The Dark Thorn

Richard brooded as he walked behind his companions, his thoughts splintered with rage, the reality of what had been done to him threatening his composure.

Myrddin Emrys had tricked him—again.

Even thinking the words sent fresh ire through his blood. He was now the Heliwr. The Unfettered Knight. It was his duty and his alone to patrol the two worlds and keep them both separate. If the two worlds blurred when a fey creature crossed over or someone from his world broke into Annwn, it was now his responsibility to track them down, return them—or kill them. No longer chained to the portal in Seattle, he could venture where he wished as long as he had access to Annwn and its seven gateways.

The freedom gave him no solace. Richard had not been given a choice, and that betrayal gnawed at him like a splinter in his soul.

Merle had seen this. The wizard had known.

And he had not told Richard.

After the gwyddbwyll match between Bran and Lord Fafnir the previous evening, the leader of the coblynau had offered warm beds and meals. The group from Arendig Fawr took the offer with pleasure. The deaths of Connal and the two hellyll lay heavy on their hearts.

Not so with Richard. The duplicity that had knighted him Heliwr would not allow it. Deirdre had tried to prompt the knight into conversation. He had ignored the redhead as if she had played a part in the travesty. The way she looked at him made him angrier than he had a right to be, the pain from his past mingling with the present to form a self-loathing that boiled.

Before he had finished his meal, Richard left the throne room to wander the halls of Caer Glain and think on what had happened. No one stopped him. Coming to a small waterfall, and in the dark, alone, he thought back on the events that led to his melding to the Dark Thorn. Merle had told him knighthood would not pass from father to son. He had been right. Govannon could not give Bran a weapon. The boy now carried Arondight. The Lady in the glen asked if he would protect the office of Heliwr with his life. Richard had accepted. It was the reason Bran hadn’t been able to call the Dark Thorn when they awoke under the hawthorn tree; it was the reason events had played out the way they had.

There was nothing Richard could do to change it.

And it pissed him off.

Merle had played his chess game and won a major battle in the war. Richard had been used as a pawn once more. So had Bran. When Richard had returned to his quarters, the boy had been there with questions more numerous than flies. Richard answered them, if barely. The boy’s newfound authority was exciting to Bran; the new Seattle portal knight did not care how Merle had set him up. It made Richard want to rage against everything.

Even now, watching the boy as he strode ahead and his exuberance in learning all he could about the coblynau, Richard wanted nothing more than to drag him out of Annwn by the nape of his neck and be done with this business entirely.

“And which Ser is Merrick?” Bran asked Hollick.

The guard grimaced. “Ye really do not know the ways.”

“No, not at all.”

“Ser Merrick is the governing Ser of Pathways,” the young coblynau said. “He keeps our way safe from the shadows of the Unseelie and protects all those who walk alongside him.”

“I’ll never remember all of this,” Bran said.

An overwhelming rush of hatred spread through Richard. Not for Bran, but for what the boy represented—a willing apprentice of Merle.

Along with Henrick, Hollick, and two coblynau guards named Charl and Gat, the Arendig Fawr delegation made their way through the bustle and out of Caer Glain. Fafnir kept good on his promise; hundreds of coblynau mobilized for war, and carts of iron ingots already made their way down the mountain for Govannon. The grandsons of Fafnir would also lead a contingent of coblynau warriors down the slopes to Arendig Fawr, giving their aid as best they could. While a part of Richard wished he and the others could stay a few days to recover from the attack of the bodach, he also knew time was of the essence.

The sooner he finished with Tal Ebolyon, the sooner he could confront Merle.

Thinking about how to convince Lord Latobius to rejoin the Seelie Court, Richard almost ran over Gat. In front of him the group had stopped. Beyond them, the torchlight had gone out, the only illumination a weak light emanating from the floor.

“Sometimes this happens,” Hollick said. “Odd gusts, odd wind.”

“Well, I don’t believe in sometimes,” Richard said, calling forth the Dark Thorn.

“No chances?” Bran asked.

“None,” Richard said. “Ever again. What Guardsman Hollick did not tell you is more than just the coblynau live in these mountains. Didn’t wonder where the silk came from to build the tents we passed through in the market, did you?”

Bran shook his head.

“The Gorryn,” Henrick answered. “Man-size spiders. Very dangerous if prodded. They live deeper in the wild Snowdon, above- and belowground, spinning the silk for their webs. We collect it when possible. Gorryn rarely come into Caer Glain; they have no need, and when they do it is almost never this close to the surface.”

“‘Almost never’ is still code for sometimes,” Richard muttered.

The group moved forward slowly, weapons drawn, Richard leading the way with the white light of the staff fending off the darkness. It felt more comfortable in his hand than he liked, an extension of the anger he reserved for Merle. Henrick was close behind, his spear held at the ready. Both came to the first unlit torch sconce, set at a corner where a new corridor of gaping blackness to the right met the passageway they were in.

“This happened recently,” Henrick pointed out, examining the smoking sconce.

“Light it so we can move on.”

The coblynau moved to relight the torch.

Richard stepped into the junction, peering into the gloom—and had the wind knocked from him as a massive shadow slammed him against the opposite wall.

