The Dark Thorn

When Richard stepped into the portal, the world of smell and touch disappeared.

He could see Bran behind him, but the boy appeared translucent, concealed by blankets of mist. Arrow Jack was nowhere to be seen. Neither Richard nor the boy spoke, both fixated on the path before them, their footsteps silent as they fell on vertigo-inducing nothingness. Richard forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, hoping he had not made a mistake in coming. With the decayed odor of Old Seattle and the adrenaline from the gunfight fading, he fled from a past filled with pain into an uncertain future.

All the while, the mysterious words of Merle haunted him.

The gray lightened, a point as blinding as the sun growing in front of the two travelers, until Richard had to shield his eyes. As the illumination grew, the feeling of being pinched—of being reduced in physical size by a force more commanding than gravity— squeezed the air from his lungs. Just as he was in danger of passing out, a blast of light surrounded both men, and the shock sent Richard to his knees.

He opened his eyes.

The void and the crushing grip were gone.

In its place, warmth and a verdant meadow spread around him, the dewy emerald grass sprinkled with clover and small purple flowers under a sun rising to the east.

Behind him, a shimmer like heat rising over cooked pavement rippled in the air.

Bran lay near him, shaking off what they had just experienced.

“Is this…?” the boy asked.

“Annwn,” Richard answered, standing. “The ancient land of the Tuatha de Dannan.”

Richard had never been to Annwn beyond visiting the Isle of the great tree Achlesydd along with the other Yn Saith. Sky like he had only seen in the Rocky Mountains lorded overhead, clear and clean. Insects buzzed, a persistent hum amidst the twill of birdsong. Despite it only being morning, Richard knew the afternoon and early evening would be hot. The only blight surrounded the meadow like a wall: a forest grown unruly repelled the sunshine, its limbs twisted as if in pain, its depths dark like runny pitch.

Richard felt akin to it, like an ink stain on clean cloth.

“You okay?” he asked Bran.

“I am,” the boy replied, also standing and smacking blades of grass off his knees.

Richard grunted and looked around, getting his bearings. He had never seen the majesty of the massive range in the distance from this vantage; its jagged snow-encrusted peaks burst from the remnants of what looked to be an ancient era of previous mountain building.

“Hope we aren’t going into those mountains,” Bran said.

“They are the Carn Cavall, the newer spires, Snowdon,” Richard said. “Hard country, wild and still free. With any luck we will not be going there.”

“Will the Church men follow us?”

“Not if I know the Kreche,” the knight snickered. “They won’t get near the portal.”

“Finn Arne took a punch from the Kreche that should have killed him,” Bran said. “How is it he is okay?”

“You know I possess Arondight,” Richard said. Bran nodded. “The Captain of the Vatican’s Swiss Guard possesses Prydwen, the Shield of Arthur. It keeps him from harm, no matter the damage done.”

“He is invincible?”

“Yes,” Richard said. “Mostly.”

“But I didn’t see a shield.”

“Trust me, it is there,” Richard huffed. “Can we get going now?”

Not waiting for an answer, Richard set off into the forest parallel to the Carn Cavall, his strides long with purpose. Bran hurried after. The plants and sounds were the same, the feel of the grass beneath his feet familiar, the world appearing no different than their own although summer now replaced fall. But something was off, a feeling of illness that traveled from his boots into the core of his being.

Before he could think more on it, the shadowy forest enveloped them, the airy lightness of the day blocked like a thunderhead in front of the sun. Wrongness surrounded them, dank and stale, the trees sapped of life. No animals or insects stirred. The forest was a dead zone.

“What a dismal place,” Bran observed.

“Dryvyd Wood was designed this way.”

“Designed?”

“Well, designed probably isn’t the right word,” Richard said. “Allowed to grow terrible is closer to the truth. Don’t stray from me and do not touch the trees, at least not until I tell you it is all right. They are none too friendly.”

Bran looked around with wary apprehension. “Where are we going?”

“The capital fortress of Caer Llion in the southeastern part of the island,” Richard said.

“Where are we now?”

