Nottingham

  Guy withered her with his stare. “I absolutely agree. You’re not listening. The plan will only be enacted if I fail to stop it. So I’m putting that choice in your hands. As you say, I’m banking that ‘nobody is that insane.’ So will you give up, Robin, or will you let it all burn down? Actually,” an odd thought struck him, “perhaps you will pick the latter. Seems to run in the family.”

  Robin flinched, and John Little shouted to stop him. “Don’t, Robin! It’s exactly what he wants.”

  “What I want?” Guy shook his head, incredulous. “I guarantee you there is nothing about this situation I have wanted. Because what I want is for you all to obey the law! That’s it! Is that so unthinkable? Is that what makes me monstrous?” He tilted his head toward Arable, recalling her insult. “I didn’t want to hike out here in the middle of the night, risking my men’s lives. What I want is for you to respect your country enough to live fairly, the way the rest of us must. You do remember you’re the criminals, don’t you? You stole from the King! You assassinated a public official! You’re inciting a rebellion while we’re at war! And why? Because your taxes are too high? And your life isn’t as easy as you wish it were? What I want is for you all to grow up.”

  Guy bristled, pacing back and forth in front of them. “And if you refuse, then yes I also want to kill you.”

  There were other sounds, just underneath his own words, that came from the trees. With his final syllable he recognized what they were, and then it was too late.

  The mist moved, in hair-thin horizontal slices, met by grunts and thunks and screams. Time was arrested, letting Guy witness it all fall apart—with no way of stopping it. The hair on Guy’s neck stood as the Guardsman on his left, a diligent veteran named Curtis who had served for five years without complaint, took three arrows in the chest and fell screaming to his knees. One whisper cut the air so close to Guy’s face he felt it across the tip of his nose. The arrow ended its flight by punching a hole through both the hood and the cheek of a tall dark-skinned Guardsman, Sergio, who had been born in Nottingham and now died in the middle of nowhere.

  Stop! He screamed, though he didn’t. He was still frozen, feeling victory slough through his fingers, clenching every muscle to return to where he was a bare moment ago. But it was gone. He was sliding backward, back into the hole.

  A wall of raiders crashed through their circle, shattering everything.

  Half of Guy’s men were taken by surprise, slammed off their feet, overthrown, in an instant. The new combatants were nobodies—a throng of enraged villagers from Bernesdale, no doubt—a damned mob of Robin’s followers. They brought weapons, bundles of them, and quickly armed the remaining outlaws while Guy’s men still rallied to make sense of what was happening.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Guy screamed, pulling his longsword from its sheath and making a wide spin, daring anyone to close distance with him. “What the fuck did I just say? Don’t you understand what will come of this?”

  Of course they did, but they didn’t care.

  There were fire brigades preparing already, who had no idea the plan was a ruse. If Guy caught an errant arrow, if he were even delayed … the forest would burn.

  They had to be stopped.

  There was no controlling the chaos now. Guy twisted, he needed to pinpoint Locksley in the crowd, but he was no longer where he had been last. The Guard was overwhelmed and ambushed, Guy knew it in the stone of his stomach, he knew each and every one of his men would die here in a straight fight. But the outlaws would fall apart if Locksley fell. It was his only chance.

  The villagers met his men in fury, steel tore through the night, but Guy stood motionless.

  There.

  A single glimpse of Locksley on the opposite side of the throng.

  But before he could move, his world shrank to the size of the two thieves rushing him. They raised their weapons and howled.

  In open combat, the odds favor nobody.

  Instinct drew his attention to the attacker on the left. His face was puffy like knotted dough, and he held his sword out as if he meant simply to skewer Guy in one move. Guy cracked his sword down upon the blade, up high by the guard in hopes it would break, but the second attacker did not slow at all to attempt a swing. He simply barreled into Guy at full speed with his shoulder, rolling Guy off balance. He was able to pivot and twist counterclockwise, dragging his longsword behind him and ending its circle with a reckless slash at the doughman. He lucked out, and the end of his blade caught the edge of the man’s jaw, slinging purple pulp in its path. But Guy lost his footing, his sword swung out of weight in only his right hand. A spike of dull pain smashed into his back, no doubt a hasty pommel attack from his shoulder-happy friend. The mail beneath his tabard protected him from a laceration, but his spine screamed.

