Sovereign's War

by Debbie Viguié

  “Many are dead, killed outright before they even knew what was happening. The others were forced into pledging fealty to John. They swore blood oaths that had some sort of dark magic to them. It’s turned them to mindless creatures.”

  “And you?” Philemon asked.

  Robin took a deep breath. “I’m helping with the rebellion, all who can and will stand up to them.”

  Old Soldier snorted. “He’s being too modest. Robin is the leader. He shelters all who come to him within Sherwood. The ancient magic of the forest has been keeping the demons at bay—they can’t cross its borders. At least, not yet.”

  “If that’s true, why come at all?” Philemon asked. “Why leave?”

  “Frankly, we need Richard, you, and whoever is left to come help us take back England. Every messenger we’ve sent has been intercepted and murdered. Ships were burned at the harbor. We have been in desperate need of aid, with no way to get it. Cardinal Francis, before they killed him, couldn’t even get word to Rome.”

  “The cardinal is dead?” Philemon whispered. He shuddered.

  Robin nodded. “Yes, and the monks at the monastery were all murdered. Only Friar Tuck escaped. They set a plague loose on the people. It took a third of the population before we found a cure.”

  “Lord Robin battled the fey for it,” Old Soldier said proudly.

  Philemon gave his son a strange look, then sighed wearily.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that they exist, too,” he muttered. “I guess there’s no harm now in telling you that the crusade we’re on—it’s not about just fighting men.”

  “You were bound for the holy land to fight demons,” Robin said.

  “Yes,” his father replied. “The darkness. It’s been long prophesied, and now it’s here. I think, though, that we were mislead as to where it was going to first show its face.”

  “Perhaps,” Robin said. “Or perhaps King Richard’s crusade forced it to come first to England.”

  Old Soldier helped Philemon remove his tunic and shirt, and then started cleaning out the wounds. Robin was relieved to see that while they were numerous, they didn’t appear to be too deep.

  “How many knights and soldiers are still alive?” Robin asked.

  “I don’t know,” his father admitted. “Most were captured, rather than killed. What has happened since then, I’m not sure.” He sounded as tired and frustrated as Robin felt. “This plague, you said it took a third of the people before you were able to find the cure.”

  Robin nodded.

  “Your sisters?”

  “Dead,” Robin said, unable to keep the pain and the bitterness out of his voice. Grief twisted his father’s features. He would have given anything not to be the bearer of such news, but there was nothing that could be done. He cleared his throat. “It’s worse than that, father.”

  “How can it be worse?”

  “Robert... the Sheriff murdered him. I didn’t even know that Richard had sent him back until I found him on the road—he was dying. I’m so sorry.”

  A cry of anguish tore from Philemon and he buried his face in his hands. Old Soldier kept working quietly on a knife wound in his back. At long last Robin’s father looked up.

  “The dead, who else?”

  “Many.” Robin licked his lips. “Little John gave his life to save mine, in the battle where Prince John was killed.”

  “The prince is dead?”

  “Yes, but the Sheriff and his demons still hold the people captive. We’ve had word that Henry is coming, perhaps to join him.”

  Philemon cursed roundly. Then he took a shuddering breath.

  “Anyone else?”

  “Will,” Robin said, barely able to say his cousin’s name without breaking down.

  “The plague?” Philemon asked roughly.

  “No, killed in battle.”

  Philemon looked surprised. “I never took him for the fighting type.”

  “And yet he fought more bravely than any man I have ever known,” Robin said, tears burning his eyes.

  “So much gone. So much changed.”

  Robin hesitated. The manor was gone. He himself had burned it. They could speak about that later, though, if they both survived. He knew he needed to tell him about his mother, what she had done.

  As if reading his thoughts Philemon asked, “And your mother?”

  Robin cleared his throat. “She lives, but she has betrayed us all.”

  “What do you mean?” his father asked, looking up to meet his eyes.

  “Father, I...”

  “Tell me the truth,” Philemon growled. “Don’t hold back.”

  “She has become the consort of the Sheriff.”

  “What! Does she not know that he is a demon?”

  Robin blinked at his father, surprised that the man didn’t seem shocked that she had been unfaithful. Only with whom.

  “She knows,” he said. “I believe that’s what drew her to him in the first place. She has given birth to his... child.”

  At that Philemon roared in rage and leaped to his feet. Much and Sir Lawrence both stumbled backward. Old Soldier stood calmly and gripped his shoulder. He glanced at Robin.

  “Yes, it is true that she has betrayed you,” Old Soldier said, then he tried to soften the blow. “We cannot be certain that she’s not under some enchantment, even though she seems to have her wits about her.”

  Slowly the elder Longstride sank back down to the ground. He sat silent then for nearly an hour while Old Soldier cleaned and tended to his wounds. Feeling worse than useless, Robin returned to sentry duty. Eventually Much and Sir Lawrence went back to their blankets, though he wasn’t sure if they actually slept or just pretended to.

  After Old Soldier had cleaned him and given Philemon something to eat, he came to speak with Robin.

