The Dark Thorn (28 page)

“Smith!” it slurred loudly. “Beer!”

“Help yourself, Caswallawn,” Govannon ordered. “I will not do it for you.”

The drunk lord from the Seelie Court stumbled into view. Bleary bloodshot eyes stared at Richard and Bran from a middle-aged face thick with stubble and wear, a sour frown deepening an already pinched mouth. An empty wood mug swung from a lax hand.

The light of the orbs shifted about Caswallawn—and his left arm and leg disappeared.

Richard blinked, unsure of what he wasn’t seeing.

Before he could say anything, the drunk-soaked eyes of the lord focused on him and his features twisted in a snarl.

“Your company worsens, Mastersmith,” Caswallawn spoke vehemently.

“It was not much to begin with,” Bran replied, smirking.

“Outlander filth,” the lord spat before filling his mug from one of the barrels nearby and wobbly returning to the building’s rear.

“Ignore him. I do,” Govannon said. “Caswallawn was the lord of Gwynedd, a province in northern Annwn, before Philip razed it to the ground, murdered his family, stole his land, and began using it to launch campaigns against us here in the mountains. He hates Philip and the world he came from. That much you saw yesterday. He is not the only one who hates your world, mind you. Now he is no better than a leprechaun, never leaving Arendig Fawr and unable to put his past to rest.”

“He hates us by association?” Bran asked. “That hardly seems fair.”

“Fair has nothing to do with it, Bran Ardall,” Govannon pointed out. “I allow him his petty drinking, here, far away from Arendig Fawr—far away from the Morrigan. She is a hard woman and does not take too kindly to his form of debauchery.”

“What is happening to his body?” Richard asked.

Confusion crossed Govannon’s face until he grinned. “Oh. That. He possesses Gwenn, an invisibility cloak, one of only two known to still exist. The ability to create such cloth has been lost to the ages. Gwenn is all he has left, and it is the only reason the Morrigan tolerates his behavior, I think.” The smith took a step back. “Now, care to look around and see what might appeal to you, young Ardall?”

Bran walked through several rows of glimmering artifacts. “See anything you like?” Govannon asked after Bran had walked the entirety of the room.

“To be honest, nothing. It is all wonderful work but nothing catches my eye.”

“That is odd,” Govannon said, frowning.

“What do you mean?” Richard asked.

The Mastersmith shrugged. “My creations always call to their eventual bearer, and everyone who visits leaves with something—even if it is only gauntlets, boots, or a ladle for soup. It is a magic of mine, to find what is necessary for those who need it.”

“Maybe it is because I am from the Old World.”

“No, that is not it. How do you think Richard McAllister received Arondight?”

“You gave that to him?” Bran questioned.

“Indirectly,” Govannon said. “I crafted Arondight. It has been passed for centuries to those who would protect the world and its people with honor and vision. It always finds a master. The knight Richard McAllister is merely the newest to use it toward its intended end.” He stepped to Bran. “Do not fear me.”

Bran stood still as Govannon gripped his forearm, his thick fingers like cords of steel, and closed his eyes for a moment before they reopened just as quickly.

“You are right. There is nothing for you here.”

“What does that mean?” Richard asked, puzzled.

“I do not know,” Govannon said. He looked Bran up and down as if gauging him. “It is like he is already armed. Perhaps it is a weapon I have yet to create. Interesting.”

“Can he not take something to protect himself at least?”

“He cannot,” Govannon said. “Every item here is meant for someone. They just have not visited me yet.”

Richard nodded politely to the Mastersmith. He had a sneaking suspicion the inability of Bran choosing a weapon had nothing to do with Govannon having not created the correct item.

Not at all.

“Thank you for your time, Master Govannon,” Richard said. “I hope we meet next time under better circumstances.”

“You too, Knight McAllister. Come back when you return from Caer Glain and Tal Ebolyon. Perhaps I will have something for young Ardall then.”

“Thank you,” Bran said.

Govannon smiled. “My door is always open.”

Richard watched the broad-shouldered smith return to his work and fade into the shadows where Caswallawn drank alone. As the cool mountain air met Richard again, the whoosh of bellows pumping with authority chased after.

The hate in the eyes of Caswallawn went with him.

