Torchlight gleamed off the razor-sharp blade.
Then they were so close he could see the lather bubbling on the war mount’s flanks. Too close to dodge away.
Someone screamed.
Too close to not be run down.
Robin dropped the torch.
His foot lashed out, kicking the bucket.
It flew up, the liquid it held spilling in a wide fan of splatter. It struck the torch flame as it soared, and burst into a rain of fire. The veil of combustion swirled away and broke across the chest of the mighty animal. The horse dug in with its hooves, throwing its weight back, blindly trying to get away from the fire. Instinctual terror overwhelmed every ounce of training hammered into the mighty beast.
Locksley lost all control as the horse flung itself to the side, carrying him in his saddle. He held on as the creature bolted down the road.
Under his hood, Robin smiled.
His victory was short-lived, though, as he saw Marian racing toward the king’s guardsman who was closest to her, dagger raised high in the air. His heart froze within him as he realized she was about to be killed.
Carefully laid plans scattered to the wind. He ran forward, knowing he couldn’t reach her in time, shouting for help.
* * *
Will could tell from the sound of Robin’s voice that something had gone terribly wrong. Through the smoke that burned his eyes he couldn’t make out what was happening in the darkness.
He stood, trying to figure out what had gone awry. The smoke cleared for a moment, just long enough for him to see Marian plunge a dagger into the back of one of the two king’s guards who had been present. Shocked, he staggered forward even as the man twisted around, raising his sword and slashing at her.
* * *
Marian jerked out of the way as the guard’s sword whistled past her ear. Its passing seemed to superheat the air around it, though, and she found herself suddenly struggling to breathe. Her lungs were on fire, and her head was buzzing as if all the hornets they had released had taken up residence inside her skull. Pain traced its way through her, and she struggled not to crumple beneath it.
The sword. There is something wrong with the sword, she realized, even as the guard prepared to swing it again. Her dagger was embedded in his back, all the way to the hilt. She had thrust it where King Richard had once shown her. It should have passed through ribs and struck him in the heart.
Blood pumped from the wound, foul smelling and steaming slightly in the air. She grasped the hilt, shoving with all her might, but it would go no further into his body. Convinced of that, she tried instead to yank it free so she could stab him in the throat. It was lodged, however, and she cried out in frustration as he twisted, breaking her hold on the weapon.
She should have worn a sword. She knew how to use one, but Robin and Cardinal Francis had insisted. They had said that she wouldn’t need it.
They had been wrong.
The brute twisted with a grunt and his sword came swinging at her. She stepped back and her foot slid on a pile of leaves slick with blood. She skidded, trying to regain her balance so she did not fall. Too late she realized that she should have fallen. The blade was set to catch her in the throat. She tried to move, but her feet just splayed more.
Suddenly the sword stopped in mid-air. Then it fell slowly to the ground, the flat of it striking her shin on the way down. Searing pain ripped through her, reminding her of the fire that had burned her as a child—the one that had claimed her parents.
She collapsed onto the ground, whimpering in pain, and the man crumpled beside her. There was an arrow in his throat, and his eyes were lifeless.
She looked up to see Robin towering above her, already notching another arrow in his bow. Behind him, the other guard lunged.
“Behind you!” she gasped.
Robin spun. There was no time to fire, so instead he impaled the man, gripping the arrow as tightly as he could. Blood flew from the wound, spraying across her face. It smelled horrible. He dropped his sword and the pile of leaves on which it fell began to sizzle.
Will Scarlet came running, crossbow up, but he was too late. It was over. Everyone else had long since fled. Throwing propriety to the wind, Marian yanked her trouser leg up and looked at her shin. The skin was red, and boils covered it as though she had been severely burned.
“What happened?” Will gasped, staring in horror.
Marian grimaced. More scars to add to her collection.
