswallawn glowered behind his Queen, sullen and silent. Lord Eigion crouched with fellow Merrow, gills fluttering, eyes wide. Lord Faric stood with Commander Masyn and Captain Henrick, whispering tactics for when the battle began. Lord n’Hagr waited next to Lord Finnbhennach, each dressed in full battle gear, the former carrying large swords and a pole axe strapped to his broad back, the latter leaning on a giant mace, his horns shimmering. Lugh sat in a tree above, gaining a better look at what they faced.

Closest to Bran stood Lord Gerallt and Deirdre, father and daughter, both humans out of place amongst so many fey. Only Aife and Govannon were absent, the centaur vanished and the smith still producing armor and weapons deeper within the Forest of Dean.

The Kreche had left with the dawn, to take up his position according to the plan.

Richard knew what they all were thinking.

The growing army before them was far more powerful in numbers and magical protection than the Tuatha de Dannan.

Behind him, spreading into the far-reaching depths of the forest, the majority of the Tuatha de Dannan army lay silent. All of the fairy creatures were present, beckoned by their lords to fight for Annwn and their freedom, awaiting the command that would send them into conflict. Others had joined as well—massive hairless trolls from the coast with skin like rock, and spriggans hiding under bridges with dirty matted hair and wild wiry dispositions. With the addition of the coblynau and the men and women Lord Gerallt had amassed from his province—all wearing armor hammered together by the Mastersmith—the Queen of the Sarn Throne’s army was formidable.

It was an army composed of dreams.

And nightmares.

But it was nothing compared to the hellish creatures Philip and the Cailleach had bred in the depths of Caer Llion. Fairy and pixie scouts had reported the approach of Philip. It had been hard to believe the reports but now, seeing the horde trail west for miles, they all did. Upon returning, Caswallawn had corroborated it.

Richard had given what opinion he could but the members of the Seelie Court now saw with their own eyes.

Now he waited.

Like the rest of the Tuatha de Dannan.

“How did you find us?” Richard asked the fairy. “In Caer Llion.”

“The halfbreed met Deirdre where you left us, after dark,” Snedeker said, wings fluttering. “Appeared out of nowhere. Caswallawn, the man with the magic cloak, met us almost at the same time. Deirdre was unsure of them both but they spoke a long time. The halfbreed said much, like it knew the drunk lord would come.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then they left and asked me to aid them. Smart asking me, do you not think?”

“But why send Kreche?” Richard murmured to no one.

“Caswallawn knew he could not enter the castle,” Snedeker explained. “Magic in the walls that would detect his magic cloak, he said. But the halfbreed created a diversion. Smashed down the wall, just so, and that nasty drunk lord and I snuck in. He is worth his salt, that one. Then we found you.”

Richard cursed inwardly. Merle knew too much and hid all of it. Had the wizard seen Richard and Bran in danger? He must have, if he sent the Kreche. Merle would know curse tablets warded Caer Llion and the moment the Kreche broke in, Philip and Arawn would think their alarm tripped by the halfbreed rather than the real culprits—Caswallawn and Snedeker.

It was a simple plan and it had worked. But, as he had done with so many others, Merle had used the Kreche.

One day, if Richard survived the coming battle, the wizard would have to answer for it all.

It did beg questions though: What other wheels could Merle be setting in motion, particularly on this day?

Separating from the others, Bran came over to Richard.

“I know you are ready for this,” Richard said without preamble.

“What will we do?”

“Try to stay alive,” Richard snickered. He crossed his arms. “What happens to a snake when you cut its head off?”

“It dies,” Bran replied.

“No,” the knight said. “The body lives but no longer functions rationally.”

Richard pointed out into the plain. The undulating ribbon from Caer Llion wove toward the small mountain granite outcropping at the edge of the Forest of Dean. Philip, Arawn, and the Templar Knights who made up the forward battery had already begun their ascent. The portal glimmered, waiting. It would not be long before they would pass into Rome.

“Why are we allowing this?” Bran questioned.

Richard ignored the question, an unsettling sight to the north.

“Look at that.”

Bran turned and peered through the canopy leaves. In the far distance black specks flew, miles away. Richard could not make out what they were but he was fairly certain he knew.

“Damn griffins,” he growled.

“Why are they separated from their host?” Bran asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps Philip feels they have no use in the crypts of St. Peter’s. To be honest I don’t care,” Richard answered. “The dryads shield us as best they can and at this distance the halfbreeds can’t know we are here anyway. If those griffins are that distant they won’t be in our way and won’t alarm their master to our presence.”

Bran said nothing. Richard gave the tightly packed groups of griffins another cursory glance. Instincts grown comfortable with time set alarms. Something was not right. The half-bird, half-fey creatures were Philip’s power in the sky. It made no sense for them not to be patrolling over the massive host.

“Can’t the Nharth help us? Conceal our attack?” Bran asked.

“The mountain fog fey cannot leave their heights,” Richard said and then pointed ahead. “It is as you said, Bran. Look.”

Philip left his horse at the base of the rocky pinnacle and traversed the trail upward. Arawn walked a step behind. Templar Knights followed, several thousand strong, their white mantles and gray steel forming a walking wall of death upon the outcropping. Philip, Arawn, and their Knights all possessed leather bags. Richard had wished to attack them early, kill the leaders quickly, but the power of the Grail would let no such plan succeed. Below, the two standards that had led the army now stood to the side of the trail entrance, each bearing a golden lion against a field of crimson. The Cailleach remained far back in the ranks, still within the plains and among the creatures she had bred, controlling them with her magical arts. To the side of the host galloped Lord Gwawl and the other men and fey who made up Caer Llion.

Philip stepped into the portal, absorbed by the gray light—and leading his army just as he had told Bran he would.

A flutter of wings above heralded the return of Arrow Jack.