Fighting the swarm of unconsciousness, Richard focused on his assailant. Screams followed echoing chaos; the knight barely heard them. It was not a spider that attacked him. The bodach had found them. The Unseelie creature had him pinned, the white fire of the Dark Thorn enacted out of sheer instinct his only protection. The beast was relentless. It clawed and screeched at him, the smoky predator fighting to get at him.

Sweat and panic poured over Richard. There was nothing he could do to dislodge the bodach; it had him cornered with no intention of letting up until its strongest adversary to killing Bran was dead as well.

As Richard fought for his life, Lugh charged, roaring with Areadbhar lowered like a lance. The Long Hand followed their leader. Deirdre chased with the coblynau guards a step behind, rushing the Unseelie creature as well with weapons drawn and ready for the fight.

All fell upon the bodach.

All but Bran.

Claws grazed the knight’s side but he ignored the pain, focusing on the Dark Thorn and the power it lent him. The beast screamed pain as multiple blades bit into its form. It did not relent its attack. Even as it prevented Richard from dislodging it, the beast lashed out with a hind leg, kicking at any of his companions within reach.

Hollick and Lugh flew like tossed dolls into the intersecting passage, lost from view.

From the side, Richard saw Bran finally enter the fray. He held Arondight, the sword flaming azure more brightly than Richard had ever seen. With singular purpose, the boy drove the blade into the side of their attacker’s darkened silhouette, the magic infiltrating the shadow like lightning. The bodach roared inhuman. Richard could feel the white-hot pain erupting within the monster, the unholy stench pungent in his lungs. Bran pulled Arondight free and sent its entire length at the head of the beast, thrusting beyond his means as he tried to deliver a deathblow.

The bodach recoiled. The pressure on Richard vanished.

It was all the space the knight needed. The power of the Dark Thorn exploded forth. The blast of white fire sent the bodach reeling. It twisted in the air, flame incinerating the beast as it hit the ceiling and jarringly crashed against the wall near Bran, flailing limbs and howls of pain filling the corridor.

The bodach righted itself instantly, its eyes fixed on Bran.

Adrenaline rushed as fear through Richard. He struggled forward, a wave of weakness from the expenditure of magic chaining him, roaring a warning Bran could not hear. The coblynau and others were running toward the boy, hollering with weapons raised.

Bran swung at the bodach.

It feinted and, with a dark laugh, knocked the fabled blade from the boy’s hand.

Arondight vanished.

Eyes burning hatred, the bodach leapt.

Like a cat unleashed, his face’s ferocity covered in crimson from a gash above his nose, Lugh reentered the battle, his spear held low to the ground. Unable to prevent its momentum, the bodach impaled itself, the spear penetrating its innards. Silver light exploded deep within the creature as did its howl.

It missed Bran to instead land feet away.

Seizing the chance, Richard sent the magic of the Dark Thorn toward the Unseelie beast. The bodach screamed further, surprised from the side assault. It fought the fountain of white fire, singeing, maddened to gain Bran and end him. Dizziness washed over the knight but he ignored it, keeping the fount of his magic focused on the bodach. The creature tore through the flames, unable to break through their intensity, the baleful eyes and biting jaws mere feet away but incapable of reaching Bran.

Buckling to his knees from weakness and Richard beginning to lose faith they could bring the creature down, an eruption of blue fire from Arondight burst from the corner of his eye and slammed the bodach in the side like a sledgehammer.

The fey creature landed witin the same corridor from which it had sprung.

“Pull the torch holder, Ardall!” Henrick roared.

Not hesitating, Bran grabbed at the sconce with all of his weight, not questioning the Master Guardsman.

The torch gave way as a lever. A series of snaps reverberated through the mountain. Boulders tumbled from the roof of the side passage entrance in a thunderous avalanche, showering Bran and the others with pebbles and dirt. Richard shielded his face from the destruction, worried the entire passage was about to come down. The stone beneath them shook like an earthquake and then became still.

Sudden silence hit the mountain.

Richard let the Dark Thorn dissipate to smoke.

The bodach was sealed away, unable to harm them now.

Richard pushed himself to stand. He felt drained of any authority that had been given him. A few paces away Bran stood, Arondight gripped tight, its length fiery and blazing angrier than ever before. It was odd for Richard to see the boy wield the sword he had spent so much of life regretting that he had accepted.

“What the hell?” Bran coughed as the dust swirled around him. “We have fail-safes throughout all of Caer Glain,” Henrick said, also coughing. “Never seen it needed before. The rock will keep that creature at bay, I warrant.”

“By Ser Rhaith, what was that thing?” Charl growled.

“A bodach,” Richard panted. “Unseelie.”

“Why did it find its way in here?”

“It’s after Bran,” Richard said. “And it will continue until we find a way to kill it.”

“It will not bother us for some time,” Gat surmised. “That corridor leads to an exit abandoned long ago, unused by all but those who hunt game and pheasant in the lower reaches of the Snowdon.”

Henrick glanced around. “Where is Hollick? Hollick!?”

No answer came.

Richard shared the stares of those around him as the realization struck; they all looked at the rubble-choked corridor from where the dwarfish guard had not returned after being kicked by the bodach.

“Hollick!” Henrick screamed, jumped up on the landslide. “Hollick!”

“He is already dead,” Richard said.

“Gat, notify Master Commander Masyn of what has transpired here,” Henrick ordered after a few minutes, his voice thick with emotion. “They must be made aware of this monster.”

