The Dark Thorn

Richard stepped from the chaos on the plains into bedlam underground.

Ear-shattering bursts of gunfire and bullets whining passed, Richard ran for cover behind one of the rune-carved stone pillars that made up the gateway, his magic brought up in protection. The knight was on the shore of a subterranean river, the portal casting light upon a cavern filled with hundreds of Templar Knights fighting Swiss Guardsmen defensively positioned before a tunnel entrance. Dozens of the Vatican guards lay dead among fewer Templar Knights, the arms fire having little effect on the Grail-protected.

It was clear to him the fight would not last long; the Swiss Guards fought admirably but the Templar Knights outnumbered their foes and would eventually gain the city above.

Richard frowned. Arawn was nowhere to be seen.

Bringing the Dark Thorn up to attack the warriors of Caer Llion, he paused.

Two Templar Knight bodies lay slaughtered at the exit of the chamber, behind several dozen fighting Swiss Guards. It appeared as though some of the army had already broken through into the passageways beyond.

Arawn undoubtedly one of them.

Richard looked about, formulating a plan to break through and go after the fey lord, when a sudden blast of magic shook the underground to his left.

Ennio Rossi, the portal knight of Rome, fought the bulk of the Templar Knights, his long Arthurian knife Carnwennan a blur as he wove countless spells and sent them against his enemy.

Even with magic, Ennio had little effect.

And like the Swiss Guards, he would ultimately fail without aid.

Decision made, Richard cocooned himself in stronger magic. The Templar Knights were spread out in an arc, trying to break through at any weak spot and exploit it. To hunt Arawn and protect the Vatican, Richard would have to do the same. He cast the magic of the Dark Thorn into a spot thinned of Templar Knights. Not expecting a rear attack, many of them wheeled about confused, weapons drawn and Grail tubes in their mouths. He burned away their white mantles to the armor beneath, going for the leather pouches, trying to maim those who lost their protection.

They responded quickly, rushing him, no fear in their eyes.

He saw his danger almost immediately. Even though several Templars succumbed to the flames, there were too many. As under Caer Llion, he would fall to the power of the Grail. And this time no one would capture him. He would be outright killed.

Ennio acted, taking advantage of Richard’s surprise attack. He screamed orders, sending the Swiss Guard to help carve a path. Well trained to carry out orders, the Guards concentrated their firepower in one area—the weak link Richard had attacked. Templar Knights staggered back from the barrage. The Grail overcame the damage as quickly as it came but the dazed soldiers were frozen by the assault, unable to fight.

The opening was there.

Adrenaline lending him strength, Richard broke through, blasting the stunned Templar Knights aside, suddenly at the side of the Italian knight.

“Get out of here, Rick!” Ennio roared in a thick accent.

“What can I do?”

The portal knight’s face was streaked with blood and his shirt was saturated with sweat. The long knife in his hand glowed. “There is nothing. Find John Lewis Hugo!”

“Where did he go?!” Richard yelled in the tumult.

Ennio sent fire into a group of Templars who had killed several Swiss Guardsmen at the same time, tossing them away. Reinforcements quickly filled the gap.

“He gained the catacombs long minutes ago, with others!”

Not knowing if it would work, Richard closed his eyes and slammed the butt of the Dark Thorn into the floor. The stone shattered as the staff entered it.

“What are you doing?” Ennio hissed.

“Hoping I am right.”

As he had done outside Caer Lion, Richard focused, this time on the body of John Lewis Hugo, knowing more explicitly this time what he hunted. He focused on the ruined face, miscolored eyes, pale skin, and black clothing. In seconds he had his quarry firmly fixed in his mind. Concentrating, the knight called upon the Dark Thorn to locate the fey lord wherever he had gone.

The power snaked from the staff into the ground like a hound unleashed, upward into the catacombs and beyond.

He knew where Arawn now stood.

“Go!” Ennio yelled. “I will not last long!”

Richard hesitated for only a moment, nodded farewell to the young knight, and sprinted for the entrance. Giving a look back, he heard Ennio call out a retreat, ordering the Swiss Guard back into the catacombs to defend where the tunnel narrowed. The knight wove a spell as he went, his fingers dancing upon his blade. Pebbles and dust fell from the ceiling. With every word Ennio uttered, the cavern quivered more and more, the sound becoming a deep resonant rumble as if an earthquake gripped the underground.

The portal knight intended to bring the rock down upon the Templar Knights—and obstruct the entrance into Rome.

As the trembling in the rock quickened, a manic assault from a wedge of Templar Knights broke through the retreating Swiss Guards. The red crosses on their chests broke through the purple uniforms to come directly at Ennio.

Richard started forward, a warning frozen on his lips, but it was too late.

“Ennio!” he roared.

Swords fell into Ennio Rossi, over and over again. The knife in his hand vanished. The knight crumbled beneath the Templar Knights and their weapons.

The shaking of the underground ceased at his death.

“Fall back!” Richard roared.

The Templar Knights were a white and red swarm, their clothing ragged and their armor beaten, but the men within alive and vibrant. The retreat of the Swiss Guard drove them onward. As the Templar Knights hacked their way through the front lines of their foes, the defense of the Vatican retreated toward him in the corridor, eventually blocking the way into St. Peter’s like a cork in a bottle.

Richard fled the cavern, leaving the defenses of the Vatican behind. The Swiss Guard would have to be enough.

Following the path of the Dark Thorn, Richard ran. The world changed from bland cave walls to those riddled with chiseled holes bearing coffins or the dusty bones of the long dead. After numerous passages, the torches of the lower levels gave way to a flight of stairs highlighted by the soft glow of electric white light above. Richard slowed, knowing he had to be careful. It was a chess game, but one where a poorly decided move would result in death. Although the Dark Thorn had cemented in his mind where the fey lord had gone, he did not want to fall prey to a Templar Knight left behind.