  Guy rolled with the attack, rotating and withdrawing his sword back to his hip in a side-plow, and struck forward. The man had raised his sword high, giving Guy exactly the window he needed, driving the tip of his steel up under the man’s rib cage and then high, a burst of heavy blood blossoming down the sword’s fuller, letting Guy know he hit his mark. He pushed the man’s body away, easing his sword out. He could not help but notice a plume of steam that trailed off the blade from the hot blood meeting the crisp night air.

  Those men had delayed him too long. Guy looked again for Locksley, but could not find him. The threat of Wendenal’s corruption seemed like a trifle now, compared to this madness.

  No individual training mattered here. Wars are won with numbers, not finesse. Superior weaponry, superior armor, superior numbers. It doesn’t matter if the people are expert fencers or a mob. And Locksley had the numbers.

  Guy tried to focus, to keep calm. If he panicked he would die, and his death would make him complicit in the burning of the Sherwood. He would not die helping Locksley do this.

  All around him, the torture of steel and men clattered through the trees. Either Guy had traveled, or the bulk of the melee had moved away already. Someone ran through the commotion, his head ducked down, and disappeared again. Guy could barely distinguish ally from enemy—there were only shapes and fog. He gave the mist a slice with his sword, to no avail. He was at the disadvantage here with such a long weapon. He needed open space and clear vision.

  A cluster of horrific shrieks from somewhere in the mist made Guy think of Will Scarlet, and the damage he could do with his two knives in a riot like this. He could plunge those blades into every shape like a ghost, no doubt careless of which side his victims fought for.

  Every interaction was a roll of the dice. Survive one, you get to roll again. Every direction held a new player.

  How many stood between him and Locksley, Guy did not know. It didn’t matter.

  In most small skirmishes, the key was to pick the terrain, that they could be protected. That was how it went at Thieves Den. That was how it went at Bernesdale. Here, there was no wall behind them. No direction to aim their attention.

  A man rushed him, his hands behind his back, hiding a weapon. No, his hands were bound, he was one of the raiders they’d already captured at the ale cask. Guy moved quickly, swinging his sword in for the man’s belly, but pivoted at the last moment to give the prisoner the pommel of his sword instead of the blade. It was unwise. It strained his wrist to do it, but the man would survive. The crunch of a broken rib was enough to put him down, keep him down.

  Death was such a lazy way to end it all.

  The sounds shifted, the fight was straying even farther away from him. He moved, as quickly as he could without being careless, back into the melee. To his relief he came first upon Eric of Felley, squared off against an outlaw, both of them holding their weapons out and screaming at the other to surrender.

  Guy joined, but his presence spooked the thief into attacking—a swing at Eric’s shoulder that was easily deflected. Guy did not hesitate. He curled his longsword high and right, letting its weight fall down into the outlaw’s neck, splitting cloth an
d skin and bone. Nearly a full hands-length it buried down into the man’s chest, and Guy had to kick his foot on the dead man’s sternum to retrieve his sword again.

  “Thanks, Captain,” Eric coughed.

  “Stay sharp! Where’s Locksley?” Guy shouted. He hadn’t realized how loud it was until he needed to use his voice.

  “That way!” Eric pointed to his left, and his mouth exploded with blood.

  Guy lit with rage.

  A brief flash from behind, a hand pulling the knife out from the base of Eric’s neck. It flew into the mist.

  Guy grabbed Eric’s arms and held him up, but he dragged downward. Whatever bastard had done it was gone, fleeing as cowards do. Guy shifted Eric’s weight down to the ground, his mind detaching from the unimaginable grief that would come later.

  “Fucking hell was that?” Eric sputtered blood between his missing teeth.

  “Don’t talk,” Guy ordered him, torn between his need to return to the battle and the guilt of leaving Eric alone. Eric’s face contorted until Guy could barely recognize him. Screams ripped the air in two. There were others out there Guy might be able to save.

  Eric’s mouth opened and closed in confusion, a fish gasping for water. His eyes were unfocused and wild, straining to understand how he could die like this. Like this.

