Hood crouched low in case deSteny might be planning to trap him. He slunk toward the opening, fully alert and predatory. If he had had a pulse, it would have been pounding—as it was, his skin felt raw with expectancy. He threw back his hood, exposing his pale hair and skin, his red eyes shining in the torchlight. His laughter sounded more like a growl, and as he slipped into the room, he had to suppress the urge to keen like a wolf.
DeSteny rolled on his cot, holding a small knife as tightly as he could, although he knew it would be little use against Hood. Fever had made him feel detached from the danger approaching, and he considered it with the remote curiosity of a scholar looking over an ancient account of a long-ago battle. A dozen heartbeats later, he felt Hood fall upon him, pinning him to the cot, and suddenly he was no longer aloof from his body, but startlingly, terrifyingly one with it again.
“You’re dying,” Hood said in surprise as he felt deSteny’s breath on his face.
“So are you,” said deSteny, feeling foolish for such a silly rejoinder. He struggled with the knife, hoping to turn it enough to hurt the vampire.
“What a fool you are, to try to stop me, in your condition,” Hood declared. “You are hot with fever and there is poison in your wound. It cannot hurt me, in case you hoped it would. Such things harm only the living.”
DeSteny did not bother with words: he drove his little knife deep into Hood’s thigh with what little strength he had left, and had the satisfaction of feeling the blade sink deep.
Hood cursed and struck deSteny in the face. “Take you for a whore’s son—!” He moved just enough to pull the knife from his leg. “For this, you will give me all you have!”
“For what good it may do you,” deSteny cried defiantly.
Hood pulled open deSteny’s chemise, baring his throat. “Your blood will do me a world of good.”
At the first penetration of teeth, deSteny stifled a chuckle, and then lost it in a spout of blood as Hood drank voraciously—voraciously and fatally, for as he greedily gulped down the vital fluid, a change came over him: it began on his tongue, just a tingle, not yet unpleasant, but a bit like too much pepper; then his mouth and lips burned as if he had tried to swallow something much too hot, and then his gullet sizzled. He flailed, striking out wildly, his body bucking from the searing that made its way down to his stomach with a fury that grew as it went. He gaped like a gaffed fish as the agony finally spread to his vitals, etching its way through him with the severity of acid. He tried to shove himself away from deSteny, lurching to get shut of the dying Sheriff.
With the last of his strength, deSteny mouthed, “I drank Holy Water.” That had been in the cup Mother Barnaba had brought him, and though he had lost his faith, he was still a priest, and the Holy Water kept its virtue in him. He saw Hood’s face grimace just before the flesh dissolved from the bones and his skeleton clattered around the cot. DeSteny lay back and summoned up a smile as he slipped away into final darkness.
* * *
Two levels above them, Sir Lambert—faintly astonished that he was still alive—saw his present assailants falter as if the three were one man, each shaking his head as if dizzy or distracted. This sudden check in the midst of certain victory renewed Sir Lambert’s courage, and he readied to swing his sword again, defying the trio of vampires who were converging upon him. Crouching low enough to gain some stability against their assault, he pulled a poignard from its sheath, hoping that with it and his sword he could cut down any rush that was made at him. His old shoulders ached and he knew in his heart that win or lose, this was his last battle. He could just see a pair of pages coming toward his attackers across the blood-slicked floor, one carrying a maul, the other a wooden pike, weapons that any fool could use. He improved his stance and prepared to strike at whichever of the three should make the first move. He had resigned himself to death, and had determined to exact as high a price as possible for his life and his fortress, and so he was eerily tranquil as the three vampires moved into position to attack.
One of the three vampires rushed at Sir Lambert, but without the brutality of previous assaults. He held off a short distance from Sir Lambert and tried to provoke the old man into making the first move. The ploy failed, for Sir Lambert knew better than to be drawn recklessly into the fight, and the vampire retreated just as the page with the maul gathered up his courage, rushed forward, and bashed the vampire’s skull in, then stepped back as the fiend was reduced to bones.
Heartened, Sir Lambert advanced on the two remaining vampires and demolished the larger of the two with one desperate blow. He stepped over the heap of bones, calling out to the pages as he went, “I leave the third to you.”
The younger of the pages whooped and the other gave a purposeful nod as they closed in on the remaining vampire.
Once outside, Sir Lambert tried to reckon the number of dead on the ground. He could make out the shapes of the bodies of men, but the whitened bones were in such disarray that he could not easily count how many of their enemies had fallen, though the sight leant him more optimism than anything he had seen since he had returned to his fortress, and he permitted himself to believe that all was not lost. He glimpsed, in surprise, a badly wounded Guard dispatch two vampires with two quick blows from his battle-hammer. This was more heartening still, and it lightened his step as he continued onward. Paying keen attention to everything around him, Sir Lambert made his way across the end of the marshaling yard toward the door in the keep that Sir Maynard was guarding, hoping the old Crusader was still alive, hoping he had good news to impart, and that he might understand what was happening better than Sir Lambert did.
