The light before him shifted as if through a rippling prism. It cleared and Bran stared at a floating grizzled face with a smirking, unwashed smile.
Caswallawn stared right back.
Richard hung from the cell wall by chains, in absolute misery.
The Fomorian stoked the fire pit for what must have been the hundredth time, heating several irons to white-hot intensity. Richard had no idea how much time had lapsed. It didn’t matter. It was the torment that splintered his awareness, left him unsure of every instance the giant rammed a hot poker into his abdomen, broke a bone, or slashed him with a knife. Overcoming the pain skewed his understanding; every agony pushed him toward oblivion. But with every splash of water into his mouth from the Holy Grail he was reborn, brought back to his situation, forced to endure more torture.
Physically, he was fine, his injuries healed. Emotionally he was coming undone from the inside out, his mind sundering.
He was being driven mad.
Arawn had no interest in keeping Richard alive. The knight had brought Bran Ardall to Annwn as a worthy consolation. Whether Richard died or joined Arawn, it did not matter. Either way, the knight was not an obstacle—and Arawn had won.
His left arm broken and the Fomorian set to return with his next evil deed, Richard cursed himself. The Holy Grail. He had seen it with his own eyes. It had been within his grasp in the lake. The Grail was a source of unimaginable power. In the hands of Arawn and Philip, it made whatever army they raised a thousand times more powerful.
The Dark Thorn had called him to the cavern because the lake was a powerful mirror. If Richard had thought about why the magic had called him to the lake, he would have investigated further. If he had spent more time investigating, Caer Llion would have been deprived of the Holy Grail, a weapon Plantagenet planned on using against two worlds.
If he had taken the Grail from Annwn, the war would be over.
If he only had a chance to confront Arawn and kill the creature responsible for Richard killing his wife…If. If. If.
Just as the Fomorian pulled a glowing dagger from the fire, the door to the cell opened. Richard raised his tired head to view the newcomer.
Bran stood in the doorway, alone.
Richard blinked, unsure if what he was seeing was real or the result of maddened hope. The Fomorian torturer turned, alerted by Richard’s look. Blunted pale features peeled back in a ferocious snarl and it charged Bran with the dagger raised high.
With Arondight glowing in his hand, Bran waited for the giant.
“Run, Bran!” Richard roared.
Before the giant could finish crossing the room, it fell forward, tripped, and crashed to the stone, the knife flying out of its hand and air whooshing from its lungs.
“Now, Ardall!” a voice screamed in the cell.
Bran unleashed the magic of Arondight. The fire stabbed the Fomorian in its back and pinned it to the ground, incandescent flames unyielding as they inundated the huge creature. The giant roared in pain. Bran did not let up. A curling hand reached up but Bran ignored it, his eyes focused and filled with wrath.
Richard could not believe what he saw. Roaring as flesh burned away and the smell of charred meat saturating the room, the Fomorian pleaded with frying eyes to be let free, to survive.
Bran did not yield.
The giant struggled on until its protestations weakened. Movements slowing until only smoke rose, the Fomorian finally stilled.
Bran ended the torrent of flaming magic. The torturer lay unmoving. A surge of adrenaline rushed into Richard. Snedeker flew into the cell to hover before the prisoner.
“Today luck is with you, McAllister,” the fairy said. “What did that asscudgel do to you? Are you alive?”
“No,” Richard said. “But I’ll live.”
Caswallawn materialized suddenly in front of him. He fought the manacles that held the knight. Richard tried to gather himself. With his arm still broken and his mind and body weak from the repeated torture, he knew he would have to get ready for an attempt to escape Caer Llion. No matter how Caswallawn had broken into the castle—a distraction from the sounds rumbling above—there would be Templars after them as soon as Richard and Bran were discovered gone.
He knew one thing. His broken arm would not stop him from unleashing hell.
Finally freed by Caswallawn, Richard moved past the dead Fomorian toward