such an assault, but he knew it was only a matter of time before it was overwhelmed.
“Can’t do this forever,” Kreche grimaced.
The being’s need bolstered Richard somehow. Where a downtrodden and lost man had just stood, a righteous knight replaced him once more.
Arondight exploded into existence.
“Go,” Kreche hissed.
On the heels of the knight, Bran stepped out of the alley, the fire of Arondight protecting them once more. Ten men bore down on them, their weapons automatic ferocity. The soldiers were not going to quit, even with their leader gone.
As he stepped clear, Bran saw the bleeding holes littering the beast’s deeply muscled chest and arms. It breathed heavily, its strong jaw clenched. Black ichor bled down a noseless flat face where a bullet had grazed its brow between nub horns. Bran didn’t know how the behemoth still stood, but he no longer took it for granted.
“Thank you,” Bran said, gazing into its black beady eyes.
“Make it count, scion of Ardall,” it grunted. “Farewell.”
Richard sent his fire hurtling toward most of the men before running from cover with Bran, trying to make it to the staircase. Once again, Arondight held off their attackers. Bullets ricocheted off of the brick buildings around them but could not hit their mark. The knight kept them safe, at least for the moment.
Bran looked backward as they ran, and was taken aback.
In the yellow lamplight, Finn Arne had returned, barking orders at those men still on their feet, as if nothing had happened to him.
Bran and Richard gained the stairway cut into the sidewalk, inky blackness below, as the sound of closing police sirens chased after them. His feet barely hitting the narrow stairs, Bran plunged downward. Richard came after, Arondight lighting their way. With Finn Arne screaming above, Richard slammed into the door at the base of the staircase. It buckled under his weight and they were through.
The world below embraced him with dank coolness.
“How did that captain survive that punch?!”
“He’s unique,” Richard answered hotly, moving through the tunnel’s gloom as quickly as he could. “I’ll explain later.”
“What about that thing?”
“The Kreche can take care of himself,” the knight snorted. “Nothing can withstand him, nothing in this world anyway. Those Church soldiers will flee or die for it.”
The underground opened up to Bran, a world lost to another age—broken stone and brick in dusty piles, ancient corroded steel beams, glass and old faded signs in the corners. The light bulbs above dark, Arondight offered the only illumination. Disorienting shadows flitted about them like elusive companions. Bran moved among them through the passageways.
Arrow Jack shot past Bran, sending electricity coursing through him. The bird flew ahead, having escaped the mayhem.
“Why would the Church want me?”
“Lapdogs of the Church,” Richard corrected. “Who knows why they want anything.”
“You mean—”
“Yes,” Richard grated. “I don’t know. All I know is the Cardinal Vicar wants you as badly as the Lord of Annwn apparently.”
“I don’t understand!”
“Well, I don’t get it either!” Richard thundered.
“Where is this portal?”
“We’ll find it sooner if you shut up,” Richard shot back.
They moved down the dead corridors, the walls close. Several twists and corners later, they stood before a glassless window that looked into what appeared to be an old bank. Richard left the corridor and moved into the shell of the building; the ancient vault door hung off its hinges and dust coated everything. Trash from the turn of the century filled all corners; ancient spider webs hung from the beams, caked in grime. Richard ignored it all and moved deeper into darkness.
The world Bran knew disappeared with every step.
In the middle of the concrete floor a hole opened, stairs leading into a depthless gaping maw waiting to swallow them. Holding Arondight high like a torch, Richard made his way down carefully, unperturbed by the rotten odors emanating from the hole. Into what appeared to be a basement of Old Seattle, Bran followed, the air a chill ghost on his skin.
They entered an empty square room made of jagged, worn red brick, uncluttered by the refuse that had marked the floors above.
None of that mattered to him.
In the center of the wall in front of him, the bricks had fallen away to reveal a hole in the earthy clay, shimmering with fog. Arondight could not penetrate its depths. Emerald ivy grew around the opening, its vines pushing the brick free, nature destroying what man had built. Bran had been expecting something more grandiose—more magical—a gate bearing carved Celtic runes or a tunnel leading into the earth.