“Kegan,” Bran breathed as Gat left. “If the bodach followed us into Caer Glain…”

Understanding hit Richard. “The Rhedewyr.”

Finding a reserve of strength he didn’t know he had, Richard chased after Bran. The others were close behind. If the bodach had entered the caverns of Caer Glain the same way they had, it could have killed the coblynau and their mounts. Kegan was in danger and without the Rhedewyr, the journey would be far more difficult.

After several twisting tunnels, Richard burst from the underground city into the glen, the sunshine of the late afternoon casting long shadows over the mountain.

The Horsemaster and the Rhedewyr were nowhere to be seen.

“Kegan!” Bran yelled.

“He’s not here,” Richard said. “Perhaps nearby.”

“Wizard, ye owe me,” a voice growled from the dark.

Llassar Llaes Gyngwyd stepped from the wooded blackness to their left and looked like he would fall over any moment. The giant had been in a fight. His patched clothing now hung in tatters, ripped apart so grotesquely it exposed the rent flesh beneath. Crimson slashes ravaged his forearms; chunks were missing from his beard as though forcibly pulled out. Eyes lost below a darkened brow, Llassar limped to stand before Richard with a painful smirk.

Lugh jumped to the forefront and lowered his spear at the giant in warning.

“Where is the clurichaun?” Richard questioned.

“I am here, Richard McAllister,” Kegan said, appearing from behind the giant man’s legs like a toddler to a father. “Safe and well.”

“What happened?”

“The creature came. Attacked us. Llassar here held it off, along with the Rhedewyr. He saved us from death.”

“Damnable right ah did,” Llassar growled, standing a bit taller. “Nothing doin’ really. Ah hate dem Unseelie folk. Evil skulkin’ creatures, the lot of ‘em.”

“I am in your debt then, Llassar Llaes Gyngwyd,” Richard said.

Henrick and Charl caught up to the rest of them, huffing.

“Ahh, the moles,” Llassar acknowledged.

“The Rhedewyr are safe as well,” Kegan added, then sounded a high-pitched whistle. “They put up a fight as only they can.”

Willowyn, Lyrian, and the other Rhedewyr clopped from the darkness, manes tossing.

“You leave us to fend for ourselves, dungknight! And this is what happens!” Snedeker reprimanded, flying before Richard with arms folded in disgust.

“Fairy,” Richard muttered. “Shut up.”

Snedeker did just that, alighting on Deirdre’s shoulder.

“There is much to discuss, Kegan,” the knight said, not pleased about it.

“Not sure I like the sound of that, knight,” the clurichaun said.

Richard filled him and the others in as quickly as he could, the distaste of admitting he was now the Unfettered Knight still rankling him. He shared what he knew about his new role, how Bran fit in, and how the boy had bested Lord Fafnir’s grandson in a game of gwyddbwyll to win over the leader of the mountain city.

“Did you get what we needed from Lord Fafnir then?” Kegan asked.

“We did. One more lord to persuade though.”

“You are the Heliwr, eh? The Lady remains mysterious in her actions, it seems,” the clurichaun said. “I wonder what other tricks she has up her sleeve. And what of the bodach?”

“It won’t be bothersome for some time,” Henrick answered. “Blocked from this side of the mountain. It can get out but it will take some time. With any luck, Faric and Forrenhahl will cross it and kill it when they march from Caer Glain.”

“March from?” Llassar glowered. “Where do ye moles go?”

“We march to Arendig Fawr,” Henrick answered. “In three days, we go to war.”

“A man of your…talents…would be useful upon the battlefield, Llassar,” Richard said. “As Lord Fafnir and the coblynau have realized, Caer Llion and its king will come here in due course, and even this sanctuary will not be afforded you. You will die as the rest of Annwn. Would you not rather fight and prevent that from happening?”

“How much? Ah do not come cheap.”

“Your death will be cheap then,” Richard said.

As Llassar and Henrick haggled over the importance of joining Arendig Fawr, Richard met Lyrion and ran his hands over his sleek muscled neck. He looked deep into the dark pools of the horse’s eyes and then patted him. “I am happy you are safe, old boy.”

A spark of curiosity entered the eye of the horse and he nuzzled Richard.

“He is beginning to like you,” Deirdre whispered, hugging her horse close as they were also reunited. “I am pleased and so is Willowyn.”

Richard patted the horse again. “I have few friends, it seems. Nice to know I may be making another who will not betray me.”

“I am your friend, Richard McAllister,” she said.

“I know. Thanks.”

“Mount your Rhedewyr, knight,” Henrick directed. “The summit is not far. Tal Ebolyon is nigh, to be reached before true night falls if we press hard.”

“We do not see in the dark as you do, Master Guardsman. It would be dangerous for us to ride at night,” Richard said. He turned to Llassar. “You have a camp?”

“And a fire,” Llassar said. “In the woods there.”

“We will stay here for the rest of the day and night to recover from the bodach,” Richard said. “At first light, we ride.”

Llassar led them through a copse of twisted pine. The trail was wide, big enough to allow the giant through, and Richard soon arrived to a meadow where a fire fought its bonds of ringed stone. The flames were inviting. An enormous tent of mismatched silk was constructed under overhanging intertwined limbs—the place Llassar and his wife slept.

