The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3)

by Jennifer Blackstream

  Those words echoed in Robin’s head long after the last syllable had faded from the air. His mind threw up images to go with the suggestion, painting pictures of Marian with Herne, sitting at his right hand at a great feast. Hunting with him on dark nights, running in hound form with her fellows or riding horseback with her bow and arrows ready. Hunting with wild abandon, running free. Secure in a way he could never offer her.

  “Yes, think of it,” the sheriff crooned. “Think of how happy she’ll be. How much fun she’ll have while you suffer here.” He stood, paced around the circle. The iron around his neck swung with the vigorousness of his steps, the sound an unpleasant buzz against Robin’s skin. “Your prison is perfect, you know. Carved into the earth, it will help you heal, help keep you alive. The iron bars over the top will keep you inside, keep you weak, just weak enough to stay here, too weak to escape.”

  He walked faster, around and around the edge of the pit until Robin had to close his eyes, the sight of the circling madman feeding the vertigo.

  “This pit has been prison to more creatures than yourself. Many of your victims spent time here, held for questioning. I think… I think I will bring them back here. I will let them have their time with you, here where they can be reminded of what they went through because of you.”

  Robin cracked one eye open, looked to the edge of the pit. The bucket of water and supplies the sheriff had promised sat there in the cold shadow, mocking him with the possibility that they were not as innocent as the sheriff claimed, that they could just as easily be poisoned. Unfortunately, his choices were limited. If he wanted to get out of here, if he wanted to have any hope of finding Marian, he had to see to these wounds.

  With as much care as he could, he crawled to the side of the pit, one hand pressed against his side. The movement sent more blood welling up, oozing through his fingers. His vision grayed at the edges and the dizziness threatened to spill him onto his side, leave him panting, maybe unconscious.

  Stop the blood loss.

  He held that thought in his head, and only that thought. The sheriff was still talking, still pacing, but he blocked him out. Inch by painful inch, he maneuvered himself into a sitting position with his back against the earthen wall. Sweat poured down his face from the exertion and he allowed himself a minute to catch his breath.

  He peeled back the rest of the makeshift bandage that had obviously been the sheriff’s doing, then slowly removed his shirt. The movement split some of the skin that had started to heal and blood welled up in tiny droplets. He clenched his jaw, dipped his hand into the bucket of water for the small tin cup. He cleaned the wound as best he could, then packed it with the herbs. Wrapping his shirt around himself to bandage the wounds was the worst part, every movement he made to wrap it around him tugging at the wounds, threatening to squeeze the last of the blood from his body.

  When it was done, he was soaked in sweat, shaking, and fighting just to remain conscious. The sheriff was still talking, but there was a strain in his voice now that hadn’t been there before. Robin looked up and his heart sank. The sheriff was dragging an iron grate over the pit, the metallic crosshatch throwing shadows over the bottom of the pit, keeping even more light from reaching into the shadows of his prison. The iron vibrated with a sickly aura, pressing Robin farther back into the wall of his tomb. Panic rose inside him and he shouted, needing to distract the sheriff, to somehow stop him from covering the entire pit with that cursed metal.

  “Oh, how far you’ve fallen. The mighty sheriff, protector of humans against the big, bad fey. And now look at you.”

  The sheriff froze, metal grate still held tightly in his grip, bright eyes falling to Robin through a gap in the metal. “What?”

  “I remember when you first started on your little crusade. When I first heard stories of the human sheriff patrolling the fey. I thought it was a joke until I spoke with someone who’d witnessed one of your executions. It’s no small thing, a human exacting punishment on members of the otherworld.”

  The sheriff dropped the grate, leaving a gap no more than a foot wide between the metal and the edge of the pit. “Your kind needed someone to hold you accountable. Someone to see you punished for the evil acts you committed without a second thought, acts you thought you would get away with just because your victims were too weak to fight back. But it is merely a matter of understanding weaknesses. All creatures have them. And sometimes even the most powerful creature can be laid low with something very simple.” He waved a hand over the grate with the flair of someone showing off a new painting he’s just purchased. “Like iron.”

