by Tim Hall
Aimee had gone back to staring at the wall, her head on her knees. Marian sat for a while longer, rubbing her spine.
“I have to go,” she said. “I’ll be back soon. Remember, you are not alone in this.”
She left Aimee’s sleeping cell and she went to the northern end of the convent, where the tower stood. She went inside and spiraled her way up the five flights of steps. At the top was a domed prayer room, its ceiling painted with a vision of paradise. She went to the window. Lyssa Brekehart’s fit had grown quieter, but from up here she could still hear guards struggling to subdue her.
Marian’s potion had worked better than she could have hoped. It was a recipe she had found in an ancient grimoire—fly-bait mushrooms soaked in wine—a potion the Vikings once drank to bring on their battle lust. Lyssa had agreed to test the berserker draft and it had proved a useful distraction.
But now the disturbance was coming to an end. Wardens were once again walking the corridors, their hands clasped behind their backs.
Marian descended the tower and she shuffled on her way, barely raising her gaze, while deep inside she screamed and screamed to be free.
Will Scarlett reached over his shoulder, drew his Saracen sword. At his side Borston Black readied his own blade.
There it was again: a skittering in the leaves. The snapping of a branch. They were approaching from all sides.
So this is how it ends. As simple as this.
The first of them slipped from the undergrowth, stealthy as a fox. The others appeared, one by one, moving in that half crouch of forest fighters, dressed in black and dark green, their hands resting on the knives and stabbing swords at their belts.
Will’s worst fears were confirmed: Hydra’s League. And here, at their head, was Blodwyn Kage, gripping her shortbow, her eyes full of hatred.
Will lifted his curved blade. “I should never have got you involved in this, old friend. I had no right to expect—”
“Cut it out, Will,” said Borston Black. “Just promise me we’ll take a few of these devils with us, for old time’s sake.”
More outlaws stepped into the open.
“God’s teeth,” said Borston Black. “There are more of them than ever. I thought we killed half these dogs last summer.”
It was true: Hydra’s League had ever been well named. Will had battled this outlaw band all his life, so it seemed, but every time he managed to cut off a head, another two appeared to take its place.
“What are you waiting for, Blodwyn?” said Borston Black. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll keep one arm behind my back. Make it a fair fight.”
Blodwyn Kage moved forward. Her armor was bits of boiled leather, mismatched, patched and repatched. Her bow, made of antler bone, rested at her side. “We’re not here to fight you,” she said. “Not yet. Not until we take the Sheriff’s head.”
You too? thought Will. Even you? He let out a breath and slid his scimitar into the baldric at his back.
Borston Black didn’t lower his own sword. His teeth were gritted through his beard. He barked a laugh. “Are you going to tell her, or am I?”
“You might not like the new company we keep,” Will said. “The White Crows are already with us. And so are Aks Arqua’s men.”
At mention of these names some of outlaws looked at one another, or muttered beneath their breath. But Blodwyn Kage only smiled. “You flatter yourself, Will Scarlet. Did you imagine I’d make an ally of you, but refuse to fight at Aks Arqua’s side? Perhaps you men of the city underestimate what is coming. Our augur has given us glimpses of it, and we are in no doubt. The Sheriff must be stopped, no matter the cost.”
Will looked around him at these hard, gnarled men and women, tough as roots, and suddenly they appeared a very welcome sight.
“Then we are of one mind,” he said. “You’d better follow us.”
* * *
“Hydra’s League?” said Ironside. “They’re the worst yet. They’re cannibals.”
“There’s no way they’ll fight together,” said Borston Black. “They hate each other more than they hate the Sheriff.”
“I thought so too,” said Will. “Seems we were wrong.”
But not by a large margin, he thought, turning to look over his shoulder. Hydra’s League were still filtering into the broad clearing that had become the outlaws’ main camp, and unrest was rippling through the other bands. The White Crows had lifted their shortbows; Doghead McGee’s followers were muttering in low tones; Baphomet’s Horde were silent and watchful.
