The Dark Thorn (56 page)

He dismounted and glanced up the mountain. The trail to the portal above waited. It was far too steep for horses but that did not matter. Horses were not required for conquering Rome. Philip curbed his instincts that continued to scream at him. He would climb. He would bring his army through. He would regain the throne of his family, the blood running in rivers if needs be, and fulfill what his father had ordained.

Unleashing Hauteclere from his hip, he said a prayer before turning to his friend.

“John Lewis Hugo, our destiny awaits.”

Not waiting for a reply, Philip entered the trail, John a step behind. It was not as difficult as it looked, his desire to gain the portal driving him upward. It took only minutes for him to gain the large ledge where the portal shimmered between two oak tree stumps of immense size. He looked out over the plains behind him. His army spread as far as the eye could see, a dark stream of death for any who tried to get in his way.

Philip smiled. After more than eight centuries, it was time.

Sucking on the tube leading to the sack on his back, Philip entered the portal.

Time seemed to freeze.

The portal felt the same as the one he had entered in London. The gray swirled around him, a void of unsettling vertigo. The path before him was blank. He walked forward anyway. He had done it before and knew what to expect. When the light intensified and pressure built on his chest until he could barely breathe, he girded his soul for the battle he knew would come, one he had always known would be a part of his destiny.

Philip Plantagenet returned to the world of his birth.

Chaos and pain came the moment he tumbled free of the portal. The cacophony of weaponry pummeled him as soon as he stepped into the cavern, an assault like none he had witnessed against any person in his life. He grimaced but kept his fear in check, the contents of the bag on his back keeping him alive as he freely drank. John followed him, doing the same, as did the first Templar Knights to enter Rome. Before them hundreds of Swiss Guardsmen fired their weapons from all quarters, the projectiles threatening to drive Philip backward. He held his ground, sneering. With every bullet that entered him, the Graal pushed it out; the moment a bone or his skull was struck, it healed. It would take more than the weapons of man to kill him and his men.

The Templar Knights continued to swarm out of the portal wearing leather bags of their own; dozens upon dozens of soldiers came forth, until hundreds formed an arc around the portal, keeping their king safe from the Vatican defense.

All were invincible. All were ready to die if need be.

The gunfire ceased suddenly, the silence deafening, as the roar of a man beyond the Swiss Guards lorded over all.

“Philip Plantagenet!”

With the assault’s reprieve, Philip gained a better look at who had called his name. Two older men and a boy of barely twenty years stood beyond the defensive arcs of soldiers, all focused on the portal and the Templars that continued to stream through. The boy held a flaming knife that marked him as the portal knight; the men gripped long broadswords and wore black robes, one of which bore the papal crest of arms.

“Pontiff of Vatican City,” Philip greeted, his contempt thick. “It appears you have a wonderful welcoming party here. Have you brought more worthy warriors to my cause?”

“I am Pope Clement XV,” the oldest of the men said. “Beside me is the Cardinal Vicar of Rome, Cormac Pell O’Connor. St. Peter’s Basilica is a sanctuary, one for the devout and one for the good. This day has sadly long been in coming. The Vigilo has witnessed your rise in Caer Llion, the growth of your people, the construction of an army filled with dark purpose. We will not abide its existence in this world. You must return. Now.”

“I do not believe so,” Philip said. “I have spent centuries in Annwn. The fey have been quelled. It is time. Time to fulfill the promise to my father made so many centuries ago. Time to wash this world of its evil as I did in Annwn. Time for you to join me or die. There are no other options, Pope Clement XV.”

“From what I understand, you have not completed your duty.”

Philip smiled. “I control Annwn.”

“The Templar Knights at your side were banished for heresy centuries ago,” the Pope continued, his voice firm. “You will take them from these sacred grounds. Or we will see them sent to Hell where they—and you—belong.”

“My king has come to fulfill Saint Peter’s direction for the world,” John said beside Philip. “You are both of the Vigilo. I sense that much. Embrace us as brothers, not as enemies! It is time we work together, to establish the world as God intended, to see the Word spread through this world as it has never been before.”

“You are a rotted man, John Lewis Hugo,” the Cardinal Vicar spat, his red hair almost as white as his companion’s. “Your selfish appetites while in Annwn have been well documented over the centuries. The Cardinal Seers have witnessed much. The last Seer in particular.”

“The dead spy, you mean?” John said, smiling.

The Cardinal Vicar crimsoned.

Philip half expected the man to charge them.

“He was…weak,” John said, a grin pulling at his decimated face. “As was his faith. He died a traitor’s death. I read on you his memory, Cormac Pell O’Connor. It was you with him, was it not? Do not answer. I sense it to be true. You ran from me like a coward who nears wetting himself.”

The Cardinal Vicar darkened with fury, his grip tightening on the sword he carried.

The Pope placed a warning hand on the other’s forearm.

“I will kill you, John Lewis Hugo,” Cormac Pell O’Connor said.

“You will return to Annwn voluntarily—or in a casket,” the Pope declared to Philip. “Even with your polluted use of the Word’s most cherished remembrance of His power on this Earth, it will be for naught. The knight at my side will stop you.”

“It is clear to me you both are as weak,” Philip sneered. “This world is weak. It has lost its way. You have been poor caretakers. I am here to rectify that. The Yn Saith who entered Annwn have both been ineffective in their quests. One is so faithless he can barely call his power. The other has lost a hand and his way. Neither is here to protect you, and one portal knight cannot possibly stand in my way. The Vigilo is a shadow of what Saint Peter intended. I will see his glory done and Rome returned to its former heart of spiritual guidance.”

“I will not let that happen,” the Pope said firmly.

“We will see.”

“Show them the Word’s wrath!” the Pope yelled.