“Be careful,” she warned. “There’s something wrong with their swords—they’re hot, they’re burning everything they touch.” She winced as she inspected the damage. She would need a healing poultice, and quickly. She couldn’t help but wonder what kind of damage one of those swords would have inflicted if it had actually bit into skin.
Robin frowned as Alan came up to join them. “I’ve encountered swords like this before, with these markings. They did not burn, though.”
“Perhaps they become hot when used in combat,” Alan suggested. “They couldn’t be that way all the time, or they’d burn through their scabbards and cripple the men and the horses.”
Will crossed himself. “Magic,” he whispered, as if until that moment he hadn’t actually believed it could be true.
“Dark magic,” Alan averred. “We’re lucky to be alive. All of us.”
Will looked around, and Robin followed his gaze. The road was clear of men and horses, except for the treasure wagon team. The two animals had stopped fighting each other and simply stood, heads down and sides heaving from their efforts. The hornets had abandoned their attack.
“Where is Friar Tuck?” Marian asked, fear suddenly racing through her.
“Up here, waiting on one of you to help me down!”
The four of them looked up. The monk hung nearly upside down from the branch which had been his perch, held in place by the rope around his waist. His robe had fallen forward, so that it hung loosely over his head.
Alan was right. They were lucky they weren’t all dead. As it was, she, at least, would forever bear the scars of this encounter. She dropped the trouser leg back down for modesty’s sake, even though the rough fabric scraped against the tortured skin and made her bite the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.
Marian needed treatment before the injury had a chance to turn foul and permanently cripple her. She didn’t want to admit to any of the men, though, just how much pain she was in. She couldn’t let them use it as an excuse to exclude her in the future.
MERLIN’S TEARS
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Tell me what this means.”
Richard’s spy held the soldier against the alley wall, pressing his hand against the man’s throat hard enough to hurt, but not enough to stop him from speaking. In his other hand he held up the man’s sword. The symbol carved into the flattened pommel weight lay stark against the steel.
The soldier’s eyes moved from the symbol to his assailant and back again. His mouth moved, sharp chin batting against the hand that held him as his tongue swirled around his loose teeth.
“Means I’m the king’s man. What do you think it means?”
“I’ve carried a sword for the king. This isn’t the lion.”
“Wrong king. Old king gets on boat, new king sends the Sheriff ’round with new swords.”
“This is John’s mark?”
The soldier’s eyes grew wide. The spy pressed harder.
“Answer the question. Is this John’s mark?”
“It’s my mark.”
Something moved in the reflection on the soldier’s eye. The spy threw himself sideways, swinging the man around with him. Two handspans of steel burst through the soldier’s chest. Blood sprayed across his eyes, blinding him as he felt the quick burn of razor sharp steel scrape his chin.
Richard’s man blinked, trying to see what was happening as the soldier jerked in his hands. Something tugged the soldier backwards and he shoved the corpse away from him. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and sw
ung the soldier’s sword around.
His clearing vision saw sparks fly as the sword edge met steel.
Red tears ran down his face as his eyesight cleared.
The Sheriff stood before him, weapon drawn and strange beasts at each side. The spy put his back to the wall, brandishing the sword in front of him.
The Sheriff watched him, his head tilted sideways like that of a carrion bird studying a corpse.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
The spy didn’t answer.
“You feel familiar.”
“You do not know me, scoundrel.”
“Scoundrel? Me? That seems rather tame.” The Sheriff swung his sword wide. “What’s next? ‘Ne’er-do-well’?”
“Villain.”
“Villain I shall own.” He smiled. “You still feel familiar.” The Sheriff darted in, inhumanly fast, his sword licking across the arm of the spy. The spy swung the sword in his hand wildly. The Sheriff jumped back, and then reached up and with a long, pale finger scooped some of the man’s blood from the tip of the sword. He stuck the red-tipped finger in his mouth, rolling his tongue around the tip of it.
“Ah. No wonder.” Black eyes glittered. “I know your mother. She tastes the same. A bit spicier, but the same.”