After the others had eaten and slinked into bedrolls, Richard decided it was time to speak to Bran. The knight stood where the light of the fire met the uncertainty of dark, the fringe of two very different worlds. He thought it appropriate.

Richard beckoned the boy over, unsure of how to begin.

“You are now the protector of the Seattle portal, Bran,” Richard said, his weariness quickly driving him to his own bedroll. “You will train with Merle, who will teach you the various aspects of your craft.”

“I know,” Bran said simply, looking in perplexity at the hand that had held Arondight. “The power, Richard. Is it always like that?”

“It can be. It can also be dangerous.”

“How so?”

“For starters, look at me,” Richard said. “I am wiped out right now. The magic enacts a terrible price. No power is created without energy given, and in magic’s case it is life energy. If you take it too far, it can kill you.”

Bran nodded. Richard thought him hard to read.

“Does Arondight come from the same place your staff does?”

Facing away from the camp, Richard exhaled a deep breath. The boy was eager, maybe too eager. The world had already begun changing for him; it would change a great deal more before he knew everything Richard knew. Just like when he had accepted Arondight from Merle, Bran now had hundreds of questions for Richard, so many the former Seattle knight could not hope to answer in a night, let alone a year.

“I need answers, Richard,” Bran added.

“I know you do,” the knight said. “Nothing can be changed now at any rate. You’ve made your decision. I’ve had mine forced on me.” He paused. “But, to answer your question, Arondight is held in safety here in Annwn, along with the other relic weapons held by the other knights. No one can steal them. You will be introduced to the other knights and learn more about this when we know how Lord Latobius decides. It is at that time I can contact the other Yn Saith and share what we know.”

“And you are now the Heliwr.”

Bran didn’t say it as an accusation. Richard didn’t know what to think. He wondered if the boy hated the mantle once belonging to his father.

If he did, he didn’t show it.

“Yes, I am. Whether I like it or not,” Richard said. “You and I were bonded in the glen when we became the tree. The Paladr took Arondight from me and replaced it with the Dark Thorn, born of the hawthorn planted by Joseph of Arimathea at Glastonbury Abbey. I do know the staff is called from some place other than Arondight. There is no place for the staff among the other relics. As the Heliwr, I am now responsible in ways you probably can’t fathom—but you will, soon enough.”

“You are angry,” Bran said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Go to bed,” Richard said stiffly. “The staff took much out of me.”

“I am tired as well,” Bran said. “God, the intense power…”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Bran took a deep breath. “I do not feel any…different.”

“And nor would you,” the knight said. “Power does not change a person; a person lets power change them. It is there when you command it. Don’t let it change you.”

“Arondight failed your calling sometimes…because you lacked faith?”

Richard turned away. “It is not as simple as that.”

“But how—”

“Bran,” Richard sighed heavily, annoyed. “It is an extension of yourself. Arondight is a part of you now, like an arm or leg. It responds much in the same way. When you have need of the sword, will it. It will be there.” Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. “No more on this now. Rest. More after we leave Tal Ebolyon, when we know more.”

“What about the bodach finding us?”

“Not tonight,” Richard said. “We have a few days. When it does, we will be ready.”

More questions burned in Bran. Richard could see them. To the boy’s credit, he moved away to his own bed near the fire.

Richard knew one thing. He would have to come up with a plan to kill the Unseelie. It was stronger than him. The next time, they would have to be prepared to finish it.

Or they would die.

With deep snores emanating from Llassar’s tent, Richard threw a few more tiny logs onto the fire and got comfortable for sleep.

Deirdre watched him do so, her eyes finding his.

Richard turned away.

When he closed his eyes, he thought of Elizabeth and why his place in hell was assured.





The morning dawned chill but clear.

Woken by a quick shake of his shoulder by Kegan, Richard wiped the sleep from his eyes, took a deep breath, and bundled his belongings for the trip to Tal Eboylon. He was sore and in a dark mood, his dreams during the night disturbed. After a quick meal of coblynau bread, tangy cheese, and few words spoken to the others, he mounted Lyrian and, with Henrick leading them, left the snores of Llassar behind. They passed the gaping door to Caer Glain and regained the trail leading to the dragons of Tal Ebolyon.

The group settled into the journey, Bran pulled Westryl alongside Richard.

“Do you really believe Philip will try to invade our world?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know for sure,” Richard said, thinking on it and still not arriving at an answer. “We still have not found the reason behind the attack on you, but I, like Merle, believe it to be related somehow to Philip wanting our world. But regardless, what I said to Lord Fafnir is true. Men like Philip crave more, their lives filled with insatiable greed. He will come one day to enslave both worlds.”

“And then?”

“Philip will die,” Richard said simply. “His army will die. And then this world will die. Annwn may have magic but the technology of our world will crush him. When that happens, those men like Philip in our world will destroy Annwn. We can’t let that happen.”

“We won’t,” Bran said.

“Why do you think Merle pressed me into this?” Richard snorted. “He knew a Heliwr was needed if we are to survive. If Philip is not stopped—if his desires are left unchecked—it could spell doom for both worlds. No matter if I hate the man for keeping this from me, a Heliwr is the only way to help maintain the integrity of the other portals. Merle pushed me here by using Elizabeth. For that, I will have a great many words for the old man.”

“If I knew anything about Elizabeth in this, I would tell you.”

Richard nodded guardedly.

