The Dark Thorn (34 page)

“As it should, a long time in the coming,” Philip acknowledged.

“What of the Morrigan, my king?”

“I want eyes patrolling the sky,” Philip commanded. “Send the griffins into the Snowdon today at sunrise, reporting back in short intervals. They have bred like rabbits, and sacrificing a few will give a greater understanding of what the Morrigan is planning. Regardless of her design, it will be moot if Caer Llion is made aware in time.”

“In whose keeping will you leaveCaer Llion?”

Philip had spent great amount of time considering that very point. The last few days had seen many meetings. Not all of the lords under his banner were trustworthy. With no heir due to the affects of the magic that kept him young, Philip did not have anyone to trust.

“Lord Evinnysan,” Philip ventured.

“The wisest choice of the group I think.”

“Not smart enough to take the throne, vicious enough to protect my interests,” Philip continued. “He will need to be watched.”

“Much will need to be watched other than the Morrigan and Caer Llion,” John said, turning down a new staircase where the air grew damp. “You should be made aware, my king, that a flock of griffins attacked a young dragon. It survived, if barely, winging back to its kin.”

“And you worry that could motivate Tal Ebolyon?”

“Long has Latobius remained separate from the Seelie Court,” John said. “Even if the dragon lord lends his power to the Morrigan, the griffins will protect the air. We have nothing to fear from that dying race. Their time passed with the shadow of the wind.”

“Watch them anyway,” Philip ordered, blocking the way. “Remember what Master Wace always taught during war seminar?”

“Overconfidence kills a leader.”

Philip moved on. Master Wace of Bayeux. Centuries had passed since Philip and John had studied with their mentor in a tall tower rising just outside Oxford. The Master had given fourteen years of his life teaching tactics in warfare, philosophy from the far east and Greek antiquity, the history and politics of Europe and the Isles, and the intricacies of the Church and its followers. When Philip was young he had longed to be part of the family his father Henry II denied him, but growing into manhood under the tutelage of Master Wace had opened his eyes to the hypocrisy in the world—starting with his own kin. The bickering of his father and brother Richard over northern France, his father banishing Philip’s mother to the Tower of London, the attempt by John to claim the crown while Richard fought in the Third Crusade—the sin of greed and jealousy drove wedges between his family members and the Word of the Church.

Philip promised he would never succumb to the sinful vicissitudes that had ruined his family and those he had seen in the poverty-stricken streets of London.

He repressed a snort.

The Seelie Court quarreled like his family.

Now, having lived longer than any of his father’s descendents, he meant to finish what God and Henry II had ordained all those centuries earlier.

Bring religious order to the world—with the sword, if necessary.

The staircase ended and both men stepped into a vast empty cavern, their footfalls echoing off the foundation of the castle. Of the four available doorways, John selected the one on their right, away from the dungeons, his flame above lighting their way.

“Will the Cailleach be ready with the strap bags?” Philip asked.

“She will. Enough cattle hide has been acquired to make it so.”

“It is almost time then.”

“Lord Gwawl and the rest have sworn their allegiance,” John said. “And given of their men and resources.”

“Give them the bags then,” Philip said. “Test them and ensure the water works. Explain what the bags are for. Do
not
tell them where they came from. I doubt any of them will turn on me after they realize the power I possess and control.”

John nodded and continued onward.

“And if they do challenge me,” Philip added. “They will be fed to the halfbreeds.”

The staircase continued to wind down, but the stone of the walls changed from mortared blocks to slick rock, cut from the natural lay of the land. The corridors were ancient, having been there since the Celtic gods and goddesses had entered Annwn to escape their persecution from the Isles. Philip possessed it all now, to use as his whim dictated.

After what seemed an eternity walking in the clammy depths, they came to a locked door, one newly fashioned from thick oak and banded in unforgiving iron. A giant Fomorian stood guard, his broad shoulders filling up much of the hallway. He bowed, his eyes lost behind the visor of a helmet. A giant sword lay propped against the wall nearby.

“My king, the witch may not appreciate our visit to these depths,” John said.

“I pay her price,” Philip said. “She will do as I tell her or
she
will be fed to her creations.”

John shrugged. He produced a key from the folds of his robe, and upon opening the door, he stepped by the Fomorian into the subterranean.

The Mhydew spread out as far as Philip could see, a lake as black as obsidian, its depths lost to the imagination and the air filled with the rancorous combination of minerals and feces. The blue flame rose high, revealing giant cones of rock clinging to the ceiling like dozens of teeth frozen in place. In the middle of the lake, a pyramid of organized stone jutted, and at its apex his ancient prize sat, catching dripping water from the ceiling that overflowed into the cache below. Flickering torches set into wall sconces faintly lit their area and that was all.

The Mhydew was a dark world of sharp points and cutting edges, shut away from the emerald lush grasses and hills of Annwn above. Every time Philip entered the immense cavern he felt small and insignificant.

He hated the feeling.

Along the shore, dozens of men and women bound to the rock by thick chains poured water from the lake into large leather flasks with stoppers and straps. With grime-covered skin, hair, and clothing, they looked like nothing human. Disgust rose up within Philip. They were those of his subjects who had broken the law, from murder to petty thievery to sodomy. For their transgressions they had been blinded by red-hot pokers, tongues cut from their mouths, and brought here to serve. Some died quickly, the fire to live extinguished as soon as they entered the Mhydew; some served the witch in other ways he no longer wanted to know about.

Either way, there were always others ready to fill the shackles; lawbreakers were all too easily found in Annwn.

One of them reached out and touched his foot then.

