Dragon Week: Another Short Story

To Slay Anrhydedd is a short story I wrote earlier this year after I completed The Dark Thorn. It is set 50 years before the events in the novel, and features Bishop Donato Javier Ramirez, a character from the novel who is sent to England to interrogate… a mystery.
Since it is Dragon Week, I thought it might be fun to post my dragon short story.
Feedback is welcome, of course!
More follows after the jump.
To Slay Anrhydedd

ishop Donato Javier Ramirez stepped from the new ‘52 Buick onto a frozen layer of snow, the ruination of Glastonbury Abbey staring at him in deadened solitude.

It took his young, failing eyes a few moments to focus and gaze back.

The leaden sky spat periodic snow but Donato ignored it as he buttoned up his heavy winter long coat, his breath a cloud on the air before him. Two of his Swiss Guards joined his side from the glossy black car while four more emerged from the trailing automobile, their traditional yellow-and-purple uniforms replaced by fur-lined gray coats that concealed pistols and swords even as they warded off the winter. No one else was about. Per his instruction, the grounds had been cleared of visitors two days earlier and remained closed.

Looking out over the snow-covered remains of what once had been one of the most powerful monasteries in the British Isles, Donato steeled himself for what was to come.

Rome suddenly felt very far away.

Tym Catherwood, the Vatican scribe accompanying Donato on the journey, joined him from the other car, the lad’s chiseled cheekbones as pale as milk.

“Nice to return home, Scribe?”

Tym pulled his coat close, its hood covering his long auburn hair. “It is a chilly welcome, Your Lordship.”

“My Spanish bones feel the same,” Donato said, suppressing a shiver. “I suppose it is a Godsend though. Without this inclement weather, I doubt our discovery would have been kept a secret as long as it has.”

“Indeed. Snow is fairly rare in lower England, from what I’ve read in centuries-old diaries and journals, at least,” Tym said, wiping his freckled nose. “Of course, I could have told you that, having grown up here, Your Lordship.”

“It is dreary.”

“It is England, Your Lordship.”

Donato suppressed a smile. “I am pleased His Holiness asked that you accompany me, Tym Catherwood. The past has entered the present and become relevant once more. The focus of your Celtic studies makes you uniquely qualified for our charge.”

“The history of the Isles is a proud one,” Tym said, shrugging. “From kings and queens to wars and religion to invasion and occupiers. It is fascinating.”

“It will come quite in handy today, I think.”

“Sir, will you return to your diocese… once you have met the beast?”

Donato nodded despite his uncertainty. With the others in tow, he walked across the parking lot toward the ruins. In truth he didn’t know where his path would lead next. The bishop had been away from Spain for three weeks, his duty carrying him to Rome for meetings with the College of Bishops. But a night before returning Pope Pius XII requested a clandestine audience with him in the private Papal Suite of St. Peter’s Basilica. Once given his orders and having his resultant questions answered, Donato left for England with all haste.

He still could not believe his errand. If it had not come from his pontiff, he would have questioned its validity–as well as his own sanity.

“I understand that you sent word to your family?”

Tym looked a bit nervously at Donato. “I hope to see them while here, if briefly.”

“The Lord has a way of bringing family together under the oddest of circumstances,” the bishop said. “You sent your missive once we crossed the Channel?”

“The moment we landed.”

“I hope you made no mention of why we are here.”

“Of course not, Your Lordship.”

“Smart lad.”

Tym said nothing. Donato increased his pace across the trampled snow of the crocus-lined path toward Glastonbury Church. He had spent his journey studying the history of the abbey, the first traditional Christian church in England. Legend recounted its foundation by Joseph of Arimathea as he brought the Grail from the Holy Land to the Isles. From Pope Pius, Donato knew legend to be truth. For centuries the monastery grew in prestige and power–even publicizing that King Arthur and his wife were buried on the grounds–until King Henry VIII ordered the Dissolution of Monasteries in 1539.

