“We did make such attempts, and they proved insufficient and we paid dearly for our underestimation,” said Prince John. “Thus did we come to know how great the danger truly was, and through that, to know what we faced.”
“What good did it do, to know that? You have not been able to defeat Hood, who has bested you Men at every turn.” The Boar made a squeal that might have been from grief or anger. “How can you ask me to do what you have been unable to do?”
“Because you are the spirit of Sherwood in this quarter-year, O Boar, and it is your soul that Hood smirches.” Prince John waited a long, silent moment, then continued, “We are trying one desperate ploy which could end Hood’s power. Our men are prepared to die in order to protect the forest. The Old Ones, who have suffered greatly at Hood’s hands, may join our efforts. If we fail, then our lives are forfeit. We will risk so much for the sake of Sherwood. Will you not lend us your help, for the sake of your being?”
The Boar snuffled. “The other three sleep, and I know only two of them. If I act for you, they will not help me, or you.”
“They must come to the Sherwood you leave for them,” Prince John said. “If your soul is compromised by Hood, so will theirs be.”
“I have sway until the Wolf comes from the north,” said the Boar.
Simon felt a shudder go through him that left him feeling weak: what Prince John must be experiencing filled him with trepidation and awe.
“The Wolf is no fiercer than you,” said Prince John. “Bears will not fight you—they will fight wolves.”
With a grunt that sounded almost like a chuckle, the Boar bowed a little. “I am accounted a hard foe.”
“Then let Hood learn what it means to fight you,” Prince John urged. “O You, who can guard the forest from storm and flood and fire, guard it now against the undead.”
“The undead are uncommon enemies,” said the Boar.
“So they are,” said Prince John. “Yet men are willing to stand against them.”
The Boar considered. “Where is Hood?” he asked at last.
“He should be at Cannock-Norton,” Prince John answered.
“Cannock-Norton,” the Boar repeated. “A good run from here.” With that, there was a sound like a small thunderclap that shuddered on the air, and the Boar vanished from his place in the branches.
The lamps burned more brightly and the fire crackled back to life. The air in the room seemed filled with lightning.
Prince John sagged back against Simon, who struggled to hold him upright. “Let us pray this works,” he muttered before he collapsed on the floor, his arms embracing the oak, the hawthorn, and the yew.
How the Attack on
Cannock-Norton Began
SCARLET moved his men into position near the main gate of the fortress. He had fifteen vampires under his command, and he could feel their eagerness to begin their assault. “All in good time,” he said, glancing at Alan-a-Dale, who seemed the most restless of all.
Alan played with the hilt of his sword, his fingers plucking as if he expected to find gruesome melody in the iron quillons. “How much longer must we wait?”
“Until we have the signal. Listen for a hunting horn.” Scarlet managed to sound bored in spite of his growing nervousness.
“I wish Little John were with us,” Alan complained.
“He is taking care of the others, the ones back in camp, as Hood ordered. Do you think we cannot conquer such a fortress as this one?” Scarlet let himself be amused. “Hood’s brought more men than he’ll need for this task. You’ll see.”
“Do you think they’ll put up too much of a fight?” Alan asked.
“I have no idea—what is too much? If you mean do I think some of us will be killed, yes, I do, but not enough to make any difference in the outcome. If there were any doubt of our success, Hood would not have gone into that tunnel.” Scarlet paced a short distance away from Alan, then turned back toward him. “You may want to think this is not going to be a hard battle, but that may be wrong, in which case you will not be prepared. You will put yourself at a disadvantage if you assume the fight is already won. Think the worst, prepare for it, and be pleasantly surprised.”
Alan moved away from Scarlet, wishing now he had gone with the Red Friar, who had another group of Hood’s men on the other side of the fortress. Scarlet was too sarcastic and indifferent for him. He shook his head and said, “I never thought this would be easy.”
