“Who you looking for?” Evinnysan mocked. “I see nobody.”
The man next to Evinnysan laughed—just as an arrow sprouted from his chest.
Dazed, the warrior slid out of his saddle, a dead sack gurgling to the ground. Lord Gwawl, Evinnysan, and the men around them shouted in shock as they drew weapons, the ring of steel thick. They had little time to react. The forest erupted as men and women wearing leather charged from the thick brush and trees, attacking the mounted men with swords and axes. Steel upon steel rang, and the sounds of men grunting, screaming, and dying filled the air.
Fear gripped Bran even as the world tilted crazily. The giant carrying him collapsed, struck down. Bran landed hard, his head slamming into the damp forest floor, the world spinning in and out of darkness. Through the haze he saw the giant that carried Richard drop as well, two massive crossbow bolts shot through its neck at awkward angles, the wounds pumping black blood into the day.
Before Bran could attempt to free himself, calloused fingers tugged at his ropes.
“Be still, lad, don’t make the knots tighter,” the voice chided.
Bran turned to face a small man the size of a barrel, eyes as black as coal fixed on his freedom. Bran took in his rescuer. Wavy black hair streaked with gray matched his beard; the brown leather of his tunic was belted tight and displayed half a dozen knives and a coiled whip. He looked armed for war and fully capable of carrying it out.
“Who are you?” Bran finally stammered.
“Does it matter?”
In seconds his rescuer cut the bonds imprisoning Bran’s hands and, moments later, those of his feet as well. Nearby two other smallish men bearing a resemblance to the other freed Richard, the knight a bloody rag doll. Around them two separate groups attacked, slicing in like swords thrust at the same time to divide Bran and Richard from the warriors of John Lewis Hugo at the front and the demon wolves at their back. All the while arrows flew from hidden bowmen in the forest, the shafts striking with unerring precision those warriors who got too close to Bran, the knight, and the three little men who aided them.
Adrenaline pumping life back into his numb limbs, Bran gained his feet only to be dragged away from the conflict, Richard carried right behind him.
“Get them!” John Lewis Hugo screamed from the melee.
The Templar Knights redoubled their efforts, hacking into their foes, but the lithe men and women of the forest were steadfast, a wall of will.
The raging battle faded behind Bran.
About a hundred yards away, he burst from thick foliage into the outer fringe of the expansive plain, the brush limited and trees sporadic. Fierce women on bareback horses confronted him, their various weapons drawn and glinting in the sunshine, most wearing sleeveless jerkins the color of dried mud and short green riding pants. The few men were similarly prepared for war, while nearby an ancient man with white hair above pointed ears stood weaponless, his face wrinkled like a prune.
Several dozen horses waited, mounts for those who fought.
In their midst, a centaur towered over the rest and stared down at Bran. Eyes as blue as ocean depths burned with authoritarian conviction. She held a long ash bow with a knocked arrow. The horse end of the creature was pristine white and powerfully built; the woman half sat naked and proud where she began just below the belly button, her arms and shoulders toned, long blonde braids hanging over pert tanned breasts.
“Got ‘em, Aife, my dear,” the tiny man said.
“Where is the Queen, Kegan?” the centaur questioned.
“Perhaps the halfbreeds were more difficult to dispatch.”
“If true, our time has come,” Aife grunted. “Belenus, look to the knight.”
The stooped old man knelt at the side of Richard, his fingers probing the knight’s limp body with precise movements of gnarled fingers. Richard moaned, his body moving weakly as if warding off the attack that had already wounded him. Belenus ignored the protestations of his patient, his concentration absolute.
“Belenus…?” Aife pressed.
“He is badly wounded, Huntress,” the healer answered. “The quicker we return to Arendig Fawr, the better chance he will have to live.”
“Conall. Kearney. Give the knight to me,” the centaur ordered.
“Wait!” Bran protested. “Who are you? What are you doing?”
“We are those who save your life, human,” Aife said icily.