After four centuries of ransacking and degradation, the Church of England preserved the ruins. Donato shook his head, thinking. It was a history connected to a secret so vast it was only known by a few in the Church, an ancient wizard, his portal knights, and the Heliwr.

Did that past draw the beast?

Or was it coincidence?

A priest rushed from St. Patrick’s Chapel then, his feet uncertain on the ice, his desire to please flushing his cheeks and his eyes fixed on Donato. He was not alone. Beside him, striding with crisp steps, came a tall man with Scandinavian features, his broad shoulders dwarfing those of his companion.

“Welcome to Glastonbury Abbey, Bishop Ramirez,” the thin priest said, out of breath and bowing before Donato to kiss his ring. “I am Abbot Jonathan Whyting of the Bath and Wells Diocesan Trust. Long has my family cared for these grounds. With the Lord as witness, I am honored to meet you.”

“Thank you, kind abbot,” Donato said, annoyed by the pomp.

“This is a momentous day, Your Lordship.”

Donato glanced around. “How many of your men know the reason for my visit, Abbot?”

“A handful, sir. Utmost secrecy has been kept, at your request.”

“Good.” The bishop turned to the blonde man. “Is the area secure, Captain?”

“The best I can make it, Your Lordship,” Captain of the Swiss Guard Nicolas Rohr said, eyeing Tym with suspicion. “My men surround the perimeter of all 36 acres. No one will intrude the Abbey. It is fully chained and no one has approached it since it awoke a few hours ago.”

“It slumbered when you drugged it, I imagine?”

“For three nights it retired here, unmolested,” Captain Rohr said. “The last night, I used a powerful elephant sedative and trapped it.”

“You have done your job well, Captain,” Donato commended. “Ensure your soldiers hold their posts until I notify you. This should not take long. Did the surgery go as planned?”

Distaste came over the Captain’s face but it vanished quickly. “It did. I performed it myself, being the most… capable… in achieving success without dying.”

“I hope it went well. If not, we will die quickly.”

“The ignition gland was where the Vatican book recounted it to be,” Captain Rohr assured. “You will be safe.”

Donato nodded, hoping the captain was right. One poorly made step would mean their ruin. The Swiss Guards had secured the grounds at his command; Captain Rohr and his soldiers defended him with their lives. Tym Catherwood offered his expertise.

Donato quelled his fear. He hoped he had done enough.

The abbot fumbled for words at his sleeve. “Is it true, Your Lordship?”

“Is what true?”

“That Annwyn sent the beast for our destruction?”

Donato nearly struck the abbot. The idea was preposterous. Loose tongues and roguish rumors could wound the Church as surely as the truth.

“I suggest you leave such nonsense to me, Abbot Whyting,” he chastised.

The abbot wilted and went silent.

“Take me to him now, Abbot.”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

Donato and his retinue followed the abbot as he shuffled over the snow toward the Great Church. Despite his failing eyesight, the bishop looked for the Glastonbury Thorn. It didn’t take him long to find it. The hawthorn tree stood just to the east, its leaves dark green and its white blooms bright against the gray sky. Donato felt a deep, sudden awe. Almost two thousand years earlier, Joseph had jammed the staff given him by God into this very ground and from it sprouted the Holy Thorn. The faithful visited it year round, drawn by its past, paying homage to its origin, and praying for God’s entrance in their lives.

Donato knew the Holy Thorn to be much more than that. The Heliwr carried a staff from its branches, the power once Joseph’s now given to the Unfettered Knight, to keep the fey world of Annwyn separate from this one.

The bishop looked away, forcing his mind back where it needed to be. He would pay his respects to the tree once he had finished his interrogation.