Ascending the stairs, Richard kept his guard up.

He stepped from the dank quarters below into a warmer room with a rounded stucco ceiling. A massive white marble sarcophagus with decorative corners lay pushed away from the wall where he now stood, a rock door once concealing the entrance to the crypts below.

It was the tomb of Queen Christina of Sweden.

He followed the Dark Thorn into the next room where red rope stanchions cordoned off another chapel where potted blooming plants surrounded a plain marble slab covering a grave. Richard read the Latin and the dates inscribed in the stone.

Pope John Paul II lay interred within.

Richard knew where he was. He stood within the Vatican Sacred Grotto.

The knight moved on. The Sacred Grotto was more elaborate in architecture and design as he went, a separate entity from what had been below. Various symbols from Christian antiquity joined sophisticated crypts, the importance of those interred humbling despite his misgivings for the Church. Popes and other dignitaries were buried within feet of him, men and women who had devoted their lives to the Catholic Church. The ancient world he had only seen in photographs unfolded, the birthplace of Catholicism in the bowels of Vatican Hill, a world tucked away from Rome and all Richard knew.

He breathed in the stale air and hurried onward.

Seattle felt a lifetime away.

Richard took a final flight of broad stairs and, stepping through a last doorway, entered St. Peter’s Basilica.

He paused, dwarfed. Moonlight infiltrated the interior of the massive basilica through windows set in its dome, highlighting the beautiful artwork and statues beneath. Richard stared at the wealth, annoyed at the grandeur. Above the door he had emerged from the statue of Saint Longinus towered from its niche in one of the main pillars, the centurion who stabbed Christ carved by Bernini into marble relief, his sight restored and gripping the Holy Lance. Ahead of Richard the Baldicchino rose to an unprecedented height, its bronze canopy shielding Saint Peter’s Tomb beneath it.

No one was about. It was deathly silent.

Moving on, he saw a bronze statue of Saint Peter, his left hand holding two keys to his heart, the right hand blessing those who looked upon him.

Richard gritted his teeth. Peter had formed the Vigilo. It was the Vigilo who had failed at protecting the Grail and its secret, leading to Plantagenet and his war. Richard hoped Bran could correct one of those mistakes.

Richard would correct the other.

He ran full out, his footfalls barely echoing in the vastness. Richard would have to risk entering into a trap to end Arawn quickly. The sightless eyes of a dozen different saints watched him pass. He paid them no heed. Tiny among the opulence of Renaissance and Baroque architecture, Richard kept the Dark Thorn before him, the details supplied by the staff fixed in his mind, revenge driving him on.

Before he got to the five massive doors leading into the vestibule and out into St. Peter’s Square, Richard broke right under an arch where the monument to princess Maria Clementina Sobieska had been erected over a doorway.

Richard knew the door led to the roof and dome—and to the Pope’s private attic story studies above.

The bodies of two Templar Knights blocked his path.

They were about twelve feet apart, one where Richard now stood, the other within the frames of the doorway. The horror of death was frozen on each face: the bodies had been dismembered by a blade that had cleanly cut through muscle, bone, sinew, and arteries—one had lost his legs below both knees, the other lacked an arm and had a large gash in his armored chest revealing torn metal, shattered ribs, and a bloodied lung.

The pouches containing the Grail water had been punctured.

Richard stepped over the Templar Knights, sweating freely now, and glanced in the doorway and up into the reaches above.

No one waited in ambush that he could see.

He climbed the staircase, leaving the gruesome scene behind. He took the stairs two at a time, eyes ever ahead. Bolstered by the magic of the Dark Thorn, Richard ascended as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Halfway up, he encountered another body: a Swiss Guard.

The soldier lay limply upon the stairs, eyes staring sightlessly, dead from multiple stab wounds.

Richard continued.

Coming to a platform where another set of stairs continued to the roof, Richard deviated to a side entrance leading into the interior of the basilica and the multiple rooms not allowed entry to tourists that looked down upon the Square. The door, which appeared as though it had once been locked, had been pushed off of its hinges, hanging crookedly aside. Four bodies of Templar Knights and Swiss Guards lay intertwined, their lifeblood pooling together and drying upon the stone floor, the remnants of a battle that had recently transpired.

Richard stepped between hacked limbs into a grand hallway.

Like the eastern façade of St. Peter’s, the corridor he found himself in was more than a football field in length. Beautifully wrought chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, chasing away shadows. The wall on his left featured luxurious tapestries and paintings; seven doors broke up the opposite wall, between which tall statues of previous pontiffs stood, bearing scepters of office.

Dead bodies lay strewn about in the hallway.

Leading to one door.

As he moved around them as best he could, a soft gurgling came from one of the bodies near a statue that had been sliced in half from shoulder to other knee as though it were butter. The Templar Knight died slowly, the man slashed through his abdomen, the rent armor and white mantle soaked in blood.

Richard knelt but there was nothing he could do.

“Pleeasse…millloord…”

Richard watched the man’s passing. The warrior gulped his own blood, struggling to find breath, before finally dying.

The knight stood and ran his hand over the dissected statue. The marble had been hewn in two by some instrument that could cut through stone. Whatever had destroyed the effigy had also cut through the armor of the knight with ease.

“Open the Vault now!” the voice of Arawn raged from an open doorway nearby.

“We will not step aside!”