With two Long Hand scouts leading the way, Richard, Bran, and the others left the safe haven of Arendig Fawr for the heights above.

The sun peeked through the fog, burning it away and coloring the world once more. Arrow Jack flew ahead, a fleeting shadow in the murk. Lyrian carried the knight forward, trudging after the hellyll warriors, rocking comfortably back and forth like a ship in calm seas. Bran rode Westryl next to Deirdre’s Willowyn. Lugh, his angular face stern and eyes taking in every nuance of the day, rode his massive black battle roan, its scarred flanks testament to its battles. Kegan and Connal came last.

In minutes the group traveled a steep trail overlooking Arendig Fawr, the fey city growing tinier as they climbed.

It soon vanished altogether.

Deirdre dropped back, bringing her Rhedewyr next to Lyrian. Bran watched her go, his mien darkening when he saw where she stopped.

Richard refrained from throttling the boy for his jealousy.

“How do you feel, Knight McAllister?” the redhead asked, her eyes shining emerald as they boldly sought his own. “The wounds Caer Llion delivered you were quite grievous. I cannot believe you are already upon your feet, let alone riding.”

“I heal,” he said simply. “It is enough.”

“My father is pleased you agreed to the Queen’s charge. He believes it bodes well on the destruction of Caer Llion. So do I.”

“I think your father puts too much faith in me.”

“You are a knight. I have faith in you as well.”

“I also think your father sent you because you are delusional and he needed a break from the madness.”

She laughed, clear and pleasant. “That may be, Knight McAllister.”

“My name is Rick. I’m not much on formality.”

“Rick,” she said, testing it with a smile.

“Where is your fairy?”

“Oh, him,” Deirdre said, darkening a bit. “Snedeker told me what transpired the other night. I thought it best he not travel with us. No reason for you to worry. He is truly harmless. And as a loyal friend, I would rather his ashes not become part of the winds, or whatever it was you said to him.”

Richard grunted. Deirdre grinned and didn’t look away. The knight began to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny. She was beautiful, the light smattering of freckles around her nose accentuating the smoothness of her pale skin. Her eyes shared a vast intelligence, and she sat her Rhedewyr with practiced, lithe sensuality and grace. Beneath her physical loveliness, a power resided, a power Richard could not define but one that gave her maturity beyond her years.

If he were a different man in another life, he would have been attracted to her.

Those days were long behind him though.

The day passed uneventfully as the sunshine finally cut through the fog to reveal the blue sky. Birdsong and wildlife returned despite the burnt aspect of the forest, the power of the Cailleach everywhere. The trees loosened their hold on the mountain slopes as they climbed, and more small waterfalls tumbled to a much larger river that could be periodically seen slicing through the expanding valley below. Richard had not realized how far they had ascended to reach Arendig Fawr; he could almost reach out and touch the peaks of the Snowdon above, where patches of glacial snow fought the witch’s unnatural summer. In those upper reaches, the coblynau and dragons waited.

After a quick stop to take lunch and water the horses, the group continued on. The afternoon waned toward evening and still they climbed, the peaks purpling as the sun vanished in the golden, cloudless west. Exposed granite outcroppings shattered the mountainsides and long-needled blue pine grew around them, their odor sweet on the faint breeze even as they thinned from the altitude. The view became expansive, dizzying in its scope, as Richard viewed broken peaks all around them, the faint ribbon of the river still meandering far below and cutting off the forest they had ridden through from the other side of the vast valley.

As shadows lengthened toward evening and the rhythm of Lyrian drowsily lulled the knight, a splitting avian scream ripped through the stillness.

Arrow Jack.

The bird sat in a tree at the turn in the trail, wings flapping madly. Screams of surprise from Richard’s companions quickly followed as a shadowy wraith fell from the side of the mountain above, blotting out the sky like a thundercloud before landing in the midst of the company, separating Lugh and Richard from the rest of the group.

The shadowy creature turned burning eyes on Bran.

“Bodach!” Lugh roared. “Unseelie!”

“Get away, Bran!” Richard shouted.

Richard kept his seat as Lyrian reared in panic, whinnying loudly. Bran was not so lucky. He tumbled off Westryl and hit the packed dirt hard. Richard fought to get passed Lugh, who took up much of the path, but he couldn’t get there.

Bran would die quickly.