“Good,” said Scarlet, and took his dagger from its scabbard, plainly ending their conversation. A short time later there was a harsh hoot from the far side of the fortress—the signal to attack—and Scarlet leaped up, his dagger in hand, and shouted, “Ready!” He pointed to the walls. “Climb!”
The men with him howled and rushed forward, swarming up the walls with the preternatural strength and speed of their kind. They moved steadily, determination in every action. As they reached the battlements, they came upon the first resistance from the defenders as the men on the battlements began to strike out with wooden weapons, each one striving to get a thrust to the body that could pierce the heart or the spine.
Sir Humphrey was with his soldiers facing the vampires. He wielded a mace-and-chain with such purpose that he almost took the head off the second of Hood’s men he attacked. His arm ached from the effort, but he swung the mace-and-chain again and struck Scarlet in the thigh with such force that he heard the bone crack, and saw Scarlet fall heavily on his side, his hands raised to stop another blow. In spite of Scarlet’s fall, Sir Humphrey had never seen opponents move as quickly as Hood’s men did, mercurial and swift as shadows. The effort Scarlet wanted to summon up to fight back proved useless as a soldier a few steps along the battlements put an ash quarrel into his crossbow and fired it directly into Scarlet’s neck.
The vampire managed a single cry before he collapsed, a skeleton clothed in scraps of desiccated flesh.
On the opposite battlement, the Red Friar and his group were encountering strong resistance from Nicodemus Upton and his men. Three vampires were down and finally dead, but eight of the defenders were wounded or killed and more of them were being driven back by Hood’s men.
“Sir Humphrey!” Upton shouted. “Behind you!”
Sir Humphrey swung around just in time to have Alan’s dagger thrust deep into his side. As he gasped, Sir Humphrey felt Alan batten onto his throat, tearing and sucking with a vigor that stole the last vestiges of Sir Humphrey’s vitality.
Next to the fallen Sir Humphrey, three men fought off two vampires, holding them at bay until one of Hood’s followers put his arm over the shoulder of the nearest soldier and grabbed him by the throat, and squeezed, breaking the skin and cartilage. Blood spurted out and cascaded. The other two men goggled and tried to break away, only to be captured by the other vampire. In a moment the two men were gouting blood as their legs went out from under them.
Upton saw the chaos on the opposite battlements, and his heart sank. He shouted to his men. “Stand firm! Let all of you demand a high price for your lives!”
“They are so strong!” one of the defenders moaned.
“So fight hard!” Upton cried.
The Red Friar heaved himself over the crenellations and launched himself at Upton, shouting aloud in rage. The men staggered back as the vampires came surging toward them, filled with so much malign power that they seemed wrapped in a hot fog. The first five vampires drove seven soldiers over the edge of the defenders’ walkway, braying satisfaction as the soldiers thudded to the flagstones two stories beneath them.
“Stand! Stand!” Upton bellowed, and took a step back as the Red Friar rushed at him, arms spread, a cudgel upraised, ready to bash brains from skulls of the living.
Six of Upton’s men converged on the Red Friar, only to be thrown back by vicious swipes from the murderous cudgel. Four made a
second attempt, and one was bludgeoned on the shoulder so ruthlessly that his bones broke and blood spread across the shoulder of his mail as he staggered and fell.
“This is a bad thing,” Upton heard his principal lieutenant mutter as he looked about for some means of escape.
But there were more vampires coming over the wall, most of them with swords and daggers at the ready. The soldiers struggled to hold their position, but gradually were forced back toward the guard-tower as the vampires pressed forward, catching those who could not avoid them. The stones were soon slick with blood and a few stray bones as a vampire fell, wasting away all muscle, skin, and sinew in a heartbeat. Upton slid backward, searching for a place in the crenellations of the battlements where he could stand protected as he raised his weapon to fight off the vampires.
Sir Humphrey’s men had almost broken ranks, a few of them caught in a rapture of fear that held them as surely as passion could. They became the victims of Hood’s men, almost grateful to be seized and ravened.