Gripping the Dark Thorn with conviction, Richard entered a room full of tension. Arawn and two Templar Knights surrounded two older men draped in black robes of the Church who were pressed against the only wall devoid of a bookshelf. Arawn gripped a kneeling Swiss Guard by the front of his uniform, holding a long dagger to his neck, but his harsh gaze never deviated from the older of the two Churchmen.

Pope Clement XV and Cardinal Vicar Cormac Pell O’Connor.

Danger pointed at the head of the Catholic Church. No matter how Richard felt about the Pope, his presence prevented Richard from unleashing the power of the Dark Thorn erratically. It added a risky dimension to the situation. Like the Cardinal Vicar, Clement held a sword in front of him, the length of the blade bright where blood slicked it. Both men were positioned defensively before the Templar Knights beside Arawn, far from any protection Richard could create.

“If you do not open the Vault, I will kill this man, his soul’s death on your conscience,” Arawn growled, twisting the point of the knife into the neck of the Guard. “The magic on the other side of this wall drew me here. Make way!”

“His sacrifice for upholding the laws of our Father in Heaven will be rewarded upon his entry,” Clement grunted. “What of your own?”

Arawn said nothing. Clement noticed Richard then, his lined face filling with a mixture of annoyance and hope. Arawn followed the Pope’s stare, his burned face darkening.

“Come to join me at last, Heliwr?” he asked, grinning.

As the Templars spun to confront the newcomer, Richard steadied his resolve.

“No. I have come to end your reign.”

“You are late then,” Arawn said. “I have survived to this room. By day’s end, the Vatican and all within it will be mine.”

“The Word will never allow it, John Lewis Hugo!” the Cardinal Vicar countered.

“Cormac Pell O’Connor,” Richard explained. “What you believe to be Hugo is in fact the ancient fey lord, Arawn, having set wheels in motion centuries ago to destroy the Vatican and the world of man, using Philip Plantagenet to meet his own ends and build an army for a different conquest entirely.” Richard paused, instead looking at Arawn. “Even now the Tuatha de Dannan fight your army in Annwn.”

“You lie,” Arawn growled. “The army I built would not be so easily spent.”

“Where is Philip if I lie?” Richard asked.

Twisting the knife, Arawn did not answer.

“A fey lord killed the Cardinal Seer then…” the Vicar said.

“And he will not gain the Vault behind us,” the Pope added. “Arawn, return to your world of Annwn. The relics in these walls will not be yours to possess.”

“Within that Vault is the ability to expose centuries of Church lies,” Arawn said to Richard. “I know you hate them as much as I. This world can no longer crusade against those it does not agree with. The Tuatha de Dannan are needed to the banish evil of those lies. Once mankind knows we exist, it will look for truths beyond their narrow noses. The relics are needed. The swords these men carry are part of that collection!”

“Only one man was ever meant to control that much power,” the Pope argued. “And He has long since been martyred and become the Word.”

“You hoard them for your own devices!” Arawn shouted.

“The Vigilo prote—” the Vicar began.

“Your Vigilo is an abomination!”

Richard kept the Dark Thorn before him, wondering what he’d gotten himself into again. The knight hated Arawn for what the fey lord had done, having killed his wife and used him for an advantage. Richard also hated the Church, the lies Arawn spoke of all too real. He knew he could not let Arawn gain the Vault, but the Vigilo were as culpable for centuries of murder. The world spun about him. For the first time, Richard did not know what to do. Arawn was a danger he had witnessed firsthand, but aiding the Pope and the Cardinal Vicar helped another side just as evil.

“Richard McAllister, look to history!” Arawn said, still holding the Guard by the throat. “Without the crusading desires of the Catholic Church pushing my kind from this world, there would have been no need for Annwn. Or the portals. Or Knights of the Yn Saith. Your wife never needed to die, had the Vigilo been satisfied with their own place in the world. The fey seek balance. Ultimately, the men in front of us represent an evil that drew us here.”

“Your wife is not the issue here, McAllister,” the Pope argued. “This creature must atone for—”

“He will!” Richard roared, slamming the Dark Thorn against the stone floor. “Remember this though, pontiff. I am not here for you. Or your Vigilo. I come here to set right wrongs.”

“Get the Heliwr then, Templars!” Arawn shouted.

The room erupted into pandemonium. Arawn was like a snake. He dodged the thrust and sent the dagger plunging into the neck of the Swiss Guardsman. Blood spurted everywhere. Richard barely had time to bring forth the fire of the Dark Thorn in defense as the Templar Knights charged with swords drawn. Steel rang. Grail bags gave life to the warriors attacking Richard. He barely had time to think. In the close quarters it was hard for him to move, but he gave the ground he needed to maneuver, releasing the pent-up magic inside of him, the fire of the Dark Thorn urgent.

As he gave ground, one of the Templars swung his sword in a broad arc even as the other attacked Richard from the side. For the first time the knight used the Dark Thorn as a club, parrying the sword even as he sent his fire directly into the man’s face.

The Templar Knight fell backward, twisting away.

Richard incinerated the bag on his back.

He had only just ended the first threat when the second Templar Knight fought through the fire, roaring his battle call like a maddened bull and swinging with great force. Barely having time to dodge and wielding only enough fire to slow the warrior down, the Red Cross backed away until cornered against a bookshelf of massive tomes.

Grinning, the warrior brought his blade down to cleave Richard in two. The knight sidestepped. As he did so, the warrior overextended his efforts and was caught off balance.

Gritting his teeth, Richard smashed the head of the Dark Thorn across the left cheek of his attacker.

The warrior crumbled like a puppet cut from its strings.

The first soldier was back, sword in hand.

“Don’t make me kill you!” Richard thundered.