Philip drew the sword his father had given him but instead kicked violently out, slashing the blind woman along her cheek with the heel of his boot. Initially stunned and grunting with pain, she crawled to the lake and lapped at the water.

The wound healed immediately, a scar forming until even that disappeared beneath the dirty, blood-smeared face.

“They learn quickly,” Philip observed.

“Even dogs can learn at a rapid rate, my king,” John pointed out.

Philip supposed they could. “The witch watches them still?”

“Through some art of her own design, yes,” John answered. “The fulfillment of your plan is upon us. The contraptions work splendidly.”

Philip picked one of thousands from the cavern floor, observing it. It was almost as large as a horse stomach, several pieces of cowhide stitched tightly together. Two straps hung limply from the leather sack while a cork closed off a long reed tube.

“The army will be invincible,” Philip breathed.

“It will indeed, my king.”

“What of the last few regiments?”

“The last batches are growing. The griffins currently roost nearby the portal and the houndmaster curtails the bloodlust of the wolves with some staff fashioned by the witch. Even the death rate among the maulls has dropped considerably, and many are growing to destructive maturity. With your lords having gathered and the efforts of the witch coming to fruition, your army is on the cusp of completion.”

Philip had waited a long time to hear John say those words.

Chilling screams of lust echoed from a staircase leading to the breeding pens in another cavern. The foul odor Philip had barely grown accustomed to wafted into the Mhydew from that dark exit.

“The Cailleach enjoys her work,” John observed.

“Too much,” Philip said with distaste.

“It is the only way,” John assured. “Turning sin against the sinners has a certain poetic justice to it, do you not think?”

Philip didn’t answer. He hated the abominations almost as much as he needed them.

“My king?”

“I want the witch at our side, John,” Philip said. “I want her to be in full control of the army we have built.”

“Whispers and rumors already swirl surrounding the halfbreeds,” John said. “My foray into Dryvyd Wood set the men under Lord Gwawl at unease. Rumors have spread. I think it wise to hide the creatures as long as possible.”

“That is why the witch is so important,” Philip said. “There will come a time when we will unleash the full army onto the world and those same men will be thanking it. Until then…”

“I will speak to the Cailleach now.”

“Watch the plains. If Ardall and the knight appear, I want to know about it. And ensure the security of Caer Llion and our supply train. To be cut off from the castle while battling in the world of our birth would be unfortunate indeed.” Philip paused, looking at the center of the lake. “See to it this room is more securely guarded as well. Place Templar Knights you trust implicitly. I want nothing to go awry, and our power here must not be disturbed
or
stolen as we transition from this world to that one. To lose the relic would be a great loss. Your head, in fact.”

John nodded, seemingly unafraid of the threat.

“Make it happen,” Philip said sternly. “Failure is not an option.”

John bowed and vanished into the breeding caverns.

Philip watched his adviser leave. John had changed. When they had been young in that first century after imprisoning Arawn, John had been strong but sanguine, able to see the positive in any negative, able to take advantage of it. But over the years he had become darker, less than the friend Philip remembered. The hardship of ruling, no doubt. The earlier anger that had fed Philip now faded. He would speak to his old friend about it soon. John deserved any pleasure he desired; Philip would make sure his oldest advisor took advantage of their spoils.

The slaves on the shore continued their slow task.

Philip grinned.

He was going to succeed where his family had failed.

The kitchens of Caer Llion would be waking soon, their rising bread and simmering stews filling the needs of his people. He decided his own needs could wait. He would visit the Cathedral and pray for strength and victory before breaking his fast. He wanted to cleanse his soul. It was time the lords, after all of these centuries, discovered exactly what he planned, but he wished to do it with the filth of the Mhydew washed from him in all ways.

Philip raised the sword he had carried all of his adult days. Exquisite care had gone into Hauteclere, the fabled blade of Olivier de Vienne, one of the peers of Charlemagne. It had been in the Plantagenet family for centuries. The crystal embedded in the hilt glimmered at him where it met the golden curving cross guard, the torchlight slicking the blade with blood.

Philip thought that appropriate.

Standing in the presence of the relic that had made his existence eight centuries after his birth possible, he was reminded of the appeal Saint Peter had made to the Gentiles—to bring them within the fold of the Church and teach them the grace of the Lord.

Philip would do the same to the heathens of two worlds.

And sit upon one throne forever.

With sunshine warming his cheek and a hand shaking his shoulder, Richard broke the surface from an ocean of dreams into a birdsong-laden morning.

He opened bleary eyes.

“Knight McAllister,” Kegan breathed, the clurichaun staring worriedly down on him. “You took some waking. I was about to get the others.”

Richard blinked, sitting up. “Where are we?”

“From what I can tell, a glen of sorts. One with a waterfall.”

Morning light streamed in through the eastern trees behind the clurichaun, blinding the knight with its intensity. Cool air mingled with the scent of dewy grass and churned dark earth. Muffled thunder came from the waterfall. For the first time Richard became aware of the tree above him. Branching out to all sides, the gnarled limbs of the hawthorn bore dark green leaves that absorbed the virgin morning light to shimmer with vitality. The trunk twisted from the black earth, sturdy and strong. Small pink flowers budded in the canopy; sharp thorns two inches long burgeoned like knives along every branch.

It was beautifully symmetrical except where a knob of healed wood existed, the branch having once grown there gone.

Bran lay nearby as well, also beginning to wake.

Richard took a deep breath, still unsure about what was going on. Then everything about the previous night came back to him in a sudden rush—tracking Bran through the forest; the Lightbrands and their beautiful dance; the ancient, lilting voice in his head asking if he was prepared to do what was needed; and his transformation into a tree that had also wrapped around Bran.