“If he can view our world, wouldn’t Philip know that our technology would be more than a match for his army?” Bran questioned.

“He should,” Richard agreed. “And that’s what frightens me.”

While Lyrian strode on, Richard closed his eyes and reached out to the Dark Thorn. The staff was there, connected to him. Sighing, Richard opened his eyes and realized he might have a difficult time calling the staff: Arondight had answered his appeal most of the time, but his inability to control it completely had left him and others in danger. It was likely his past could also hinder his authority over the Dark Thorn.

The time for that test would come soon.

Of that he was sure.

The day grew warm. The Nharth disappeared to reveal the landscape—jagged barren slopes, the mountaintops around him too high for even the hardy lower clime pine and fir to grow. Short shrubs clung to pockets of dirt, and grayish grasses stabbed blades from crevices in the rock. The group passed drifts of snow, blinding beneath the sun. A hawk spiraled on what currents were afforded it, a lone act of life in the craggy reaches. It was hard to believe anything lived in the Snowdon heights, even dragons.

As the sun came to its zenith, the path leveled and the travelers came to Tal Ebolyon.

It was not what Richard had expected. Massive walls of eroded dark granite stood as high as a forest, dwarfing the knight and those around him. The stone blocks were seamlessly cut to fit while along the top of the wall the merlons were rounded nubs, scarred by weather and age. A circular doorway yawned in front of the company, the architecture similar in style to that of Caer Glain, a vast flat area beyond beckoning them forward.

“I hope Lord Latobius is here,” Richard said. “Time is short.”

“Will the dragons cooperate?” Bran asked.

“I do not know. Time to see.”

“The dragons have had a rough time of it as of late,” Deirdre said. “They are rarely seen in the skies. Travelers coming to Mochdrev Reach say they are dying. If that is true, I think this might be a great deal more difficult than Caer Glain.”

“That means I alone talk then,” Richard said. “And fairy, if you open your yap and piss them off, I swear I will put you in a jar and never let you out.”

Snedeker frowned darkly but said nothing.

The Rhedewyr clopped through the opening into a different world. A lone snow-covered peak cut the blue sky, lording over a far-reaching lake as blue as icy steel. Large stone partitions like broken gray teeth grew from a carpet of finely cut green grass, the sudden vibrant color a shock. Oak trees as large as eight-story buildings shadowed every eroded wall, each symmetrical and healthy, while numerous trimmed hedges curved beneath them and met flowering vines snaking on stone trellises and hardy rhododendrons bursting with blooms. Several oddly shaped boulders littered the grounds like abstract art. It was a massive garden, beautiful in its layout and care, one the likes of which Richard had never seen.

Overshadowing the appearance of the green plateau and standing directly across the lake, a tower house like Dunguaire Castle jutted into the warm afternoon, the stone just as weathered as the wall they had just passed through. Towers with open windows grew from the corners of the fortress while a lone square keep squatted in its middle like a tree stump. No moat circled it, no gate impeded entrance inside. A white pennant hung limp from a lone pole at the keep apex, lacking a design of allegiance.

Nothing moved—not from within the castle or the garden.

“Dragons live in that castle?” Bran asked incredulously.

“No, no, no,” Henrick answered with a laugh. “Lord Latobius and his dragonkin rest in the Garden of a Thousand Wings. It is the Fynach who reside in the keep of Tal Ebolyon, safe from the harsh winters that used to batter the Snowdon.”

“Who are the Fynach?”

“Caretakers, of a sort,” Richard said. “Coblynau devoted to the care and survival of the dragons. As Deirdre said, few dragons remain, only a handful. The Fynach work hard to discover the cause of the decline. They know more concerning dragons than anyone in Annwn—anyone anywhere, I believe.”

“Why are the dragons dying?” Bran asked.

“No one knows, young Ardall,” Henrick said. “Many believe the long summer the dragons have endured has altered them somehow. Others believe some kind of inbreeding has left them unable to produce offspring.”

“Where are they then?” Deirdre asked. “Or for that matter, the Fynach? Should not one of them have met us by now?”

“I do not know,” the guard said.

Arrow Jack let out a loud warning shriek.

Just as Richard clicked Lyrian into motion toward Tal Ebolyon, three dragons launched into the air from the far end of the garden, flying toward them like arrows shot from a bow.

“Lord Latobius will be difficult to persuade,” Henrick offered. “The Yn Dri rarely come to agreement on anything, especially a subject of serious magnitude.”

“Divisive bickering does not interest me,” Richard said.

Lyrian snorted defiance but held his ground as the monoliths approached. Patting the Rhedewyr comfortingly, Richard watched with trepidation. Slinking through the air like serpents in water, the three dragons grew as large as houses, their scales shimmering in the sunshine. The lead dragon was the largest, charcoal hide rippling with golden highlights, black leather wings beating with strong, smooth strokes. Flying alongside the leader was a brownish-red beast, its limbs shorter than the others; to the other side and a bit behind, a shrunken gray-green ancient dragon flew. All were scarily formidable, claws like curved swords, long barbed tails, and horn-encrusted heads bearing jaws rowed with dagger-like teeth.

Richard wondered suddenly if he had overstepped boundaries by entering Tal Ebolyon uninvited.

He had little time to worry.

In a flurry of swift wing strokes that sent a sudden wall of air at him, the dragons settled gracefully to the courtyard on four legs and eyed the newcomers with suspicion.