“It is time,” Richard said, patting Lyrian. “Get mounted, Bran.”

While Kegan helped Bran mount Westryl, Richard swung up on Lyrian. The Rhedewyr pawed the ground, anticipating what was to come. The former portal knight marveled over the fiery energy beneath him. Lyrian had been a husk of an animal when Richard had met him. Now he lent strength to the knight instead.

“He has become your own,” Deirdre said from Willowyn. “He would die for you.”

“I hope it never comes to that.”

“We all hope for that, McAllister,” Kegan said as he and his son Kearney aided the lords to mount. “Best of luck to ye.”

The lords of the Seelie Court dispersed, disappearing into the depths of the Forest of Dean to lead their respective peoples. The Morrigan remained while Lugh climbed down from his tree and brought up the bulk of the Long Hand.

Electricity infused the air and the Forest of Dean.

“Wait for my signal,” Richard cautioned Lord Faric, who held a silver horn.

Almost a quarter of the Templar Knights, most being the command elements of the horde, had ventured into the swirling mass, the remaining soldiers entering two at a time and vanishing like they never existed.

“Wait…”

Lyrian shivered beneath him, muscles shaking and tense. Several hundred more Red Crosses entered Rome.

“Now!” Richard hissed.

The coblynau lifted the ornate Caer Glain horn skyward and blew. The clarion blast shattered the stillness of the day. As the sound diminished, Richard watched the Kreche drop from the heights above the portal upon the Templar Knights below. The bluish-black behemoth landed like a boulder, crushingly, killing the knights who had been about to enter Rome. The halfbreed was maddened and roaring, barring the way into the portal, unleashed and flinging knights from the granite pinnacle like a child throwing dolls. The warriors tried to fight back but it was useless; they screamed until the rocks below silenced them.

The Kreche had come down on the front of the army, unrelenting and loud, like a hammer striking an anvil.

As the halfbreed wrecked havoc, pushing the Templar Knights back down toward the plains, a sound like thunder grew in the forest, intensifying with every passing second.

“Let’s hope this works,” Richard said. “Ready?”

Summoning Arondight, Bran nodded.

Richard called the Dark Thorn, gaining strength from the magic flowing through him. The reverberation from the forest intensified until the ground shook, the mulch quaking and the leaves overhead trembling.

From out of the trees near the portal, a centaur rushed into the plains, her sword held high in anger and pride.

“For Annwn! Annwn!” Aife screamed, swinging her blade.

She was not alone.

Rhedewyr streamed after, almost a thousand powerful horses tearing up the sod of the plains and sweeping toward the advancing army. The men and creatures on the plain reacted immediately, spinning to confront the stampede, weapons raised in protection. It was to no avail. The horses were upon the army quickly, tearing through the ranks of the host like a scythe through wheat. The Templar Knights on the plains vanished under churning hooves, trampled into Annwn—their blood, armor, and separated limbs flying into the air.

Hundreds of lives were extinguished in moments beneath the charge of the Rhedewyr.

The silver horn erupted again, this time at the command of the Queen, and with Richard at her side and the might of the Tuatha de Dannan at her back, they charged from the Forest of Dean to be free.

Richard did not wait to see if Bran joined.

The Cailleach screeched shrilly, aware of the danger, knowing the king and his second in command were gone, leaving her with lords too far in the rear of the train to make an immediate difference, all exposed to the Tuatha de Dannan. With sharp barks, she released the halfbreeds from her restraint. The unnatural beasts came at once. They bounded across the turf to meet the fey folk, jaws slavering and red eyes glowing. Demon wolves of all shapes and sizes—some tiny and mewling from all fours like cats with human faces, others charging on two feet with sharp claws and canine heads—intermingled in a sea of rushing nightmare. Larger creatures, humans bred with animals much larger than a wolf, came after, the same hatred mirrored in their actions. All growled and spat venom as they came, a tide of unbroken, unnatural evil.

“For Annwn!” the Morrigan yelled, driving directly at the Cailleach.

The witch waited, an inhuman sneer darkening her features, robes pulled back and arms already spitting wicked green pestilence. Almost upon the crone, the Queen brought her own power to bear, her sword burning white.

It was the last thing Richard saw.

Dark, twisted bodies swarmed over him, a tidal wave of biting teeth and tearing claws. Most of the Tuatha de Dannan vanished from sight. Richard kept the Dark Thorn before him, protecting Lyrian as best he could, already sweating from exertion. His steed fought against the demon wolves like a rabid wolverine, fore- and rear legs shattering skulls and limbs and opening up bodies with ease. Richard sent his magic lancing at any dark thing that came, killing dozens of the manic halfbreeds, keeping them at bay with white fire. Black blood and ichor splattered him but he ignored it.

The world he knew fell away, the sun almost gone from his view by the unending torrent, his awareness reduced to adrenaline, twisted limbs, and bony spikes.

The need to stay alive, to enact revenge, burned through him, lending him strength.

Chaos ruled.

Like death, it had consumed Annwn.

As he charred the aberrations dead, flashes of the familiar came to him from other quarters at his peripherals. One moment a brigade of coblynau led by Lord Faric would push their way through the malformed bodies, hacking with axes and hammers, the fighters gruesome in their precision before disappearing again. Another moment the mighty Lord Finnbhennach appeared, his white horns caked with blood and gore, his mace a blurred weapon as it crushed all who came within reach. From far away he gained glimpses of the Merrow slinging tiny balls of white light that concussively exploded into the demon wolves until the water folk were chased down by a division of Templar Knights; Lord n’Hagr drove his buggane to their aid, unable to outright kill the Grail-protected warriors but pushing them back from the deadly Merrow.

The other fey lords swam in and out of his vision, fighting, killing, and dying. Together, they had dropped age-old animosities to save one another.