“In the middle southern reaches of Annwn, I believe.”

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Never.”

“What’s at Caer Llion? This Philip guy?”

“Philip Plantagenet, despot of the Tuatha de Dannan,” Richard muttered. “Caer Llion is the capital of his empire. It is there we will find him.”

“And we go to kill him?” Bran questioned.

“Perhaps,” Richard said. “He makes Hitler look like a joy. Merle believes our coming to Annwn will remove Philip. If he is truly the man behind the attack on you, I come here to find answers and destroy whatever looking glass he uses to view our world. We will start with him.”

“Why hasn’t anyone tried to stop him before now?”

“By the time the Third Crusade wrapped up in the Middle East, Philip had already conquered most of Annwn,” Richard said, weaving through the trees with care. “He has grown strong over the centuries, somehow living far longer than his natural span. That’s another mystery I intend to unravel. At any rate, his vast army and Caer Llion protect him. Stealth is about the only tactic and weapon we have going for us, unfortunately.”

“The Third Crusade. But that would make him…”

“Exactly,” Richard affirmed. “Old.”

“How can that be?”

“We don’t know. Merle suspects Philip possesses a relic of some kind.”

“A relic?”

“A longevity talisman, something from the old world probably,” Richard replied as he glanced at the forest canopy. “A necklace or ring or something.”

Arrow Jack landed on a wobbly tree branch, his dark feathers blending into the black leaves. The bird took off again, his wingspan a scythe through the blue of the sky.

“Why did the bird come?” Bran asked.

“He is our scout. He’ll keep an eye ahead for trouble.”

They hiked through the forest, the rolling land easy to navigate, Richard avoiding every overhanging limb, every exposed root. Bran mimicked him. The sun swept overhead in a golden arc, but the cool shadows of Dryvyd Wood infiltrated the knight’s clothing and left him chilled. It had been a long time since the knight had ventured from the Bricks, and suddenly being thrust into nature made him uneasy. Arrow Jack winged from tree to tree, a companion vanishing and returning at whim. No animals appeared, no sounds intruded. The forest was a burial ground. The feeling that Richard had made the wrong choice grew with every step.

The sun crossed midday, beginning its slow decent, when they came to a stream sliding like a silver snake through exposed gnarled roots, gurgling as it rode over rounded rocks.

They were fortunate to have come on a stream so quickly.

Richard removed his boots and socks, and stepped into the slow-moving stream. “Stay where you are, Bran, on the bank.”

The boy halted. “What are you doing?”

“Searching for something.”

“For what?”

“Just wait,” Richard snapped.

Bran darkened. The knight didn’t care.

Richard closed his eyes, focusing on a memory from a lifetime ago, trying to remember the spell Merle had taught him. The necessary words materialized as if he had used them that day. As he reiterated a series of five Welsh words backed with a hum, he passed his hand over the stream in slow circular motions, his palm open and face down, calling. Warmth spread from his use of the ancient magic but he barely felt it. Instead he foraged along the bed of the stream with his mind, seeking the one specially shaped rock he hoped existed.

Several feet away a white glow formed in the running depths.

“There it is,” the knight whispered.

He burned with concentration, new sweat pricking his skin as he tightened his use of the magic. The light broadened, pushing its way out of the water, the brook giving way to the power Richard employed.

“Get back, Bran.”

Before he could see if the boy heeded him, a small rock erupted from the stream, its expulsion sending water cascading in all directions. It flew through the air as it was beckoned, the stone coming to hover below his hand, a sphere tumbling with rapidity. The knight closed his fist over the stone, its smoothness like ice, a near perfect band of gray rock still wet from eons of submersion.

“What’s that?” Bran questioned.

“A fairy ring,” Richard replied, holding it up in the sunshine.

“Looks like a rock with a hole in it.”

“A hole for your finger,” Richard said, annoyed anew. “This little stone will protect you from certain appetites Mankind has among the fey.”

“And those would be?”

“Remember the cu sith?” Richard asked.

“How could I forget?”