“This is a mistake,” Will heard somebody hiss.
“You going to tell him that?” whispered someone else.
“After all we’ve fought for, just to kneel at another pair of feet? And worse, to throw in with Hydra’s League.”
Give this wasps’ nest the slightest shake …, thought Will … and none of us will escape unscathed.
“What about here?” he said, turning back to Ironside. “Any sign of him?”
Ironside shook his head. “Not a whisper. We’re building an army beneath the banner of Robin Hood, and we don’t even know where he is. How long will this merry band stay friends, do you think, once they learn their leader is missing? Well, what else? Any news from your travels?”
“We met my … associate, at the Sign of the Seven Crossings,” Will said. “Dozens of rangers have passed through en route to the castle. They left behind plenty of rumors, not many of them credible. But we got confirmation, at least, of where Marian Delbosque is being held.”
“Is she really so important?”
“She is to Robin Hood. And to the Sheriff. So she may be the flashpoint. In any case, we shouldn’t make a move without Robin. We need to sit on this wasps’ nest until he shows himself.”
Will took another look around the camp, he listened to the dark buzz of the outlaw bands, and he hoped Robin Hood wouldn’t leave them waiting too long.
Bishop Raths gripped the hem of his cassock and he followed the maze of corridors that snaked through the castle. He passed through many sets of heavy doors, nodding each time to a pair of guards, standing to attention with their swords half drawn.
He reached the Sheriff’s private quarters. He knocked, waited a moment, pushed inside. The stench of sickness was overpowering. Fuminaries burned in all four corners of the chamber, battling in vain against the miasma.
The Sheriff was lying, half-naked, on the four-poster bed, having just been bled. Jadder Payne stood over him, sealing a vein with a cauterizing rod, the smell of scorched flesh adding to the noxious vapors. On the ground sat the lancing knives and bowls of blood. Jadder Payne poured the blood into flasks and collected up his tools. He nodded once to the Sheriff and left the room.
The Sheriff was deathly pale and so thin his ribs were clearly defined. He was deteriorating visibly, day by day. “As you can see,” he rasped, “even Jadder Payne’s mastery is proving ineffectual. I am running out of time. And out of patience. This malady is not God-given. It carries the stench of dark arts. You should know this, Inquisitor: I will not suffer alone. I am considering drastic measures.”
“The cause is as I suspected,” Bishop Raths said. “You are being poisoned.”
The Sheriff dragged himself upright. He coughed feebly, hung his head. “Impossible. Every morsel of my food is tasted and double tasted. Every drop of liquid. If I were being poisoned, half my staff would be on their deathbeds.”
“There is a poison called Dragon’s Tongue. It can be absorbed, very slowly, through the skin. Death occurs by agonizing degrees. Its exact composition can be found only in the most ancient of texts.” The intensity of the Sheriff’s stare made the Inquisitor pause. He took a moment to gather his composure. “Marian Delbosque,” he continued. “I have a record here of everything she has requested during her stay at the Garden of Angels. Most items make harmless dyes for tailoring. But there are berries and oils and roots here that, combined in the right way, can be used to make Dragon’s Tongue. Other ingredients she has
grown herself, right under the Prime Warden’s nose. She has worked to gain the confidence of several members of your household staff. The clothes she makes are passed hand to hand until they reach your garderobe. Other items, I understand, she has given to you directly, as gifts. For weeks now every garment you’ve worn has had Dragon’s Tongue woven into the very fabric. Those clothes have been devouring you, from the outside in. Left unchecked, this venom would have …”
The Inquisitor trailed off, concerned with how the Sheriff was taking the news. He had swung his legs off the bed and now sat facing the wall. The Inquisitor could see only the half of his face that appeared to be grinning, as it always did. He could not see the expression on the intact side of his face but he had the shocking impression the Sheriff might even be crying.