Knowing he was no longer protected by the power of the Grail, fear entered the man’s eyes. Richard feinted at him. The Templar Knight fled the room then, knowing he was bested before he even began.

Richard turned to discover the power in the room had shifted.

Arawn had overcome Clement.

The fey lord held the Pope against him like a shield, the edge of his dagger lying against Clement’s wrinkled neck. The polished sword of the Pope now lay on the ground. Richard didn’t know how to proceed. As he lowered the flame about the Dark Thorn to a halo, he walked slowly to stand nearer the three other men.

“Let me pass into the Vault,” Arawn asserted, squeezing Clement by the throat.

The Cardinal Vicar did not move, his sword at the ready.

“Richard McAllister, we hate the same hypocrisy,” Arawn said smoothly. “You do not let the Church command you. Nor do I. It is for the Tuatha de Dannan I do this. When Plantagenet had his lackey trick me, I thought my time over. The man who owned this body took my life. I was imprisoned for long decades before my spirit eroded that of John Lewis Hugo and his body became my own. Encouraging Plantagenet to reclaim his birthright was my first step against the very Church that drove us from the Misty Isles.

“You and I hate the same thing.”

“But you are Tuatha de Dannan!” Richard shot back. “You sent that cait sith to his death into Seattle! You kill your own kin in Annwn even as we speak!”

“I did not bring them to this fight, knight!” Arawn seethed. “I do not wish their demise any more than you do. By the time I gained control of this flesh Plantagenet had built a large army and it was too late for me to aid my brethren. I use him as he used me, to keep my own safe. Help me regain balance!”

“I will not give into your wishes, Arawn!” the Pope growled. “The secrets and power beyond that wall will avail you nothing!”

“We will see. It is up to you, Cardinal Vicar. Let die your Pope?”

“Do not give in, Cormac,” Clement insisted.

Arawn snarled, looking back and forth between the Cardinal Vicar and Richard. The knight could see the struggle within Cormac. It matched his own. To give into Arawn’s demands meant giving him power; to not give in meant the death of the Pope.

Clement had no such hesitation.

“It is to you now, Cormac Pell O’Connor.”

Clement twisted hard from Arawn, breaking the grip, even as a dagger appeared in his hand from the folds of his robes. The fey lord did not flinch from the weapon even as the knife plunged into his back. Sucking on the contents of his own Grail bag, Arawn rammed his dagger through the chest of Clement.

The Pope gasped and his eyes rolled toward heaven.

He went limp and collapsed.

“Neither of you can kill me,” Arawn sneered. “The power of your Word is with me and forever shall be.”

“No longer,” the Cardinal Vicar said.

The grin on Arawn’s face disappeared. Water gushed to the floor. Pope Clement had not only stabbed the fey lord but also the bag that offered him protective life over the body of John.

With a snarl, Arawn went for the sword the Pope had dropped. Richard did not wait. He vaulted in between the two men and jammed the butt of the Dark Thorn into Arawn’s chest, slamming his body backward against the stone wall, pinning him there.

“Finish him!” the Cardinal Vicar roared.

“We will not kill him.”

“He is evil!” Cormac raged, raising his gray sword. “Look what he has done! Step aside, McAllister. Now!”

Conflicting emotions swept through Richard like a wildfire. He wanted to slay the fey lord as much as the Cardinal Vicar did. He still saw Elizabeth as she died under the blade of Arondight; he still burned for vengeance at what had been done to his life.

“I will not,” Richard said finally. “We don’t know what will happen to the spirit of Arawn if we kill the body of John Lewis Hugo.”

“If he is left alive, what then?”

“I will speak to Merle on this subject. He will know what is best when it comes to the fey,” Richard answered. “Arawn will be tried with wisdom. Not by us.”

“By whom then? The Morrigan or her ilk? The laws of the Holy See? Italy?” Cormac scoffed. “No. He has killed the pontiff. He has infiltrated the Vatican. He alone knows of Annwn, and the Seelie Court would more than likely let him off the hook for his affront. All that we have fought for—all that you have fought for—would be put at jeopardy by not killing him now!”

“If you try, I will kill you,” Richard said flatly.

It was the hardest thing Richard had ever had to say. The Cardinal Vicar was taken aback. The dark brooding eyes of Cormac stared at Richard. The knight stared right back at his elder.

“Merle or the Morrigan will know best how to punish the spirit inside of John Lewis Hugo,” Richard repeated. “It is the only way to ensure punishment is given.”

Breathing hard, the point of the Dark Thorn still pressing him against the wall, Arawn grinned. “My end will not come by your hand knight,” he whispered. “Not like your wife.”

“That may be,” Richard said, unwilling to let the personal barb unseat his authority of the Dark Thorn. “But your role in this is over.”

Arawn laughed, a sick sound.

And began to change.

Unsure of what he was seeing at first, a black fog clouded Richard’s vision, the miasma swirling out of John Lewis Hugo’s body and into the air. It hung suspended before him, diaphanous and cold, free flowing, unmoving.

Two red coals blinked in the ether.

The spirit of Arawn.

Latent rage at the escape attempt filling him, Richard sent the fire of the Dark Thorn into the cloud with controlled fury, wrapping the fey in coils of magic. Arawn struggled, fighting the staff, trying to invade Richard instead. The knight closed his mind to the offense. Bringing years of anger to the fore coupled with the memory of Elizabeth and her last few fear-filled moments, Richard tightened the magic of the Dark Thorn on Arawn like a vise, a dam of pain unleashed, crushing the spirit. Inhumanly wailing, the lord fought as the magic bit into him.

It did not matter. The mind of Arawn burned away as the fire of Richard’s will incinerated it.