Richard got a glimpse of the portal. The Kreche had massacred until he had reached the plains, the huge halfbreed killing the Templar Knights despite the Grail water they carried.

No one else entered the portal.

Though hundreds of Templars had gotten through, Rome was safe—for now.

Then the Dark Thorn was almost ripped from him.

He held on, barely, his fingers clamping down on the warm wood as he confronted his assailant. A werewolf-looking creature gripped the staff, snarling as it wrenched on the source of the knight’s power. Lyrian kicked out, panicked, but the creature was too close. Other demon wolves came on, bolstered by what their brethren had done.

Richard did not hesitate.

He sent magic coursing through the staff into the beast. The creature absorbed it, hair curling, flames vomiting forth from its gaping, fanged mouth, its muscles rigid in apoplexy.

The beast exploded, bits flying in all directions.

Richard kept his seat, if barely. Cursing his distracted carelessness, he continued to mow through the dark masses. A bit lightheaded, he swallowed dust from the air, and appraised the battle. The Tuatha de Dannan were mostly emptied from the Forest of Dean, trying to keep their lines from folding beneath the overwhelming numbers. Richard was now deep into the plains, overextended. Lyrian navigated the uplifted white granite with uncertain steps, even the surefooted horse having a hard time with the natural minefield.

Fearful his Rhedewyr might trip, Richard fought to return to the fey, knowing if the Caer Llion army broke through the Tuatha de Dannan, all would be lost.

Just as he began to fight free, a monstrosity almost as large as the Kreche roamed into view and came right for him. It shook the ground, its wide head shaped like that of a bear, its foamy roar of anger filled with long saber-like teeth. The brown shaggy fur acted like a shield, but the monster bled from numerous wounds. It ignored the dark kin around it, until it picked up one of the smaller catlike demon wolves and threw the beast at Richard.

Lyrian reacted instantly.

The Rhedewyr reared in challenge, killing the creature with its hooves even as he knocked it out of the air—and tripped upon a molehill of broken granite.

Lyrian stumbled backward.

Richard fell into demon horde shadow.

The ground almost paralyzed him when he struck it. Fear coursed through his veins. He pushed it down, sending fire in a broad circle from the trod grass of the plains. Enraged by their failures and sensing an advantage, the smaller halfbreeds rushed the fallen, mewling and spitting their hatred, breaking through the fire of the Dark Thorn to rend his life and end it.

Lyrian fought them, his whinny terrible.

Struggling to regain his feet, Richard knew the end was near.

He had failed.

As he hurled his magic in a last prayer, a massive man with sword held high leapt over the knight in defense, hacking at the demons in unbridled fury. Lord Gerallt was an unchained animal, joined by a dozen warriors from Mochdrev Reach. The men threw themselves at the oncoming mayhem, armor forming a barrier. With swords wielded and battle cries screamed, they blocked the tumult from Richard as a human shield.

“Get back, Heliwr!” Lord Gerallt roared. “Now!”

“Up, Rick!” Deirdre screamed, pulling him from behind.

Stumbling backward, Richard watched the demon wolves break upon his saviors like a tidal wave.

He sent fire at the creatures, a scream of warning frozen within.

It was too late.

Lord Gerallt and many of his warriors disappeared beneath the sharp teeth and rending claws of the coming onslaught. Without magic to aid their limited number, they didn’t stand a chance. The wall swarmed with more bodies than Richard had seen before, black twisted things compacted into a tight space, their inhuman growls and ravening nearly drowning out the dying screams of Lord Gerallt and the rest of his men.

“Father!” Deirdre howled.

As the bear halfbreed shambled over the spot where the lord had once stood, Richard hauled Deirdre back with all his might but was unable, the woman enraged beyond control.

“He’s gone!” he roared.

“No!” she screamed.

“Fall back!”

Richard brought the Dark Thorn up and willed fire passed the Rhedewyr into the bear above them. The beast roared but the fire barely had any effect. Snedeker screamed at the redhead, to flee, to find protection. It would be too late. The blackened noose tightened about Richard, Deirdre, and those warriors of her father’s retinue who remained.

If they did not fall back, Richard knew they would join Lord Gerallt in death.

He would not fail—or at least die trying.

Then a familiar sound shattered the din of the battle.

The front ranks of the charging demon wolves dissolved into bloody mess, skulls blown apart, gaping holes appearing as if by magic. Unnatural limbs broke, splintered from bodies or bent back. The bear also stumbled, its matted fir parted in hundreds of small places, black blood spattering free. Snarls changed to howls of pain. The line of evil disintegrated, the initial threat destroyed, giving Richard room to help Deirdre and the others.

“McAllister! To me! To me!”

The Dark Thorn raging magic, Richard spun around.

Finn Arne leapt over dead bodies, his assault rifle pointed beyond Richard at the toiling mass of midnight. The two dozen armed soldiers the captain had brought into Annwn spread out in formation, their firepower unleashed. The odor of used gunpowder mingled with the sour musk of the demon wolves. With the soldiers aiding their flight, Richard pulled Deirdre forcibly back to safety as Lyrian shadowed them.

The Vatican guards fired at any halfbreed that came too close. They pulled their triggers often, shielding their rear as they fled the battle.

Tears streaked down the redhead’s cheeks but her grip on Richard was steel. He held Deirdre up by his willpower and the Dark Thorn alone.

Somehow Finn Arne had found him.

“Where is Ardall?” the captain screamed over the clamor.

“No idea!”

“The portal is clear. We need to make for Rome.”

“The Queen’s army is scattering, being broken apart,” Deirdre said through her grief. “Now is not the time to venture away from this battlefie—”

“Of no consequence,” Finn Arne interrupted. “We must gather Ardall and return to the Vatican. It is the only important path at this time.”

