The Dark Thorn (21 page)

Suddenly free from his body, Cormac chased the soul of Donato into Annwn.

The light softened, and a mixture of earth colors infiltrated the swirling gray, darkening. Lines solidified. Shapes formed. Soon Cormac stared at a lush forest beneath crystal blue sky. No sounds came to him, no smells intruded. His other senses were gone.

—Dryvyd Wood—

The voice of Donato echoed in his head.

—Where was the Ardall boy captured?—

The view spun dizzyingly, sickening Cormac. As if they were birds on the wing, they flew between the branches of gnarled, malformed trees, into the heart of the forest, where the luminescence of the sky gave way beneath a thick canopy of blackened leaves.

Donato brought them to a halt amidst nightmare. Rotting and bloated carcasses of twisted creatures littered the torn up mulch of the forest floor, their faces frozen in angry death. The things were halfbreeds as the Cardinal Seer had said, a cross between something human and something animal. Fire had reduced them to charred flesh in places, their bones exposed to the air and blackened. Cormac knew how the creatures had met their deaths; the power of McAllister could not be ignored.

—The capture occurred here, Cormac—

The grisly scene suffocated the Cardinal Vicar. The ill-bred beasts presented a large problem for the Church. In the past, halfbreeds were very rare, the incompatibility of the fey and humanity making it difficult. Most died after conception or were stillborn. The few survivors, like the Kreche in Seattle, were usually hunted and destroyed. If Philip had found a way to breed these evil monstrosities and use them in his war, how many of them existed? Were they being bred in Caer Llion? What other abominations could the despot of Annwn be creating?

In a small way, Cormac admired Philip for destroying the pagan influence that took so much away from God. But he also knew Philip would never be content. Spying on Annwn in this manner gave the Church the knowledge it needed to decide how to protect itself.

The world spiraled again and Donato sped them through the forest to the outskirts of a vast plain. Dead men, horses, and more halfbreeds littered the ground, rotted and exposed.

—The Morrigan ambushed the Templar Knights here. With the boy and the knight, she fled northward across the plains and into the foothills of the mountains—

—Can you find the boy now?—

The view in his mind spun wildly as the mirror zoomed into the heights of the sky and flew northward. Cormac saw Snowdon breaking out of the ancient Carn Cavall like pikes out of lumpy shields. The remaining fey who rebelled against Philip roamed free in those environs, the Carn Cavall the last bastion of freedom in Annwn. He saw drained rivers entering lakes mostly dried, thick forests of pine, ash, and oak slowly dying, boulders and rocky cliffs.

At one time it had been a lush world, filled with teeming wildlife and vibrant health.

It had since been reduced to the longest of droughts.

—The seasons witch remains with Philip?—

—She took part in the battle for the boy, Cormac—

Donato sped them up toward Snowdon until a wall of gray prevented their view.

—This is where the boy was taken?—

—Or where they will be soon. The Carn Cavall is a large range, and the Nharth of the forest hide much from me with their magic. Philip as well, no doubt. All I know is the boy came this way and there are no other refuges for them to find solace—

Cormac pondered this.

On foot, it was a start for an experienced tracker.

—Show me Caer Llion—

The mountains vanished. The same sickening feeling overwhelmed Cormac as they moved southward at excessive speeds. The view slowly solidified into the massive battlements, towers and walls of a large castle lording over a town grown up around its foundations. Smoke rose from hundreds of chimneys until the steady breeze carried it away, the town an anthill of activity and expanding life. Beyond and to the south, the expanse of the ocean rolled into white cliffs where a variety of sea birds kited in the wind to dive for food.

The kingdom Philip had forged seemed oblivious to the boot heel of the tyrant. As long as the men and women embraced Philip, they were safe from persecution.

The Tuatha de Dannan could not make that statement. They fought the son of Henry II and had become the hunted.

—Caer Llion, Cormac—

—Go in closer—

—We will not be allowed—

Donato pushed forward anyway. Just when Cormac could make out significant details inside the open-air windows of the castle, a black mist swallowed his vision and grew thick like molasses, repelling the two men. Dizziness rolled over Cormac in waves, the need to retch food not in his stomach strong and urgent.