It was a frantic, discouraging battle, with many of the soldiers mauled and dying on the narrow battlement walkway, their throats and chests ripped open and the red bounty harvested by the assailants. Blood ran on the floors and spattered the walls, it dripped and steamed in the chill evening air, and where the torchlight struck it fully, it blazed.
From his place before the door to the Great Hall in the bailey, Sir Lambert watched the carnage with appalled shock. He had expected deaths, but nothing so catastrophic as this fight was proving to be. He shouted for the rest of the soldiers to come to man the courtyard and the staircases, all without any expectation of successful resistance. He could not imagine how he would live out the night, and he whispered a prayer, commending his soul to God and asking for a worthy death.
“My Lord,” shouted one of the pages from the door behind him. “What shall we do?” His voice was high with terror and his young face was pinched and pale. “Sir Lambert? Are we going to die?”
“Not yet, if I have anything to say about it. Get a weapon and prepare to fight,” said Sir Lambert as he took up his sword and started toward the guard-tower and foot of the main stairway to the battlements, where the first of the vampires were preparing to descend to face him.
A Guard came running up to Sir Lambert, blood flowing from a deep wound in his arm. “Sir Lambert! They are coming!”
“I can see this,” said Sir Lambert. “Get inside and have someone bandage you up. I can’t spare you.”
The Guard nodded a bit distractedly, and bolted toward the bailey.
“Look below!” came a shriek from above as another clutch of vampires drove back the soldiers remaining in position.
“We’ll get him directly,” a second vampire promised.
Sir Lambert looked toward the foot of the guard-tower and decided to take a chance and look for a place to fight the vampires near a good supply of weapons. He made himself move toward the dangerous staircase, holding his sword before him.
A single vampire was rushing down the stairs; he brandished a short-handled halberd in giddy anticipation of mayhem. “I will drink your blood, old man—all of it!” he crowed.
“You may try,” said Sir Lambert with steely determination, swinging his sword up to striking position.
The vampire was fast, and devilishly strong. He swept toward Sir Lambert like a winter storm, his halberd slicing the air, laughing as he came. Then he stopped still, and for an instant he turned baffled eyes on the sword that had almost cut him in half. Then he was nothing more than a pile of bones clattering down the last two stairs.
“Who’s next?” demanded Sir Lambert, and saw the next pair of vampires hesitate. “Come ahead, caitiffs, and pay for your temerity.”
As if to make up for their hesitation, the two vampires came hurtling down the stairs, very nearly tripping in their haste, their weapons held before them.
Sir Lambert swung his sword with menace and determination. “Come ahead, if you dare.”
The two vampires flung themselves toward Sir Lambert; for once they were silent and cold in their attack. They moved swiftly, trying to flank him so that they could take turns picking him off. The fury of their demeanor was frightening.
Sir Lambert turned on the larger of the two, swinging his sword at the creature’s legs, feeling the blade strike bone as he heard the vampire wail as he stumbled and fell. The second vampire hesitated, giving Sir Lambert just the amount of time he needed to round on the second vampire and drive his blade deep into the vampire’s chest.
From his place on the battlements, Upton saw Sir Lambert emerge from the guard-tower, his hands and arms saturated with gore, his face wild. Keeping to the place he had found, Upton had held off most of his attackers.
There was another vampire approaching, a woman in men’s clothing. Upton stared at her in astonishment, for he had thought that the tales of a woman in the band was a rumor, a legend, and now here she was in front of him, a short-sword held with deadly intent. She was laughing with the abandon of a rabid animal, and she was heading directly for Nicodemus Upton.
He could not bring himself to strike the woman, so he rushed toward her, his arms outstretched to grasp her. He caught her around the waist, the force of his surge carrying them forward, across the walkway and over the edge of the walkway and down to the flagstones of the courtyard far below, a dead man bleeding over the tattered skeleton he embraced.
