as he had seen the king do several times before. Instead of trying to parry the other’s sword and dance away, Bran let the sword fall exactly where he knew it would be.
And caught it with his gauntleted hand.
Surprise followed by fear crossed Philip’s face. Before the king had a chance to disengage, Bran rammed Arondight through the center of the crimson lion on Philip’s breastplate almost to the hilt. Eyes wide, Philip clutched at him, trying to drink the Grail water. Bran did not care if Philip drained the pouch dry. The knight sent the power thrumming inside through Arondight, incinerating the king from the inside out. The smell of charring meat accosted Bran. He did not care. He let the magic take control, become a living thing, a torrent that would not stop.
Philip looked down at his chest, eyes bulging in disbelief, skin blanching to white. He gasped and coughed weakly once, crimson coating his teeth.
“Father,” Philip whispered.
Slumping to the plains, the light in his eyes went lifeless.
Philip Plantagenet lay dead.
Sudden weariness stole Arondight from Bran. With a shiver he drifted like a ghost to where Deirdre lay. The redhead did not move, blood covering her jerkin. Without knowing what he did, Bran fell to his knees, feeling hot tears trail down his cheeks. He held the woman, the horror he felt within growing into a ravenous scream he would never be able to release.
“Red, no!” Snedeker wailed, flying to Deirdre.
The Kreche limped to stand over Bran.
“She is gone, scion of Ardall.”
“Get me one of the bags!”
The Kreche paused a moment but ultimately did as he was bid. Bran took the bag and splashed water in Deirdre’s mouth, hoping for the miracle that had kept Philip alive for so long.
Nothing happened.
“Come on, Deirdre…” “I am sorry,” the Kreche said. “She has traveled beyond, into the dawn. She has become one with it.”
Snedeker put his head down on her unmoving chest and bawled. Bran did not move. He held Deirdre close, keeping hope alive, willing her to move, to breathe, to do anything that would not be the reality.
“She is gone, Bran Ardall.”
Through his tears, Bran looked up.
Finn Arne stared at him. The captain of the Vatican held pistols in both of his hands but had no need of them, the rest of his guard surrounding the plains and keeping them safe. The one-eyed man knelt next to Bran, his demeanor somber.
“The battle is turning for the worse,” Finn Arne said. “We had best not be here when that happens.”
“I’m not leaving her.”
“You must if you are to survive. She would want that.”
So weary he could not stand, the pain in his heart encompassing the entire world, Bran surveyed the battlefield with blurry vision. The captain was right. Without the witch keeping the halfbreeds under control, they were frenzied, giving into a bloodlust that only made them stronger, both those on the ground and the griffins in the air. As a result the Tuatha de Dannan had splintered into pockets of resistance that were being consumed. It would not take long for the Morrigan to call a retreat or die fighting.
Bran let Deirdre down gently.
When he regained his feet, fighting the tears, he took his own appraisal of the battle—and could not believe what he saw in the northern distance.
The shapes he had seen earlier grew at an accelerated rate.
Richard had been wrong. The black stains to the north were not griffins.
Not at all.
“Snedeker!” Bran shouted.
The fairy looked up from his place on Deirdre, sorrow etching his wooden features.
“Do you see!?” Bran screamed, pointing. “Look to the north!”
Snedeker did so. Surprise turned to fear.
“Right!” Bran yelled. “They come to kill with flame!”
“The Tuatha de Dannan must take cover in the trees where the dryads can protect them,” the Kreche advised.
“Snedeker, tell the Morrigan to pull her forces out of the plains!”
Face screwed up with determination born of anger, the fairy stuttered in the air, already looking for the Queen. Snedeker then shot across the battlefield like a released dart, dodging the numerous dangers of griffins and flying arrows.
With no one around, the battle raging closer and closer to the Forest of Dean as the Caer Llion horde overcame the Tuatha de Dannen with increasing ferocity, Bran sat and waited, watching his likely death descend.
“If that’s what I think it is, we must flee,” Finn Arne said.
“We can’t make cover in time,” Bran replied. “Too far from the dryads. And I know who comes. He won’t risk harm to his