Sovereign's War

by Debbie Viguié

  “What is it?” he asked. The sound of his voice washed over her, dark, beautiful, and helped chase away the lingering vestiges of the dream that had so disturbed her.

  “I had a nightmare,” she confessed.

  “What about?” he purred. He turned to her and brought a pale hand up to caress her cheek.

  “About my... about the time before I knew you,” she said, not wanting to confess that there had been anyone in her life before, even though he well knew there had.

  His hand froze. “What about it?” he asked intently.

  “Images, memories.”

  “Tell me,” he said. His voice, usually seductive or amused when speaking to her, had turned cold. Glynna found herself wishing she hadn’t brought it up. She didn’t like it when he on rare occasion treated her like all the other pitiful, mewling people. He should never use that tone of voice with her. It made her chest tight in a painful way, as though his love was something she could lose.

  Then again, hadn’t Philemon Longstride lost hers?

  She hesitated, turning that thought around in her mind. Glynna had felt many things for her husband, pride and lust being chief among those. She couldn’t say, though, that she ever truly loved him. Not like she loved the darkness made flesh that lay beside her, still touching her cheek with an icy hand.

  “We were back at the manor, years ago, before it was burned,” she began. “Philemon had been gone a fortnight, traveling with the king. He was supposed to be away for a couple of months. My oldest girl was just a babe. Robert had taken on some of his father’s responsibilities, even though he was so young. He worked the fields, went to check on the families who lived on our land. One day, he didn’t come home for supper. I started to worry. I sent messengers. He wasn’t in the fields. No one had seen him all day.”

  She could remember the terror she had felt when it all happened. The nightmare had brought that back to her. Now, though, she felt strangely disconnected from it, as though looking at someone else’s life.

  “Robert had wanted to go with his father, but Philemon told him no, that he had to protect the Longstride lands. I was beside myself. I thought for sure that something had happened to him. I didn’t know what I would say to his father when he returned. I couldn’t sleep all night.

  “Then, the next morning, I left the house, determined to search for Robert myself. No sooner had I stepped out the door when I saw his younger brother. He was walking hand-in-hand with Philemon, who had come home early. He was going to lecture me on letting Robin run wild in the woods, as if anyone could stop him. He stopped, though, and got this funny look on his face when he asked me where Robert was. As if somehow he knew that something... had happened to...”

  She trailed off. She could feel her love’s icy fingers brush against her throat.

  “And what did you tell him?” he breathed in her ear.

  “I told him that the lad had run off, no doubt with some wench who had managed to turn his head. After all, he was the one that abandoned me. He was the one who deserved the blame.”

  “And had he?”

  “No. He’d made a visit far away, and his horse took lame on the journey home. He walked the beast until night fell, then finished the journey that morning. He arrived home not half an hour after Philemon did. His father forgave him, of course.”

  “There’s more to your nightmare than just that old memory.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “That was what I told Philemon all those years ago. In my nightmare, however, I told him something different.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him Robert was dead.”

  Her love’s fingers tightened around her throat. “You dreamed that your husband came home, led by Robin, and you told him that Robert was dead?” He sat up abruptly.

  “Yes,” she said, finding it hard to catch her breath.

  “Are you sure this is not prophecy?” he growled.

  “I am not unfamiliar with portents and visions.”

  “Do you know where Robert is now?” he demanded.

  She nodded slowly. “In his grave.”

  “How do you know this?” he asked.

  “The little princess told me.”

  She could see his eyes burning, glowing in the darkness, and it sent a thrill through her.

  “Did she tell you who put him there?”

  “You did, my love.”

  Silence greeted her declaration. He let go of her and sat on the edge of the bed. She sat up and put her chin on his shoulder.

  “What is wrong?” she urged.

  “Your dream has more weight than you’ve given it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think that Richard may yet be rescued,” he said, “and that your wretched husband and son will have something to do with it.”

  “Then we will kill them,” she answered quickly. “Just as we killed the little prince who was so much bother.”

  “Of course we will. Thanks to you, my love, we will be ready.”

  * * *

  The Sheriff watched his assorted sorcerers and spellcasters as they whispered among themselves. Five minutes watching told him all he needed to know. They still did not have a spell that would breach Sherwood. The ancient forest was proving a more formidable barrier than even he had anticipated.

  No matter, though, for soon Henry would arrive and the Sheriff could command his troops—send them into the woods to find the outlaws. Most of them were refugees, weak from hunger and abuse, not hardened criminals or seasoned soldiers. They would not be deep in the forest.

  There was a great deal of agitation among those who had gathered. They knew they were failing him. Their numbers were dwindling, and they were growing desperate. Even the Mad Monk, who always liked to appear in control, was agitated. He hadn’t been quite right since Glynna had killed the necromancer he cared about. If the grief and uncertainty helped him focus, all the better. If not... well, there were numerous uses that could be made of a sacrifice.

  He switched his attention to the leprous Scotsman who appeared to be flaking off parts of himself at a faster than usual rate. It was within his power to heal the man, but he had a deep belief that it might affect his ability to do magic. Indeed, the Scotsman seemed to revel in his own diseased state.