  Robin ignored that one, not wanting to dwell for too long on the subject of the metal addition to his prison. “Exactly my point. You were a true crusader for justice. And look at you now. What a pathetic sight you are.”

  “I’m pathetic?” Mac thrust out a hand, pointing through the grate at Robin with a finger still tipped with a bloody iron claw. The blood had dried, and somehow it made the claw look more real, less man-made. “I am not the one lying half-dead in a cage while the woman he loves begins her new life with another man.”

  The herbs pressed into his wounds tingled, soothing the lingering burn of the iron. It was a small relief, but very welcome. It cleared some of the cobwebs from Robin’s mind, and he began studying his prison, still talking, still distracting his jailer. Ten feet deep, roughly ten feet in diameter. No roots or large rocks for handholds… “You used to punish murderers, people who ruined lives. But for the past two years, you have abandoned that calling to chase me.”

  “A thief,” the sheriff spat.

  If I could break the bucket, I could press the shards into the dirt, use them for footholds. “Yes, a thief. A mere thief. For awhile, I wondered why you were so fixated on me. Once you realized I was no murderer, what was it that kept you on my trail, that lit your obsession for me? Of course, once I realized the answer, I felt quite foolish. It was so obvious.”

  “Oh?”

  “Revenge. That night in the woods, I frightened you, made you angry. You turned away from the good you did, from the truly wicked you had punished with more success than any I’ve ever known, all to get revenge on the bully who scared you.” I need more rest, need to recoup my strength first. Damn it, I don’t have time!

  “You are no mere thief! You are the epitome of everything that is wrong with your species. You do as you please, and damn the consequences. I’ve heard the stories your own people tell. Even your mother wants nothing to do with you.”

  Robin grinned at him, for no other reason than how angry it would make him. “We are more alike than you realize.”

  “We are nothing alike!” The sheriff’s voice was reaching fever-pitch and he tugged at the collar of his black shirt as if he couldn’t get enough air.

  Robin pressed his hand to his side, holding the herbs tighter to him, willing his body to work faster. “You claim my people have no regulation, no accountability. But what about your nobles? Who holds them accountable?”

  “I do.”

  “No. No, you do their dirty work. I take their gold—gold that means nothing more to them than a new party dress, or another bottle of wine. I give that gold to the people who need it—your people—to live. To feed their families, clothe their children. You hunt me down for doing what you should be doing. Making the nobles of your people pay for what they take.”

  “The nobles do not steal, they do not murder. They do not break the law.”

  “They pay the people who work their land and put all that food on their table and expensive clothes on their backs less money than they would drop if they were to stumble on a crooked step in their fine homes. Their workers are starving, half of the pittance they’re paid taken from their pockets by the tax of a greedy king. Some of them die because they cannot afford the food or the medicine they need to live. Because of your innocent nobles.” Robin dug his fingers into the earth, grounding himself. His own anger was threatening to cloud his judgment, distract hi
m from the task at hand. Calm down.

  The sheriff was pacing again, rubbing a hand over his face. “It is not the same. It is not the same.”

  “Are you really such a fool that you believe you serve your people? All of your people, not just those who can afford you?”

  He growled and glared down at him. One hand dropped to the first dagger on his belt, fingers curling around the gold and silver striped grip. “Yes.”

  “Then why are your people terrified of you?”

  The sheriff opened his mouth, but closed it when he noticed Robin giving the dagger a pointed look. He pressed his lips into a fine line and released the weapon, dropping his hand to his side. “They fear my power, not me. It is—”

  “They have no reason to fear your power if they are innocent. Do the innocent fear you as well?”

  There. A tightening around the corners of his eyes, a corded muscle in his neck. He’d noticed then.

  He rolled the iron medallion between the fingers of his non-clawed hand. “I make them…nervous.”

  “Just nervous?” Robin pressed. “Have you tried speaking with them recently?”

  The sheriff looked away and a surge of triumph washed over Robin.