“There won’t be a Vatican left if Philip’s army makes the portal,” Richard argued loudly.

“Why do the Templar Knights not die?”

“You see the leather bags on their backs?” Richard asked.

Finn Arne nodded.

“Water from the Holy Grail protects the Templar Knights, making them invincible,” Richard said. He looked quickly about. “If this army enters our world, it will march over the entire earth and enslave humanity. It must be stopped here! Whether they take this portal or another, it makes no difference. The only way to keep our world safe is fighting now.”

Then movement from the portal caught Richard’s eye.

Philip Plantagenet, joined by a dozen armed Templar Knights, returned to Annwn, undoubtedly to discover why the rest of the army had not entered Rome. It was terrible timing. With the Kreche in the middle of the melee, Philip was free to reorganize his army. He was already yelling furious orders at his lords and pointing wildly at various areas of the battlefield. Even as Richard watched, Philip’s army slowly congealed, regrouping, becoming an organized terror once more.

Soon the confusion that had been created by the surprise attack would be reversed.

When that happened, the Caer Llion army would reform.

And kill its much smaller foe.

“I must enter Rome,” Richard said.

“What do you mean?!” Deirdre yelled, her eyes wild. “We need you here!”

“Captain Arne,” Richard said. “Find Ardall. Keep the boy safe. He will help protect Annwn. You have to go after Philip! Now!”

“What will you do, McAllister?”

“Kill his second in command, kill the Templar Knights who have already gone through. Ennio Rossi will do his best on the other side, but it won’t be enough against the Grail-infused Templar Knights,” Richard shouted, gripping the shoulder of the Swiss Guard captain. “As Heliwr, I go after them to keep Rome and the secret of Annwn safe!”

“You should go after Philip!” Finn Arne roared.

“There is more here than I can tell you, Arne,” Richard continued, burning with conviction as he pointed out into the battle. “We don’t know what Philip and his second in command intend while in the Vatican! There are items to protect in St. Peter’s. I must keep them safe. And bring down the cavern in the catacombs if needs be!” He paused. “Trust me. Now go!”

Richard expected the captain to fight back. He did not. “We have limited rounds,” he said.

Fighting weariness, Richard mounted Lyrian.

“If that’s the case, pick up a sword!”

After giving Finn Arne a nod, Richard gave Deirdre a sad smile. She just looked at him, sorrow and anger mingling in her eyes.Before he said something he would regret, Richard kicked Lyrian into motion. With the fairy flying beside him, the Rhedewyr shot like a dart around the melee toward the portal and Rome. The battle spread out over the plains from his higher vantage point, dust polluting the scene and the hot, sticky air. The whole event sickened him. When Merle convinced the knight to enter Annwn, Richard had hoped he could prevent the very thing he now witnessed. He had failed at that. Now it engulfed him.

He hoped he could prevent it from spreading into Rome.

He would not fail again.

“Snedeker, I need you to watch over Bran,” Richard said.

The fairy frowned. “No, I will not leave your side.”

“You cannot go where I go!”

“I am to be your guide!” Snedeker said, flying, barely able to keep up as Richard pushed Lyrian to faster speed through the tumult. “Keep you safe!”

“Bran needs to be kept safe,” Richard offered, worried for the boy. “He needs you now. Protect him as best you can. I have faith in the Oakwells, faith in you. Even a portal knight needs a guide sometimes, right?”

“Where do you go then, McAllister?”

“Obey my command, Snedeker!” Richard roared. “Now!”

The fairy gave a quick nod before flying back into chaos.

As Richard battled his way through nightmare anew, hoping the fairy kept Bran safe, the shimmer of the portal and his revenge drew him on.

He would not be denied.

The white fire of the Dark Thorn raged like the sun.

As he broke from the maelstrom of battle and the sounds of the fighting and dying fell behind him, Richard turned away from it all, the staff clenched before him. He galloped Lyrian to the rocky base where the portal shone above. He dismounted and rushed up the trail, avoiding the bodies of Templar Knights killed by the Kreche. Philip had long since vanished into the host below, trying to regain control over it. Richard was alone and soon stood before the gateway. He turned from it and viewed the war of two very different nations as it ebbed and flowed over the expansive plains.

Keeping the staff in hand and bringing its protective magic to the fore, Richard took a deep breath and entered the portal. He went in hunt of Arawn.

But what he last saw on the plains filled him with ice.

The defeat of the Tuatha de Dannan was at hand.





When Bran saw Philip Plantagenet reenter Annwn, he knew he could end the war if he was strong enough.

The new portal knight was severely battered. After the initial charge by the Morrigan, Bran had lost sight of Richard, Deirdre, and most of the members of the Seelie Court. It had not been easy to enter the rending tide of halfbreeds created for Caer Llion’s war, but before he had time to think on it, the wrath broke over him like a wave, reducing him to reaction. With Arondight a blur of azure metal and fire, Bran barely kept the death from himself, the euphoria from using the magic ebbing as he grew accustomed to it. Several times he almost lost his seat on Westryl, the battle on the plains threatening to end both their lives at every moment, but his perseverance saw him through.

As he rode away from the mayhem to catch his breath, Bran looked over the battle, not liking what he saw.

The plan Richard and the Tuatha de Dannan had conceived had worked—for minutes only. Without Philip in control, his army floundered beneath the surprise attack of the fey, causing leaderless pandemonium. It became clear to Bran it would not last. The Tuatha de Dannan were hopelessly outnumbered, and after the initial shock given by the stampeding Rhedewyr, they were losing. The Grail-infused Templar Knights coupled with thousands of halfbreeds were wearing the forces of the Morrigan down.

The lines of the fey were collapsing.

When they failed entirely, the final resistance would die.

Bran flexed his new hand. The blood-spattered gauntlet gleamed under the sun, the runes blazing. He could feel everything as if the steel had nerves, but the metal was cold.