He lunged, thrusting with his sword. “Do not speak of her so!”
The Sheriff parried with a casual upswing of his sword. “Oh, I assure you, I have done much more with this mouth than speak of her.”
“Liar! My mother is no whore.” Rage burned hot inside Robert, powering his swinging sword.
The Sheriff danced through the flashing steel, stepping lightly, his armor clicking against itself with each move.
“Not a whore, but very wanton and near insatiable—worth the effort.” He knocked Robert’s blade upward.
Hot agony tore into the back of Robert’s leg. He threw a glance down and saw that one of the Sheriff’s familiars had slashed open his calf. He could see pink meat under the wash of blood that ran into his boot. He hacked down with the blade in his hand, planting the edge deep in the hackles of the creature. It fell in a convulsion and rolled away.
Robert barely had time to parry a swipe from the Sheriff when the second familiar struck. The creature dug claws into the back of his thigh, curling into the meat of the muscle.
The Sheriff lunged, thrusting his blade deep into Robert’s stomach. He felt the sword pushing his organs aside, driving deep to punch out his back just to the inside of his kidney.
The pain made his body curl backward, drawing his spine into a clench. His fingers brushed long black fur. He closed them on the scruff of the familiar’s neck and swung the animal at the Sheriff with all his strength. The sword pulled free of his guts as the animal struck the Sheriff in the chest. They fell in a tangle of slick-shined armor and light-eating fur.
Robert turned, his legs gone all watery as he stumbled from the alley and dragged himself onto the back of the first horse he saw.
* * *
Robin was in the forest near home. He needed time to think. The theft had gone as wrong as it could go. They were lucky none of them were dead or captured.
It had been his plan, too, which made him feel all the worse. He was beginning to wonder if a better course of action would be to head for the docks himself. They still hadn’t been able to determine if either of the other two messengers had made it through. If so, King Richard could soon be returning. If not, they were all in serious trouble.
In the distance he heard the staccato thunder of a rider, coming fast and hard, headed for Longstride Manor. He was tempted to slip deeper into the forest and let the rider pass. He was the acting lord, though. Whoever was riding like that was either coming to see him, or was someone of whom he needed to be aware.
He unslung his bow and held it in his hand, not overtly threatening, but where he could bring it to bear quickly if he had to. He stepped out into the middle of the road and lifted an arm.
The horse came sliding to a halt in front of him, feet churning the earth. A cloaked rider sat the saddle, his face obscured beneath his hood. The man weaved. Robin looked closer and saw that the dark cloak was wet. At the same time he smelled the strong tang of iron.
He stepped forward, intent on helping the man. The rider slid sideways out of the saddle and Robin dropped his bow to catch him. He knelt, setting the man down on the ground as the horse danced sideways. He had been right—the man’s cloak was soaked with blood.
“Robin.” A hoarse voice said his name. “Robin, thank God I found you.”
He reached up and shoved back the hood. A cry escaped his lips when he saw his brother Robert staring back at him.
“Robert! How? You’re injured, let me see,” he said, reaching to pull aside the cloak.
“Don’t.” Robert stopped him with a hand on his. “The wound is mortal.”
“No!”
“It is,” his brother said. “Listen to me. I have little time, and much to tell you.” A froth of pink lay on his lips.
“Father?” Robin asked, heart in his throat.
“I do not know. The king gave me this mission. I boarded the ship and then snuck off before it set sail.” His breathing hitched and he coughed, causing his eyes to close in pain. After a long moment he opened them again and continued talking, his voice half as strong as before. “I have been scouring the countryside as his eyes and ears while he is away.”
“So much has happened,” Robin said.
“More than you know. The Sheriff gathers witches and beasts that obey his command.” Another cough brought dark blood to Robert’s mouth. “Not like any creatures I’ve seen before.” He coughed violently, and blood trickled out of his mouth. When he spoke again his voice was weaker still. “He’s not human. I escaped. He couldn’t chase me into the forest… don’t know why.”
