There are sounds from the up the road behind him, plodding and rustling and one sharp snort, and then soft thuds turn into thunder as a patch of night surges past him. The great black warhorse looks smaller, bearing down on the beast, so rarely confronted with anything its own size. But it rears up, refuses the comparison, and before the creature can lunge to disembowel it, the horse bring its full weight (and its rider's, another blur in black, with a face like a single lofted lantern) down on the creature's head. Something cracks and squelches, and the beast shudders and stumbles, but doesn't collapse.

Its head hangs open like a second maw.

It turns from side to side, wobbling horribly, making a snuffling, gurgling noise: both blinded and choked by its own ichors, the beast is still trying to sniff them out. After wheeling away to bleed off momentum, the horse and rider come around for another charge. Hearing the clatter of stained steel horseshoes picking up again, the beast lurches and lopes back into the thicker dark of the forest.

The horse chivvies back and forth, stamping at the edge of the road, steely-eyed and resentful of his stymied pursuit. But the rider holds him back, leaning forward to stroke his neck, murmuring in a low voice with a soft accent. "Thanks, Rev. You got him enough for tonight, okay?"

He slips down off the horse and approaches Fitzjames on foot, and they finally get a look at each other. The boy can't be older than twenty, probably closer to seventeen.

"Are you alright, sir?"