“Doing here?” Caswallawn finished, parts of his body in flux. “Is it not obvious?”
“But how did you know where we were?”
“I have followed you from Arendig Fawr, at request of the Queen,” Caswallawn whispered, pausing at the door to peek out quickly. “We will speak of my time after this night.”
“Time to go, knights,” Snedeker said, whirring ahead.
“We must free the others imprisoned here,” Bran said.
“I have already done so,” Caswallawn said. “Hear the chaos above? Better luck in escaping we will find if the guards are trying to capture all of you.”
“What happened to your arm?” Snedeker asked.
“Never mind,” Richard spat, looking at Bran’s stump. “Bran, grab that leather bag.”
On the floor beside the dead giant lay the soccer ball-size pouch holding the water from the Grail. Letting Arondight vanish, Bran entered the room and grabbed the bag. He then held it out to Richard.
“Don’t give it to me, dammit!” Richard grimaced. “Just carry it.”
“Take a drink,” Bran insisted.
“No! It’s our proof!”
Bran slung the leather pouch over his shoulder, its contents sloshing, and called Arondight once he stepped out of the room.
“What takes place above?” Richard asked weakly.
“You will see,” Snedeker answered. “At times, even I am smarter than the smartest.”
“A diversion,” Caswallawn said simply. “Let us move.”
The four entered the torchlit hallway. Two Templar guards at either end of the corridor slumped lifeless to the stone—weapons not drawn, throats cut, surprised horror freezing their features. Richard moved down the hallway, following the lead of Caswallawn up a new flight of stairs. With every step the sounds of the above conflict grew until it permeated their entire world. Calling the Dark Thorn, Richard put more weight on it rather than Bran as they moved through the castle. Bran would need freedom to use Arondight soon judging by the battle raging above. Caswallawn wrapped his invisibility cloak closer and crept on until they climbed another set of stairs, eyes alert, making no sound, the promise of war ahead.
Snedeker kept ahead, a tiny scout, watching for enemies. There weren’t any. Around nearly every corner more guards lay dead, the effective deeds of Caswallawn.
Just as Richard thought the invisible lord had killed everyone in the castle, four soldiers appeared, weapons drawn, surprise etching their faces.
Bran did not hesitate. With Caswallawn flattening against the wall, the boy sent the blue fire of his sword into the Templar Knights. They scattered like leaves on the breeze, bits of fire hungrily fighting for purchase as they screamed in terror. Caswallawn was on them like a sleek cat, knives opening the exposed neck arteries between chain mail and helmets.
In a matter of seconds, all four were dead.
Saying nothing, Richard and the others stepped over the bodies on their way upward. After what felt an eternity, Caswallawn edged into a passage where a door, flanked by thick lead plates bearing faintly pulsing green Celtic runes, waited.
He pushed through into the cool night air.
Into a courtyard of chaos.
Caer Llion loomed overhead. Yelling echoed, conflict all too close. Across from them a giant hole gaped in the outer wall of Caer Llion; through it, dozens of Templar Knights streamed from the plains without, scrambling beyond his view, focused on what had entered the castle. Richard kept himself pressed against the tower wall, propped up by his staff, trying to become one with the shadows. The others did the same.
The battle taking place nearby gave him pause; he did not know where to go now.
Arrow Jack swooped out of the night, screeching.
“How do we get out?” Richard screamed to Caswallawn. “The hole,” Caswallawn said. “And slowly. We are gravely outnumbered.”
The invisible lord moved from the door along the rounded tower wall. Richard followed Bran, sweating freely, nausea from the pain sickening him. As they came around the corner, the melee across the courtyard came into view, and Richard nearly stopped in his tracks.
In the midst of the castle warriors, a massive creature stood above all, thick and heavily muscled, destruction raining down from its enormous fists even as spears and arrows punctured its body like a pincushion. Horn-like nubs grew from a rounded head where lank dark hair hung. The juggernaut roared at all quarters while pummeling those adversaries who came too close. The carnage at its feet was complete, bodies twisted and broken from its rage.
“The Kreche,” Richard breathed.
“Halfbreed,” Caswallawn rumbled. “Doing his job.”
Richard stood thunderstruck. The Kreche must have come all the way from Seattle. Had Merle known what transpired in Caer Llion at all