  “Of course you haven’t. You’ve been too busy chasing me. Me, the one who’s feeding your people, keeping them alive for you to scare.”

  “The innocent do not fear me!”

  That’s it, get nice and angry and then leave. Go on your little rampage and forget all about me. “If you truly believe that, then go. Find someone innocent, someone who has no reason to fear you. Look into their eyes and speak with them. See if they see you as the protector you fancy yourself to be.”

  For a split second, the sheriff turned and Robin thought he would really leave. Then he paused and a sneer curled his lip. “You’re trying to get rid of me.”

  Yes I am. Robin threw out his hands, biting back a wince as he pulled at the skin around his wound. “Do you have so little faith in your trap that you think I’ll escape?”

  The sheriff narrowed his eyes, then looked at something out of Robin’s line of vision. “Watch him. If he so much as breathes too hard, I want to know.”

  Robin held his breath, waiting. The sheriff gave him one last, lingering look that promised him a future full of iron and sharp edges. Despite his bravado, that look raised a lump in Robin’s throat, sent a chill down his spine. When the sheriff finally moved out of his line of sight, he slumped against the wall of his prison, resting his aching scalp against the cool dirt. It seemed like forever, every second an eternity, but finally the sound of retreating hoofbeats assured him of the sheriff’s departure.

  Just a little rest. A little rest, and then I will find a way out of here.

  He closed his eyes. Immediately a voice in his head screamed at him, his mind filling with images of Marian, of Will and Little John. There was no time to rest, no matter how badly he needed it. He forced his eyes open.

  A wolf looked down at him over the edge of the pit. She was beautiful, caramel and white, with eyes the color of hard amber. Only the bloody bandage on her foreleg marred her beauty. The bandage was dark with old blood, crusted and tight in a way that said it had dried too much and was likely now doing more damage than good, tugging at healing skin.

  “My howl can be heard for miles. If you so much as move, I will call for Mac. And if you try anything with me, my kin will do the same. He stands in a salt circle, so do not think to use magic, it will do you no good.”

  Two wolves standing guard. Perfect. Robin eyed her foreleg, noted the way she avoided putting weight on it. “Your leg doesn’t look so good. It seems Mac has been less than attentive. When was the last time he cleaned it? Changed the bandage?” He arched an eyebrow. “Has he changed it at all?”

  The wolf curled back a glistening black lip to bare sharp white teeth. “His attentiveness would not be needed if you hadn’t shot me.”

  “I shot you because you were stalking the woman I love. Surely you must understand that? The drive to protect someone you care about?”

  He sat up straighter, then rethought it as pain prickled along his wounds, trailing across his nerves. It wasn’t as bad as it had been before and he wasn’t sure if that was the herbs working, or if shock was just stealing his awareness of it. It doesn’t matter. Keep going. He tried to compose his face into a mask of sympathy, wishing the iron grate wasn’t there so he could just glamour the expression on his face. It was hard to feign sympathy to the creature standing between him and Marian.

  “Has he always been so cold to you, or is it worse now that the madness has set in?”

  The wolf’s teeth disappeared, her snarl abandoned. Either he’d sounded a lot more sympathetic to her ear than his own, or his question had touched a nerve. Still, she didn’t answer. Just stared, amber eyes inscrutable.

  “I know little of the curse on your family beyond the basics. Two members are chosen every seven years, forced into the form of a wolf. I can’t imagine the transition is easy—from human to wolf or wolf to human.”

  The wolf still said nothing, but her breathing grew heavier, her attention sharper, more focused. Robin considered her for a moment, then decided to go for broke.

  “How long has he been wearing the iron?”

  “He has not been without it since Marian paid her eric.”

  There was an edge to the wolf’s voice, a tinge of concern, of desperation. The answer had come too fast, as if the topic was not far from her mind. She knew what the iron was doing to Mac.

  Robin sucked in a sharp breath, the pain in his side little more than background sensation. “Then it’s worse than I thought. Does he not realize what it’s doing to him? Have you not tried to talk to him?”