Having passed the Lady Chapel, the group entered what once had been the nave of the Great Church, the long-vanished roof and most of the walls allowing winter to intrude on the sacred ground. What remained was beautiful even in its decayed state. Tall fractured walls gave evidence to the former Gothic scale of the abbey, their lancet arches carved with eroded scrollwork and the colored glass long since vanished. Remnants of stone now littered the area, history and design brought low. Donato took it all in. It was a peaceful setting where once, many centuries earlier, a bustling community of worship had existed.

When he stepped through the transept crossing into what had been the High Altar and Choir though, Donato was not prepared for the sheer grandeur of what he saw.

Not at all.

The dragon lay in the middle of the cloistered area, the bulk of its body barely contained by the shattered walls around it. It was old, scales lacking the beautiful luster reported in the secret Vatican archives, its claws yellowed and worn. Ancient scars covered its gray-blue hide and plated armor gave rise along the ridge of its back like a serrated knife until ending at the end of its powerful tail. Each slow breath of the beast vibrated the air. Even in the chill of the winter, Donato smelled the pungent and wild odor of Annwyn emanating from fey myth made real.

Hundreds of chains anchored to buried posts and to the Great Church walls criss-crossed the dragon’s back, its limbs and wings imprisoned by links of steel.

The monstrosity raised its head at Donato’s approach, its movement restricted.

“Priest,” it growled low, its dazzling blue eyes hard. “I have no wish to speak to thee. Leave me to misery or be done with it.”

The surreal nature of the beast almost paralyzing, Donato took a deep breath.

“I come in peace and with sincerity, wonder of the fey world.”

Eyes baleful and sharp, the dragon looked past the bishop. Tym stood nearby, glancing about nervously as if expecting something else magical to appear. Abbot Whyting remained at the entrance of the High Altar. The Swiss Guards huddled near Donato and their captain, hands on rifles and swords, dread furrowed deep in their faces.

If Donato could smell the fear in the air, he knew the dragon could as well.

The beast did not show it. Instead it moved its eyes over the group, finally settling on Tym and Nicolas Rohr.

“Thou art in odd company, priest.”

“I am a Bishop of the Catholic Church,” Donato said, the chill of the afternoon replaced by the heat of his adrenaline. “It is customary to travel with a protective retinue.”

The dragon grunted. “Indeed.”

“I am here to–”

“Bishop of the Catholic Church, I am not interested.”

“Dragon, there is no reason to not be civil.”

“Civility has never been a strong calling of thy kind.”

“I agree that humanity has much to learn,” Donato said, trying to keep his fear from his voice. “I do not blame you for your mistrust. I am not, however, here to harm you or add to the transgressions you have witnessed in Annwyn.”

The dragon’s eyes penetrated those of Donato, bright blue into milky brown. Long moments passed, but the fey visitor said nothing in return.

“I know names among your kind hold power,” Donato said, trying a different angle while withstanding the discerning gaze. “May we share our names as friends do to meet in good faith?”

“Thou art at least educated in the ways of dragonkind,” the beast rumbled. “Still, held captive as I am, I cannot distinguish the good faith of which thou speaks.”

Donato sighed quietly. The dragon had a point.

“It is regrettable,” the bishop said. “You will be freed at the end of our conversation if you speak truly.” He paused. “I am Bishop Donato Javier Ramirez.”

The dragon said nothing, thinking. Donato waited.

“I am named Anrhydedd, sire of Rhelynn, Sorhyrr, and Anrhell,” the dragon said finally, inclining its massive head as far as it could in greeting.

“It means ‘honor’ in Welsh, Your Lordship,” Tym whispered from his side.

“Donato Javier Ramirez, thou art a man of importance,” the dragon continued. “Despite thy youth, there is to be a heavy burden placed upon thou, of that I see quite clearly.”

“I will become the Cardinal Seer one day, yes,” Donato said. “My eyesight will fail with every passing year until I am blind. I will then be responsible for watching Annwyn and helping to ensure the two worlds remain separate.”

The dragon flicked his eyes to Captain Rohr.

“Thou art him who captured me.”

“I am,” the Swiss Captain replied, standing stiff under the scrutiny.