The Inquisitor cleared his throat. “I … I have been thorough in my investigation. I hold here the names of Marian’s aides and accomplices. Most have already been detained, and are awaiting your attention. I’m pleased to report that … that there should be little lasting damage. Have your clothes burned and within a few weeks you should—”
“Marian Delbosque,” the Sheriff said softly. “Have I not been patient? Have I not done everything in my power, taken extreme pains, to safeguard her from the wilderness? And now … this is how I am repaid.”
The left side of his face went on grinning. Bishop Raths folded his hands, one across the other. When he could stand the silence no longer he cleared his throat. “Shall I … shall I order Marian put back in the hole?”
Before the Sheriff could answer there was a thumping at the door. Horor Conrad and Kluth Rogue came into the room.
“The outlaw …,” Horor Conrad said, out of breath. “He’s here.”
At first it seemed the Sheriff hadn’t heard; he went on staring at the wall. The captains stood there, breathing hard. They glanced at one another.
Finally the Sheriff spoke. “Were my instructions closely observed?”
“He was allowed through, unchallenged,” Kluth Rogue said. “He’s coming up Gibbet Street now. No one will approach him until you give the word. We have one hundred rangers, hidden in houses of the merchants’ ward. By the time he reaches the castle walls he’ll be surrounded.”
“And Edric Krul’s design?”
The Inquisitor caught the briefest of glances pass between the two captains of the Guard.
“We did what he told us,” Horor Conrad said. “It worked the way he said it would.”
“So then, we are ready,” the Sheriff said. “Help me stand. We will go to the barbican tower, where we may greet our guest.”
Kluth Rogue and Horor Conrad helped the Sheriff to his feet. They walked together toward the door. As he passed Bishop Raths, the Sheriff looked up, his blue eye shining.
“As to Marian Delbosque …,” he said. “No, the oubliette will not do, not this time. That one needs her wings clipped permanently. When we have finished with the outlaw, go back to her, without delay. Take Jadder Payne with you. He will know what to do.”
With the help of the two captains, the Sheriff limped from the room. Bishop Raths followed them out and went to find Jadder Payne.
The four portals of Nottingham were closing, one by one. West Gate had just shut with a resounding ca-clunk.
Robin didn’t pause. He prowled the deserted streets, listening for the sound of his enemies’ boots. Still nobody came to face him. Could they all be so frightened?
Spreading his senses into the green, seeking the Sheriff and his troops, he finds … almost nothing. He realizes something disturbing: Beneath the human heat and fury of the city there is a profound layer of … silence.
As he swept onward he understood the reason: so many creatures lay dead in the streets. Here the stink of a pig, rotting. And there a scattering of pigeons, and the carcasses of dogs and sheep. This is why there were no birds above the roofs: Those that had fed here were dead; only the crows were clever enough to keep their distance.
What has happened here? Are these streets always so pestilent?
Robin’s forest-mind struggling on, seeking what few creatures remain, scuttling through cellars with the cockroaches, snarling with a bandog chained in a merchant’s house. It is hard work, and slow, Robin’s impression of the world splintered.
But his steps didn’t falter—rather, he moved faster—because his forest-mind has lurched on and has managed to trace the lines to the center: the Sheriff’s castle.
And there, at the top of a tower, one image at last emerges cold and clear. A man is there, leaning his weight on the battlements.
A man with a half-melted face, glistening in the light of a watch fire.
The Sheriff tips his head, and Robin knows he is looking directly at him. Despite the distance, and the gathering dark, the Sheriff locks his eye on Robin and he stares.
And when the Sheriff speaks his voice is weak and distant, but Robin feels his every word, twisting beneath his skin.
“Robin Hood. Welcome. You will forgive my not coming down to meet you in person. Of late I have been … afflicted. But rest assured, soon enough you and I shall stand face to face, and we will talk of dreams and fears. You need only lay down your weapons so we may begin …”
Even as the Sheriff speaks, Robin is directing his awareness down, down through the tower, searching for a way into the castle.