“Prince Saethmoor,” Henrick greeted, kneeling.

“Coblynau,” the dragon rumbled. “It is an ill moment for you to visit Tal Ebolyon.”

“I and those with me regret to hear of any ill befalling you,” the guard said. “I am Henrick, son of Harrick, here at the behest of Lord Fafnir to escort visitors from Arendig Fawr to the foot of your father.”

The dark blue eyes of Saethmoor probed the group, lingering on Richard and Bran. “Two knights I see before me,” he said. “With an Oakwell fairy. A depressed clurichaun. A fair witch. And a murderous, spear-wielding hellyll.”

“I am Richard McAllister, Knight of the Yn Saith,” Richard said, dismounting and bowing. “My friends and I have come at great cost to ourselves and freedom, hunted by Caer Llion at every bend of our path. It has not been an easy path to trod. The Queen of the Seelie Court desires—”

“You are here, knight, because my Dragonsire responded to a letter received.”

“We are, for that very reason.”

“As I earlier professed, the timing of your arrival is unfortunate.”

“The letter was not sent in vain, mighty prince,” Richard said. “The survival of your race may depend on the contents of that letter.”

The dragon growled deeply in thought.

“Maethyn?”

“By the laws of Tal Ebolyon, a response by the Yn Dri is necessary,” the ancient dragon said, pondering. “The law is quite clear. No matter if the issue, once answered in the past, arises again.”

“The Dragonsire will not be pleased,” the reddish dragon disagreed.

“Unfortunate circumstances arise, Nael,” Maethyn answered. “Guests to Tal Ebolyon will not be turned away without proper considerate discourse.”

“Turning you away I cannot do apparently,” Saethmoor growled to Richard. “Law rules our way of life and it blankets all, even non-dragonkin. You must understand, however, that hospitality may be hard to come by. Our lord suffers grievous pain. Can this be done with haste, Knight of the Yn Saith Richard McAllister?”

“I will be as succinct as possible, Prince Saethmoor.”

“Maethyn, Nael, notify the Dragonsire of our visitor as I escort the group to the Ring of Baedgor.”

“Your wish is my own,” Maethyn nodded.

The two dragons leapt into the air with powerful wings.

“Come then,” Saethmoor beckoned.

The prince led, striding between the hedges and trees. Richard marveled at the dragon. He was enormous but moved soundlessly like a giant cat, his four heavily muscled legs nimble and rippling, his wings folded protectively close along his back. Saethmoor held his head high, regally, even while his talons bit into the ground. It was the first time the knight had seen a dragon but he understood why the Morrigan desired Tal Ebolyon to return to the Seelie Court; Saethmoor and his kin were built for war and would make powerful allies against Caer Llion.

As Richard looked about the garden, he was startled to discover what he had mistaken as malformed boulders were actually sleeping dragons. Each one lay curled near a freestanding wall, burrowed comfortably a foot into the dirt, the shade of an oak tree overhead. Only a few such spaces were occupied. Hundreds and hundreds of other patches were grown over, unused.

“Dragons don’t sleep in caves?” Bran asked.

“Dragons need little protection from the elements,” Henrick said. “They have tough hide and an inner furnace for warmth.”

“So few,” Richard breathed. “Four dozen, at most.”

“We dragons survive, one way or another,” Saethmoor growled, stopping to confront the knight. “It has ever been and ever will be.”

Richard nodded politely. He sadly didn’t agree.

Saethmoor passed through a large square lined by numerous rose bushes, some grown as tall as the residents of Tal Ebolyon. The dragon did not view their beauty. Instead, he made his way down a set of wide, shallow stairs and into a lower circular area as large as a city block. Rectangular granite slabs like those at Stonehenge periodically grew from the circle’s outer rim and glowed white, some forming trilithons while others stood alone. Power radiated from the area, born of some ancient mystique Richard could not identify but only feel. Maethyn and Nael sat perched atop two separate stones with three other dragons of varying earthy colors and sizes. All watched Richard and his companions enter the ring with vigilant scrutiny.

The scene at the center of the circle nearly brought Richard to a halt.

Lying on emerald grass and bearing hundreds of wounds, a green dragon lay stretched out, the rise and fall of its chest slow and laboring. The dragon was smaller than its kin, not fully grown as Richard could judge. It was dying and the concern Saethmoor had expressed upon their arrival became all too clear.

A man white like an albino but with raven black hair cradled the head of the dying dragon, soothing the fey creature as best he could. Short, stocky men who resembled Henrick but were bald and wearing white robes tended the wounds as best they could, examining the tears and rents in its wings while others patched the bleeding savagery with white cloth that turned quickly crimson. The man watched none of it, focused on the head of the beast, tears standing out clearly on his finely chiseled cheeks.

“Dragonsire?” Saethmoor said softly.

“What do ye desire, First Son?” Latobius snapped, not looking up.

“Visitors have entered Tal Ebolyon with a request for audience.”

“What they request, I cannot give. Turn them away.”

“Greetings, Lord Latobius,” Richard intervened, dismounting to bow. “I am Knight Richard McAllister of the Yn Saith. I come on behalf of the Seelie Court and the Morrigan who leads it. My sincerest sorrow to you and your kin at the sight I see before me.”

“What can ye possibly know of this or sorrow, knight?”

