then flicked her tongue at him with lurid suggestion. “Though I do miss my winter curves. Care to touch?”
“Your dreams have nothing to do with this.”
“Your loss.”
“Will be your life,” Richard replied.
“Ah see. A lot o’ fight in ya,” the crone mocked. She turned to Goronwy. “Make sure they don’t escape, but keep those mutts out of dis.”
The witch didn’t wait. She attacked with a wail, a whirlwind of frigid air rushing toward Richard. The knight expected it. He jammed Arondight into the ground, its runes flaring like the sun. The world fell away while his fear turned into adrenaline. The gale shook the limbs of Dryvyd Wood and ice shot through earth, coating the world in silvered glass. But the wind lost its tenacity as it met the sword and the power Richard wielded. Gritting his teeth and hoping Bran was smart enough not to flee, the knight kept his focus on the hag, an indomitable spirit against her wintry wrath.
The icy power of the witch could not reach them.
The Cailleach growled frustration and ended the blast.
The clearing coated in ice and frost, Richard pulled Arondight free of the ground to face his adversary anew.
“That it?” Richard asked, sweat prickling his skin.
The question had the desired effect. Face contorting in rage, the hag wove her glowing white hands in the air—until a thunder shook the wood and cut her off.
Appearing from the east, two dozen warriors reined-in horses to surround the ring of dogs, the men dressed in black with breastplates bearing the silver insignia of a hawk below faces chiseled in hardship. Quick on their heels, a second group arrived, the white-cloaked riders wearing chrome greaves, canonical helmets, and hauberks beneath white mantles stamped with a crimson cross. All of the warriors were heavily armed, some with broadswords or axes, others with bows and quivers of arrows. The warhorses stamped impatiently, waiting on their masters.
Richard felt the day grow dark.
Their chance of escape had vanished.
The warriors bearing the cross were Templar Knights.
“Hag!” a man in black roared, his engraved breastplate of a higher quality than those around him. “Step away!”
“Lord of Assbirth,” the Cailleach snapped. “These are more crafty than you know.”
“No one speaks to the Lord of Arberth thus, witch,” a mounted blonde man said, his finely chiseled features flushed with rage. “Lord Gwawl is one of the finest men beneath the banner of the High King. He should have you skinned alive.”
“He is under the king in some way, true,” the Cailleach screeched. “Shut the hole above your chin, Sanddev, or ah’ll do it for you. Yeh be too purty to be here anyhow.”
Men about Lord Gwawl snickered. Sanddev glared at them.
“Let us pass freely and I will let you live!” Richard yelled for all to hear.
“Let us live?” Lord Gwawl barked a laugh, the Cailleach forgotten. “Look around you. Apparently the Seven have grown daft over the years.”
More laughter echoed. Richard tensed, prepared for the worst.
“Talk is wasted. The hunt is over. Let us take them—now,” a man beside Sanddev said, his raven hair braided and hawkish eyes fierce for confrontation.
“Evinnysan has the right of it,” Sandevv agreed.
The Cailleach grinned gleefully. The houndmaster whistled shrilly into the air, calling his hounds back. The ringing song of warriors freeing weapons echoed in the dark forest.
“Enough!” thundered a voice.
From behind the wall of lathered horses, another man rode forward. Both warrior groups parted. Richard knew the man, had learned a great deal about John Lewis Hugo from Merle during training. Wearing fine sable clothing beneath a shirt of chain mail, the rider glared at those around him, half his face a ruined mask. Despite the destroyed flesh, both eyes glared with equal ferocity at the knight, the contempt palpable. He carried no weapons but to either side of his horse lumbered two Fomorians, brutish giants Richard knew once existed in the old world.
Richard barely gave Philip Plantagenet’s second-in-command pause. An inky blackness rippled in the shadowy background of the forest behind him, absorbing the light as it came, the stale odor of unwashed bodies permeating Dryvyd Wood. Human faces, twisted and deformed, appeared from the darkened mass, attached to short spindly limbs and crooked bodies. Down on all fours, tortured frenzy glimmered from beady black eyes. Others had snouts like wolves, eyes burning with bloodlust and fangs slavering. They came mewling low like eager cats awaiting a meal, muscles twitching for release.
The horses balked at the beasts, panic threatening to overwhelm them. Helplessness cascaded over Richard. There