“Fairies controlled it,” the knight said, tossing the ring to Bran who caught it. “Some creatures here in Annwn have power over others—power to control humans. That ring, born of wild nature, will protect you.”

Frowning, Bran slid the circle over his right hand middle finger.

Arrow Jack screeched from a limb high in one of the trees across the brook, the sound quick and earnest even in the deadened air of the Dryvyd Wood.

“What did he say?” Bran asked.

“I. Don’t. Know,” Richard answered angrily. “He’s your bird. You deal with him.”

“My bird?”

“Yes, your bird. Every Heliwr has a guide. I think Arrow Jack will be yours when the time comes.”

“Merle said knighthoods don’t get passed from father to son.”

“And he lies,” the knight said. “Don’t forget it.”

Richard replaced his socks and boots and without a look back jumped over the dry stones of the brook. Bran followed. The trees thinned and lost their threatening feel almost immediately, the misshapen limbs and trunks of Dryvyd Wood less twisted, its foliage greener and more vibrant. Richard exhaled from holding his breath; he was pleased they were through the unnatural forest. Birdsong reentered the world. The oppressiveness of the crooked forest vanished entirely.

“Something has been bothering me,” Bran said. “Why didn’t the Church captain kill you? He had his chance, both guns pointed at you. It would have been easy.”

“He couldn’t,” Richard said with distaste. “He was attempting to wound me—or at least lead me away from you. The Vigilo would never condone the death of a knight, no matter how grave the need or the grievance.”

“The Vigilo?”

“That’s a long story.”

“Seems we have the time.”

Richard exhaled sharply. “The history of the knights. Where to start.” He organized his thoughts, hating the sudden role of teacher. “After His crucifixion, Jesus Christ came to His remaining disciples and instructed them to make followers of all nations. Arguably the most important apostle, Peter traveled throughout that ancient world and to Rome where he founded the Catholic Church. At that time Rome was pagan, so Peter spent years sermonizing to and baptizing thousands of people, converting them to Christianity. Those early Christians were persecuted and hunted for the next three hundred years, until Emperor Constantine legalized and legitimized Christianity in the Roman Empire.”

“I know most of that,” Bran said.

“What you don’t know is Peter was a sly old bastard. Before his death, he founded a secret group within the fledgling Church, and it was this tiny society of trusted men that was given the duty to protect the tenets of Christianity and its daily gain at all costs.”

“And this group, the Vigilo, commands the Church?” Bran questioned. “I find that really hard to believe, to be honest. Conspiracies swirl in our world. Why have I not heard of this?”

“Not really that hard to believe,” Richard snorted. “Vigilo means ‘watchful’ or ‘vigilant’ in Latin. To be a watcher is to not be directly involved. Some of its members are high-ranking Cardinals in the Vatican who maintain anonymity with absolute discretion. Others are hidden from even me, their identities secret. They don’t influence doctrine. Instead they protect it and the power they have accrued—at any cost.”

“How do you and the knights fit in all of this?”

“Over the centuries that followed Peter’s own crucifixion, the Vigilo worked hard to ensure Christian persecution was as limited as it could be. But the group was mostly religious scholars and strategic planners; they had no strength of arms to carry out their desires. The Vigilo needed brawn. They got it with the Order of Virtus—a precursor to the knights of the Middle Ages— hundreds of soldiers spread over the continent and later, the world. With them in place as a stabilizing force, the Vigilo began working in earnest to erode pagan influences in the Empire to secure Peter’s direction.”

“The Celtic gods,” Bran said. “And the Vigilo rid the world of them?”

“In part,” Richard replied. “The Vigilo asserted itself in the Isles like everywhere else, influencing with machinations, paying off clan leaders to pressure their people to embrace Roman culture. Greed is a powerful motivator. Eventually the Celts pushed their own gods and goddesses away into the wilds of what would become Wales and Ireland; all the while the Christianity of the Vigilo filled the void left behind. It didn’t all happen at once; it took several centuries. But during that time, as the Order of Virtus secretly spread across the Isles bribing people and killing any fey creature they crossed, they found the first portal.”