“More than you know, my Lord,” Richard responded. “More than you know.”

“The Queen oversteps her authority.”

“She is pressed with war. And has need of your wisdom.”

“As I wrote in my response to her, I care not,” Latobius said. “The woes of this world have come to my domain and I must care for them first.”

“Lord Latobius,” Lugh interrupted, stepping forward. Richard withheld his desire to grab the hellyll back. “I am Lugh of the Long Hand, bearer of Areadhbar, hellyll of the lost Hinter Hills, and defender of Arendig Fawr. Richard McAllister speaks true. The destruction of Tal Ebolyon is at hand. To have ignored the letter from the Queen was to ignore your own safety.”

“In no way will my kind take suggestions or accept criticisms from a spear wielder,” Latobius spat the last as a curse, shaking his head.

“I—” Lugh began.

“Saethmoor,” Latobius commanded, waving them away.

Before the charcoal dragon could guide them away, Lugh slammed the butt of his spear against the grassy carpet. The golden point of Areadbhar glowed pristine white even under the sunshine, drawing all attention to him.

The dragons sitting upon the stone blocks growled low.

Tension filled the air.

“We mean you no disrespect or harm, Lord Latobius,” Richard said, glaring at Lugh to stay his hand. “The Morrigan has need of your might in this trying time.”

“Such spears have killed many of my kin,” Latobius said, ignoring Richard.

“But not by my hand,” Lugh argued.

“By steady hands possessed of ill wills,” the dragonsire hissed. “Murderers. Perjurers. We dragons have long memories…long memories.”

“How did your son come to this, Lord Latobius?” Richard questioned, changing the course of the conversation in hope of having any chance of success.

“Something flying, some evil from the lowlands,” Latobius replied, still massaging the head of the enormous beast. “Tearing claws, a swarm of some bird unknown. His brothers found him struggling to regain the heights of Tal Ebolyon days hence. The Fynach work hard…”

“I know how this happened,” Richard said. “But more importantly who did this.”

For the first time, Latobius looked up. Eyes as black as coal fixed on the knight and the anger mirrored there simmered in depths grown deep from centuries of life and sorrow survived. It was all Richard could do to not look away.

“Who?”

“Philip Plantagent of Caer Llion.”

Latobius nodded almost imperceptibly.

“How?”

“Caer Llion has bred halfbreeds of terror in a war he plans against the whole of Annwn. By the multitudes, half-eagle and fey-cat beasts are rampaging across the countryside and skies, killing livestock, Tuatha—whatever they can. It is clear Philip plans to weaken your allies while strengthening his campaign. He will stop at nothing until the breadth of Annwn is under his total control, including the Snowdon and Tal Ebolyon. The Morrigan gathers the remaining lords of the Seelie Court one last time to defend your right to exist. It is for this reason I have traveled to these high reaches, to ask your help in the conflict to come.”

“The letter again, is it not?”

“The letter.”

“My answer is the same. Maethyn, who oversees the laws we live by, and Nael, who guards those laws, both agree. The dragons of Tal Ebolyon cannot invest in a war that will undoubtedly kill more of my children.”

“The letter arrived before this tragedy, my Lord,” Richard pointed out. “I do not wish to see any more of your precious kin ravaged in this way. But Caer Llion comes and will not stop until all is under his rule and dominion, including Tal Ebolyon. Is it not better to fight alongside the many rather than alone with few?”

“Dragonsire,” Maethyn whispered. “It is a difficult decision.”

“Perhaps we ought to revisit our earlier decision,” Saethmoor added. “This is not as clear as it once was. Not after the halfbreed attack.”

“First Son, do not ask this of me,” Latobius said, his mien tortured. “To lose any of ye would kill me as any spear.”

“What happened to the son in your arms will happen to you,” Richard said pointedly.

“He speaks a certain truth, Dragonsire,” Saethmoor said.

“Enough!” Latobius thundered. “I will not tolerate it!”

“Retribution for this grievous assault must be considered,” Richard pressed.

“Do ye not think I want vengeance?” Latobius said, gesturing to the damage done by the griffins. “For this? I want it more than anything. Anything!”

“Then bring your might, rejoin the Seelie Court.”

“I will not. Cannot! The risk is far too great, I say!”

“My lord, you must,” Richard insisted.

Anger flooding his eyes, Latobius gently put the head of his son down on the soft grass. Standing, his thin form immediately shimmered. The body of the lord expanded and elongated as it gained height, his skin developing scales, limbs growing longer and ending in razor-like claws. Clothes became leather wings, scarred with ancient healed rents. In a matter of moments, the fey lord had transformed into a dragon as formidable as any Richard could imagine.

The eyes of Latobius burned into the knight.

Richard gave no ground, conviction burning inside.

“Ye reek of loss, of uncertainty,” Latobius growled in his new form, his massive head mere feet from Richard. “Ye care nothing for anyone, or the world. Why ye are here at all is an enigma.”

Richard said nothing, unfaltering before obvious danger.

“Those who have nothing to lose make unwise and poor leaders,” Latobius said.

“You do not know me,” Richard challenged. “Nor my reasons for being here.”