Who in the Fortress Prevailed
ON THE OUTSIDE of the keep, Sir Maynard heard the progress of battle, and knew the defenders were not doing as well as they had hoped. The tumult and confusion of the fighting rattled on the air, and from time to time, Sir Maynard could see figures rushing along the far end of the battlements, their figures little more than shadows in the darkness of fallen night. He swung his weapon experimentally and promised himself he would stand at his post unto death—it was little comfort, but for a Crusader, it was sufficient.
Then the trees beyond the fortress walls rushed and murmured as if a wind passed through them. Sir Maynard, whose long years in Sherwood had rendered him sympathetic to the forest, listened closely, and his growing doubts faded. Something he could not define had awakened, and for the first time, he was able to consider the possibility that the defenders of Cannock-Norton might defeat their foe.
* * *
While the battle raged above him, Hood picked his way along the tunnel. The twisting interior was gnarled with roots of trees sticking through the old masonry, and it smelled of loam and damp. The roots caught at his clothing and all but wriggled to trip him as he went on. Hood was indifferent to these intrusions, making his way through the dark guided only by a single candle. Gradually the tunnel ascended, and the walls became sturdier and more finished, with fewer roots to impede his progress, indicating he was nearing the door into the lower regions of the fortress. “I am coming, deSteny, I am coming,” he muttered to the walls, urging himself onward. “You haven’t long to wait. It’s time you end your work against me.”
Torchlight marked the junction with the keep’s corridor, and Hood took great care as he emerged from the tunnel to ease into the alcove, looking about for any guard who may have been posted here. He peered into the stone hallway, his attention given fully to listening to the rush and moan of wind in the hallway, hoping to get some sense of the fighting. He expected the first of his men to be inside the keep by now, attacking the servants as well as the soldiers they found there. He heard nothing specific, but there was an echoing clamor that promised more carnage to come.
By the time he got to the opening in the corridor and the arming room, Hood could smell blood, and it excited him, the hunger roiling within him; he had to force himself to be calm and self-possessed, savoring the anticipation that made his hunt so much more pleasurable, so much more gratifying.
He took a deep, unnecessary breath, as if inhaling
the most seductive perfume, and then began to explore the wide place in the corridor in front of the arming room. In the undulating light from the torches, Hood could just make out the figure of Mother Barnaba sitting on a low stool beside the cot on which deSteny lay. She was very pale and the lines in her face were marked as with a charcoal stick.
* * *
DeSteny opened his eyes and revealed a fever-glaze in them. “He is here,” he whispered to Mother Barnaba. “You should leave.”
“You need my care, Sheriff,” she said firmly.
“Abbess, I can die without your help,” he said in a thready voice. “There is no reason you should sacrifice yourself with me.”
She rose, but only to bring him a cup filled with water. “At least drink this. You said you would drink this if I brought it.”
DeSteny did his best to comply, gulping down four mouthfuls before starting to sputter. He waved Mother Barnaba away, and lay back, panting in exhaustion.
Mother Barnaba made for the door, trying her best to convince herself that deSteny was only imaging the malign presence of vampires, but she wasn’t able to sustain her doubts. There was a shadow on the wall, and she noticed it in passing, then heard a soft footfall behind her. Before she could turn, she felt a hand on her throat and heard a soft voice in her ear.
“I, too, need something to drink, Mother. Out of charity, give me drink.” There was a just the suggestion of laughter when he tugged on her jaw, bending to tear out her throat and revel in the hot, red fountain. He kept at his feeding as Mother Barnaba attempted to wrestle free of him, but her thrashing quickly became useless flapping, and then listlessness as Hood took her life. When he had consumed all that he easily might, he dropped her body and started toward the arming room where deSteny lay.
The Sheriff had heard the noise from outside the arming room, and he struggled to lever himself onto his elbow with the faint intention of protecting Mother Barnaba from Hood, and whomever else he had brought with him. Even so minor an effort left him limp and trembling, and he was unable to summon up sufficient strength a second time to rise. As he fell back, he condemned himself for failing her. This was the ultimate battle of his life, and he was unable to do more than flounder in an effort to face his greatest foe.
Trouble in the Forest Book Two Page 27