Again his forest-mind proves unwieldy and it plummets too far, down through the cellars and the kitchens, and down further, tumbling through ancient roots and water channels, into the castle’s dungeons. Searching these caverns through the rats and the lice … he finds prisoners chained at the neck.
Could Marian be down here, among these wretches?
His awareness lurches lower, into the bowels of the oubliette, and even deeper, into some forgotten depth, and here he finds—
What, exactly, has he found?
Here there is something … other … something scabrous and glossy and raw. An eyeless thing that lifts its swollen head and opens its bubbling maw and turns toward Robin and knows he is here.
His forest-mind whimpering away like a scolded pup—shivering up through the dungeons and out of the castle—Robin shuddering fully back into his own body.
What fresh horror was this?
But whatever it was down there in the earth, even this could not slow his steps. Because the Sheriff was still talking, his words burning at the base of Robin’s skull.
“There will be no need for further hostilities between us. I will ask a payment from you, naturally—recompense for the injury you inflicted upon me. But then I will grant you peace, and sanctuary. After all, do I not bear a measure of responsibility? The day I spared your life, and took your sight, did I not usher you down this savage path? Is it not true to say, to some extent, I created you …?”
Robin searching once more for a route into the castle. There must be a way: an unwatched postern gate, a service tunnel. But again his forest-mind shows him little, scratching across cold stone and lifeless timber.
The world fractures further. His senses scatter among flies above a bloated corpse; they stir thickly with maggots feasting on a dead horse.
Dizziness swirling, Robin stumbling. Regaining his balance and running on. Beneath his feet he could feel grain, scattered across the cobbles. He reached down and scooped some into his hand and sniffed at the seed—it was poisoned. This is what had killed the birds, and anything that ate their corpses had died in turn.
So, the Sheriff’s Guard had deliberately spread this pestilence … they knew Robin would come here …
And, worse, somebody had understood that all this death would blunt Robin’s sense of the world …
Part of him knew then that he had blundered into a trap. But the greater part of him was ravenous for revenge, and would not turn back. He readied his bow and he powered toward the castle.
From the northern edge of the city the third gate was crashing shut. Ca-clunk. At closer quarters a different noise was ris
ing: a rasping, clanking cacophony. It put Robin in mind of the people of Wodenhurst, on the night of the Walking, clashing their sticks against pans, blowing reed whistles. This noise swelled louder, ahead and to either side.
Here then were the Sheriff’s troops—hiding within these buildings. They were clanking their clubs against their shields and blowing war horns. And the din was making it even harder for Robin to get his bearings.
He collided with a fire barrel, the stagnant water sloshing. He slipped on the contents of a chamber pot, tipped onto cobbles.
He stumbled on, drawing his bow, taking aim at the Sheriff. The shadow shard twisted tight and sprang loose—the arrow flew with great power—but the shot whistled far too high. His next arrow broke against the castle walls.
The soldiers’ cacophony was swelling behind him now, as well as to the sides. He tripped over something and went to his knees. But his rage hauled him to his feet and he lurched on.
He shot another arrow and it skittered across cobbles.
Still he charged onward.
But then, finally, seeping through all the noise and the rage, a voice slipped into his thoughts. Robin, come back to me. I can’t do this alone.
He came to a halt. He gripped the jade amulet at his chest.
This is the most dangerous time, for both of us. It’s not enough to be strong—you have to be clever.
He was suddenly furious with himself. This suicidal attack would not help Marian—no more than it had the first time his anger had taken control, when she had been locked in that cage. After all this time, after all he had endured, had he learned nothing?
Trumpets blared atop the castle walls; doors slammed; soldiers flooded out of the buildings, their boots thundering.
Robin turned from the castle and he ran.
Dozens of rangers were descending on him—the jaws of the trap snapping shut.
