animated trees to come straight at the knight. Richard charged forward, his anger overwhelming his faith and sense, until ice from the Cailleach pelted him backward.
He brought his arms up to ward off the frozen assault of the witch—just as the hideous things swarmed him.
Richard spun like a top and crashed into Bran before righting himself, dozens of shredded holes in his clothing and mewling bodies upon his back.
The knight locked eyes with Bran.
Revenge left as the knight knew he had to protect the boy. Arondight answered his call again, flames chasing its length. With a heave of desperation, the knight threw off his assailants, blasting the demon wolves still on him and around him, pushing them back. Fire hurtled from the sword in a concentrated arc, setting fire to wolves, horses, and the Templar Knights who fought to enter the fray.
A sudden hole of possible freedom opened.
“Run!” Richard screamed.
Bran whirled to flee. He vaulted over the charred bodies of blasted men and animals, given an advantage by the consuming chaos. He was through the gap in a moment, tearing across the hillside with Richard a step behind, the angry shouts of pursuit quickened.
“Where?” Bran cried.
“Anywhere,” the knight shouted. “Just keep running, no matter what.”
Dryvyd Wood passed in a blur. Guttural growls chased them. Richard ran all out, ignoring his wounds and not looking back, keeping away from the trees. Terror gave him powerful strides, enough heart to take him back to the portal.
Before he knew it, claws clamped over his legs.
Cradling Arondight, Richard went down into the forest mulch.
As the knight blasted the demon wolf off of him, Bran was there, his face ashen. Grabbing Richard’s bloody arm and torso, the boy hauled the man to his feet and forced him to stumble away. Richard felt his adrenaline fading to haziness. Behind them demon wolves and Templars tore toward them, mere yards away.
“Go!” Richard roared, pushing Bran.
It was too late. In moments, Templar Knights circled the companions. The remaining demon wolves slinked across the ground, madness distorting the once human and wolf faces, but they did not attack.
Weakness stealing over him, Richard fought the darkness. It was inevitable. The fight would be over soon.
No longer able to will it into being, Arondight vanished.
“Richard!” Bran screamed.
Richard tried to stand but couldn’t.
“It is over, McAllister,” John Lewis Hugo condemned from the safety of his steed.
Breathing hard and weakened by loss of blood, Richard watched Bran pull a brown wooden box from his pant pocket. The knight thought he should know what the box signified but understanding had fled him like his wits. It didn’t matter anyway. Before Bran could do anything with it, the beasts swarmed them, the demon wolves’ eyes shining as they gripped him and Bran in bands of iron.
The black angular bodies bore Richard down like a wave.
The new day brought Bran cramped muscles, the odor of fresh horse dung, and a headache as strong as the leather bonds handcuffing him.
He stirred from false sleep, the nightlong pain racking his body heralding the morning. Around him the camp awakened, warriors rising to gather their bedrolls and possessions, preparing to leave. Bran took small note of the activity, the misery of being shackled to a pole for the night foremost in his thoughts. Other than his pack and coat being taken from him, Bran had not been touched; John Lewis Hugo had ordered his men to ignore the two prisoners under penalty of death.
Now with the golden aura of the rising sun spreading through the forest, Bran wondered anew what he had gotten himself into.
He looked over at Richard. The knight lay nearby where the giant had dropped him, similarly bound but unconscious, his bloody clothing hiding the wounds beneath. Richard breathed shallow, and it was harder for Bran to discern than the night before.
Trying to relieve a throbbing ache near his groin, Bran shifted his weight around on the pole. It didn’t help. Ever since the demon wolves had swarmed him, the pain had intensified.
Worried he was wounded, Bran looked down.
As before, there was nothing amiss.
“Awake, are we.”
Bran twisted to see John Lewis Hugo staring down at him.
“You know,” the leader said. “None of this would be necessary if I felt you would listen to truth and not flee. Your knight lies there. Dying. Broken. Why? Because centuries of lies precede this moment.”
Bran ignored him as he had the previous night.
“Still stubborn, I see,” John Lewis Hugo observed. “It is common in your world, from what I understand.