The final, terrible scream of Arawn echoed through the suite.

Then all went silent.

Breathing hard, Richard looked upon the now palsied body below him. The fey lord that had come close to destroying him had vanished, leaving a body wracked by spasms and twitches, hands clawed and twisted. A dull moan escaped the mouth, growing into choking gasps of pain.

“What is wrong with him?” the Cardinal Vicar asked.

“The pain…” the man mewed, teeth gnashing.

Richard stared at the body of John Lewis Hugo, unsure of what he witnessed.

“Kill me…”

The fire that had made Richard a killing machine became smoke. Arawn no longer resided in the body, leaving only one possibility for who spoke to them.

It was John Lewis Hugo, his soul no longer trapped.

Pleading for death.

“Kill me…” John Lewis Hugo cried.

“No,” Richard said.

“Pleeeease,” John sniveled, gulping in air. “Kill meee…”

“Do not do so, McAllister,” Cormac ordered. “Or suffer damnation.”

Richard ignored the Cardinal Vicar and knelt, grasping the shaking wrist. Like he had done to Al and Walker in Seattle days earlier, the knight went into the mind of John Lewis Hugo.

There he encountered fractured pandemonium.

The agony of the man overwhelmed Richard. The soul of Philip’s onetime best friend was disjointed and broken, a shattered pane of glass. Richard had never felt such acute and traumatic memories in another before. John Lewis Hugo had witnessed every savage moment Arawn had been privy to—the mutation and breeding of thousands of children with fey and animals via the Cailleach to create a ghastly army of halfbreeds, orders given to assassinate countless political figures within Annwn to either gain favors or just to see them die, the torture and breaking of numerous jailed men and women in the Caer Lion dungeons merely to satisfy his insatiable curiosity about human anatomy.

John had screamed into the void where his consciousness lay, unable to alter the events his body took part in, until his very being frayed and snapped.

The distress was so poignant Richard had only one course.

Richard moved into what remained of the other’s mind and massaged it, lending his strength to John Lewis Hugo. The emotional anguish was too much for Richard to assuage—too many years of witnessed abuses for the magic to wipe away. As he had done to the two homeless men, the knight erased the centuries of horrible memories, to a time before John Lewis Hugo entered Annwn when he loved a tailoring assistant on Threadneedle Street in London. It had been the last time he had been truly happy. Richard felt what John Lewis Hugo had experienced so long ago—the innocence and the love, the hope of a touch and the feeling of a kiss on blushing cheek, the first unfamiliar and anxious moments of sex. They were emotions Richard had long since thought dead within his own heart, and they left him sad.

There, in the past, Richard slowed the other man’s pulse.

When the knight opened his eyes again, John Lewis Hugo sighed contentedly one last time—and did not breathe again.

“You are going to hell, McAllister.”

Richard stood again, weariness finally catching up to him. He ignored the Cardinal Vicar and strode toward the door of the suite.

The knight turned back to face Cormac only once.

“If you had any doubt, you are too.”





“You realize, Bran Ardall, you have saved the world as we know it.”

With the boy standing behind him, Richard sat across from Cormac O’Connor, a large desk and a gulf of uncertainty between them. He stared out a large office window overlooking stormy Rome. It echoed the unsettling feeling he had inside. Sitting in a plush chair, he and Bran were alone with the Vicar, Finn Arne having left the room after reporting that the catacombs had been cleared of the remaining Templar Knights and the portal was secure once again.

Cormac had changed into clothing more suited to his station—red vestments with white trim, a red zucchetto upon his head, and a gold cross about his neck. The sword he had carried, Hrunting, lay with Durendal in the corner of the room, both cleaned of the blood staining their blades.

A gloomy dawn was only an hour away.

Somewhere below in chambers Richard could only guess at, Pope Clement XV lay in secluded peace. Very few knew of his death. In time it would be announced as a heart attack to the world and his burial wishes would be carried out.

A new Pope would then be selected.

A clock in the room ticked the seconds of silence away. Hungry and tired, Richard had accepted the invitation to the Cardinal Vicar’s office and brought Bran for two reasons only.

“Please, have some fruit and water,” Cormac offered, gesturing at a bowl of apples, bananas, and grapes and a glass pitcher. “You must thirst after what took place. It is the least I can do. Without you, both the Vatican and Annwn would have falle—”

“Stop with the pretenses, Cardinal Vicar,” Richard said bitingly.

The Cardinal Vicar stared hard at the knight.

Neither spoke, gauging one another.

“When has civility been frowned upon?” Cormac asked finally.

“When it is not sincere.”

Cormac did not flinch from the unabashed insolence. “Let us speak frankly, McAllister. You have ever been a thorn in the side of the Vigilo. It is beyond rational reasoning why Merle has chosen you to be the Heliwr. That said, there is no reason we cannot begin anew. It will take strength and friendship to see the coming days set right. Rossi is dead. Dozens of Swiss Guards are dead. The survivors will need to have their minds cleared of their memories to keep Annwn safe. And with the knowledge that even some fey have the might to challenge the separation of our worlds, it is more pressing than ever that we work together.” He paused. “Needless to say, you have no reason to fear our association.”

“The loss of Ennio is great,” Richard said. “The loss of your Pope is a hardship for you. Loss is nothing new to me though, Vicar. Loss is not foreign to Bran here either. You extend an olive branch. I have no desire for one.”

“Why did you agree to meet with me then, McAllister?”

“There are two reasons. The first, I keep my promises,” Richard answered. “You sent Finn Arne after young Ardall here, hoping to capture him at best, harm him at worst. I promised your captain upon meeting with him that I would bring Bran here with me after the death of Philip Plantagenet. That happened, so I am here to fulfill that oath.”