  “You father will be fine as long as the wounds have a chance to heal. He’s a strong man.”

  “He always has been,” Robin muttered.

  “His heart will heal, too, in time. He’s lucky that he still has you.”

  Robin rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure that’s the word he would use. I was always his least favorite.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.” Old Soldier shook his head. “Men usually don’t waste so much time and energy on their least favorite of anything. I think he saw greatness in you and didn’t know how to bring it out. Regardless, as you said, a lot has changed.”

  Robin sighed. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is rescuing the king and what’s left of his army, and returning to England before the Sheriff can unleash fresh horrors.”

  “If he hasn’t already.”

  * * *

  Marian followed the creature into the forest. It spoke not a word to her, just beckoned, then slipped through the trees like some kind of mist—half substantial, half ethereal—taking her in a direction she was sure she’d never been. Although her initial response had been one of fright, that had melted away into curiosity.

  The creature was one of the fey and it was old. Though terrifyingly thin, it had a hint of flesh and skin on its bones. Why it had come for her or where it was taking her remained a mystery, but she felt in her gut that she had to go. They walked what seemed like a couple of miles and then it stopped in a spot where the trees grew up in a circle. “Fairy rings,” that’s what she’d heard her mother call such places when she was little, although Marian herself had never seen one.

  The creature led her to the center of the circle and indicated that she should stay there. It moved to the ring of trees and passed each, one by one, touching it. When it had completed the circle she realized with a start that all the trees had begun to glow.

  As had the torc around her neck.

  Suddenly creatures appeared from everywhere. There were more fey than she’d ever known existed, let alone seen. They were all sizes, shapes, and colors. Some rode in on the backs of animals, others seemed to fall from the trees above, while still more seemed to rise from
the earth below. They all formed a circle, standing shoulder to shoulder between each of the glowing trees. They didn’t greet each other or speak, but simply stared at her, the intensity of their gaze building until she could feel it as a pressure on her skin.

  Marian turned in a small circle, trying not to reveal her deep unease. The torc continued to glow and its presence offered her a strange sort of comfort. Still, something extraordinary was happening here, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything hinged on what occurred next.

  When the last fey arrived the air grew still. Even the birds stopped singing in the canopy above. The gray skeletal creature drifted back toward her, the only creature actually inside the circle with her. It opened its cavernous jaws and a voice rolled out of it like fog.

  “Lady of the Forest, you have sheltered strangers in the forest,” it said. “You have allowed sickness to breed outside of its borders, and you have not stopped this unnatural winter. Tell us now why we should not kill you and reclaim that which you took.”

  Marian stared at him in horror as his words sank in. She looked around the circle again. Some of the eyes that met hers were curious, others downright hostile. Then it hit her. They had brought her here to defend her actions, to explain herself. And if they didn’t like what she had to say…

  They would kill her where she stood.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Alan was a bard of the old ways. Sitting next to Haylan and playing the harp while the boy sang gave him a deep sense of joy and peace. He would not be the last bard after all. Tonight, though, wasn’t so much about teaching the boy as it was about keeping the others distracted.

  Those around him gave themselves over to the music.

  “It’s a wonderful night,” he heard Jansa say.

  “I’m sure even the ghost and other spirits are dancing with us,” Thomas said with a laugh as he spun her around.

  Slowly the people who were living here were losing their fear of the forest and the other beings that dwelt there. Had they known more about the fey they would not have dropped their guard so easily. Still, Alan forced himself to keep smiling.

  He had seen the fey come for Marian.

  Something of great import was happening. The air around him was charged and it felt as though all of Sherwood held its breath. Whatever Marian was being called to do, it was meant for her alone. All he could do was wait, keep others from noticing her absence, and watch for her return.

  Turning his attention to the people around him, he tried to attune himself to their moods, their needs. Besides being a truth teller and a news bringer, a bard was also a healer, offering the salve people needed to transcend the pain of their lives.

  When Jansa had asked him to play something they could dance to it had confirmed his suspicions that she had been falling in love with Thomas. He was happy to play the tune that helped bring them closer together. It could be a hard, cold world, and people needed to seize joy when they could.

  Particularly in these dark days. For some it might well be their last chance to do so.

  Those were grim thoughts, however, and as much as he needed to distract others, he too needed a distraction, a respite from the horrors he had endured, and those yet to come. So he watched Jansa dancing with Thomas and the joy on her face warmed him and lifted his spirits. His fingers moved faster over the strings of the harp. Friar Tuck hopped about with the child Esther, both trying to keep time with the music and failing miserably— because the song wasn’t for them.

  He’d play a song for each of them, even if it took half the night.

  * * *

  Marian touched the torc around her throat and felt warmth thrumming through it. Its power filled her until she couldn’t help but wonder if her eyes were glowing, like the trees.

  Then, slowly, she heard the whispers. No creature was speaking, and yet she could hear their thoughts as clearly as if they were.

  Interloper.

  Intruder.

  Filthy human.

