The vampire did not move.
The witch straightened and finally looked at the cavern and those within it for the first time. Charles locked eyes with her. Like Lazarus, she was ancient, her eyes shining victory and malice. Charles saw a fire there that burned eternal. It was clear to him the witch had a plan, and a major piece of it had just come into her possession.
With a smile devoid of humor, she vanished into the portal with her prize.
After what felt like an eternity, the Swiss Guard finally created a hole in the wall of zombies. With Bruno Ricci keeping the undead at bay and Beck Almgren finally returned to lend his own fey power, the Vatican soldiers shot their rifles and pistols into the skulls of the zombies. Charles did not wait for the inevitable victory. He ran through the din, keeping clear of the danger surrounding him, encased in an armor of magic in case the Swiss Guards were incapable of hitting only their targets. Soon, he was free of the horde and running full out for the gateway into Annwn.
“Where are you going, Ardall?!” Bruno Ricci yelled over the din, his knife lightning-infused war.
Charles did not stop. “After the spear!”
Within moments, he and Berrytrill won the shimmering void. The knight did not enter immediately. He gave the body of Lazarus a quick, wary eye. The spear had worked. The vampire lay dead, eyes filled with wonder.
The man Jesus Christ had brought back to life had finally found death.
With a nod to Berrytrill, Charles entered the portal. The power of the gateway engulfed them. Even as Charles walked forward into the void, the smell of mulch-fueled growing plants accosted him, a sweet, heady odor leading him to Annwn. Berrytrill was nowhere in sight, but Charles knew the fairy was flying close behind. Soon the knight began to be reduced in size, the air being forcibly drawn from his lungs. Even though he had grown used to passing between the two worlds, it never got any easier.
Just when he thought he would pass out, Charles crossed into Annwn.
He stood upon a massive finger of granite extending out of an emerald carpet of grass plains to the west of the Forest of Dean. The sun sat overhead in an azure sky, and the hum of insects surrounded the Heliwr and his guide even as the day’s warmth chased the catacomb chill from their bones. To the northwest, the massive spikes of the Snowdon Mountains were in evidence in the far distance, a last bastion of freedom for the Tuatha de Dannan; to the west, Charles knew Caer Llion sat on the ocean, the capital city of the self-crowned Philip Plantagenet controlling most of Annwn.
Flanked by two dead trees, the portal to Rome shimmered behind him.
Charles did not dwell on the beauty of the day or the political imbalance in Annwn. With Berrytrill watching, he called the Dark Thorn and sent its butt into the soil, searching for the Holy Lance and the witch who had machinated it from the Vatican.
“The witch has disappeared,” Charles said angrily, the Dark Thorn in his hands matching the heat in his heart. “Cloaking herself in magic, knowing we would come after her, no doubt. I cannot track her or the Holy Lance.”
Berrytrill flew in midair before him and frowned.
Long moments passed. There was nothing more Charles could do. He was the Heliwr, given a grave responsibility and gifted with great power, but even he could be bested at times.
“That’s that then,” Berrytrill said at last.
“Why did the vampire aid the witch?” Berrytrill asked.
The two stood again on the outcropping of rock that held the portal to Italy, the sunshine warm and inviting. Once Charles had realized they were powerless in regaining the Holy Lance, they had returned to Rome, to set right many of the wrongs still there. The zombies had been dispatched with few losses; the portal was once again protected. Retracing his footsteps, Charles ensured all aspects of the invasion were put right. With the help of Bruno Ricci, he had wiped clean dozens of guards’ memories, Beck Almgren watching to ensure it was done properly. It had taken hours of work but it was done.
Bruno Ricci would heal. Pope Urban had the worst of it, but even the Church would construct a plausible reason for the loss of his fingers. Italy and the world knew nothing of what had transpired. And life would go on much as it had for centuries.
“It was a means to an end,” Charles answered finally, still thinking on it.
“The end of the spear, literally.”
Charles couldn’t help but grin. “I suppose so.”