“Now, you wait one minute. I meant no harm to B—”

“There is more,” the knight interrupted. “I wanted him to meet you, to see your face, to know there are men in the world like you who use other people to their own selfish ends. Bran is now a portal knight. He has yet to fully understand the forces that move throughout this world. He now knows of you.”

“You just described your wizard,” Cormac said, face reddening.

“That may be truth. Bran now knows this too.”

“I have no aspirations but to keep the two worlds separate,” the Cardinal Vicar said. “The Vigilo maintains a valuable service. Sometimes it requires sacrifice and the best tools available. Sometimes those tools are people. I merely look for the best ways to keep the peace. Nothing more.”

“You are a liar,” Richard said. “I know you, Vicar. The rest of the Yn Saith know you. You are like Philip and Arawn. More will never, ever be enough.”

The ruddy face darkened further in anger.

Richard did not flinch.

“How dare you accuse me,” Cormac gnashed, the color of his face matching his robe. “I asked you here not to quibble about the lies and efforts of Philip but to extend my heartfelt gratitude and begin a relationship in these trying times. His Excellency lies in a cold room, murdered. My best friend and mentor already lies in his crypt, murdered. Countless Swiss Guards gave their life to stop Philip and his machinations. The Catholic Church and all who depend on her will soon be in deep mourning. Instead you throw that in my face? And question my motives?”

“You don’t deny it,” Richard snapped. “Who do you think you are?”

“I think you have not done the mathematics of the situation, Heliwr,” Cormac spat vehemently. “Even now, as we sit here speaking, the College of Cardinals is convening in the Sistine Chapel to begin the election process. The white smoke will blow for me. It is best for you to understand this precept: Do not be quick to make an enemy who wears so much authority upon his mantle.”

Richard sat forward. “Are you threatening me?”

“If that is what it takes for you to not make a mistake,” the Cardinal Vicar sneered before looking to Bran. “For one so young to not make a mistake.”

“Would you have me murdered?” Bran asked evenly.

Cormac folded his hands before him. “Ever hear the adage ‘One kills a man, he is a murderer; one kills millions, he is a conqueror; one kills everybody, he is a god?’ I have no doubt you have. For centuries the Vigilo has kept the world safe from those who would subvert it. It was given us by Saint Peter to ensure Christianity remained strong after his passing and spread to all hearts. Once a part of the Church, the knights are now a rogue element, given an agenda by a wizard of all people,” Cormac hissed. “You are part of the same hypocrisy.”

“You sound pleased the Pope is dead,” Richard said.

“Perhaps there is some truth to that,” Cormac admitted. “But I see His will be done.”

“He is nothing but a thug, Richard,” Bran said.

“As I said, you are young and insolent, fool!” the Vicar thundered. “How dare you question me! A whelp! A boy who has never seen the world and the evil within it. I know more secrets about this longest of wars than you could fathom! I should have you shackled for your disrespect!” Cormac paused, his ire lessening as a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I mean, after all, perhaps it was you who killed the Pope.”

Before he knew it, Richard was on his feet. The Dark Thorn materialized into his hands, its magic angrily diffusing the room. The Cardinal Vicar leaned back in his seat, a modicum of fear dampening the fire in his eyes.

“You are nothing to me, McAllister,” Cormac goaded as he stared hard at Bran. “You lost your ideals years ago when your wife died. The power that has been bestowed on both of you does not make you wise.”

“That may be,” Richard said. “But at least my soul is not stained.”

With contempt, the Cardinal shook his head.

“For now.”

“If I see you again—if you so much as send Finn Arne after me or Bran or the other Yn Saith—today will not be the last day you see me. And trust me, you don’t want to see me again.”

“Sounds to me like you are willing to bloody your hands by killing the innocent, as long as you believe it is done for your own rightness,” Cormac remarked.

Richard let the Dark Thorn vanish.

“I will do what I must.”

“As I’ve done ever since my family was murdered by heretics,” Cormac said, smiling without any hint of humor. “As pontiff I will ensure that same pain does not happen to another person. You and I are more alike than you even know. In time that will become as apparent to you as it already is to me.”

“Richard, we should go now,” Bran said.

Richard held his tongue. Cormac stared at him with stoicism. The Cardinal Vicar suddenly looked older, the venom gone out of him to reveal the black circles under his eyes and the sagging wrinkles of his cheeks. Richard realized the power Cormac wielded had worn him down, but some inner fire kept him driven.

“I pray you will change your ways,” Richard said simply. “Or we will cross paths again, and it will not be pretty for you if that happens.”

“His will be done, right?” Cormac said.

Knowing he had proved what he needed to for Bran and having nothing left to say to the Cardinal Vicar, Richard turned to the surprise of Cormac and strode from the room.

Bran followed.

Neither looked back.

“I buried Deirdre myself, over there,” Bran said, pointing.

Richard stood within the shadowy shelter of the Forest of Dean, looking over the dark carnage on the plains. The earth still smoked where charred dead halfbreeds rotted. The Tuatha de Dannan buried their own as well as the enemy, treating every corpse with respect and removing all steel so as to not poison the earth. Saethmoor worked alongside his smaller fey brethren, digging vast grave trenches with his talons. As Richard watched the hard work being done, the monumental loss of life and the reason for it burdened him.

He felt like he had failed to prevent the massacre.

Looking on the white granite bursting from the torn sod like shattered grave markers, Richard tried to understand what created men like Cormac O’Connor or Philip Plantagenet.

Snedeker sat on his shoulder, wings docilely fluttering. Richard was sad about Deirdre. She had died honorably, protecting Bran, and now she lay buried out beyond the battlefield where the plains had come to no harm—one sacrifice of many.