He didn’t care. The Mastersmith had made him whole again.

A unified scream erupted from the battle, drawing his gaze. A second later, a fountain of magic blew into the sky as if a bomb had gone off, tossing fey and the dark twisted things into the air like matchsticks. Other magic permeated the battlefield from sprites, leprechauns, sylphs, and other lesser wielders, but it was insignificant compared to the concussion that shook the battlefield. Flaring colorful energy crackled in the air, forming a dome, angrily alive until it dissipated. When the magic and dust settled, a barren circular area existed, lacking all combatants but two.

The Cailleach and the Morrigan.

The two women faced one another several dozen feet apart, their magic like electricity about them. Both were grimy and ravaged. The robes of the Cailleach hung in tatters about her, revealing her wrinkled, emaciated frame. The Queen had taken a beating as well, her black armor dented and rent open in places. Circling one another like cats on the attack, limping and lacerated from multiple wounds, they ignored those who watched, their eyes cold with wild resiliency.

Hate radiated from both of them, a heat Bran could feel in his very innards.

“Ye cannot kill me, Queen of Nothing!” the Cailleach screeched.

“Even the summer falls to winter, witch!” the Morrigan challenged back. “By your death, you will release summer before the sun sets!”

“Or I will piss on yer dead royalty!”

The Queen said nothing, her fey sword glimmering a faded purple under the afternoon sun. Only stunned from the magical detonation for those brief moments, the rest of the battle continued around the two enemies, but at distance.

With words of power Bran could not understand, the Morrigan threw her sword savagely at the witch. It fell short, sticking blade-first into the grass at the witch’s feet. The Cailleach cackled again, ignoring the blade, bringing her hands up as wicked green fire gathered to attack anew.

The sword of the Morrigan erupted into a purple bonfire, engulfing the crone. She screamed, not from pain but in surprised anger, a nimbus of her own magic the only thing protecting her. Already moving, the Morrigan cut the distance between them. As the Cailleach tried to escape, the Queen leapt forward and, in one smooth somersaulting motion, pulled her sword free to slay the woman responsible for destroying the natural seasons of Annwn.

The hag regained her faculties in time. She wove her hands in the air until the spell she cast shook the land beneath Bran, a rumbling from deep in the earth. Just as the Morrigan raised her sword to strike down the Cailleach, a granite slab burst free from the grassy surface at the Queen’s feet, showering all in sharp boulders, pebbles, and dark soil.

The unearthed granite caught the Morrigan unaware. She catapulted backward, sword flying from her grasp and arms flailing. She hit the ground hard, her armor absorbing most of the damage, her left arm caught behind her as she struck.

The shattering of plate and arm echoed through the din.

Snarling her hatred, the Cailleach screamed into the world. Vines burst from the soil around the Morrigan, thick with thorns the size of daggers. They wrapped about the legs of the Queen, digging into the steel of her armor, holding her fast. She fought against them but it was of no use.

Having quenched the purple fire about her, the witch approached, a snide grin on her ancient face.

“And now,” the Cailleach said. “Finally.”

The Queen glared with cold disdain, still fighting her bonds.

“Finally,” the crone echoed.

Before Bran could vault Westryl into motion in an attempt to protect the Queen, the Morrigan grabbed the vines with both hands, closed her eyes, and began to hum, the sound overwhelming the chaos about her.

It was a melody of green things, a promise of protection and care. The vines reacted instantly. Tentacles from the same plant burst forth under the Cailleach with great force. The witch didn’t have time to react. She screamed, horrified, the realization of what was happening coming to her all too late. The vines did not stop with her legs but went immediately for her arms, pulling them back, keeping them as far apart as possible. The hag fought but her restraints were stronger. They drew her down toward the ground until she was pinned, pulled flat on her back. Unable to weave spells, the Cailleach snarled her wrath, spitting and fighting like a caged beast.

The vines holding the Queen melted back into the earth.

“The Tuatha de Dannan are friends of nature,” the Queen said, cradling her arm even as she stood over the witch. The Morrigan picked up her fey sword. “For too long you have been its tyrant. Pray you never join the wrong side again.”

The Morrigan raised her sword high.

And with one arm, rammed the blade through the chest of her enemy.

Ribs snapped like twigs as the sword plunged into the heart of the Cailleach and into the ground beneath her. No blood emerged. The hatred on her face was preserved but the anger in her eyes faded. She soon melted into the land, hair, skin, and bones becoming dust, leaving only the filthy rags of her robe gathered on the gritty grass.

A moan of discontent and confusion erupted from the halfbreeds. With the death of their mistress, they were no longer controlled. They lashed out at anything or anyone, maddened and unleashed. It did not end there. Darkness spread across the sky, not from the north as Bran and Richard had seen before, but from the western fringe of the plains, where the griffins were suddenly free.

“You should be fighting, Ardall!”

Bran glanced up. Snedeker flew above him, wings beating furiously.

“Still alive, I see,” Bran noted. “Where is Richard?”

“Gone through the portal, after that burned ass John Lewis Hugo!”

Bran stared at the portal. It made sense Richard would have gone into Rome. Philip had taken several hundred Templar Knights through to the other side. Even though the king had returned to Annwn, those warriors in Rome would not be sitting idly by waiting for the return of their master. Their mischief could not be ignored and John Lewis Hugo was a menace that needed to be dealt with as well.

Bran sat higher upon Westryl, looking for the other danger. He spotted Philip Plantagenet almost at once. The redheaded man yelled his orders across the battlefield, safely surrounded by dozens of Templar Knights and men from Annwn’s northlands.

Bran pushed Westryl into a gallop.

“Where are you going?” Snedeker asked, flying alongside Bran.

Bran let the magic of Arondight course through him.

