Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

  Tuck stood next to Robin and Little John, holding his quarterstaff tightly, lips pressed together grimly, still shocked by the day's events. Betrayed by his pious friend, who still lay, staring at him from dead eyes, under the beech where he'd been skewered by the outlaw leader's wicked broadhead arrow.

  “I don't understand why you feel the need to take on Gisbourne and his men. They'll outnumber you – us,” he corrected himself, realizing he was as much a part of this as any of them now, “probably two-to-one, and it won't be wet-behind-the-ears foresters this time; it'll be hard mercenaries.”

  “And they think they'll catch us completely by surprise,” Robin replied, eyes still fixed on the hidden pathway he expected Gareth to appear along at any moment. “They'll get the shock of their lives. We've never had an opportunity like this before, Tuck. Never. We can wipe that bastard Raven off the face of the earth, along with his right-hand man, Groves.” His voice trailed off as he pictured Matt's hated face, remembered how the turncoat had murdered their friend Much. “The king and the sheriff will hopefully give up persecuting us when they understand it's not worth the price they have to pay. The lives they'll lose if they continue to hunt us.”

  Tuck looked at him sceptically. It didn't seem very likely to him that the sheriff would just allow a gang of outlaws to live peacefully in his forest, especially if they were to kill out so many of his own men. Still, it was true that Gisbourne had been a terrible danger to them ever since he'd arrived in Yorkshire the previous year.

  “He's grown even more brutal since you've been away in Lewes,” Robin continued. “Taken to burning down peoples' homes and threatening them with worse unless the villagers start to inform on us. It won't be long before the people reach breaking point and give us up.” He took his eyes from the path momentarily to gaze earnestly at the friar. “We won't be able to survive if that happens. This is our chance to put an end to him. We're living our lives in fear – what's the point in that? If we're so frightened of death, we might as well be dead!” He shook his head and looked back into the foliage again, white knuckles betraying his tension at the continued lack of action. “Where the fuck is Gareth? Surely Gisbourne's on his way by now.”

  Suddenly there was a small crack from the trees to the side, as of a dried-out twig snapping beneath a person's foot and Robin felt his blood run cold.

  “They're here!”

  * * *

  Matt Groves knew better than anyone how deadly some of the outlaws were. He'd spent years living and fighting beside the likes of Little John and Will Scarlet and even newcomers to the gang like the Hospitaller sergeant-at-arms were well-versed in the arts of war. Matt had seen that for himself when, together with the sergeant and his master Sir Richard-at-Lee, the outlaws had robbed the manor house of Lord John de Bray less than two years ago.

  The element of surprise that Sir Guy's men expected to enjoy here today would, though, be enough, along with their greater numbers, to rout the outlaws, Matt was certain. So when Gisbourne signalled their attack and the combined force of Sheriff de Faucumberg's and the Raven's own men moved in to begin the attack the former wolf's head had been somewhat surprised to hear his erstwhile young leader shouting “they're here,” as if he'd been expecting them.

  As a result, Matt had held himself back when the rest of the soldiers charged wildly into the clearing behind their black-clad, one-eyed leader. He wanted nothing more than to feel his blade bite into the skull of that bastard Hood, but he sensed something was amiss and the attack might not go quite to plan.

  The scale of the rout – the brutality of it – probably shouldn't have been a shock to him, given Hood's lucky escapes in the past, but Groves really hadn't expected this today. The arrows flew from the trees, enormous lengths of ash or poplar, fletched with swan or goose-feathers and tipped with vicious iron heads that could blast right through a man's face or ribcage and out the other side with ease. Now the Raven's soldiers – the men Matt had been living and working with for the past few weeks – were dying in front of him and he was too horrified to help them.

  He knew the outlaws' lookout hadn't given away the approach of Gisbourne's men, so how...? Then he spotted the monk, lying cold and dead on the forest floor, an arrow embedded deep in his chest and he cursed, misreading the situation. “Friar Tuck must have known all along, the fat bastard. We weren't springing a trap at all – Hood was the one leading us into an ambuscade of his own devising!”