  The wolf didn’t respond, but she didn’t have to. The tension in her body said it all. The will to cajole her to his side flickered, his sympathy fading. “You knew. You knew the iron was weakening his mind, and you still continued to follow his orders, cater to his mad whims.”

  The wolf’s amber eyes flared with an inner light, black lip curling back again to flash long canines. “Do not judge me, fey. Unlike your female companion, I know where my loyalties lie.”

  His own anger made a welcome comeback, chasing away the pain, lifting the gauzy curtain from his mind. He pressed his hand harder against his wound as he leaned forward, baring his own teeth at the wolf in a mocking smile.

  “Oh, I know where my loyalties lie. They lie with the woman I love, the friends I care for. They lie with the people I would lay my life down for—and who would lay their lives down for me.” An image of Little John rose in his mind, the shifter’s many warnings and lectures echoing around him. “I have given my loyalty to people who follow me because I have earned their trust. People who do not hesitate to question me, challenge me if they believe I am a danger to them or to myself.” He met the wolf’s eyes again. “You follow blindly, and now the man who has your loyalty is gone, lost to his own madness because you didn’t care enough to stop him, to help him.” He gave her leg a pointed look. “Perhaps you didn’t deserve his respect after all.”

  The wolf growled low in her throat, her body tensing as if she would slip down through the gap in the iron grate, leap into the pit without thought to her injured leg just for a chance at his throat. Robin opened his mouth to let another insult fly, to prod her to give into the foolish urge.

  A loud and familiar roar broke the silence. The caramel wolf swung her head around, barking in pain as she put too much pressure on her injured leg. A massive brown paw the size of Robin’s leg swept out, thick black claws outlined by the lantern’s glow. It connected with the wolf’s body, sent her flying away from the edge of the pit. There was another bark of pain, then nothing. Robin held his breath, heart pounding so loud he could barely make out the sounds of a scuffle outside the pit. Could it be?

  Little John’s face appeared overhead, the broad furry face of his bear form. Chocolate brown fur covered his head, but faded to
a pale gold over his muzzle before darkening to a nose the color of wet tree bark. He huffed at Robin, nostrils flaring, then swiped at the iron grate with claws the thickness of stiletto blades. It took him a few tries, but he hooked a claw in the grate and hauled it off the pit, sliding a cross-hatched shadow over the dirt below. Before Robin could open his mouth, tell his friend how terribly happy he was to see him, Little John eyed the bottom of the pit—and slid in.

  Robin jerked his feet back, barely avoiding having them crushed by the weight of his large ursine friend. “What the blazes?”

  The bear lumbered to his feet, shook his head. He snuffled at Robin, then lowered his body and let out a low sound that vibrated the base of Robin’s spine. For a moment, Robin had no idea what he was trying to tell him, but when Little John thrust his head up toward the opening of the pit, he understood.

  Jostling his injuries as little as possible, he climbed up on Little John’s back. The wound in his side had felt increasingly better the longer he lay in the pit, but now it screamed in protest, telling Robin in no uncertain terms that he was not healed yet. He clenched his teeth, focused on breathing through the pain as Little John rose to his feet, slowly so as not to tip Robin off. Inch by inch, Robin crawled higher up the shifter’s body, until Little John finally stood at his full height. There was only a foot or so left for Robin to hoist himself over, and then he was free.

  His breathing was coming too fast, his chest aching with every ragged breath. The bitter taste of bile still coated his tongue and the world was starting that lazy spin that said vertigo was on its way. Robin braced his hands on the ground, stayed there on his hands and knees as he took stock of his new situation.

  The wolves were lying in a heap by a tree. The salt circle the caramel wolf had referenced was smudged, the mineral coating the wolves with a layer of dust where they’d skidded past. As far as he could tell, they were both unconscious. Or dead. At this point, Robin didn’t care which.

  “Little John, come on!”

  He looked over the edge of the pit. The shifter was in human form again, naked and kneeling on the dirt floor. He waved a weak hand, wobbled before falling to his hands and knees.