“To end this war.”

But before he had made it halfway to Philip, Bran was spotted. Lord Gwawl appeared at his king’s side and, mounting his horse, drove at the charging knight. Seven of his warriors followed, each with weapons and defiance drawn. Bran raised Arondight high, screaming his challenge, the magic building inside of him like molten lava about to explode. For years he had yearned for a life of meaning, and the fire for it consumed him as he pounded across the torn plains.

Here was his chance to make all the meaning for two worlds.

Lord Gwawl roared as he bore down on Bran.

Just before the charging warriors met, a black behemoth came out of nowhere and tackled the fey lord off his horse.

Bran pulled Westryl up to stop, not believing his eyes.

It was the Kreche.

The force with which the halfbreed hit Gwawl killed him instantly. Both flew through the air until finally crashing to the rocky turf. The Kreche didn’t stop. He rained fists down onto Gwawl with such power the ground shook. The traitorous lord vanished beneath the assault, his upper body and head pummeled into the crimson-soaked sod.

While the Kreche looked for the next victim, grunting hard from exertion, his fists covered in gore, arrows flew through the air, striking several of the warriors who had been with Gwawl. Bran watched Aife ride into view, the centaur fluid and deadly. Two of the northland warriors dropped like sacks of grain. The others fled. Aife trotted to one of the warriors still struggling for breath through the holes in his chest. She notched her bow and unleashed the bolt into his neck.

He gurgled and stilled, his desire to get away forgotten in death.

The centaur nodded at Bran and rode away.

The Kreche stood, snorting his annoyance—the crimson crater and broken bones the only proof Gwawl had existed.

“There was no need. I had him,” Bran said, suffused with magic.

“There is a need though, scion of Ardall,” the Kreche rumbled, nodding toward Philip. “The man responsible for taking your hand awaits. The gift from the Mastersmith does not heal all wounds. And you cannot avenge if you are dead.”

Bran fixed the halfbreed with a questioning look.

“I see you, see you clearer than you will ever know,” the Kreche said lowly before looking to the portal. “Rick too. You both have something to prove this day, methinks.”

Bran took one look at Philip before nodding.

“I will get you to your moment!” the Kreche prodded. “Follow!”

With a roar, the halfbreed tore down the slope, ripping up the sod, aiming directly for Philip and those who surrounded him protectively. Bran charged after the behemoth, flames running along Arondight, his need burning. They covered the distance to Philip quickly. The Kreche hit the defenders with a force that killed men and demon wolves on impact, sending them flying through the air, crushed by brute force. Bran rode Westryl a step behind, sending his magic into those who fought past the Kreche.

Soon soldiers and demon wolves surrounded them, attacking from all sides. The Kreche was untiring, a machine of destruction, his thick arms annihilating all who came within striking distance. Bran kept safe the halfbreed’s back, killing any man or creature that came too near. The closer the knight got to Philip, the hotter his magic burned, the faster Arondight became. He began to lose himself in the battle, the desire to prove himself driving him on.

When the day ended, people like Deirdre would look at him differently.

Then the Kreche went down.

It happened so quickly that Bran almost ran Westryl into the back of him. It took only seconds for the black writhing creatures to throw themselves at the halfbreed, swarming over him. Soon Bran found he was deep in a sea of unwashed clawed limbs, all trying to take him down as well.

“Go, Ardall!” the Kreche bellowed from the melee.

Only unsure for a moment, Bran kicked Westryl forward. The Rhedewyr barreled down any man or creature in his path and, using Arondight to keep his mount safe, Bran made his way through the army—right to Philip Plantagenet.

It didn’t take long. The Kreche had taken Bran most of the way. When Philip saw Bran, the knight could tell the king was not pleased.

“You are alive, Ardall!” Philip yelled, darkening. “Come to join me at last?”

Bran said nothing, destroying the last few halfbreeds between he and his goal. Philip radiated annoyed arrogance. He wore all black as he did in Caer Llion, but also displayed a shining steel breastplate emblazoned with a crimson lion, gauntlets on his forearms, and greaves along his legs. Bullet holes littered his person but he was unharmed, the Grail water on his back keeping him safe. He held an elegant blade with a jewel in its hilt.

He did not budge, as if waiting for Bran to make the first move.

Bran gripped Arondight and felt the blade thrum with magic, even as the bloodied Kreche returned to his side.

“You hide behind a halfbreed now?” Philip snickered.

“Not at all.”

“I see you got your hand back,” Philip said. “It appears to be the work of the fey, a relic of some worth. I suppose this means you have become one of them.”

“I do what is right,” Bran argued. “What you desire has been attempted before in history. It seems every so often some nutcase tries to enslave the world. The world fights back.”

“You willingly betray the Word then.”

“On the streets, when confronted by a bully, there is no Word,” Bran said, growing more annoyed by the king’s grin. “There is only you against them. I have seen homeless beat the hell out of a bully enslaving them with fear. I see that bully in you.”

“You are young. And naďve.”

“And you are an extremist who needs to be put on his ass.”

The arrogant smile on Philip’s face dropped. “Apparently I should have let you die from your injury.”

“Apparently,” Bran agreed.

“Look at what you wish,” Philip said, scowling. “The world of my birth is gone. The world it has become, your world, is a horrible cesspool. I have seen it from afar. Sin. Disease. Greed. Hatred. Sloth. God never intended Satan to have such firm control of his creation. Divine providence brought me a tool to see goodness returned. When the Word needs service, it sends His warriors. I am that warrior.”

“Do not listen to him, Ardall,” the Kreche snarled.

Bran kept Arondight leveled at the king, his anger simmering.

“Do not let the pagan wishes of the demon wizard or the weakness of the Church blind you to what is right,” Philip added, ignoring the Kreche. “Join me.”

Long moments passed. The dying continued around them.