Thankfully Westryl lashed out with his hooves at the beast, the horse keeping between the creature and Bran. Prevented from its quarry, the creature turned its flaming gaze on Richard, its stare terrifying with maddened intelligence. Magic filled his soul and Arondight entered his hand without problem, the sword casting azure light about the trail and highlighting their attacker. It had the shape of hyena but was much larger, six legs ending in clawed paws trampling the earth. A long snout lined with teeth snapped at Lyrian and the Long Hand that charged it. As the creature spun, striking at the warriors, Richard realized he could see through it as if it were made of smoke. But from within its outline bones, chunks of elvish armor, and even weapons glimmered in what daylight was left, as if it had absorbed all remnants of earlier prey.

Revulsion swept through Richard.

It was an Unseelie creature, one that had eaten the hellyll Lugh had sent out that morning.

Bran scrambled back toward the clurichauns even as Lugh charged his battle mount forward, the horse forcing his way past the beast to defend Westryl. Areadbhar a lightning bolt of silver, Lugh jabbed at their attacker, snarling battle madness.

The bodach shied away from the spear, quicker than Lugh, hissing hatred. Caught between the hellyll leader and the slashing swords of the Long Hand, the bodach ignored the manic horses and pounced onto the two closest hellyll like a cat. The warriors sent their weapons into the creature but to no effect; they might as well have been fighting air. They screamed as its claws punctured their armor and flesh beneath, ripping through steel and bone alike.

In seconds their lifeless, ravaged bodies hit the trail.

Bolstered through his pain by adrenaline, Richard spurred Lyrian into the melee; he held Arondight high, blue fire angrily running its length. The bodach shrunk from him as it dodged his first lunge, its crimson eyes narrowed. He thrust again, sending the fiery steel toward the broad chest of the beast as Lugh, enraged, thrust his spear at its hindquarters. The bodach dodged Arondight but did not gain safety from the triangular point of the spear; Areadbhar penetrated the smoky innards of the creature’s thigh.

Bright golden fire coalesced there—so bright that Richard shielded his eyes. An inhuman howl of pain punctuated the trailside as the bodach wrenched away.

“Release, Lugh!” Richard roared.

“Hai, Grayth!” the lord yelled at his mount, ignoring the knight.

As Lugh tried to joust the beast over the edge of the trail, the bodach danced away from Richard. It gripped the shaft of the spear with two forefeet and, pulling it free, lifted Lugh clear of his Rhedewyr and sent him hurtling through the air to crash against the bare granite of the mountainside.

Lugh crumpled to the trail like an empty sack.

The bodach wasted no time. It scuttled toward the dazed lord like a spider. Before it could reach Lugh, Willowyn barreled into its side, slamming it away, as Deirdre slashed with her sword, the steel a blur, her hair as wild as her actions.

“Ayrith! Ayrith!” the redhead screamed.

The bodach buckled before the surprise assault, gathering itself in a dark mass, looking for an angle to attack her.

“Get out of the way, Deirdre!” Richard bellowed.

Too late, the bodach swiped at Willowyn, its claws like daggers. The Rhedewyr screamed in pain and stumbled backward, the side of her neck slashed to bleeding flesh. Deirdre somehow kept her seat, her sword flailing in impotence as she held on.

Eyes raging fire, the bodach bunched to strike at Deirdre.

“No! Richard!” Bran roared, completely unable to help. Finally given a clear path, Richard sent azure fire hurtling at the Unseelie beast. The power radiated from his being, to do what was right in the face of grave evil. The fire struck the beast and sent it pinwheeling through the air. With the blue flames licking its smoky outline, it moved like a tiger toward Richard, fixated on its last remaining enemy with true power at his command. The knight sent his magic into the creature again, to slow it, but the bodach was ready this time, leaping aside with ease.

It came on.

Realizing he was too far away for a killing blow, Richard charged Lyrian. He pummeled the creature with bursts of his will, keeping it pinned away from the others, unwilling to let it gain another advantage. The bodach fought the fire, the charred odor of burning garbage thick on the air. Richard was aware of Kegan and Connal pulling Bran away from the fight as the remaining hellyll helped the knight corner the creature against the rock bluff, trying to find openings, jabbing with their swords.

With their aid, Richard pressed forward, inching closer to the creature to strike.