“And placed men to guard it,” Bran said. Richard nodded. “But if you are part of the Vigilo, why didn’t you give me to Finn Arne? I thought Merle was responsible for your role as a knight, which means he’d be a part of this secret organization as well.”

“In a way, Merle is. But he freed the Order of Virtus from the authority of the Vigilo by giving us power of our own—power that separates us from the Church and the strength it now possesses. For many centuries Vigilo soldiers were the scourge of Europe and the Middle East. Behind the scenes, they began most of the Crusades and many of the other wars that plagued the world. But with one of his last acts of magic, Merle gave the portal guards each a relic of great power and therefore autonomous will, to balance the growing power of the Church and the Vigilo. He knew if the Vigilo had its way, it would destroy Annwn and all who resided there, it would erase what the Church thought of as blasphemous. I control the entrance to a portal, and nothing passes without my leave. It is in that way the portal is not controlled by any one group.”

“That is why you might not kill the Lord of Annwn,” Bran added.

Richard shrugged. “True enough. I am my own man.”

“And you are still a part of the Order of Virtus?”

“The Order disintegrated long ago,” Richard said. “Only seven of us remain at any given time. It is all that is needed—one for each portal. We are now the Yn Saith, the Seven.”

“If all of that is true, how did Philip enter Annwn? No knight stopped him?”

“Remember how I said the Vigilo has started many of the religious wars?”

Bran nodded.

“The irony is that they are partially responsible for our foray into Annwn. In the twelfth century, Henry II, the father of Richard the Lionheart and John Lackland, raised Philip in secret. The King of England decided to make an assassin of his fifth born. With the aid of the Vigilo, Henry set into motion a crusade against Annwn, using Philip as a weapon. With an army behind his son, Henry sent them through, condoned by the Vigilo. It was after that act of warfare that Merle gave the first Yn Saith power, to prevent such acts from happening again.”

“This is all too much,” Bran said in disbelief. “These things happened centuries ago.”

“Believe it, boy. It’s all true,” Richard said. “But one thing you need to remember. Do not trust Merle. Often his intention is good but rarely for those he finagles in these charades. When he says he has a mere shadow of a doubt about your future, what he really means is he has seen the path you will walk and it suits his wishes just fine, while affecting your life forever.”

Richard watched Bran chew on that statement. The sooner the boy began questioning every aspect of coming to Annwn, the better.

“What happened to his magic?” Bran asked finally.

“He is demon spawn, baptized by the Church at his birth and pulled away from the evil impulses of his father. He does age, albeit slowly, and the older he gets, the less control he has over his power. He has now become so old he can no longer control his magic—it is wild and unpredictable, his weakening human form unable to fully contain the demon magic if used. He could lose control; he could destroy the world.”

“Well, how can he keep things from us?” Bran questioned, a bit angry.

“How the hell should I know? Do I look like Merle?” Richard asked angrily, temper flaring. “Let’s get one thing straight. He may like you. I don’t. You are a kid and one who might get me killed here. So just…stop asking me questions.”

Richard stormed ahead before Bran could reply. Even though he had gone along with Merle’s wish, a part of Richard rebelled against the boy. Demons. Magicians. Fey creatures and Church conspiracy. The world he had spent years protecting now at his back. While he knew a great deal about Annwn, it could kill him if it discovered his presence.

He was not the Heliwr with authority here.

And all the while he had to survive with a boy who barely shaved.

Before the knight took a dozen steps, Arrow Jack screeched loudly in the trees above just as a series of deep resonating coughs thundered in the distance. The sound was unmistakable.

The braying of hounds on hunt.

“Damnit,” Richard muttered, eyes combing the forest.

“What is it?”

“We are caught.” Anger replaced shock in the knight. “They knew we were coming.”

“Who?!”

“Who do you think!?” Richard exploded, already turning around. “While I was gabbing with you, our entrance into this world was discovered!”

The barking grew louder.

“What can we do?” Bran asked hurriedly.

“I don’t know! Go back, find some kind of protection.”