“I’ll kill him,” Robin vowed, his throat constricting tight. His brother was the best warrior alive, but Robin was a hunter, and he would stalk the Sheriff as he would a beast of prey. Then he would put an arrow through his throat.
Robert grabbed Robin’s shirt. “Stay away, he’s dangerous. John, too, though he doesn’t look it.” He coughed again, bringing up more blood. The end was near. Robin had seen too much death in his life to pretend that the gray creeping into Robert’s pallid face was anything else.
“I thought him a… spoilt little prince but he’s… dangerous and…”
Robert drifted to a stop, his eyes closing. Robin shook him lightly.
“No, no, no, no… stay with me.”
Robert opened his eyes again. “Love you, little brother.”
“I love you, too.” Tears ran hot down Robin’s face.
“Mother was wrong… to treat you as she did. Sorry… didn’t stand up… to her.”
“That was never your place.”
Robert’s head lolled, and then he seemed to gather his strength. His grip on Robin’s hand tightened slightly. His words slurred, barely a whisper.
“There’s more. Henry… in Scotland, drawing nobles to himself… amassing… a conscripted army, preparing… to make an assault on the throne.”
“Better he sit on it than John,” Robin said fervently. An invasion by Henry would almost be welcome, if for no other reason than it would occupy John’s time and take his focus away from whatever schemes of his own he was hatching.
“It will destroy England,” Robert wheezed. He coughed, and still more blood came up, covering his chin as it dribbled from his lips. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.
“Brother, England is all but destroyed,” Robin said. “I think only a war could save her.”
“You, Robin,” Robert’s voice was only a breath now. Robin bent close, his ear practically to Robert’s lips. “You will save,” Robert whispered.
“Save what, brother? Save what?”
Robert’s hand went slack, and Robin turned to look him in the face. His brother was gone. His eyes were fixed on something he alone could see. As Robi
n reached up to close them, bitter sobs wracked his body.
There would be no saving. He had failed.
* * *
Robin was like a man possessed. No matter how many armed guards entered Sherwood with a cash box, they always ended up fleeing in terror. When Locksley finally ordered his men to ride far out of their way to avoid the forest, the Hood still managed to ambush them on the road.
The legend of the guardian had so taken hold in the minds of those guarding the gold that more often than not they turned and fled without a fight. The only ones who stood their ground were soldiers of the king’s guard, and he had learned to kill them quickly. Fortunately they did not accompany every shipment.
He had taken to leaving his comrades behind, stalking the tax brigades, hoping to find the Sheriff escorting one of them. Thus far he had been unlucky.
* * *
One by one the soldiers had fallen, dropped in quick succession by noose, stone, and arrow that had come from the dark of Sherwood. He was the only one left, and the wagon under him rocked violently as he whipped the horses until their skin flayed open in red lines that opened and closed in rhythm with their mad gallop.
He drove them like the devil, praying neither of the animals would turn a hoof and fall. Suddenly something heavy landed beside him on the bench. He turned his head. A man in a hood stared at him, face lost in the shadow. All he could see were the whites of the eyes and a mad snarl of a smile—the grinning visage of the Angel Of Death.
A booted foot lashed out, kicking him in the face and driving him backward. He tumbled off the wagon that roared down the king’s road. He screamed both times the wagon’s wheels ran over his arm, crushing it into uselessness. The hooded man dropped down behind the wagon, his bow in hand.
The soldier didn’t see the arrow that killed him.
* * *
“’Tis not a man.”
Locksley turned to his right. “Shut up, fool.”
“It’s not our fault,” the man responded. He shook his head, beady eyes as wide as they could get in their deep sockets. “One way or another, he knows.”
“I said, be quiet.” Locksley struck fast, the back of his fist lashing out across the nose. The man dropped to one knee, and Locksley drew back his hand to deliver another blow.
Mark of the Black Arrow Page 27