Donato pulled their vantage back quickly.

The feeling of being torn from the inside subsided to a dull ache.

—I forgot what that is like, Donato. Philip is there?—

—Most likely. He rarely leaves—

—What about his right hand?—

—John Lewis Hugo leaves often. Battles. Political intrigue. Pure sin—

Just as Cormac was about to ask after Philip’s advisor, a spear entered his mind, shredding coherant thought.

He wanted to scream. Malignant darkness cut into the thoughts of the Cardinal Vicar while encircling his throat with thick-roped malice. The Cardinal tossed up what strength he had but could not stop it, his mind choked by an unseen force. The migraine grew as if someone poured flaming gasoline on it. Never had the mirror inflicted this kind of pain in the past. His mind being torn apart, Cormac could feel Donato struggling too. He realized they were being attacked, an unfamiliar mind strangling both Cardinals, the glee from their assailant thick and repugnant. It was an evil Cormac had never encountered before, crushing in its wickedness, reveling in its power to destroy the men it had ensnared.

Donato!

Cormac tried to scream. Nothing happened.

Then the pain vanished, the noose pried loose by Donato with warm feelings of love born of family for Cormac. Years of using the mirror giving him a small advantage, the Cardinal Seer gave his once-student a mental shove away from the evil entity toward their world—away from the harm that accosted them.

Cormac tumbled free of the mirror.

Time slowed, darkness absolute.

When he became aware again, Cormac panted real air, trying to regain control over his muscles. He pushed his body up off of the cold stone of the floor and, opening his eyes, looked to Donato.

Fear twisting his features, Ennio crouched over the Seer.

Donato did not breathe.

Cormac fought his weakness and crawled to the side of Donato. His irises, which had been white in life, were obsidian orbs staring at the ceiling, the leathery skin of his face shrunken against gaunt cheeks. Nothing stirred about the man—no rise and fall of his bony chest, no movement in his limbs.

The Cardinal Seer was dead.

Cormac held the empty shell of Donato Javier Ramirez. Tears swept away his vision. He choked back the urge to scream. Something in Annwn had done this. As a last gift, the Cardinal Seer spent the last of his life to throw Cormac out of the mirror and away from harm, embracing his own death so Cormac may live.

Dark emotions rolled through Cormac and two certainties shook him.

The Vatican was now blind to what transpired in Annwn. And Cormac had lost his longest and oldest friend.

“What happened?” Ennio mewed.

“You will do this thing I ask of you, Ennio,” Cormac murmured, ignoring the knight.

Ennio swallowed hard. “I will, Cardinal Vicar.”

Cormac nodded and clutched the dead Seer close. That night, he would call Finn Arne to his chamber and prepare him to become the instrument he needed. It would be easy. The captain burned for a chance to confront McAllister again. Once the son of Ardall was his, the Church would regain the Heliwr—with Cormac as his superior. When that happened, the person responsible for killing his oldest friend would suffer unlike anyone in the history of the world.

Sorrow rolled down his cheeks.

Donato was dead.

And as when he learned of his murdered family, Cormac wept vengeance.

Slowly gaining the Carn Cavall, Deirdre rode upon Willowyn with Bran at her back when the faces in the mist quizzically materialized, just as she knew they would.

“Deirdre…?” Bran said uncertainly.

“It is all right, Bran, they mean you no harm. They are merely curious.”

“What are they?”

“The Nharth,” Deirdre said. The Morrigan, Kegan, and the other fey members in their group ignored them. “The Nharth are friends. Even in the hottest days, they cloak the strongholds of the Tuatha de Dannan, a magical wall to keep the prying eyes of Caer Llion and elsewhere out. When they gather in one place, this fog forms.”