In answer, Bran launched at Philip.

The king of Annwn sidestepped the attack easily and parried Arondight. “You fool!” Philip hissed. “You will join your rotting father for that!”

The king countered. Bran brought his sword up, his blade blocking the attack like an azure shield. The opponents circled one another. Bran could tell immediately he was outmatched. Philip had lived centuries, undoubtedly training during them, his movements nimble as a cat when it circled prey. Bran had no such training. He had the instinctual fire of the magic at his command and that was it. It was barely enough. For every injury Bran visited on Philip, it healed as quickly as delivered, the power of the Grail sustaining him. As the fight progressed, a part of Bran knew he couldn’t maintain the magic for long. It wore him as nothing ever had and ultimately, with the Grail water, Philip would win.

Already wearied, Bran would have to do something soon.

As if understanding, the Kreche came suddenly at Philip from behind, a locomotive of inertia.

Bran sent flame at the Philip’s feet, trying to trip him at a moment when the Kreche could fall upon the king and, like Gwawl, pummel him into obliteration. Philip was faster. He danced away just as the Kreche bore down on him. Lashing out with his sword, the king caught the halfbreed on the back of his leg as he passed.

The Kreche roared in pain, collapsing as he hit the ground.

The behemoth tried to rise but couldn’t, his leg crippled.

Philip was on the Kreche instantly. He brought his sword down in a blur at the neck of the halfbreed, attempting to kill him with one stroke. Roaring, Bran blasted Philip in the chest. The fire sent the king flying through the air. He hit the ground hard. Without a word, he was back on his feet, drinking the water on this back, made whole again as if nothing had happened.

The fight continued, dust from their tumult thick in Bran’s nose.

He weakened.

Biding his time, Philip countered every attack, barely flustered.

Bran burned with frustration. He knew the magic was not infinite. The inexhaustible need to win lent him more power than he had ever known but it had begun to wane. Philip on the other hand was unchanged; he had not tired or slowed. While Bran became more desperate, magic he had barely gained control over threatened to consume him, every use requiring him to dig deeper into areas of his soul, places he intuitively knew were forbidden.

The more he could not break through Philip’s will, the exponentially more he gave to keep up.

Readying to charge at Philip, the world tumbled from view.

One moment he was standing. The next he was on his back, having gotten sloppy and fallen over the carcass of a dead catlike halfbreed. He fought to regain his feet but it was too late. Philip pounced on him instantly, the blade of his sword pressed into Bran’s chest faster than the knight could stop.

“If I would have known you would be this easy,” Philip began, gloating, “I would not have tried to gain your services.”

“You will not succeed in this!” Bran choked. “Richard wil—”

“Will stop me? Friendship avails one nothing.”

The pit in his stomach went cold. Bran had failed.

As Philip brought his blade up for a killing stroke and Bran futilely fought to block the blade with Arondight, a figure hit the king in the side and sent him tumbling away from the knight.

Bran could not believe his eyes.

It was Deirdre.

The redhead held her sword before her, green eyes flashing lightning. There was a wildness about her that Bran had not seen before, a willingness to give up everything—even her life—if it meant killing Philip.

When the king spun on her, she waited, ready to fight.

“Get up!” Snedeker screamed, suddenly there.

Before Bran could gain his feet, Philip tackled the redhead. She tried to run her sword through him, snarling intense rage, but Philip knocked it easily aside and kept coming. He soon had her gripped from behind, holding the blade of his sword against her exposed neck.

“Daughter of Lord Gerallt,” Philip sneered. “To think I meant to give you everything as a queen.”

“My father is dead!” Deirdre screamed, thrashing to no avail.

“Another traitor I won’t have to kill myself then.”

“Let her go,” Bran ordered, staring into Deirdre’s eyes. The knight saw new fear there that matched his own.

“Not before I do this…”

Philip pulled the sword viciously across her throat.

Blood erupted even as he threw Deirdre to the ground.

The last dam broke inside Bran, magic rising up from depths of his soul he did not know he possessed. He charged the last few feet, Arondight blazing brighter than the sun, his rage tempering his will and the fire within endangering his very humanity.

The battlefield dropped away.

Reason left him.

Thundering his anger, he slashed at Philip with everything he had, not caring if he lived or died. Philip spun as Bran hoped he would, as he had seen the king do several times before. Instead of trying to parry the other’s sword and dance away, Bran let the sword fall exactly where he knew it would be.

And caught it with his gauntleted hand.

Surprise followed by fear crossed Philip’s face. Before the king had a chance to disengage, Bran rammed Arondight through the center of the crimson lion on Philip’s breastplate almost to the hilt. Eyes wide, Philip clutched at him, trying to drink the Grail water. Bran did not care if Philip drained the pouch dry. The knight sent the power thrumming inside through Arondight, incinerating the king from the inside out. The smell of charring meat accosted Bran. He did not care. He let the magic take control, become a living thing, a torrent that would not stop.

Philip looked down at his chest, eyes bulging in disbelief, skin blanching to white. He gasped and coughed weakly once, crimson coating his teeth.

“Father,” Philip whispered.

Slumping to the plains, the light in his eyes went lifeless.

Philip Plantagenet lay dead.

Sudden weariness stole Arondight from Bran. With a shiver he drifted like a ghost to where Deirdre lay. The redhead did not move, blood covering her jerkin. Without knowing what he did, Bran fell to his knees, feeling hot tears trail down his cheeks. He held the woman, the horror he felt within growing into a ravenous scream he would never be able to release.

“Red, no!” Snedeker wailed, flying to Deirdre.

The Kreche limped to stand over Bran.

“She is gone, scion of Ardall.”

“Get me one of the bags!”

The Kreche paused a moment but ultimately did as he was bid. Bran took the bag and splashed water in Deirdre’s mouth, hoping for the miracle that had kept Philip alive for so long.

