“Leave off,” the man snarled, wrenching away.
He vanished into the undergrowth with his friends. The men screamed, but the screaming cut off in a crack of bone and crunch of bark. Arthur’s stomach turned.
A stag again, Ira stood amidst the remains of the deserted work camp. His antlers were rusty with blood.
A boy with a mop of dark hair bolted from a collapsed tent. He wore a worker’s clothes, but he couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Snorting, Ira raced after him.
“Ira, don’t!”
Trees shifted. The boy changed direction, but he was trapped between the stag and a thick growth of trunks. His face strained. Whipping around, he threw a rock. It bounced harmlessly off Ira’s chest.
“Don’t,” Arthur cried, but the stag lowered his antlers and pawed at the ground like a buck during the rut. The boy backed into the trees. He swallowed. The stag menaced him, tossing his head.
Arthur squeezed between them. “Ira,stop!”
The stag stopped.
His antlers were too close to Arthur’s chest. Arthur reached for him.
“Don’t.”
The boy pressed into Arthur’s back, breathing raggedly. Arthur’s hands fell to his sides.
“Don’t. Ira, please. He’s just a boy. You wouldn’t harm a child.”
At the moment, he wasn’t sure of that. Ira wouldn’t harm a child—but surely he wouldn’t murder an entire work camp, either, and the bodies of the men he and the forest had slain were scattered around them. He wasn’t Ira, now. He was the Lord of the Wood, taking his vengeance for the wood’s destruction.
The stag snorted again, his breath hot. Arthur swallowed.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please.”
The stag’s nostrils flared. Slowly, he raised his head.
Arthur spoke to the boy over his shoulder. “Go.”
The boy tensed. “What about you?”
“He won’t hurt me.” Arthur wasn’t certain of that just now, either. “Go, now.”
The boy rabbited away. Bellowing, the stag bolted after him. Arthur blocked his path, skidding on wet leaves. His knapsack dug into his shoulders. The stag turned on him.
“Ira—”
The stag menaced him until Arthur backed into a tree, antlers at his throat. Their prongs pricked him.
He swallowed uncomfortably.
“Ira, please.” He moved his lips as little as possible. “It’s me. It’s Arthur.”
The prongs pressed into his skin. He gasped, gripping the stag’s antlers.
“Please.” His eyes stung with tears. Ira didn’t know him. “Please.”
Blood beaded at his throat. A droplet trickled down his neck. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut.
With a hiss, Freya launched herself at the stag. She clawed his cheek. He snorted and flung her off.
Then, with a scuffling and a rustling of leaves, the antlers were gone. Arthur slumped against the tree, rubbing his neck. His fingers were smeared red. He gulped down air.