“There is magic about thee, like a mist. I can sense it.”

“Captain Rohr carries Prydwen, the once Shield of King Arthur,” Donato answered for the guard.

“The Forever King,” Anrhydedd growled lowly.

“How do you know of King Ar–”

Before Donato could finish, the dragon strained forward, its chains barely holding, and roared at Nicolas Rohr with unleashed vehemence.

Donato fell back out of instinct.

Gunfire erupted from the guards. Chaos ensued as all present dove for cover from what the dragon intended. Instead of the flame the bishop half expected, a thick plume of noxious gases hit the air only to quickly evaporate and disappear.

“Hold your fire!” Donato screamed.

“What has thou done to me?” Anrhydedd croaked, angry bewilderment falling over his alien features. “Friends do not cripple one another!”

Pleased he was not a charred bishop, Donato regained his faculties and stood resolute. “Friends do not try to kill one another either. You must hate Arthur a great deal for slaying those of your kind that were unruly in Britain all of those centuries ago?”

Eyes filled with hate, the dragon did not respond.

“What drove you to return here, to England?” Donato asked. “Come to kill innocents?”

“My intent here is not death, but life.”

Donato frowned. “What do you mean?”

Anrhydedd said nothing.

“I could not very well have a discussion with you if with a thought you could kill me and those with me,” the bishop pressed, worried he had already lost any chance at gaining the trust he needed to fulfill his mission. “Beyond removing a tiny gland in the back of your throat, you are unmolested. I am not here to cause you further harm.”

The dragon cracked a laugh. “Your Church has ever hated my kind–and all fey. Do not think ill of me if I claim utmost incredulity at that avowal especially given what has been done to me already.”

“I may be part of the Church, but I am not the Church, if you understand me.”

The dragon seemed to think it over. Long moments passed. The bishop and the creature stared hard at one another, neither budging.

“My brothers and sisters die,” Anrhydedd said at last.

“They die?”

“Our numbers dwindle by the decade,” the dragon said with shining, melancholy eyes. “Even as the Great Usurper Philip Plantagenet and his knights bearing the red cross slay the weakest of my kind, few are birthed to replace them. Dragonkind has been reduced to dozens when once thousands entered Annwyn.”

“And you returned to the world of your rise to… what exactly?”

“There are places of power still hidden from the men in this world, secret knowledge held by those who would keep it safe,” Anrhydedd replied. “As the oldest among my kind and unable to mate any longer, I sought them out to discover a means of preserving my brethren and ensure our survival.”

“Did you fulfill your quest?”

“The knowledge I discovered will save my kind, yes.”

“Those you met must be Elves then,” Tym interrupted.

The dragon peered at the young scholar and after several moments nodded.

Donato withheld a curse. This was going to be more complicated than he realized. If the dragon had met with the Elves and received the information it needed, it would make what was to come all the more difficult.

“That does not please thee, Donato Javier Ramirez,” Anrhydedd said darkly.

“Let us get to it,” Donato said, standing with as much authority he could muster. “The Heliwr is undoubtedly on his way to end your life. He is persistent in his duties. When he arrives any hope you have of freedom will disappear. The Church will not be able to stop him. He will kill you to keep the two worlds separate, end any evidence of your existence. And ultimately the knowledge you acquired to save your kind will die with you, useless to those in Annwyn.”

“An offer thou art brings then?”

“I do. Directly from Pope Pius XII,” Donato replied. “In exchange for information of a sensitive nature, I will escort you with these Swiss Guards to the Betws-y-Coed gateway where you may return to Annwyn, free to revive your brethren.”

“In exchange for what, priest?”

Donato took a steadying breath.