“You cared a great deal for her, didn’t you?” he asked.

Bran drew in a deep breath.

“As much as she did for you.”

Richard nodded. Bran had grown up during his short time in Annwn. The sadness written on him had gone deep into his soul. It would be a long time before Bran shuffled the sorrow off.

“Do you hate me for that?”

Bran shook his head but didn’t say anything.

“I saw Ennio Rossi die,” Richard said quietly. “He was young. Too young.”

“Do you feel that way about me?” Bran asked.

“I don’t,” Richard replied. “Not anymore. This has aged you, more than you yet know.”

Bran looked at the gauntlet where his left hand used to be. Richard knew what he was thinking. Change had come to both of them, change like the coming future. Even now the humid air that had suffocated their time in Annwn gave way to a cooling breeze washing in from the ocean. In the distance, dark clouds gathered, bearing with them the promise of unfettered electricity and rain Annwn had not seen naturally in centuries.

The coming storm matched the turmoil within both knights.

“It is time, Richard, young Ardall,” the Kreche informed, limping from the tent where the Seelie Court had gathered.

“I know,” Richard said. “What will you do now, my old friend?”

“I have never been built for politics,” the Kreche rumbled. “The Seelie Court has no need of my opinions. But I will remain here, in Annwn. The gateway to Rome is without a protector. I cannot fathom allowing a crossing of any kind.”

“I understand. Your origins make it so,” Richard said. “I hope you return to Seattle soon then.”

“I will return to my piers along the Sound when I can,” the Kreche grunted. He turned to Bran. “And Ardall?”

Bran peered into the dark eyes of the Kreche.

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said to you on the battlefield,” the Kreche said, giving him a short bow. “You are a great deal like your father.”

“Kreche?”

The monstrosity paused from limping toward the shimmering entrance of the gateway to take up his post, head down, barely turning.

“Yes?” the halfbreed said.

“Call me Bran.”

The dark behemoth grunted and continued on his way.

“We are wanted,” Richard said, patting Bran on the shoulder.

They walked to the colorful tent where the remaining lords of the Tuatha de Dannan convened for the third time in two weeks. The fighting had not reached the tent, leaving it unsoiled, but the wind from the coming storm ruffled its sides. Above them, in the canopy of the trees, dryads swung from branch to branch in the slowly swaying trees as they healed the Forest of Dean as best as they could from the lingering effects of the dragon fire.

Two hellyll warriors stood guard at the entrance. Both nodded in greeting as the two knights entered.

All eyes of the Seelie Court turned to them.

“Welcome, Knights Richard McAllister and Bran Ardall,” the Morrigan greeted from a high-backed chair a bit taller than the others occupied around it. Flowing silk had replaced her armor, her injured arm held carefully in her lap. Two fairies sat perched behind her again, awaiting any need she may have. The other lords nodded their welcome too, each bathed after the battle and in new clothing. Other than the Queen, the only other lord displaying any sign of injury was Lord n’Hagr, his brutish face pale, his left arm gone and bandaged above the elbow. Lord Latobius had also joined the Seelie Court, changed into his human form to sit within the confines of the tent.

With no hint of pain on her chiseled face, the Morrigan gestured with her other hand to a set of chairs set up near the table.

“We will not stay long, Queen,” Richard said, sitting down.

“Are you both well?”

Richard nodded. Bran sat down beside him.

“There is a change in the air,” the Queen began, her eyes scanning the lords. “In gratitude to the Heliwr and the efforts of Bran Ardall, the reign of Philip Plantagenet is finally at an end. Each and every one of you and your peoples surrendered life and blood for our freedom. There is power in that, a strengthening of the bonds of our Court that will stretch across the entirety of Annwn. And even now, as we sit here, the world reasserts its natural order once more, the first chills of a harsh winter long needed stirring within the bowels of stone and dirt and plant.”

“The Cailleach damaged much,” Lord Aife agreed sadly.

“It is our role to put our affairs in order and transition out of that damage,” the Queen said. “How soon may we leave these environs, Mastersmith?”

“The burial proceeds as quickly as it can, my Queen,” Govannon replied, his demeanor weary. “The reclamation of all iron and steel items has continued all morning but it will be some time before we may fully inter our kin to nature. Late tomorrow. Or perhaps early the next day.”

“I see. Unfortunate. The rains will come as we travel home.”

“What of the Graal that started all of this?” Lord Eigion asked.

Lugh stood, still wearing his scarred armor. “When my men overcame the force the Usurper left behind in his city, we ventured into the castle. Women and children were mostly left behind, posing no threat, even if Lord Evinnysan attempted a defense. With the aid of Lord Faric and his coblynau, who see far better in the darkness, we traversed into the catacombs of dungeons as Knight McAllister related. I will not speak of the unnatural breeding pens we discovered, but the chamber where McAllister reported the Graal to be was nothing but a lake, the cup not found. I have my men hunting the plains surrounding Caer Llion in hopes of coming across it and the person who took it.”

“Perhaps one of the prisoners Caswallawn freed during our escape from the dungeons stole it,” Richard said. “Or a group of soldiers pilfering the city before the Tuatha de Dannan entered it.”

“I do not know. It is not likely,” Lugh said. “From what my men and I could discern, one person took the cup. Templar Knights were slaughtered at every turn from the dungeons. Signs pointed at one highly trained individual. From there, nothing was found.”

“We have seen the Graal can be used for terrible evil,” Aife said. “Finding it should be a top priority.”

“It must not be allowed to enter into unknown hands,” the Morrigan said, nodding in agreement. “The Rhedewyr will scour Annwn. And with them, my best and most able trackers.”