“The portal is hours away! There is no protection for us back there!”

“Oh?” Richard shouted. “We’ll see about that.”

Richard flew, his long limbs carrying him forward back the way they had come. Bran kept up. The knight could not believe his luck. They were already hunted.

But by whom? Through the holes in the forest canopy where the rolling hills rose toward mountains, the sickened areas of Dryvyd Wood became visible again, a throbbing stain of decay with a powerful disdain for life.

Richard ran straight toward the heart of it.





With Bran a shadow on his heels, Richard fled through Dryvyd Wood’s dark confines as if chased by death itself, with one thought ricocheting through his mind.

Escape.

The harsh deep braying of the hounds penetrated him like splinters, the sound closer with every running step. Richard kept his anger focused on flight. No matter how many directions taken or hills crossed, the hounds were an indelible presence, unshakeable in their hunt. The brook where he called the fairy ring had long-since been crossed, the ill-twisted trees that protected the portal surrounding them once more. Through the canopy the Carn Cavall and Snowdon grew in the far distance, the mountain heights an unattainable safe haven the knight now wished more than anything to be within reach.

“Where are we going?” Bran breathed hard.

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

“The stream back there maybe?” Bran suggested. “Hide our passing?”

“A movie cliché, nothing more,” Richard said. “These hounds are far too well-trained to be thrown off our scent so easily.”

The pursuit echoed everywhere, no longer just behind, the barks on top of them. Richard slowed to a quick walk, eyes casting about for the right spot.

“What are you looking for?”

“There,” Richard pointed out, moving up the gradual slope where anorexic trees grew in stagnated competition with one another. There wasn’t much space between them. In their midst, a tiny outcropping of granite broke free from the forest, a serrated throne within the malformed, dark wood.

“This is your plan?” Bran asked increduously.

“Stay close behind me,” the knight ordered. “And remember what I said about the trees.”

Bran flinched where he was almost touching one.

“Exactly,” Richard said simply as he backed them against the thrust of rock.

Minutes passed, each one an eon as the inevitable approached. It didn’t take long. The first hound burst into view, as large as the cu sith but sleeker and faster, like an Irish wolfhound. Dirtied white wheaten fur coated its frame as the canine barked low to the ground until it sighted Richard and Bran, red ears flattened against its box-like head. Others quickly joined it. Twelve dogs circled them, each threateningly cutting off escape.

Richard stood in front of Bran, muscles taut for the fight. He called Arondight and it materialized into his hand without difficulty, the runes along its silvery blade throbbing azure.

The dogs growled lower in response but did not flinch, digging in.

Minutes passed in stalemate.

Then a hound more powerfully built and larger than the others emerged from the path of their flight. Upon its back rode a short, stocky man with a matted copper beard and matching wild hair.

The hounds moved aside, their eyes still fixed on their quarry.

With both hands gripping the thick fur of his mount, the rider grinned maliciously, his hunt over. Only when the houndmaster drew close did the knight see he was not alone; behind him rode an ancient woman, her cheeks gaunt and wrinkled, her stringy gray hair falling over blue-tinged skin as if dunked in ice. Death hung upon her, permanent and unyielding, but in her watery orbs a fire of terrible life burned with murderous malice.

“Now be still, my pretties,” the short man cajoled, his green eyes never deviating from Richard. “Tell ya when, tell ya when, ah will.”

The beasts whined, their desire obvious.

“Be still yourself, Goronwy,” the ancient woman growled, her gaze shifting from Bran to Richard as she slid off the lowered hound, rags hanging from her bones as if in afterthought. “Let me off this flea-bitten beast.”

“We have no quarrel with you,” Richard snarled.

Stormy eyes fixed on the knight. “Nah, not with me. With someone else. Come with me now, like a good lil’ one.”

“Never,” Richard replied, his ire raising flames along Arondight.

“You know me, yes?” she prodded.

“I do. The Cailleach,” Richard answered. He looked around. “Odd summer day today, isn’t it, witch?”