“From records the Church possesses, we know the Elves and sylvans returned from Annwyn in the sixth century, a part of the Seelie Court that regretted retreating from this world. Since that time the world has begun to shrink and so too the places the Elves may hide. The Church has no wish for them to dwindle as dragonkind apparently has. Rather we would see the Elves sent back to Annwyn. They will die here; there they will be safer. Once Rome discovered you had fought past the portal knight to reenter Britain, the Pope hoped you would share what you know about where the Elves once resided.”

“The Elves are a sacred people, one of the oldest of the Tuatha de Dannan,” Tym added, looking more at Donato than the dragon. “They would not be easily destroyed by the Church.”

“Both of thee must think me foolish,” Anrhydedd snarled.

“I do not know what you mean,” Donato said.

“I have seen what thou art done these beautiful isles, my hatching home,” the dragon said, looking beyond Donato as if seeing the entire world. “Do not forget, I am old, older than many of the long-lived in Annwyn. I flew these skies centuries ago, know the shape of the land. It sickens my heart to witness the travesty of my birthplace. Stone structures and fields replace once proud forests. Iron machines pollute the air. Scars from some recent great war still pock the land, testament to thy kind’s hatred and mistrust of one another. The death of the world. With the short life spans humans carry, thou art blind.”

Donato grew angry. “I do not think you apprecia–”

“And now the audacity to ask this of me,” the dragon growled. “To kill more of my kinfolk, no matter if they are Elves, no matter how far removed they may be. To ruin the world further. To adopt the very worst quality thou possesses–selfishness incarnate. For my freedom.”

“And the survival of your kindred,” Donato pointed out.

The chains strained around the beast as he flexed imprisoned muscles.

“It is a choice only you can make,” Donato said sadly. “I wish it were otherwise.”

Anrhydedd looked into the sky as the strengthening snow began to cover him, lost in thought. Donato could not decipher what choice would come. He did not feel confident. The conversation with Anrhydedd had not gone as the bishop had hoped. But he also knew nothing he could say now would change the outcome.

The dragon exhaled sharply, sending the snow swirling. “The Elves will never let thou discover them.”

“Perhaps,” Donato said, nodding. “Still, they deserve the chance to relocate back to a world closer to that of ancient Britain. You could be saving them.”

“Thou art believes the Elven nation cannot adapt?”

“Is that a risk they should take?”

“If their forest home became discovered, it is apparent thou would not recognize an Elf even if he walked beside thee.”

“What do you mean?”

The old beast chuckled, exposing dagger-like teeth, but said nothing more.

“What is your answer to be then, Anrhydedd?”

“I choose no,” the dragon replied darkly, looking straight at Tym. “I will not make a choice that will lead to the death of the Elves and sylvans. Honor forbids it. May my dragonsire forgive me hereafter.”

Donato nearly stopped breathing, stunned. “I do not think you understand, Anrhydedd. If you choose to not help, your kin slowly dies.”

“I know full well the implications, Donato Javier Ramirez.”

“How can that be?!”

“There are things more important, priest, than doing what is best for oneself,” Anrhydedd replied, his sorrow palpable. “There is a balance in the world thy kind will never understand. If I told thee where the Elves live their lives, I would destroy one race for another. I will not do that. Not when there is still hope for my people.”

“The Church has no interest in killing the Elves!”

“That may be,” the beast said. “I will not take that risk.”

“Then you have chosen death by the Heliwr.”

The dragon looked from Donato to Tym to where Abbot Whyting stood at the entrance. “My death comes already,” Anrhydedd said softly.

“What do you mea–”

Before the bishop could finish his question, Abbot Whyting began screaming.

Donato spun.

Horror written on his face, the abbot pointed frantically back the way they had come as he stumbled toward Donato–until an arrow silenced him with stunning force through the neck.

Screams of pain, terror, and guard gunfire erupted from beyond the walls of the Great Church. Captain Rohr leapt over the dead abbot giving him no thought, pulling two pistols from the folds of his coat as he tried to get a better view of what was happening. Tym drew closer to Donato. Hunkering against the wall, the bishop fought panic. The firing of guns echoed in the wintry stillness, each report driving a wedge of fear through him, the odor of spent gunpowder becoming thick amidst the snowfall.