Bran looked closer, now as curious as the Nharth. Deirdre just shook her head. The outworlder still sat behind her but his death grip about her waist had lessened, his safety finally realized. It had come to Deirdre long before, but in its place a pervasive sadness grew. Whereas the plains of Mochdrev Reach were vibrant, the forest now around her died slowly. Fir trees once thick and green were dusty and browned, the evil power of the Cailleach more pronounced. Fog swirled in and out of the branches and the path they were on, hiding most of the ill effects, the colors washed out, brushed over with gray paint. Few animals stirred around them. The heat of the day grew despite the fog, unnatural. Streams reduced to a trickle as they ran toward the plains and the Rhedewyr—all angles and powerful grace—drank from them at rest stops while their riders stretched legs and kept an eye on possible pursuit.

Deirdre took a deep breath, free of Caer Llion and John Lewis Hugo—at least for the moment. She and her father had come to the Tuatha de Dannan city of Arendig Fawr two days earlier to discover what options lay before them. She had insisted on going; Lord Gerallt had agreed as long as he had final say in matters. The Morrigan had been gracious, offering what meager aid she could to those who would defy Philip Plantagenet.

Lord Gerallt and Deirdre had been arguing about their course of action when the two outworlders had entered Annwn.

The whispers from the Nharth began when Deirdre and Bran could no longer see a dozen feet away. The voices were not heard as much felt, a touch of breath on skin, a kiss of ghost lips on the nape of the neck. More faces came into view to disappear just as quickly. Deirdre sat her mount, still unused to the foreign appraisal. The Nharth came in all shapes and sizes, some with horns, single eyes, or almost-human features. More appeared in the misty shadows like smoke given substance, curious glances mingling with animosity. Hundreds visited but all vanished, the beings as insubstantial as the fog around them.

“They are like ghosts,” Bran said. “Creepy.”

“The Nharth are merely different,” she said. “As I said, nothing to worry about.”

“Where are you taking me? And where is Richard?”

“Arendig Fawr,” she said, looking at Bran. “The Queen’s capital. The knight is there right now, with healers. John Lewis Hugo and those halfbreeds hurt him deeply. I don’t know how or why he—or you for that matter—are still alive.”

As the Nharth slowly dissipated into nothingness once more, Deirdre watched Bran rub his wrists where he had been bound. Crimson welts cut deep into them. He said nothing. Deirdre at least respected the boy, no matter where he came from. The outworlder had taken almost as severe a whipping as his companion. Bruises darkened his skin where scrapes and cuts did not, many of them probably lasting for weeks. Like the knight, he would also have to see a healer.

“Ye seem to be faring better, lad,” Kegan said, his own horse a step beside Willowyn.

“I am, thanks to being free.”

“Hungry?”

Before he could reply, Kegan tossed him a green apple from his sack and handed him a knife. Deirdre hid her amusement at how voracious Bran began cutting into the fruit.

“Gonna cut his thumb off for sure,” Snedeker snickered from the air.

“Quiet, you,” Deirdre chided.

“It will take days to heal those bruises, I think,” Kegan said, pointing at Bran’s wounds and ignoring the fairy. “The Dark One wanted ye badly, it seems. Thankfully the Morrigan kept ye from him at all costs.”

Deirdre caught the Queen of the Tuatha de Dannan looking their way. She was a tall woman, armored in blood-spattered onyx plate that appeared lighter than it probably was, her limbs lithe, raven black hair pulled back from white cheekbones. Deirdre had only met her twice now. More concerned by their safety, the Morrigan had not yet spoken to Bran. She was a soul made of steel, the wisdom of ages in her unlined face. Power radiated from her being and even from a distance it made Deirdre feel small and inconsequential.

“She took a great risk ye know,” Kegan said, also noticing the attention.

“What do you mean?” Bran questioned.

“We are the hunted, lad. Have been for ages. The Dark One and his ilk have warred and spread from your world throughout this one, and the peace we desired so long ago—the peace we wanted to find upon fleeing your world—has become a wisp of smoke. Now they control all but these mountains and even the weather. We strike, we plunder, we survive, and we disappear to do it again. Saving ye and the knight exposed us. We will have to watch paths for months now, even more than already done.”