  “I have to go,” Guy whispered, more for himself. But Eric grabbed him and pulled him close, shivering, his fingers clutching for companionship in this, the final moments of his life. And Guy could not even give him that. Eric was the last of Guy’s old regiment, the only one who still remained from barely two months ago. Guy had lost every last one of his men, to the scourge of Robin Hood.

  The world split into sparkles before Guy even realized there were tears in his eyes.

  Eric’s mouth sputtered out blood.

  “I can’t … I have to go,” Guy said, and left his friend to die.

  Mercy had no fairness to it. No kindhearted soul was spared. No cruel heart received his due. That was how the outlaws win, because they didn’t care who remained when the insanity was over.

  Guy wouldn’t survive this, either, he knew that now. His men were being butchered around him—there was no knowing how many of the Black Guard still stood. He thought about fleeing, flying back to Nottingham to stop the fire brigades at least, but he knew they would catch him. Guy’s fate was writ, there was nothing about tomorrow to regret now.

  But before he fell, he would take the devil with him.

  Steam pumped through him. His muscles burned afire.

  “That way,” Eric had said, his final words. There were people in that direction, so Guy cut through them.

  His body moved on instinct. He parried a skinny man’s lunge and used the momentum to cut through the man’s arm below the elbow, then a side step and a drag of his blade through the man’s belly. Guy moved as if in a dream. He swept low and took the legs out of one opponent—and left the rest to Silas of York, who came down on the enemy with an overhead smash. As his body fell, Guy had already moved on.

  He buried his sword into another villager’s head. He didn’t even stop moving.

  That way.

  Locksley.

  His path was blocked by a bearded sack of meat who was quick to find steel, and his body tumbled into Guy and spun him around. Guy punched his blade into the meat-man’s neck and turned back, but he had lost his bearings. A Guardsman was nearby, Ryon, a thin young man that was a better archer than swordsman, fumbling with his bow to find a target in the mist. Then his bow slipped from his hands, the arrow jumped limply forward, and the young bowman sloughed to the ground.

  Another knife in the back.

  Guy moved forward but a tree branch tripped him. He looked up just as a shadow disappeared with a white glove.

  Traitor, Guy cursed. The White Hand. One of his new recruits had turned against him. Unless he had been a spy all along.

  It didn’t matter. He’d already become too distracted. Locksley first, his allies after. The sounds of the melee drew him closer, but he tumbled again. It wasn’t a branch on the ground that tangled his feet, but a body, a woman’s body. He was standing over Elena Gamwell, her face frozen in an open-mouthed scream.

  A snap of leaves behind him gave warning, and Guy ducked and twisted at once. Still, he felt a blade glance into his side, a fatal blow if not for the mail beneath his tabard. His ribs took the brunt of the force, and Guy spun to avoid the inevitable second attack. He dove for the ground and let go of his sword. He snapped his boot out and found his attacker’s kneecap, rewarded with a harrowing snap as the leg bent at an undesirable angle. The man fell on top of him, screaming, and Guy struck quickly for the man’s throat to stun him. But he was now pinned down, his legs trapped beneath the huge man. Guy’s hands grasped to find purchase, a heavy stink and horror rose as his vision faded to black. This was his unfortunate end, at the bottom of a mountain of dirty flesh, and the forest would burn.

  If he died before killing Locksley, it was for nothing. All his men, for nothing.

  His fingers scrambled through his assailant’s beard and found soft skin beneath. He squeezed, even as his opponent’s hands found his own face. Guy angled away, trying to free himself, but the beastman’s thumb clawed upward. One smashed down into Guy’s left eye, pushing, his vision burst white with stars, something popped and a panic surged through him, giving his muscles renewed strength. He clawed at the man’s throat. He buried his fingernails in and crushed it. The instant he found any meat thick enough to grasp he tore as hard as he could. The man spasmed, abandoning Guy’s eye and rolling away. Guy followed and punched down into the man’s throat again, then was back on his feet, blindly, moving without seeing, but he had already retrieved his sword and drove it down into the man’s skull, all of his weight pushing, heaving, until there was nothing left but the surging pressure of his eye socket, and exhaustion.