“Stay down, Bishop Ramirez!” Captain Rohr ordered from the entrance of the transept crossing, pistols held at the ready.

“What is going on?!” Donato roared.

Before the captain could answer, several arrows sprouted from his chest in quick unison. He did not collapse. Instead he sneered hatred and unleashed his pistols at targets Donato could not see. When his magazines were empty, he pulled the arrows free with a ferocious grimace and continued to shout orders to his men, trying to keep them focused on their assailants.

Outside of the ruins, shadowy figures dashed low across the snow.

“Captain!?”

“Elves!” Captain Rohr shouted.

Chaos further consumed the abbey grounds. Donato held Tym down. Elves! The word crystallized into understanding. They had somehow discovered the dragon and were attempting to protect their existence from the Church by killing Donato and his retinue.

All too quickly, the gunfire faded and disappeared entirely.

“My guards are overrun, murdered!” Nicolas Rohr yelled, dropping his empty pistols and pulling his longsword.

Dread shot through Donato. They would not be able to escape the lithe fey. Completely helpless, he watched as out in the nave six Elves strode toward them, swords bloodied or arrows knocked in ash bows. Each was dressed like any other Glastonbury man or woman, helping them blend in when they were anything but normal. Most had long auburn hair, pulled back away from fair, chiseled faces. Donato would have thought them men, if not for the seething hatred in their eyes and the weaponry they carried.

Between him and death stood the Swiss Captain of the Vatican.

Snarls on their faces, the Elves charged.

Nicolas Rohr jumped into their midst to defend the wide transept crossing with only his sword and skill. It didn’t take long for him to use either. Arrows flew at him, burying deep as they struck, but the captain ignored them again, the invulnerability of Prydwen saving him from harm. The Elves swarmed the entrance, howling like enraged wolves, but Nicolas Rohr returned their hatred with war. He sliced the first elf from hip to shoulder, his innards spilling free even as the blur of lethal steel caught a second elf’s neck, almost decapitating him.

Hot crimson erupted everywhere.

The other Elves took advantage of the time it took to dispatch their brethren. They infiltrated the captain’s defenses, two of the fey subduing the strong man as the third ran him through with a curved blade. Nicolas Rohr howled pain but it only seemed to enrage him further. He broke free and, with a snarl, drove his own blade through his enemy’s heart. Kicking the dead body away, he rammed the hilt of his own sword into the jaw of the closest elf. Teeth and blood exploded free as the elf’s shattered skull ended his life.

Then the snow stealing their footing, Nicolas Rohr and his last adversary went down in a tangled heap of hate.

Donato barely had time to register the grisly scene or worry about the captain. The final elf, who had not entered the fight, charged through the clear transept crossing, knife drawn to kill the weaponless bishop and his young companion.

Aware of the danger, Tym ripped away from Donato and escaped toward the dangerous dragon and the other end of the Great Church.

“No, Scribe! Don’t!”

As Tym fled, the elf pulled a different knife with wicked-looking serrations and with cold calculation threw it in a swirling blur at his back.

It missed Tym by a narrow margin and landed in the snow near the dragon.

That was the last Donato saw. The elf charged the bishop.

The bishop was young and strong but inexperienced as a fighter at any level and, worse, he knew it. Almost slipping in the snow, Donato retreated in a panic, his eyes never leaving his agile foe, hoping for a miracle.

One didn’t come. The elf slammed into the bishop, his alien eyes filled with wrath, his blade falling for the kill. Donato reacted on instinct. He went down, rolling with the other’s momentum, fixated on the knife and its path. Before it met him, he gripped the elf’s wrists in iron clamps, stopping the death stroke even as he jarringly hit the ground.