Sir Maynard demanded the password, and, having received it, welcomed Sir Lambert with anxious respect. “I have had no trouble here, my Lord, though I have remained at the ready,” he assured Sir Lambert. “I have seen some fighting, but none has come to me, and I have not wanted to desert my post.”
“Nor should you. Has Mother Barnaba said anything to you?” Sir Lambert looked about uneasily. “Has she had trouble?”
“Not that I know of,” Sir Maynard said. “I had thought she would tell me how she and the Sheriff are, but that hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps she is waiting for a lull in our battle. It must be the furor of the fighting that keeps her away.”
“And no sign of disturbance in the tunnel? In spite of all we did to lure Hood there?” Sir Lambert felt a keen disappointment that their one stratagem had failed.
“Nothing that I could mark. It may be that after all this time, the tunnel is impassable,” Sir Maynard suggested. “Do you think we should enter the corridor to see if all is well?”
“Best to wait until the battle is over, which it should be soon, for the tide has turned, and we are driving them back,” said Sir Lambert with the beginning of pride in his voice. “It is not as if they have signaled for your help.”
“No doubt they would summon us if they need us; we provided them with the means, and neither of them is apt to forget that,” Sir Maynard concurred, then noticed the blood on Sir Lambert’s clothes and hands. “Are you wounded, Sir Lambert?”
“A few minor cuts and bruises,” said Sir Lambert, making light of his injuries. “No more than what any fighting man should expect.”
Sir Maynard was about to speak, but a deep moan came from beyond the walls, and the trees bowed again, without a wind to bend them. The sound went over Sherwood like a wave, its unearthly voice transfixing all who heard it rise to a deep, thunderous roar. Then for three heartbeats, there was silence.
“What was that?” Sir Lambert whispered as the uncanny incident ended.
“I think it is the forest,” said Sir Maynard, crossing himself. “I think it is taking its own back.”
How the Trouble came to an End
“SOMETHING’S the matter; something’s wrong,” said Little John, lifting his head as if to sniff the wind for od
ors. He looked around the clearing. “Where are the scouts? Have they returned yet?”
“Everyone is here,” said the young crofter who was new to the band. He attempted a grin and failed utterly. “We all await whatever Hood is bringing.”
“Don’t bother with such toad-eating when Hood is gone,” Little John recommended. “Most of us only pay him homage when he is here to receive it.”
“Very well,” said the crofter, gazing about in the near darkness. “Do you think he and the rest will return soon?”
Before Little John could answer, a sound like wind went through the forest, although none of the branches—not even twigs—moved. He picked up his quarterstaff, prepared to defend himself against something he could not see or feel. Around him, the other vampires fretted, becoming nervous as the sound went on.
It stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
“What was that?” one of the former soldiers asked, and forced a laugh. “This forest is a strange place.”
“That it is,” Little John said warily, looking around as if expecting to see armed men emerge from the deepest shadows of the night. “I want another eight of you in the trees; take horns, to sound a warning.” He swung around and pointed out eight men. “All of you. Get your bows, your quivers, and your horns, and climb up around us.”
The eight men, nettled by this unwelcome duty, stood together as if to resist. “You are being foolish,” the boldest of them complained.
“Am I? And if we suffer a surprise attack, what will Hood do if he learns about your lack of attention?” Little John gave a tentative swing to his quarterstaff, taking satisfaction in its business-like swoosh through the air. “If you defy me, you defy Hood, and you know what that means.”
“He won’t cast eight of us out,” said the youngest of them.
“He might not; he might drain you as he drained the Old Ones instead, and then abandon you to your fate,” said Little John.
The eight exchanged uneasy glances, and the tallest of them shrugged, going to retrieve his bow, quiver, and horn. “It is nothing so much, after all, to do what you ask. If it gains favor with Hood, so much the better for us.”
“It matters not why you do it, only that it is done,” said Little John.
Two of the vampires faltered, but then went to obey Little John, moving without alacrity, but complying. The others gathered in the hollow glen watched them with resentful, measuring eyes, and pretended not to listen to the sound of the wind as the first trembling of twigs hinted at a storm to come.
“When will Hood be back?” asked an old merchant whose robes were now stained and in tatters. “Shouldn’t he return soon?”
“When Cannock-Norton has fallen and he and those with him have plundered it, he will return,” said Little John as if this were a new revelation and not a repetition of an answer he had given many times in the last two nights.
“We are sure it has fallen,” said a young vampire, doing his best to keep his doubt at bay.
“How could it not?” Little John asked. “Who has prevailed against us?”
A few of the group laughed, but most were not so sanguine, and one even gave a gusty sigh of dismay. “Old deGisbourne has help. From the Sheriff and Sir Humphrey.”
“So he does, which means the more for Hood,” said Little John confidently, but with a first quiver of unease as he considered what the last day had been like.
“Do the Old Ones agree?” asked a voice in the darkness.
“The Old Ones are nothing,” said Little John. “Hood and his followers drained them long ago, and see what has become of them—they are like moles, living in burrows, with only the dregs we allow them to sustain them.”
“But Sherwood is theirs,” said the same voice.