  Then the leper’s apprentice—a young, very thin boy—pulled the Sheriff’s attention more. Something was changing in him. He was becoming darker, thinking more. He watched the youth watch the others, as someone who began to understand that power belonged to those who took it. That led to the question of when and how he planned on taking it.

  “It’s not impossible,” the gnarled old witch Sera said to the Scotsman. “Impossible’s just small-minded thinking, while the universe is vast. I’ve been to the edge of the forest. It’s not immune to us.” She held out her hand and he could see that she was grasping a dead twig that was gray and black. “The Forest can be breached. It can be killed. You just don’t know how to do it effectively.”

  “Alright, then how would you do it?” the leper demanded.

  “Key the lock,” she said. “We need to persuade one of the fey to divulge to us the origin of the magic that protects the forest.”

  “The fey are long dead,” someone else scoffed. “None has been seen for generations.”

  “That’s not true. I saw one as a child,” the witch said, lifting her chin.

  “That was a hundred years ago, Sera,” the Mad Monk growled. She glared at him, clearly wishing him dead on the spot. The Sheriff thought about obliging her, just to scare the rest, but decided against it. He stepped out of the shadows cloaking him, and even the Mad Monk jumped at his sudden appearance. He looked around the room, pinning each person there with his eyes.

  “The fey do exist,” he said. “As their power fades, the land is more easily corrupted. Catching one is the difficult part. Who here thinks themselves capable of such a task?”

  “I will try, my lord,” the apprentice spoke
up.

  Ah…

  “What is your name?”

  “Ean.”

  “Alright, Ean,” the Sheriff said. “Bring me a fey within a fortnight, or your prayers will not be granted.”

  “My prayers?”

  “If you fail me, you will pray that I kill you, child,” he said. “Do you understand me?”

  “I do.” Ean gulped. “My lord?”

  “Yes?”

  “If I accomplish the task, will there be a reward?”

  The Sheriff chuckled. “If greed is your motivator, then yes, you will be rewarded.” He glared down at the boy. “So there are two roads you may walk on. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, my lord,” the boy said, fear flickering in his eyes, yet steadfast in his resolve. The Scotsman started to protest, but quickly fell silent when the Sheriff turned to glare at him. Then he took in the entire assemblage.

  “The rest of you have two weeks to figure out what to do with the creature, once Ean brings him here. Two weeks to live—that might be all any of you have. I suggest you use the time wisely. Oh, and I’ll be moving you to new… quarters.” He snapped his fingers and a dozen soldiers rushed into the room. His magic users were becoming skittish. He couldn’t risk them bolting before the job was done.

  “My lord, where are you sending us?” Sera asked, voice quavering.

  “Don’t worry, it’s dark and damp,” he sneered. “You should feel right at home.” He turned on his heel and walked out, enjoying the smell of fear that filled the air.

  CHAPTER NINE

  If Chastity wasn’t in hell, then she had to be in the next closest thing. She was in a dungeon somewhere, in near-total darkness. She vaguely remembered being tied up, put in a sack, and thrown in a wagon. She had been in the dungeon ever since. She had been beaten severely and had no idea why the prince hadn’t had her killed outright. Not after Will confessed to being the Hood and died in her arms.

  A tear slid down her cheek as she thought of him. She didn’t even know if his sacrifice had saved the others. She prayed that it had, though she was under no delusions that anyone was coming to rescue her. Even if they thought she was alive, odds were good they would never find her.

  Since arriving in the dungeon, she’d only seen one man—the one who brought her moldy bread and refilled a bucket of water near her every day. She had assumed the prince was waiting to question her about Will’s allies or was planning on making a spectacle of her with a public execution.

  Or worse, to use her as leverage against Marian.

  The very thought made her shudder. Her lady was her friend and her better, and she would follow her to the ends of the earth. She would even gladly die for her. What if Marian was tempted to try to get her back?

  Something had changed, though. It had been seven days since the man with the bread had last appeared. This left her convinced that, for whatever reason, he was never coming back. Which meant she was going to die alone in this dark, godforsaken place, and no one would know what had become of her.

  Her muscles cramped painfully and she gritted her teeth. The water in the bucket had run out three days earlier, and the thirst was far worse than the hunger.

  “I refuse to die here in the dark like an animal,” she said, forcing herself to say the words out loud, to make them real. The sound of her voice in the silence startled her. It was weak and cracked, hardly resembling her own even though she knew it must be.

  This reinforced her resolve.

  She was starving and parched. Her body was bruised and battered. Her hands were shackled together, a single chain running between the manacles clamped around each wrist. Another chain anchored the first one to a ring buried deep in the wall. She had tested both chains, link by link, trying to find a weakness. There was none. As for the ring, no doubt it would still be wedged deep in the stone centuries from now, when the rest of the building had collapsed.

  A rat ran over her foot and she kicked, sending it flying with a high-pitched squeal. She hated the nasty things and every time one touched her it made her skin crawl.