The breath in his lungs exploded into the chilly air. Almost before he could register it, the elf was on top of him, pinning him to the snow, trying to overcome the bishop’s meager strength through brute force. Time slowed. Donato was suddenly aware of every minutia. Each snowflake as it melted and died. The lavender-green irises of his attacker’s eyes. The sweet smell of wild nature. The gaze of Anrhydedd as the dragon watched the confrontation. The prickles of sweat beneath his own clothing. The grip that weakened on his attacker’s wrists with every breath. The bishop spent every ounce of who he was trying to keep the dagger from his neck, grimacing. He knew his strength would not last. He understood he was doomed. The elf would drive the blade into Donato and end his life.

After what felt an agonizing eternity, the tip of the knife mere inches from penetrating, darkness edged out his vision, threatening oblivion.

It would be over soon. He had failed his Pope and his Church. He closed his eyes and waited on the inevitable.

Then the weight on top of him vanished with a harsh grunt.

Breathing hard, Donato looked up. Free from his last foe, Nicolas Rohr stood tall over him, the elf kicked a yard away. The assassin hissed curses in a language Donato had never before heard but the Vatican protector did not care. He attacked. The elf attempted to flee but it did not matter. The captain knocked him back down with a ferocity Donato had never seen, fell on him with swift, highly trained purpose, brought his sword up, and drove its blade through the chest of the fey into the frozen ground beneath.

After less than a few minutes, the six elves were dead, steaming ruin into the winter.

Captain Rohr pulled his sword free, breathing hard. After plucking the arrows from his body and tossing them aside with utter disdain, he checked through his shredded clothing.

No wounds existed where wounds should have been.

“Sometimes I hate this job, Your Lordship,” he growled, offering his hand.

Donato took it and got to his feet. He calmed his nerves, disbelieving how quickly the fight was over and how close he had come to dying. The carnage was absolute. Blood stained the snow, and bodies littered the sanctity of the Great Church–bodies of the fey. If Nicolas Rohr had not been present and magically protected by the Shield of Arthur, Donato would be dead like Abbot Whyting a few yards away.

He didn’t even want to think about the dead Swiss Guards out on the abbey grounds.

The Elves had tried to kill them all and failed.

“You did your duty, Captain,” he responded simply.

“What happened to the beast?”

Panic seizing him anew, Donato whirled about.

Anrhydedd laid still, peacefully so, head lowered to the slushy snow and eyes closed as if in slumber. The great bellows of his lungs, however, did not move.

The dragon was dead. Donato barely breathed.

“Where is the Scribe?” he asked, muddled by adrenaline. “Tym!”

There was no answer.

Donato stumbled forward, barely able to keep his feet, an weary, tired void replacing the fire of battle. The lad could not have gone far.

It didn’t take Donato long to find him.

Where the chained tail of the dragon met its body, Tym Catherwood lay unmoving, sprawled on his back in the snow.

“Tym!”

Donato hurried and slid to his side, Captain Rohr a pace behind.

The scholar was alive, if barely, his breathing shallow, his lips tinged dark blue. Small purple veins crept across the pale skin of his face like rabid ivy, slowly throbbing with the beat of his heart. Unsure of what was happening to the Vatican scribe, Donato gripped his hand and noticed it had been slashed across the palm where it still freely bled.

In his other hand Tym held the blade that had been thrown at him.

“You are… a good man, Bishop,” he gasped, fighting for breath. “Not… like… others…”

“What is happening to you, son?” Donato whispered.

“My life… for my people…”

Suddenly understanding, the bishop nodded.

“Not at war… with… you…”

Unable to help, Donato watched the scribe take a last struggling breath, his eyes rolling wildly in his head as his body contracted into an agonized arch. The bishop felt helpless. Slowly the lad settled back to the snow one last time, finally growing still like the dragon, his breath–and life–no more.

“He has passed unto the Lord,” Donato said. “Or whatever deity he prayed to.”

“What do you mean other deity?” Nicolas Rohr asked.