“It was. Now it is ours,” Little John declared, and watched as the first of the extra guards clambered into the branches of an ancient oak. “The rest of you, find a good place. Be ready to sound a warning if you see anything untoward.”
“What do you think we will need these guards for, if Hood is certain to prevail, and we have nothing to fear from the Old Ones?”
“Hood may be pursued,” said Little John a bit less confidently, “and we have foes in the forest who may be aware that we have divided our numbers.”
“But who would be foolish enough to attack us here, in our own stronghold?” The former merchant asked. “Aren’t we secure in this place?”
“We have been in the past,” said a weathered soldier whose chain-mail shirt was beginning to rust and now creaked and stiffened, much like its wearer.
“Hush,” advised one of the younger vampires. “You mustn’t show yourself to be weak.”
“Even if you are?” The voice that spoke was not completely familiar, and it took a moment before Little John recognized it.
“DeGlisson! What brings you here? Are you come to join our revels when Cannock-Norton falls?” Little John made his welcome as hearty as he could, masking the unease that had welled in him.
“It is that battle that brings me,” deGlisson said in a manner that was oddly cool for a man bent on celebration.
“Then be ready to feast with us, to drink the good, red, hot wine of life!” Little John enthused, peering into the forest to make out deGlisson.
“That we will,” said deGlisson grimly.
“We?” For the first time Little John felt a finger of fear at the base of his spine. “Who is with you?”
“Royce, Maeslen, Renard Widley, Penrod Lugenis, and those we guard,” said deGlisson as he strolled into the firelight. “I am sorry to tell you that Royce and Maeslen are busy just now—they and the Old Ones are dispatching your sentries, starting with the ones in the trees.” His show of teeth had nothing of a smile about it.
Little John managed a disbelieving laugh. “The Old Ones are good as dead. They keep to their barrows and do not trouble us.”
“They have an ally,” said Penrod Lugenis, coming up beside Aylmer deGlisson. “One whom even you should fear.”
“Not the hosts of ...” He could not say Heaven. “They would not aid such as you.”
“No, not they. The soul of Sherwood has come to protect his land. The Boar is with us,” said Lugenis, no hint of boasting in his icy rage. “You forced us to this life and now you will answer for it.”
As if to emphasize this, there was a cry and a crash as one of the guards in a near-by tree fell from his perch.
Little John’s dread increased. “How did you come here? Why didn’t they give the alarm?” He hadn’t intended to ask it aloud.
“Because the trees have cloaked us, through the Boar,” said Lugenis as he drew a small crossbow. “My quarrels are made of hawthorn, which is sacred to the Boar.” He pointed it at the nearest vampire—the rusty soldier. As he fired, the soldier stared at the wooden quarrel. It had bit through the mail and was buried deeply in the soldier’s chest, and sluggish blood welled around it. He stared at it in stupefaction, and then his skeleton broke apart and crashed to the ground under the weight of the chain mail.
This served as a signal, and Hood’s followers realized that they were truly in danger. With cries of fury and panic, they flung themselves at Penrod Lugenis and Aylmer deGlisson, teeth bared, and weapons drawn.
Lugenis and deGlisson stepped back into the trees, and all but disappeared, silent and deadly as any serpent. They could sense Royce and Widley as they continued their ruinous assault on Hood’s guards. Shrieks and bellows marked their progress, and Lugenis murmured to deGlisson, “Is it safe to bring the Old Ones to the glade?”
“Not just yet,” said deGlisson. “I must take care of Little John. Then we shall be at liberty to fetch the Old Ones to reclaim their place.”
Another chilling scream rent the darkness, and Lugenis said, “Very well. I would not like them to grow tired of w
aiting.”
“They won’t have to,” said deGlisson.
“Do you want my crossbow?” Lugenis offered.
“No. I have my own weapons.” He was about to slip away, then said, “You know, once Hood is gone, most of us will go, too. We will cease to be.”
“I am waiting for that happiness,” said Lugenis with deep feeling. “I have no wish to be among the Old Ones, and I loathe all that Hood is.”
“Then wait for me. I will be back shortly and then we can bring the Old Ones to their rightful home.” DeGlisson drew an odd-looking knife and stepped away into the protection of the shadows, hunting Little John.
Lugenis waited in the shelter of the tangled undergrowth, feeling protected and contented, glad that the rapacity of his vampire life would be over and that he would no longer have to contend with Hood over the care of the Old Ones. He missed his heartbeat, for without it he found it difficult to gauge the passage of time. But as the thrashing and screaming became less frequent, his waiting became more pleasant as he anticipated their victory.
DeGlisson discovered Little John a short distance from the clearing, his quarterstaff held up to fend off any attack. The big man was making his way cautiously through the thickets under the trees, moving as soundlessly as a man that size could. DeGlisson fell in behind him, the knife the Old Ones had given him raised up, prepared to strike. When he began his rush, he did not hesitate, flinging himself at Little John and hanging onto his shoulder as he plunged the iron dagger deep into Little John’s neck, then shoved himself free as Little John tottered, half-turned, and fell heavily on his side.
Trouble in the Forest Book Two Page 28