“Yar, knight,” Goronwy said beside the ugly woman. “Powerful, she is. Don’t give my dogs reason to be let loose.”

“Bring those dogs closer and they will be whining, houndmaster,” Richard taunted.

“Oh, they will, in time,” the witch cackled. “They love flesh and—”

Richard didn’t give her a chance to finish. He flicked the tip of Arondight in the direction of Goronwy and sent a ball of azure flame shooting forward, a whoosh of burning air. The mount of the houndmaster shied away, eyes wild, as he cowered, fear twisting his warding limbs.

Before it could incinerate its intended victim, the flaming ball broke course, pushed aside by a powerful gust of wind to disintegrate harmlessly into one of the malformed trees.

“Knight of nothing,” the Cailleach cackled, her hands coated in ice.

“What does your master want?” Richard asked.

“You,” she said. “Both.”

“Not a chance.”

“In my world now, portal pup,” the Cailleach sneered. “The High King paid well.”

“Paying you in how many lives to be his bitch?” Richard spat. “What else have you destroyed, other than the seasons?”

“I do that for free. Eternal summer. For his war,” she said, then flicked her tongue at him with lurid suggestion. “Though I do miss my winter curves. Care to touch?”

“Your dreams have nothing to do with this.”

“Your loss.”

“Will be your life,” Richard replied.

“Ah see. A lot o’ fight in ya,” the crone mocked. She turned to Goronwy. “Make sure they don’t escape, but keep those mutts out of dis.”

The witch didn’t wait. She attacked with a wail, a whirlwind of frigid air rushing toward Richard. The knight expected it. He jammed Arondight into the ground, its runes flaring like the sun. The world fell away while his fear turned into adrenaline. The gale shook the limbs of Dryvyd Wood and ice shot through earth, coating the world in silvered glass. But the wind lost its tenacity as it met the sword and the power Richard wielded. Gritting his teeth and hoping Bran was smart enough not to flee, the knight kept his focus on the hag, an indomitable spirit against her wintry wrath.

The icy power of the witch could not reach them.

The Cailleach growled frustration and ended the blast.

The clearing coated in ice and frost, Richard pulled Arondight free of the ground to face his adversary anew.

“That it?” Richard asked, sweat prickling his skin.

The question had the desired effect. Face contorting in rage, the hag wove her glowing white hands in the air—until a thunder shook the wood and cut her off.

Appearing from the east, two dozen warriors reined-in horses to surround the ring of dogs, the men dressed in black with breastplates bearing the silver insignia of a hawk below faces chiseled in hardship. Quick on their heels, a second group arrived, the white-cloaked riders wearing chrome greaves, canonical helmets, and hauberks beneath white mantles stamped with a crimson cross. All of the warriors were heavily armed, some with broadswords or axes, others with bows and quivers of arrows. The warhorses stamped impatiently, waiting on their masters.

Richard felt the day grow dark.

Their chance of escape had vanished.

The warriors bearing the cross were Templar Knights.

“Hag!” a man in black roared, his engraved breastplate of a higher quality than those around him. “Step away!”

“Lord of Assbirth,” the Cailleach snapped. “These are more crafty than you know.”

“No one speaks to the Lord of Arberth thus, witch,” a mounted blonde man said, his finely chiseled features flushed with rage. “Lord Gwawl is one of the finest men beneath the banner of the High King. He should have you skinned alive.”

“He is under the king in some way, true,” the Cailleach screeched. “Shut the hole above your chin, Sanddev, or ah’ll do it for you. Yeh be too purty to be here anyhow.”

Men about Lord Gwawl snickered. Sanddev glared at them.

“Let us pass freely and I will let you live!” Richard yelled for all to hear.

“Let us live?” Lord Gwawl barked a laugh, the Cailleach forgotten. “Look around you. Apparently the Seven have grown daft over the years.”

More laughter echoed. Richard tensed, prepared for the worst.

“Talk is wasted. The hunt is over. Let us take them—now,” a man beside Sanddev said, his raven hair braided and hawkish eyes fierce for confrontation.

“Evinnysan has the right of it,” Sandevv agreed.

