Arthur sucked in a breath. The nearest hound cocked an ear, but Arthur focused on its master. The huntsman raised the bow, drew the string to the corner of his mouth—
Arthur leaped out from behind the tree with a yell, striking a hound with his stick. It yelped but wrenched the stick from his hands. Arthur went flying and crashed to the ground at the huntsman’s feet.
The huntsman lowered his bow in surprise. “What’s this, now?”
Arthur got to his feet shakily, grabbed his stick, spent a pathetic moment wrestling the hound for it, and gave up. He stood between stag and huntsman, though one arrow for him and one for Ira would finish them both. The stag snorted, his breath hot at Arthur’s shoulder.
“I’m his friend.” Arthur’s voice trembled. “And I’m not going to let you kill him.”
The huntsman snorted. “Friend? Pet, more like. He’s always had a soft spot for humans, the devil take it. Wouldn’t let the wild hunt run in these parts for hundreds of years. Now...”
He fingered his bow.
Arthur swallowed. “If you kill him, the forest will die. There won’t be any hunting left.”
The huntsman thundered laughter. Arthur shuddered.
“There’s always hunting to be done,” the huntsman said, in a soft voice even worse than that wind-like howl. “There’s always prey to be found.”
He gripped Arthur by the throat, his hand cold and hard as iron.
“What a fine specimen you’ll make.”
Arthur scrabbled at his fingers, but the huntsman lifted him into the air like it was nothing, until Arthur’s toes barely scraped the forest floor.
With a screech, Freya darted past the hounds. She sank her claws and teeth into the huntsman’s arm.
Swearing, he dropped Arthur and tried to shake her off. Arthur collapsed on the ground. He massaged his throat, wheezing.
The hounds rushed their master. They yelped and barked and bayed, leaped and snapped at the cat crawling all over the huntsman’s body.
“Go!” Arthur gasped at Ira, but the stag flinched when Arthur reached for him. His nostrils flared, his ears twitched, sodeerlikethat Arthur’s heart sank.
I start to lose myself, he remembered Ira saying.To feel like a real beast, instead of just looking like one.
“Not now,” Arthur moaned.
“Enough!” the huntsman roared.
Freya went flying. The hounds scattered, zigzagging back and forth. The stag’s sides quivered, but he was frozen with fear.
Arthur snatched at the leaf litter for another stick—a stone—anything that might help, however little. His fingers curled around a rock the size of a gull’s egg.
The huntsman straightened, breathing heavily. He looked less like the fishermen in Seacliff now. The storm cloud color of his hair and eyes and clothes seemed to have bled into his skin. More silvery-white light seeped through the claw marks Freya had left.
Arthur threw the rock at him. It missed wildly.
With another thunderclap laugh, the huntsman raised his bow and trained it on Arthur. “What was that supposed to have done?”
He stepped closer, his arrow jabbing the hollow of Arthur’s throat. Arthur whimpered.
The stag gored the huntsman with his antlers.
The laughter died on the huntsman’s face. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out. Light spilled from his stomach.
His hounds yelped, vanishing one after another as if they’d never been. Light spilled faster and faster, blazing until it enveloped the body in a white sheen. When the light faded, the huntsman was gone. Silvery-white ribbons dripped from the stag’s antlers, vanishing before they hit the ground.
Arthur’s chest heaved, but he reached for the stag. “Ira?”