Nothing happened.

“Come on, Deirdre…” “I am sorry,” the Kreche said. “She has traveled beyond, into the dawn. She has become one with it.”

Snedeker put his head down on her unmoving chest and bawled. Bran did not move. He held Deirdre close, keeping hope alive, willing her to move, to breathe, to do anything that would not be the reality.

“She is gone, Bran Ardall.”

Through his tears, Bran looked up.

Finn Arne stared at him. The captain of the Vatican held pistols in both of his hands but had no need of them, the rest of his guard surrounding the plains and keeping them safe. The one-eyed man knelt next to Bran, his demeanor somber.

“The battle is turning for the worse,” Finn Arne said. “We had best not be here when that happens.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

“You must if you are to survive. She would want that.”

So weary he could not stand, the pain in his heart encompassing the entire world, Bran surveyed the battlefield with blurry vision. The captain was right. Without the witch keeping the halfbreeds under control, they were frenzied, giving into a bloodlust that only made them stronger, both those on the ground and the griffins in the air. As a result the Tuatha de Dannan had splintered into pockets of resistance that were being consumed. It would not take long for the Morrigan to call a retreat or die fighting.

Bran let Deirdre down gently.

When he regained his feet, fighting the tears, he took his own appraisal of the battle—and could not believe what he saw in the northern distance.

The shapes he had seen earlier grew at an accelerated rate.

Richard had been wrong. The black stains to the north were not griffins.

Not at all.

“Snedeker!” Bran shouted.

The fairy looked up from his place on Deirdre, sorrow etching his wooden features.

“Do you see!?” Bran screamed, pointing. “Look to the north!”

Snedeker did so. Surprise turned to fear.

“Right!” Bran yelled. “They come to kill with flame!”

“The Tuatha de Dannan must take cover in the trees where the dryads can protect them,” the Kreche advised.

“Snedeker, tell the Morrigan to pull her forces out of the plains!”

Face screwed up with determination born of anger, the fairy stuttered in the air, already looking for the Queen. Snedeker then shot across the battlefield like a released dart, dodging the numerous dangers of griffins and flying arrows.

With no one around, the battle raging closer and closer to the Forest of Dean as the Caer Llion horde overcame the Tuatha de Dannen with increasing ferocity, Bran sat and waited, watching his likely death descend.

“If that’s what I think it is, we must flee,” Finn Arne said.

“We can’t make cover in time,” Bran replied. “Too far from the dryads. And I know who comes. He won’t risk harm to his children, preferring to kill from afar with fire indiscriminately. That probably includes us.”

“Your father would be proud of you this day, for the fight you gave your enemy, young Ardall,” the Kreche said, his small eyes bright but his face solemn.

“Thank you,” Bran said simply. “You should try to get away.”

“You go, I go,” the Kreche said.

When the black shapes in the air lost altitude and rushed to meet the plains and those upon it, Bran called and held Arondight aloft, fire licking the blade, knowing it to be the last time he would hold the talisman. The first flames from the falling shapes erupted from between jagged teeth and opened maws, the wide wings of the descending beasts fanning the scorching heat into those caught out on the plains southward.

The dragons of Tal Ebolyon had come.

Latobius flew beside his son Saethmoor and Nael, all blazing fire in a wide swath that ignited anything it touched. The flames incinerated thousands on the first pass alone, the fire burning through the leather packs carried by the Templar Knights and northland men, evaporating instantly the life-saving water of the Holy Grail and reducing the men to ash. Those who survived the first rush fought to retreat into the west, but the halfbreeds formed a wall, the demon monstrosities induced to chaos. Griffins attacked the behemoth fliers but they died in midair, set afire before most could reach the dragons.

Bran felt himself screaming—at the dragons, at the world, at life, at death.

A cheer went up from the Tuatha de Dannan but was quickly silenced as a spear thrown by a Fomorian ran Nael through his left wing. The dragon tumbled to the earth, crashing into ranks of demon wolves. The evil halfbreeds leapt onto the enraged beast, some still on fire and maddened by the dragon assault. Nael fought, spinning in confusion, wings and claws tossing halfbreeds in the air. There were too many though. The dragon was being ripped to shreds.

Latobius and Saethmoor roared as they banked, too far away to save their companion.

Followed by other dark elves, a hellyll warrior wearing the golden armor of Arendig Fawr rushed into the fray and jumped from an outcropping of granite onto the back of Nael, stabbing demon wolves dead in a blur with his spear. It was Lugh. The captain drove Areadbhar with both hands at his enemies, protecting the dragon, roaring battle. The other members of the Long Hand followed. They swept the burdened beast free of the dark flood. The demon wolves did not even notice their dead brethren; they continued to swarm only to die, fighting to kill the hellyll and dragon alike. In a heave of incredible power, Nael sent the next wave of demon wolves scrambling backward, leaving him and the Long Hand able to flee. With the dragon free, Latobius and his son kept at the halfbreeds until most had been consumed by the hellish remittance of dragon might.

The conflagration met Bran in a hot wind but that was all.

The wrath of the dragons hammered into the Forest of Dean as well where the Tuatha de Dannan fought to keep Philip’s army from entering safe haven. The canopy of the trees caught fire but the dryads held back the worst. Soon smoke obliterated his view and the screams of the dying filled the afternoon, but Bran thought he heard the sound of fey cheering amidst the tumult.

Lord Latobius and Saethmoor passed overhead numerous times. The Caer Llion army was broken. Several thousands stragglers lived but they fled into the wild.

Bran breathed in death but he remained.

The army of Philip Plantagenet was no more.

The smell of charred bodies in his nostrils, Bran let Arondight dissolve and sagged to the ruined plains over Deirdre’s body.

And wept.