The Cailleach grinned gleefully. The houndmaster whistled shrilly into the air, calling his hounds back. The ringing song of warriors freeing weapons echoed in the dark forest.

“Enough!” thundered a voice.

From behind the wall of lathered horses, another man rode forward. Both warrior groups parted. Richard knew the man, had learned a great deal about John Lewis Hugo from Merle during training. Wearing fine sable clothing beneath a shirt of chain mail, the rider glared at those around him, half his face a ruined mask. Despite the destroyed flesh, both eyes glared with equal ferocity at the knight, the contempt palpable. He carried no weapons but to either side of his horse lumbered two Fomorians, brutish giants Richard knew once existed in the old world.

Richard barely gave Philip Plantagenet’s second-in-command pause. An inky blackness rippled in the shadowy background of the forest behind him, absorbing the light as it came, the stale odor of unwashed bodies permeating Dryvyd Wood. Human faces, twisted and deformed, appeared from the darkened mass, attached to short spindly limbs and crooked bodies. Down on all fours, tortured frenzy glimmered from beady black eyes. Others had snouts like wolves, eyes burning with bloodlust and fangs slavering. They came mewling low like eager cats awaiting a meal, muscles twitching for release.

The horses balked at the beasts, panic threatening to overwhelm them. Helplessness cascaded over Richard. There were too many creatures, too many men holding weapons. Even two Fomorian giants. It was over.

“Knight!” John Lewis Hugo shouted. “Stand down!”

“I will not!”

John Lewis Hugo grinned, the burned side of his face inflexible. “What fun would that be, eh? Quit this. I have no wish to harm you.”

“That’s why you bring those abominations of nature.”

“I believe the High King requested you be unspoiled, is how he put it,” John Lewis Hugo said. “The demon wolves are here to protect you from those who would do you harm, nothing more.”

“Philip Plantagenet should have died in his cradle as history recounts!”

“But that was not the Word’s will, now was it?” John Lewis Hugo countered. “Instead of spending your life enabling the hypocrisy of the Church and that senile wizard, you should embrace a larger cause to set things right.”

“John Lewis Hugo,” Richard said carefully, curbing his anger. “Do not forget who you are. You are a good man. Let that twisted creature that has been imprisoned inside of you free and do the right thing here.”

“So shortsighted. You know not of what you speak.”

“You are as wrong as those creatures behind you.”

A frown shrouded John Lewis Hugo’s face as he turned to the witch.

“Have the demon wolves take them cleanly,” he said.

The Cailleach made a curt hand movement.

As if a dam had broken, the creatures bound around their master and the Fomorians, coming straight for Richard. The knight did not panic; he sent his fire into the nearest of the creatures, setting it ablaze and the trees around it. More demon wolves were cut down by azure bursts, their hissing and screams madness in the air. More came on, a torrent of claws and glee, the destruction of their brethren only emboldening them further, a curtain already falling upon the knight. Richard knew he could not stop them all. With his power threatening to overwhelm him like a flood, leaving him a useless husk, the knight focused on his enemy and conserved what he could.

Dryvyd Wood fell away as did Bran’s yelling.

A beast broke through his defenses to slash at his exposed side, its claws burying deep.

With a howl of fury and pain, Richard split the creature in two. Black blood showered the air, the demon wolf’s cleaved halves hitting the ground.

More beasts gathered beyond the carcass-ridden ground, waiting to attack.

“Lord Gwawl!” John Lewis Hugo commanded.

The beasts came again. This time Gwawl commanded Sanddev to lead his warriors alongside the onslaught of blackened razor-sharp teeth and claws. Concealing his grin at the opportunity given him, Richard swiped the air with Arondight anew, the flames leaping off the blade in thick spurts that shot at the legs of the attackers. The beasts and horses leapt aside.

It was what Richard wanted. The knight sent his power between them, driving them to alter the path of their attack—to slam against the tree trunks, limbs, and roots of Dryvyd Wood.

The forest exploded.