Gunfire erupted again, the bullets cutting into the Templar Knights in front of Philip. He was safe, the wall of flesh and Graal might between him and harm. The soldiers advanced, a few dying as bullets infiltrated eyeholes in helms or soldiers not drinking from their bag at the right time, but most pushed forward as they cut down any Vatican guard that got in their way. It was slow moving. But in time, Philip knew, the cavern would be in his possession.

The rest of the Vatican would fall as well.

Seeing the obvious, the Pope and his Vicar joined the fray. Alongside the portal knight, they slashed into the center of the Templar Knights. It was clear they were uneducated in the use of such weapons, but what they lacked in ability they gained in magic. The swords they wielded were not ordinary. They cut through weapons and armor alike, eviscerating the men of Annwn before the Graal could heal. Arms and legs were severed from bodies, heads were decapitated from necks; the two men were soon covered in blood and gore.

The Pope and his Vicar fought valiantly but Philip knew the Vigilo leaders would eventually fall. The army from Annwn was too large.

When they were dead, Philip would take the swords.

The first of many useful trophies

The battle was deafening, the close quarters echoing the chaos. The knight fought like an enraged tiger, lashing out with fire and lightning born of his Arthurian dagger, Carnwennan. The fire consumed the Templar Knights, incinerating those who did not protect themselves with the Graal. The greatest losses were near the knight, who had moved toward the side of the cavern in an attempt to flank the warriors of Caer Llion.

Before Philip could order a counterattack, John charged with a wedge of Templar Knights to the right side, his burned face snarling an inhuman rage. The armored group tore into the Swiss Guards there, swords, axes, and maces chopping down men whose last thoughts were of horror and death. John roared encouragement even as Philip tried to bolster those soldiers in the middle against the Pope. The portal knight fell back toward the middle again as the Templar Knights barreled their way through the Swiss Guards.

The defense there collapsed completely, giving John and several Templars the chance through. Carnwennan slashed in the air, lightning like a whip and blinding all in its path, closing the gap as the Swiss Guard regrouped and held the line once again.

Hacking through the last few soldiers, John and those with him made for the entrance into the cavern and vanished into the upper reaches of St. Peter’s Basilica above.

Leaving Philip alone in the cavern to lead the assault.

Yelling orders at the knight to hold the cavern at all cost, the Pope and his Vicar chased after John.

John’s disappearance irked Philip but it had also rid the cavern of the Vigilo. The battle continued, unchecked. Blood ran in rivulets down the embankment toward the river behind the glimmering portal, most of it from unmoving Swiss Guards who littered the stone floor like dead leaves in fall. Still, Philip was unhappy to realize the fight was not ending as quickly as he had hoped, his forces from Annwn needing to increase to finish the Vatican once and for all.

Gauging how best to ensure a quickened victory, Philip felt ice run through his soul.

He realized no more of his soldiers came through from Annwn. The portal was still open, shining its ethereal glow, but his army no longer crossed over.

Something was wrong.

Philip cursed, gripping Hauteclere tighter, angrier than he’d ever been before. The instincts he had ignored in the moment of his triumph rang louder—their warning all too real.

With John gone, he would have to discover the reason himself.

Philip knew the Templar Knights he had brought through could hold the inadequate power of the Swiss Guard. For every warrior who fell and needed time to recover, two more pushed forward, cutting deeper into the hundreds of defenders who tried to keep Philip from his birthright. With the Pope and Vicar gone, it would not take long for Caer Llion to control the cavern. Neither the Swiss Guard nor the wizard’s knight had the power to drive his warriors back through the portal. It gave Philip the time he needed to learn what had become of his army.

Then the cavern would fall. St. Peter’s would be his. Vatican City would embrace him for the hero of the faith they yearned for. Then Rome.

The world would be next.

Philip needed the rest of his army to do so though.

Barking orders at one of his commanders and taking a dozen of his Templar Knights with him, Philip strode toward the portal back to Annwn.

The shimmering void swallowed him again.

The army of Philip Plantagenet spread across the grasslands like a black stain.

With Snedeker on his shoulder, Richard watched in horror as the army plodded forward, unable to take his eyes off it. The sheer volume of Templar Knights, unaffiliated warriors of the lords Philip had conquered, and various darkly spawned creatures staggered the mind. He had seen thousands of soldiers camped north of Caer Llion; it had been barely a twentieth of the host now on the plains. Philip led his throng around outcroppings of shattered white granite bursting from the ground, toward the hills fronting the Forest of Dean where a portal shimmered between two leafless oak snags upon the middle of a sentinel mountain almost a mile away.

Arawn rode up to join Philip as the despot led his army.

Hate like he had never known coursed through Richard.

The fey creature undoubtedly had his own plans. Richard had kept the knowledge of John Lewis Hugo’s true identity secret. Arawn had once led the Tuatha de Dannan. Richard could not share the truth. To do so could splinter the unified fey army, old factions given new life, destroying any chance of saving both worlds—and getting revenge against Arawn.

He looked over at Bran. The boy looked scared. He fidgeted with his new steel hand as he watched the progress of the host with trepidation.

“What are you thinking?” Deirdre asked Richard, the redhead appearing beside him.

“I am thinking…this is the day of your true freedom,” he said, hoping he sounded stronger than he truly felt.

“I hope so.”

“Confusion and surprise are our only weapons, I fear.” “They will have to do,” Deirdre said, pausing. “No matter what occurs today, know that I care for you, Richard McAllister.”

Richard looked into her eyes. They were a dark green like a deep sea. He had been hard on her the previous night and a part of him regretted it. He had no idea why she felt the way she did—the wiles of youth or a deeper connection he no longer understood—but it didn’t excuse his harshness. Still, it was best he not give her hope for love. Not with him anyway.