“Why does not the Heliwr search for it?” Caswallawn beseeched.

All eyes turned on Richard.

“You are quick to put the knight through another quite dangerous ordeal, Lord Caswallawn,” Lord Finnbhennach interrupted, his horns gleaming beneath the fey light of the orbs. “Especially after he helped return your stolen kingdom.”

“I have no intention of disgracing his gift by suggesting he owes us more,” Lord Caswallawn said.

“No, no, it is all right,” Richard said. “I would do as Caswallawn suggested if I could. When I reentered Annwn from Rome the first thing I did was try to discern if it remained in Caer Llion. I failed. The Dark Thorn seemed confused, pulled in three different directions. I cannot explain why. One day I may aid in the retrieval of the Holy Grail. Until I learn more from Merle about the staff, it may be some time.”

Frowns and dissatisfied grunts filled the tent.

“It will be as you say, Knight McAllister,” the Morrigan said before turning to Aife. “How fare the Rhedewyr then? Are they recovering from their stampede?”

“The Rhedewyr graze upon the grasslands to the west,” Aife reported, returned entirely to her nude human form. “Almost two dozen died in the initial rush against the army of Caer Llion, more than a hundred injured. Kegan and his remaining son aid them now. They will be ready for whatever you require, my Queen.”

“What will become of Caer Llion?” Lord n’Hagr rumbled.

“It will go to the remaining family of Lord Gerallt,” the Morrigan said. “First, I must say with great sadness, I am sorrowed by the loss of the lord and his daughter. Without men and women of honor, the Tuatha de Dannan would barely have anything to trust in mankind. They will be missed and never forgotten. Caer Llion shall exist as a monument to Lord Gerallt and a center of power here in the south. The remaining descendents of man—including the Templar Knights who survived the battle—will have sanctuary within its walls and the plains about it.”

“Lord Gerallt leaves behind no direct heir,” Snedeker said sadly. “I believe he had a younger brother, though, with a family of his own.”

“If Lord Caswallawn can abstain from Govannon’s brew, I wish him to help guide Lord Gerallt’s brother until he is fit to rule on his own,” the Queen said. “Lord Caswallawn, do you accept this great honor?”

“I do, my Queen,” Caswallawn said.

“It is settled then.” The Morrigan nodded to those around her. “Caer Llion will maintain the peace in the south. Lord Fafnir, his grandson Faric, and the coblynau will once again entreat trade relations between Caer Glain and the rest of Annwn, as is their right now that they have returned to the Seelie Court. Lord Latobius, his brethren, and their Fynach caretakers will undoubtedly remain in Tal Ebolyon where they have ever resided.”

“We will continue in our snowy reaches as long as we are able,” Latobius assured. “It is home.”

“Lord Latobius, those gathered here owe you and your kin a debt as well,” the Morrigan added. “If it had not been for you and your intervention, our demise would have been at hand.”

“Took him long enough to arrive,” Caswallawn snorted.

Everyone looked around uncomfortably. Richard wanted to strike Caswallawn. It appeared even after the survival of the Tuatha de Dannan and the expulsion of Philip, old wounds refused heal.

“My people die, Lord Caswallawn,” Latobius whispered. “Surely, you of all the lords present know what that means. Each life among my people is far more precious than I can relate. Nael will heal in time. The wounds visited upon him are mending in a shaded glen not far from here, and we were fortunate to not lose him. To die is to give meaning to that death, but when a people are as few as we are, no death holds meaning.”

“I did not mean to offend,” Caswallawn conceded.

“It is ever in your nature to do so, Lord Caswallawn,” Latobius said sadly. “I decided it best to view the battle and its progress from a safe distance before offering our might. After all, no reason to become involved if Tal Ebolyon was not needed.”

“It was,” Lord Eigion pointed out. “Those sitting here are very much in your debt.”

“You have my oath to discover what ails dragonkind,” Richard reminded the dragon lord.

Latobius nodded to the knight in appreciation.

“Richard McAllister and Bran Ardall,” the Queen addressed, moving on. “What is it you desire from the Seelie Court, though I cannot offer title or land?”

“There is nothing you can give us, Queen,” Richard replied.

The Morrigan nodded. “Then a favor at another time. What will come of the portal in Rome? A Knight of the Yn Saith has perished there, which saddens us all a great deal for his sacrifice. It will take time for Myrddin Emrys to promote a replacement.”

“The Kreche will oversee the portal from this side until such a time he is relieved by a new Knight of the Yn Saith,” Richard said.

“A formidable warrior. I am pleased to hear it,” she nodded, her eyes hard. “Men from the Church of your world were a part of the battle, having come into these plains before the battle had even begun. They aided the Tuatha de Dannan, although I believe they did so at their own gain. They must never again bring their beliefs or their weapons into Annwn.”

“The Seven and I will do what we can to prevent that.”

“I am sure once you return to your home and meet with Myrddin Emrys that your future will become clearer for all,” the Morrigan said. “Long have our two worlds lacked a Heliwr to give balance. We must restore that which we have lost. It will take your help and it will require strength. I hope your knighthood lasts decades.”

“I will be what I decide,” Richard said noncommittally. “Bran and I will begin our trip back to Seattle this afternoon. Before doing so, however, I will contact the surviving members of the Yn Saith and inform them of the events that have transpired here today. I will do what I can to honor the two worlds.”

“I know, Richard McAllister,” the Morrigan said with a brief smile. “Do any lords here wish to speak?”

Silence filled the tent.

“The Seelie Court will separate in two days,” the Queen ordained. “May many days of peace be visited upon Annwn.”