  It wasn’t anything she could have anticipated, and with each new voice the cacophony grew and her heart tightened in her breast.

  All they do is take and destroy.

  She’s no different.

  She’s not chosen.

  The noise became almost deafening in her head… and then, amidst it all, she heard one voice that said something very different.

  She is the one, if only they would see it.

  Turning slowly, she saw the fey girl from the river she and Robin had needed to cross. The one who hated laziness.

  The one who left me Champion.

  “You’re right. I am the one.” She squared her shoulders and faced the girl. “I am she who was prophesied of old. I am willing to hear advice. I weigh the evidence I have. I listen to my instincts.” She parroted back the things the fey girl had told her when Marian had passed the river test. Before she could finish, though, she heard the girl again in her mind.

  They will only respect blood. Theirs and yours.

  Marian took a deep breath. “And I am flexible enough—”

  She spun, yanking free the knife she kept in her bodice. She slashed the gray skeletal fey across his hand before he could move. Pale fluid like liquid silver bubbled up from the wound. Then, before he could move, she slashed open her own hand.

  “—to change course quickly,” she finished as she grasped his hand with hers. Their blood mingled. “I am blood of your blood. I come from you. I return to you. I am one of you, and you are one with me,” she said, praying this was what the fey girl had been trying to tell her.

  The thin gray creature shuddered so hard she thought he was going to fly apart. He opened his mouth, wheezed, and a puff of smoke was all that came out.

  I’ve killed him, Marian thought.

  She tried to pull her hand away from his, but he closed skeletal fingers around hers and held on. Then she felt tingling where their skin was touching.

  Then something seemed to ripple across the surface of him— an image almost, like a reflection in a pond that was disturbed by a pebble. It started with the hand she held and spread up his arm and then over the rest of him. When the ripples slowed there was something different about him, new. His color changed from dead gray to a rich, vibrant brown shot through with streaks of green. She stared slack-jawed as the colors deepened, and he seemed to grow more substantial, the wispiness leaving his form as he grew taller and wider until he towered over her by a couple of feet. His new color made him look like a tree. Marian blinked, not sure what to do.

  “You are worthy,” the girl from the river said. “You are the chosen one.”

  “What happened?” Marian asked.

  “You have already been to the heart of Sherwood.” The girl indicated the creature next to Marian. “This is what you might call its soul. It has been sick, dying, poisoned by the evil of the land until it became the thing you saw earlier, a ghost of itself neither living nor dead. With your blood, your life force, you have restored it.” The fey girl looked around at the others in the circle. “Proving for once and for all that you are indeed the one who was foretold. We will help you save the lives of the people who dwell within the forest and without.”

  Marian felt hope flare to life in her heart. She took a step toward the girl.

  “You’ll help us fight?”

  “Yes.”

  The voice was low, rumbling, and emanated from the newly restored spirit beside her.

  “Yes,” the other fey standing in the circle chorused. Relief and gratitude surged through her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Thank you,” the girl responded. “You have come to save us all. Even if it means losing everything.”

  “What do you mean, losing everything?” she asked. Marian felt the flame inside suddenly go cold. Her mind instantly went to Robin. But the girl shook her head.

  “Now is not the time for questions.”

  “She is right.” A blue boy spoke up. “Not now. Not this nig
ht.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because you must go before it is too late,” the spirit beside her said.

  “Go where?”

  “You will know when you are there,” the girl said, slipping back into her maddeningly cryptic ways, “but do not forget to take your defenses.”

  Before she could respond everything began to change again. One by one the fey returned whence they came until she was once again alone with the spirit.

  “Come now, quickly,” he said.

  She had trusted him this far. She had to continue and prayed that whatever was waiting for her, she had the strength to face it.

  * * *

  Terror pulsed through Chastity as she stumbled as fast as she could toward the treeline. She tried to run, but with a child in each arm and her body battered, all she could manage was a limping shamble. As it was, her heart was about to burst from her chest.

  Upon hearing her cry, Bartholomew pushed the horses to a fast trot. She saw him glance fearfully back at her and at the oncoming riders, as if trying to calculate whether he was going to make it to the forest before they caught him. Two of the three youngsters on the horse he was leading bounced painfully in the saddles. If they were struggling to stay on the horse at a trot, they’d never make it if he pushed the horses to a gallop.

  She didn’t know if they would make it and had to focus on trying to save the two children she carried. Chastity was struggling so hard to breathe that she couldn’t shout anymore orders. He’d have to make the choice himself.

  The other girl stumbled along just a few feet in front of her. She was one who hadn’t thought she could walk to the woods, and it looked as if she might collapse at any moment. The two children who had been jogging ahead began to run in earnest, terror giving them unexpected speed and strength. The four that had been walking were trying to run, as well.

  They’re going to die, she thought in despair, and so are we.

  Part of her wanted to drop the two children and race forward, where she might help the others who had a better chance of making it to the woods. Yet even though her hands were slipping, and they were dead weights, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She cursed herself for being a sentimental idiot.