Donato closed the scholar’s eyelids and then pushed the auburn hair above his left ear aside to see what he already knew.

The ear was pointed.

“He is Elven,” Captain Rohr hissed.

“Indeed.”

“He was a traitor!”

Donato glanced around at the dead bodies. “To whom? Those he cared about?”

Captain Rohr did not reply. Donato took the knife that the Elves had delivered to the Vatican scribe. The handle was a simple white wood but the blade was sleek and curved–one side notched, the other smooth and deadly sharp. Runes unlike any Donato had seen swirled along its length while the metal shimmered with a venomous green hue.

The blade tingled in his hand, a whisper of dark power.

“A poisoned blade?”

“A magical one,” Donato surmised, standing once more to look at the dragon. “Either way, Captain, the damage has been done. Look here.”

The same sickening purple veins evidenced in the boy spread from a freshly delivered wound across the hind leg of the great beast.

Tym Catherwood had killed Anrhydedd with the blade before taking his own life.

“The dragon should have protected his own,” Nicolas Rohr said.

“He did,” Donato said, still kneeling and already feeling his limbs stiffening from the fight for his life. “They both did. They felt like they could not betray the very spirit of their races. Robbing Peter to pay Paul has ever been folly. They both knew it.”

Captain Rohr frowned but said nothing more.

“Drag the bodies and lump them with the carcass of the dragon,” Donato ordered as he stood, the snowfall already covering the dead. “We will wait for the Heliwr to dispose of them and any other evidence with his staff.”

“What of Abbot Whyting and those who know him?” Captain Rohr asked. “The families of my Swiss Guards will understand their loss. It is a part of the role. The abbot, however, has a family and friends who undoubtedly will question his death.”

“The Unfettered Knight will undo the memories of those who have witnessed any aspect of what has transpired here the past few days,” Donato said, feeling far older than his age. “That includes anyone on the periphery. When the Unfettered Knight has arrived, please notify me. I would speak with him first.”

“Where will you be, Your Lordship?”

“In the warmth of St. Patrick’s Chapel, composing my letter to inform Pope Pius of these unfortunate events. It will arrive on the morrow. He will want to know immediately, and I do not trust certain departments in the Vatican to relay messages just now.”

“The fey infiltrating our ranks changes much, doesn’t it?”

“It does. For the worst.”

Nicolas Rohr inclined his head. Donato left him to fulfill his orders.

Pausing for a moment over the body of Abbot Whyting to offer a quick prayer for the departed soul, the bishop walked out of the ruins, the abbey grounds still covered in white but the world entirely changed. Much would have to be done. Elves had invaded Rome with guile. Who knew how many of them were in Vatican City, how many of them were within its most trusted circles. The entire hierarchy of the Catholic Church would have to be cleansed of the spies and that would take a time. It would also take clandestine planning and execution to not reveal the existence of the Elves to those in the Church as well as without. If the world learned of the fey, it would destroy many of the most basic foundations in the Bible.

Christianity would crumble upon itself.

Even as the fey fought a losing war against a genocidal humanity that fears what it doesn’t understand.

A chill swept through Donato. Though his eyesight failed and would continue to do so until he was blind, he shook his head, worried by the future he saw all too clearly.

Donato sighed. Tym Catherwood had said the name Anrhydedd meant honor. The dragon now lay dead by that honor. The captured fey creature had seen the truth of the scribe’s identity; he had known his fate and yet still had not complied with Donato’s demands. If the dragon could die so willingly to protect a race not his own–and an honor that availed him nothing–what else were the fey in this world and Annwyn capable of?

Would the Vatican ever be as honorable as those who had just died?

Could it?

As he gained St. Patrick’s Chapel, cold and alone, Bishop Donato Javier Ramirez was saddened by the quickness of his answer.

If you enjoyed this, there is more. To read Chapters 1-5 of The Dark Thorn, visit my website at www.shawncspeakman.com.
Yes, shameless self-promotion! Ha!