  The soldiers' numbers had been drastically reduced as a result of the first few volleys of the outlaws' arrows. Men lay unmoving or screaming in agony on the ground until another missile flew from the undergrowth to silence the pitiful, hellish cries, and Gisbourne's remaining men raced for cover behind the nearest trees, cursing loudly, eyes flickering all around as they searched for leadership which didn't appear to be forthcoming.

  “Where the fuck are you?” Matt breathed, crouching low and searching for the Raven. He couldn't see him, or hear his voice in the bedlam that had erupted inside the previously calm forest. “Those arseholes must have killed him. Shit!”

  He stared out from behind his leafy hiding place, watching as the outlaws decided their longbows were now ineffective and so appeared from the undergrowth like diabolical wraiths, long-swords drawn and held expertly before them as they moved with terrible efficiency to engage what remained of Gisbourne's great force of men.

  He watched as the men Gisbourne had asked him to lead were cut down in front of his eyes. Their numbers were down to only a dozen or so now, although about half of those were giving a good account of themselves as the outlaws engaged them.

  Little John was, as ever, wielding his massive quarterstaff, taking on two of the sheriff's blue-liveried men by himself. The staff moved in a blur, knocking the soldiers' blades to the side before first one man collapsed from a horrendous blow to the face, then the second was winded by a thrust to the guts. John appeared to be lost in the battle-fever though, and Matt glared through the leaves as the giant brought his weapon hammering down into his two downed enemies repeatedly until, chests smashed to a bloody ruined mess, the huge wolf's head looked up, crazed eyes searching for someone else to kill.

  It was a similar, if slightly less brutal, scene all around the clearing. The soldiers' morale had been crushed by the death of so many of their comrades in that first wicked hail of arrows, and Robin Hood's men had spent so many hours training together that they fought as if they had some strange connection to one another's thoughts.

  Matt sucked in a breath hopefully as he saw one of Sir Guy's men raise his sword for a killing blow behind Hood himself who hadn't noticed the man as he stepped out from behind a tree. The soldier's eyes blazed with a black fury as he lunged to skewer the wolf's head's liver and Matt grinned, but the minstrel, Allan-a-Dale, somehow appeared from nowhere, his sword hammering down and sending Gisbourne's man flying forward almost comically onto his face. There was no laughter though, as Hood spun and rammed his own sword-point into the downed man's temple. Even Matt grimaced at the resultant mess.

  He watched as Will Scarlet and the snarling Hospitaller, still clad in his Order's impressive armour, fought side-by-side, hacking their way through their enemies with terrible efficiency, long-swords tearing flesh as if it was no more than the leafy green foliage that surrounded them so tightly.

  It was painfully obvious to Matt that he was on the losing side. His leader had disappeared within the roiling, violent maelstrom of the outlaws' camp, no doubt impaled by an aggressor's blade, while the rest of the men they'd brought into Barnsdale – trained soldiers every one – were being ruthlessly cut down in front of him. There was no reason for him to die too.

  He let go of the yew branch he was hiding behind and turned, sword in hand and still in a crouching position, to make his way back towards the safety of the main road.

  A gasp, loud enough to be heard even over the battle that was winding down behind him, stopped him in his tracks and he raised his well-worn blade to fa
ce whoever was nearby.

  It was the minstrel.

  Matt had got along well enough with Allan. The outgoing younger man was essentially a show-off who always wanted to be the centre of attention, but he was a fine swordsman and an even better archer. Matt didn't like the fact the minstrel had been so close to his hated enemy Hood, but he appreciated the man's martial skill and had many happy half-drunken memories of sing-alongs to Allan's campfire performances.

  “You!”

  The near-whisper was almost a curse, and Matt found himself transfixed by Allan's hateful, venomous glare.

  The two men, former comrades-in-arms, watched one another warily, mutual respect holding them in check despite the killing that was still going on behind them.

  “You betrayed us,” Allan growled, his hate-filled yet somehow baffled gaze boring into Matt like a drill. “You were one of us! And after everything we went through... you still betrayed us.” He shook his head in wonderment at Matt's duplicity and his mouth twisted in disgust.