  The way that noises distort underwater, such was how the world now appeared. Guy waited, praying for his own breath to catch, his vision black and blurred. He probed his left eye for any vision. For all he knew, his eyeball might have been pierced or dangling from its socket. But the world was there, where he expected it. It was simply milky and unfocused. He leaned on his sword, still piercing his would-be murderer’s head, and tried to assess what he could see.

  A shape that could only be John Little was grappling with an unknowable Guardsman. Little’s staff was around the man’s back, held with both hands, trapping the Guardsman between the wood and Little’s chest. Little screamed, pulling the staff toward him, and even half-blinded Guy could see as the man’s back broke, limply collapsing into nothing. Guy had no idea who had just died, so close to his captain who was unable to help.

  To another side, a crowd of blurry bodies was gathering, the way men rallied at the edges of a barfight. But the entire throng seemed to be involved, moving and undulating around something at its center, reacting as one. Through a hole between bodies, Guy caught a glimpse of the carnage. This had to be the assassin Will Scarlet, spinning like a top, a hurricane of death, blades in both hands. The wall of men shifted, blocking Guy’s view, spotty as it was. He told himself to move, to go and help, but his legs didn’t budge. He released the pressure from his eye and blinked away the pain, trying to focus. Again, the crowd groaned as one in horror. Another splash of Scarlet leapt from one man to another, then nothing. Guy’s vision faded black and foggy and back again, then another pop in his head exploded as before, and pain folded him over, a white hot lash.

  When it passed, his vision was clearer but everything twinkled. He watched Scarlet slash down at a guard twice his size—Marshall Sutton—who caught both Scarlet’s wrists midair. It was like watching an eagle pluck a mouse from the earth. But Scarlet jumped up and kicked into Marshall’s stomach, and when his wrists were released he stabbed them both up—Good God—up through Marshall’s big ox face. Down to the hilt.

  Guy’s body thundered. He ran in, not caring if it was the last t
hing his body would ever do.

  Scarlet caught another man’s sword with one knife, rolled the other in his palm to reverse its grip and stabbed it down into the Guardsman’s chest. In the next breath, he twisted away and windmilled his arms through the air as he slapped a sword down with one strike and slashed through its owner’s shoulder with the next. Too many, Guy swore, finally close enough, unnoticed, and buried his longsword into Scarlet’s side.

  Incredibly, the man had moved one blade in time to protect his ribs, barely saving himself from being cut in half. But the blow sent Scarlet tumbling off his feet, and Guy followed him as he scrambled away. The ground was littered with dead and wounded. Few were still standing, and Guy would not allow Scarlet to be counted amongst the day’s survivors. But as Scarlet collapsed, another shape interceded between them, saying something lost to the din. Though Guy could not recognize the words, he was far too familiar with their author.

  The traitor Robin of Locksley’s face was bloodied. He held his own sword in the Fool’s stance, begging for absolution.

  Guy gulped down air. There was still hope. This one slim chance.

  He didn’t have the strength to stand, but he didn’t need to.

  Devon and Jon Bassett were there behind him, propping him up. Reginold and Bolt spied the terrain for him. Eric and Marshall helped him raise his sword. Henry and Much, they reminded him he could do it.

  For a brief, joyous moment, Guy felt pity for Locksley. Because he was outnumbered.

  They did not speak. Their heads bobbed, a silent agreement. It was only appropriate to end in this way. Whatever raiders were still alive stood back, as if to recognize the necessity of this duel. Guy could not tell how many of his own men were left. It wouldn’t matter. Even if Guy died here, Locksley would pay for his reign of terror, Wendenal’s coup would be over, and Nottingham would be safe. The woods would regrow. Robin Hood would not.

  They began properly, a slow circle, watching each other’s footwork, shifting their blades between stances. Guy transitioned to the front Plow and Robin appropriately brought his tip high in a Roof. Guy shifted to a right Fool and Robin matched with a left Ox. It was almost welcoming to see a worthy duelist, rather than his mob of drunken brawlers who pounded their swords like clubs. Guy weaved from a crab-walk to a deer’s, and Robin met him in a plowman. He was trained well, but he favored his right foot, and some cut on his lip made him infrequently tongue his cheek.