Muscles rippling in his dragon chest and neck, Latobius fixed his gaze on Bran. “And untested as a new faun, this one,” Latobius snorted. The dragon returned to Richard. “Ye are an affront to me, to my wishes. Permit that I will not. My youngest son dies before me at the hands of war. Only seven decades old, a baby still in many respects. No eggs hatched since his cracked, with none on the horizon. I hurt as he does, yearn for revenge as those of my brethren around me. But I will not risk one more death like this. Too few, we are. To lose even one of us would undo us further.”

“Lord Latobius?”

All eyes turned to Kegan as he dismounted from his Rhedewyr.

“Clurichaun,” Latobius greeted, eyes narrowing. “Yer sadness is written on ye.”

Kegan bowed. “Sad. And true. Days ago I lost my oldest son to the wiles of Caer Llion. Connal was his name, brother to Kearney. Connal was a better son than I had ever hoped to have. He died protecting us in the lower passes, but he died for a cause larger than us. He died to remind us all what the Dark One has planned, and it is our choice if we let that happen.”

Latobius said nothing but watched Kegan closely.

“I tell ye this now not to persuade ye or anger ye further,” Kegan said, eyes shining. “Ye are entitled to your pain. As I am. But I want ye to know some of us have suffered losses at the hands of the evil that expands from Caer Llion. I would do anything to prevent others from feeling this way—from feeling the way ye do right now.”

“The pain in yer voice, clurichaun, I hear,” Latobius said. “Ye have a large heart to share it with me. But sharing will not keep my children safe on a battleground, now will it?”

“But they will come here to kill you,” Richard said angrily.

“Then let them come!” Latobius roared, smoke seething from nostrils. The Rhedewyr and their riders shied. Richard did not move. “Let them come and witness our power!”

“It is best we leave,” Henrick whispered, pulling at the knight.

Richard did not budge, his mind working fast. The meeting with Lord Latobius was on the brink of collapse. To stay meant possible annihilation at the fiery breath of dragonkind; to leave meant failing to return Tal Ebolyon to the Seelie Court. Richard had only one course left him, an admission he hated all the more for having to give it.

The knight called the Dark Thorn and knelt.

The dragons surrounding them watched closely as Richard bowed his head. The silver grains of the staff’s dark wood sparked under the sun and white fire ran its length. Richard stared at the ground, hoping he wasn’t losing his soul for what he was about to say, the conflicting parts of his entire life coming together in one moment that would define him forever.

“I swear an oath of fealty to your people, Lord Latobius,” Richard offered in his loudest, booming voice. “Bring your people to the Seelie Court. Fight Caer Llion with all of your might. Help kill Philip Plantagenet. Send him and his abominations to the lowest pit of the lowest hell. In exchange for your return oath to rejoin the Morrigan, I will walk the ends of Annwn and my own world to find what ails dragonkind and cure it.”

Silence fell over the mountain. Richard kept his head bowed.

He did not get up. “Ye may possess the Thorn, knight,” Latobius said. “But ye have yet to become it.”

“I just did, I think, Lord Latobius.”

Long moments passed. Richard awaited the verdict.

“It changes nothing, Knight of the Yn Ssaith,” Lord Latobius finally said. “I know ye are sincere in yer oath. It is not enough; it is not time. First Son, these guests have outstayed their welcome. The path here has taken a toll, I see. Guide them upon barges to the lowlands where they desire to go. It will aid them in ways I cannot.”

“Yes, Dragonsire,” Saethmoor said.

Anger at his failure visceral within, Richard rose and let the Dark Thorn vanish.

Lord Latobius looked closely at him.

“Knight, forgive me my choice,” the great dragon rumbled. “Give the Morrigan my apology. I pray she is strong enough for the breadth of the Tuatha de Dannan.”

“You cannot mean to betray Annwn,” Richard snarled. “Betray your Queen!”

“It will not be so!” Latobius roared. “At great distances my kind can see, better than all other fey. But no one can view the future. It is that future I fight to protect.”

Henrick pulled on Richard, but still the knight did not budge.

“Leave,” Latobius said lowly.

“Very well,” Richard said curtly. “I hope you reconsider. I hope you remember those who wounded you so, those who would see your kin wiped from this mountain. With courage we go to combat Caer Llion. I hope you regain your own.”

Latobius ignored the rebuke and stared sadly again at his wounded son. The Fynach continued their efforts. Richard mounted Lyrian once more and, cueing the others, followed Saethmoor from the Ring of Baedgor. Richard did not look back.

It would do no good.

“You have a stubborn sire,” Richard said to Saethmoor.

“He is in pain,” the prince said, guiding them from the gardens to a flat stone yard bearing large wooden square platforms with posts at the corners like a bed. “He speaks wisdom but pain has chosen his direction in this. Perhaps he will think on what you have said.”

“What do you think?” Richard questioned.

“What you have said, I believe,” Saethmoor said. “I would rather fight.”

“I failed then.”

“No, Knight McAllister,” Henrick said. “You do not know that.”

“The lord may regain his stones,” Snedeker said.

“More is what will be done now. It is time we visit Caer Llion, Bran,” Richard said, the realization of his failure blooming into a flame of resolve.

“To do what?” Bran asked, clearly surprised. “I thought we would—”

“Fight with the Tuatha de Dannan?” Richard asked. “That will come. The Morrigan now owes me a favor, although a small one. It is time we exercise it.”

“Why Caer Llion then?”

“To end the threat of Philip Plantagenet before the war even begins.”