  That look was enough. Groves had been viewed with distrust and even hatred for most of his life and the sight of a former companion eyeing him with such venom was enough to send him over the edge.

  His blade licked out, catching the stunned minstrel on the side of the neck and a bead of crimson appeared as straight as an arrow on Allan's pale complexion. The scarlet line slowly turned into a dripping, gaping wound and the minstrel swayed, staring open-mouthed at his former comrade before he dropped unsteadily onto one knee, eyes still fixed on Matt in shocked disbelief.

  “You filthy old...” Allan's left hand came up, flapping weakly at the bloody abrasion in his neck and he squeezed the skin together as best he could with one hand while brandishing his long-sword desperately in the other. Fear showed in his eyes though, and he tried to raise his voice, to berate Matt, but it was clear he was trying to attract attention to his plight.

  Groves wasn't the sort of man to miss an opportunity. His eyes flared and he raised his blade high overhead, looking around for signs of oncoming attack but none of the minstrel's outlaw companions appeared to be close-by so he gritted his teeth and brought his weapon down as hard as he could.

  Allan screamed as he saw the blow approach.

  It was a pitiful, horrid sound, that made the combatants nearby stare in fear, almost forgetting their own dire peril, and his wide young eyes turned in disbelief to stare at the horrific gaping wound that had severed his right arm almost completely from his torso.

  “I always thought you were one of the better ones,” Matt grunted sadly, but he knew his side was losing and he'd become lost in the battle-fever that affected even the best of men. The point of his sword speared forward, directly into Allan's windpipe, silencing the minstrel's voice forever and the former-outlaw dragged his blade free, tearing skin and flesh apart in a bloody spray.

  “Over there,” a voice shouted and Matt knew he had to get away before the victorious outlaws found him and saw what he'd done to their friend. He broke into a run, forcing his way through the undergrowth as fast as he could, not even sure which direction he was going, but understanding the need to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as he could.

  He knew how to travel quickly through the densely packed forest, having done it for many years in the not-so-distant past, and it was just as well, he thought, smiling wickedly to himself as a cry of pure grief filled the trees. He knew that voice; Robin Hood had found his brutalized, dead minstrel pal. The smile on Matt's seamed face turned into a grin. Maybe he had lost today, but at least that prick Hood hadn't had it all his own way. The wolf's head still had to find his mate Gareth too...

  He burst into a small clearing and allowed himself to stop and catch his breath. He wasn't a young man any more and, although he was fairly fit, he'd not done much training since joining Gisbourne's crew other than the occasional spar with his one-eyed leader, and his flight had tired him more than he wanted to admit to himself. He rested his hands on his thighs and sucked in lungfuls of air, the heaving in his chest eventually subsiding until, at last, he raised his head, still smiling, and spat a great glob of green phlegm into the old brown leaves underfoot. He noted the position of the sun and, since he had a fair idea what time it was, could work out which direction it was to Nottingham.

  The sheriff might hate his guts, but someone had to tell de Faucumberg what had happened to all the soldiers he'd sent to deal with the notorious outlaws. He glanced back over his shoulder but there were no sounds of pursuit, just an almost even more unnerving silence and he turned slightly to the left to forge a path through the forest in the direction of the city.

  He wondered what he'd do now, with his comfortable position as the Raven's second-in-command apparently finished. He wouldn't go back to a sailor's life again and, although he was a free man he didn't have any money; he'd blown it all on drink and whores. But Sir Henry was now short a dozen men in his garrison, so perhaps he could find employment there, with the sheriff.

  Despite the overwhelming defeat his side had suffered that day, Groves felt strangely optimistic as he jogged towards Nottingham. Hood's gang were still at large after all, and who better to lead the chase now than one of their ex-members with his detailed knowledge of their habits, routines and local suppliers? Yes, the sheriff didn't like him very much, but perhaps he could persuade the arrogant, stuck-up arsehole to let him lead the search for Hood from now on.

  The self-satisfied smile never left his face all the long road back to the city.