The trees, so packed together, came alive, snatching whatever intrusion awakened them. The demon wolves came on; the horses screamed in terror. Limbs shot out like lightning to wrap about the struggling twisted limbs and legs they encountered, squeezing with intensity born of wood and sap. The warriors struggled to get free, hacking at the limbs in horror, but for each one cut free several more took its place. Panic ensued. The roots greedily bore their captives into the black soil, men, horses, and demon wolves stuffed beneath the ground—some already dead, most suffocating as dirt choked their screams away.

One of the last caught, Sanddev slid into his grave, screaming incoherently for aid. He disappeared in moments.

John Lewis Hugo and Gwawl yelled orders at the remaining panicked men. The demon wolves milled about, unsure what to do.

“Keep bringing your pets to me!” Richard shouted. “They die!”

“Like Elizabeth McAllister?” John Lewis Hugo returned at a distance, his voice oily. “Without a real man to protect her.”

“What did you say?” the knight hissed ferociously.

“Your dead wife!” John Lewis Hugo yelled. “Or have you forgotten her already?”

Disbelief and anger filled Richard. The past he so wished he could forget came to the fore. He stepped ahead, leaving Bran against the granite outcropping, his rage pushing him to destroy the dozens of enemies between the two men.

Arondight winked out of existence.

Richard fought to reclaim the blade but it was too late. Maddened by the pain inflicted upon them and driven into motion by the disappearance of Arondight, the beasts flew forward in a frenzied rush, bounding between the animated trees to come straight at the knight. Richard charged forward, his anger overwhelming his faith and sense, until ice from the Cailleach pelted him backward.

He brought his arms up to ward off the frozen assault of the witch—just as the hideous things swarmed him.

Richard spun like a top and crashed into Bran before righting himself, dozens of shredded holes in his clothing and mewling bodies upon his back.

The knight locked eyes with Bran.

Revenge left as the knight knew he had to protect the boy. Arondight answered his call again, flames chasing its length. With a heave of desperation, the knight threw off his assailants, blasting the demon wolves still on him and around him, pushing them back. Fire hurtled from the sword in a concentrated arc, setting fire to wolves, horses, and the Templar Knights who fought to enter the fray.

A sudden hole of possible freedom opened.

“Run!” Richard screamed.

Bran whirled to flee. He vaulted over the charred bodies of blasted men and animals, given an advantage by the consuming chaos. He was through the gap in a moment, tearing across the hillside with Richard a step behind, the angry shouts of pursuit quickened.

“Where?” Bran cried.

“Anywhere,” the knight shouted. “Just keep running, no matter what.”

Dryvyd Wood passed in a blur. Guttural growls chased them. Richard ran all out, ignoring his wounds and not looking back, keeping away from the trees. Terror gave him powerful strides, enough heart to take him back to the portal.

Before he knew it, claws clamped over his legs.

Cradling Arondight, Richard went down into the forest mulch.

As the knight blasted the demon wolf off of him, Bran was there, his face ashen. Grabbing Richard’s bloody arm and torso, the boy hauled the man to his feet and forced him to stumble away. Richard felt his adrenaline fading to haziness. Behind them demon wolves and Templars tore toward them, mere yards away.

“Go!” Richard roared, pushing Bran.

It was too late. In moments, Templar Knights circled the companions. The remaining demon wolves slinked across the ground, madness distorting the once human and wolf faces, but they did not attack.

Weakness stealing over him, Richard fought the darkness. It was inevitable. The fight would be over soon.

No longer able to will it into being, Arondight vanished.

“Richard!” Bran screamed.

Richard tried to stand but couldn’t.

“It is over, McAllister,” John Lewis Hugo condemned from the safety of his steed.

Breathing hard and weakened by loss of blood, Richard watched Bran pull a brown wooden box from his pant pocket. The knight thought he should know what the box signified but understanding had fled him like his wits. It didn’t matter anyway. Before Bran could do anything with it, the beasts swarmed them, the demon wolves’ eyes shining as they gripped him and Bran in bands of iron.

The black angular bodies bore Richard down like a wave.