  Slowly she began to test the chains again, only to realize that she was even weaker than she had been the day before. It was as if she could feel her life slipping away from her. At this point even the moldy bread would seem a feast, and the dirty water would be more delicious than wine.

  I shouldn’t have kicked the rat. I should have caught it and eaten it.

  She had to get out of there. She leaned her head back against the stone wall and prayed for the strength to escape.

  Chastity had lost weight since her imprisonment, and the cold of the dungeon seeped deep into her bones. Then she noticed something new. The manacles were looser on her wrists than they had been. She began to try and work the left one loose. The cold metal bit into her flesh as she strained to get it off.

  She couldn’t do it. Her hand was too big.

  Dislocate your thumb.

  The voice whispered in her head. It was not her own. She hesitated. Was it an angel trying to help her, or a devil trying to trick her?

  She took a deep breath, realizing she was going to have to take a chance. Folding her thumb inside her palm, she laid it against the stone. The fear of pain made the back of her neck prickly and hot. Gritting her teeth she leaned as hard as she could. There was immense pressure and a sharp pain and the joint slipped out of itself in a red blast of hurt that made her vision go white.

  Choking down the scream she wanted to let loose, she fell back. It took her a long moment to ease enough that the pain went dull and throbby in her hand. Then she grasped the manacle… and was able to pull it off. She put the thumb back into place but the burning pain remained. Still, she had one hand free. Hope swelled within her as she grasped her right thumb and wrenched.

  This one hurt even worse, but as the manacles clattered to the ground she gave a hoarse shout of victory. It quickly turned to a grunt of anguish as she tried to get her thumb back into its natural position. Even once she did, it felt odd, but there was no time to worry about it as she headed toward where the door had to be.

  The bottoms of her feet scraped painfully against the ground as she moved forward, hands in front of her. The darkness was oppressive, but it was not absolute. She was the only prisoner in the dungeon. If there was anyone else there, they’d been dead before she arrived. The door would probably be barred, but since she had been chained to the wall, the man who had brought her food might have grown careless.

  After a few moments of groping, she reached the wall, then slid her hands along the rough stones until they encountered wood. There was no handle. Whispering a prayer, she put all her weight against the door. To her relief it started to move.

  Then it stopped, open only a few inches—just enough for a breeze to come in. She breathed deep, hoping to inhale fresh, clean air. Instead a putrid smell assailed her and she doubled over, coughing uncontrollably.

  Forcing herself to breathe through her mouth, she willed herself not to smell the stench that wafted through the narrow opening. The door wasn’t barred, but there was something blocking it, keeping her from opening it all the way. As much as she didn’t want to find the source of the odor, she needed to get the door open and leave the dungeon if she hoped to survive.

  So she straightened up and leaned her shoulder into the barrier, then began shoving with everything she had. It slowly gave an inch. Then another. She gritted her teeth again and tried not to cry out in pain and frustration. Finally the opening was big enough, and she managed to squeeze through, further tearing her already filthy, ragged dress in the process.

  On the other side of the door there was more light, let in by a narrow slit in the wall, and she found what had been blocking the way. The man who had brought her the food and water was on the ground, dead. She gaped at him for a moment in horror. The body was rotting, maggots feeding on it. She couldn’t tell at a glance what had killed him, and that terrified her.

  Turning, she saw a set of stairs l
eading up, and she was halfway to the top before she managed to slow herself down, her panicked mind urging caution at the last moment. There was no door at the top and she crept up the last few steps, straining her ears to discover if she could hear anything. Reason told her that if there were others present, they surely would have noticed the missing man and come down to try and find him.

  She couldn’t hear anything.

  Still, she flattened herself against the wall as she ascended the last few feet, then peered around the edge of the wall and into an empty corridor. The torches on the wall had burned out, but light shone from another narrow slit window at the far end. The place felt empty. It was more than that, though, deeper somehow. It felt... abandoned. She crept into the hallway and headed for the window, anxious to try and figure out where she was.

  The window was narrow, the kind that archers usually used on walls or towers. She was relatively certain, though, that she wasn’t on one of the higher floors. Glancing out, she saw that the building was set on a rise with the ground sloping steeply away. She could see Sherwood Forest—at least, she assumed it was Sherwood. The sun was near the horizon, and the light was starting to fade. It would soon be night.

  Turning, she made her way back down the corridor, heading for the far end. Walking more swiftly now, more convinced with each step that there was no one but her. After a couple of turns she finally found the main hall, and from there it was easy to find the kitchen.

  The room was as empty as the rest of the building. She lit a torch and then she found a bucket of water and eagerly drank some down, the liquid soaking into her parched throat. When she’d had enough she turned and surveyed the rest of the room.

  There, on one of the counters, was a massive tray of what looked like a few dozen tarts. Stomach rumbling, she moved to stand over the tray. One tart had a bite taken out of it. She picked it up and sniffed, wondering what was in it. There was a sickish sweet smell about it. She put it down and picked up an uneaten one, ready to pop it into her mouth.