  * * *

  Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind Robin knew he should control himself; his men were watching him and they needed leadership not a display of raw, naked emotion. But at that moment, when he saw his friend Allan-a-Dale lying, cold and bloody and dead, on the soft spring grass the young outlaw captain sank to his knees and held his head in his hands.

  A tortured cry tore from his throat and tears filled his eyes, grief and a terrible rage warring within him and even Little John stood back respectfully and wary of disturbing his leader, lost as he was in his emotions.

  Robin remembered that night when he and Allan had performed in the manor house, singing for the lords and ladies to much applause, before saving Will's daughter from her own hellish life the next morning. He remembered all the times the outlaws had sat around the campfire on a freezing night, with nothing but ale, Allan's music and one another's company to chase away the gloom. And he remembered just a few weeks ago, when he and John had rescued the minstrel from Nottingham. It had all turned out so nicely that day, as if God himself had been watching over them, but now...

  Finally, the reality of their situation brought Robin back to his senses and, still looking down at his fallen companion, he growled, “Did we get them all?”

  Will Scarlet shook his head. He, along with a couple of the other men, had checked the dead and wounded. “For our part,” he said, “we only lost...” he stared at Allan's lifeless form, unwilling to say his comrade's name. “As for the enemy; who can say? We don't know for sure how many of them were in their party. We didn't get all of them though – whoever did that to Allan must have escaped into the trees. And... he's not the only one that's escaped...”

  Robin sat for a moment, still unable to think straight, then he looked up, understanding flaring in his eyes. “Gisbourne?”

  “Aye.”

  “We've looked but his body's not here,” Stephen muttered confirmation.

  Robin got to his feet slowly, his mind whirling. If they hadn't managed to kill the Raven, all this had been for naught. Gisbourne would simply return to Nottingham for reinforcements – perhaps the garrison would be too stretched and he'd need to wait on the king sending him more men, but, eventually they would come and then their hated enemy would return in a fury, again and again, until every last one of the outlaws lay rotting in the ground like Much and Harry Half-Hand and Wilfred and Sir Richard-at-Lee and...

  “Allan died for nothing then. All of these men
here today died for nothing.”

  “It gets worse.” Little John hunched his great shoulders unconsciously, as he often did when talking to someone so he could look them in the eyes without appearing intimidating. “There's no sign of that arsehole Matt either.”

  Robin just stared in silence at the giant.

  “We should deal with the survivors,” the Hospitaller sergeant growled, breaking the spell that seemed to hold the entire forest in its grip and the men nodded, the agonized grunts and cries of badly injured men finally filtering through their shock at Allan's brutal demise.

  “Stephen's right,” Robin admitted, making a conscious effort to pull himself together, at least until all this was dealt with. “And we should try and find out where the fuck Gareth got to. That little prick should have warned us of Gisbourne's approach; if he's got drunk and fallen asleep while on watch I'll tear off his balls and feed them to him.”

  “I'll go,” the newcomer, Piers, offered. “I know where the lookout post is and I'm a fast runner.” In truth, the fight had appalled him – he'd never in his whole life witnessed so much blood and death, and the pitiful sounds coming from their maimed enemies were playing on his already frayed nerves. Even going off alone into the forest seemed better than staying around the camp right then.

  Robin nodded, seeing the shock in their new recruit's face and knowing it would do the young man good to spend a little time alone. The memory of his own first battle as an outlaw was still fresh in Robin's mind – it seemed a lifetime ago, so much had happened since, and he'd become battle-hardened in the intervening time, but it was only... Christ above, it was only two years ago.

  Piers hastened off through the undergrowth, trying to appear stoic and offering his captain a wave of salute as he went, while Robin moved back towards their camp to see who was still alive and what could, or should, be done with them.

  Although Gisbourne's men were enemies, they were simply soldiers following their orders. The wolf's head felt no malice towards them for their actions, just a bitter sadness that so many men had to die to serve the purposes of their 'betters'. With the escape of Matt Groves and Sir Guy of Gisbourne Robin's battle-fury had left him and a gaping, maudlin hole remained.