Sovereign's War

by Debbie Viguié

  His breathing came in short, shallow gasps which made his chest ache. The cold air caused his throat to tighten, and he felt as though he couldn’t breathe, as if there literally wasn’t enough air.

  It wasn’t true, he knew it, but the fear of it was in his mind now. It brought along all of its nasty, unpleasant friends, including anger.

  They shouldn’t be here, he thought fiercely. The three of them were needlessly risking their lives, and for what? To buy a couple of days for the camp in Sherwood before it was taken and burned? They’d be better off scattering now, taking their chances. Maybe some of them would make it.

  He thought of Ireland and the people there who had welcomed him so generously when he had been there, retrieving the cursed book. Perhaps he could find a tiny boat, one that the Sheriff and his minions hadn’t burned. He and Haylan could escape and live among the green hills and friendly people—him playing, Haylan singing, and both of them drinking enough to forget about England.

  He called up a memory, an image of one of the little towns as it sparkled under the morning sun, the lushness of the green around it giving it a look of perpetual spring. Suddenly, though, a dark cloud intruded on his thoughts, casting a shadow over the town. He tried to fight it back, tried to reclaim the memory as it was and not give in to the twisted vision.

  * * *

  Darkness covered the sky and the green grass dried in an instant, withering and turning brown and brittle. Something seemed to crash over the town itself, like a giant wave of the ocean. He saw cottages blown to pieces, the town center destroyed as rock and stone flew apart, scattering to the four corners of the earth. People ran outside, screaming in terror. He watched the cobbler’s daughter fall to her knees, her fingers were digging into her own cheeks, scratching as she screamed. Blood bubbled up beneath her nails and poured down as she continued to claw and peel away her own skin.

  Finally she collapsed on the ground, a bloody red mass that moved no more.

  A young lad Haylan’s age ran from the church, and the moment he stepped foot outside a black fist seemed to spiral out of the sky and strike him to the ground. His clothes caught fire and he lay there, screaming and thrashing back and forth, unable to put them out. Moments later he stopped screaming and his blackened body seemed to curl in on itself before turning to ash.

  There were cries and screams as the people tried to escape their houses. One by one those cries were cut short as the darkness claimed each of them. There was nothing he could do, no sound he could utter. He could only watch in a horror that threatened to consume every last shred of sanity.

  A grunt escaped him, a vague tremor of the vocal chords he still possessed, rendered less than useless by the loss of his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut but the vision remained. So he forced them back open, willing himself to see instead the English countryside with the campsite below and trees all around.

  But the vision wouldn’t let go. He heard noises, voices, and couldn’t tell where they were coming from. He could swear he heard someone shout his name. Something brushed his leg, and he kicked out hard. Smoke filled the sky, and he breathed some of it in. It began to choke him. He clawed at his throat, whimpering and gasping all at the same time. The waves of sooty air parted for a brief moment to show him the complete and utter destruction of it all.

  The village was gone.

  So all will come to pass. The voice seemed to echo inside him.

  Something bit his leg. He twisted hard, and then suddenly he was falling. His hands clawed at only air, and a branch slapped him hard across the cheek. He could smell horses and sweat and blood filling the air. Then he crashed onto something hard with a cry of anguish as pain exploded through him with a fiery surge.

  * * *

  Marian stared in horror as Alan fell screaming from the tree in which he’d been perched and landed on his back on top of the team of horses pulling the wagon laden with the taxes.

  The beasts shrieked as if the devil himself had fallen upon them. They reared and plunged and then bolted down the road, spilling men and dragging the wagon with them. Below her Marian heard screams and shouts as the soldiers and the driver tried to figure out what was happening.

  There were ten soldiers, plus the driver, instead of the six she’d been told there would be. Four of them had been riding horses, and each took off in a different direction, scattering men as they did. Three of them took off after the horses, and she let her notched arrow fly, dropping the man in the lead. One of the others plowed into him and they fell, then a third tripped over them as they hit the ground. He landed with screams of terror that caused the hair on the back of her neck to raise straight up. The two living men thrashed around on the ground as each strove to get away from the dead man.

  She turned her attention back to the seven men beneath her. She shot off two arrows and killed two more soldiers in the span of time it took Friar Tuck to fire an arrow and kill a third. The rest scattered, looking for shelter as they shouted to each other, trying to figure out where the attack was coming from.

  One man tripped and the arrow she had fired at his chest instead went straight through his throat. He fell with blood spraying outward. It coated the driver, who fell to the ground as though he were the one who had been struck. She swiveled in the tree, careful not to lose her balance, and found another target. He fell without a sound.

  Suddenly there was a roar. She turned back.

  Friar Tuck had jumped or fallen out of the tree. He landed on his feet, the cloak wrapped around him. Holding a sword aloft, he shouted something unintelligible. The remaining men turned and ran.

  And just like that, it was over.

  Marian watched from the tree as Tuck went and knocked the driver unconscious, then the two men who had fallen with the first man she’d killed. That done, he started after the wagon.

  Marian shook her head. He was worried about Alan and it was making him reckless. She slung her bow around her shoulders and carefully climbed down from the tree. Once on the ground she headed away from the road to retrieve their horses—including two extras brought to carry the gold. Her heart was still pounding from the fight.

  The plan had been to attack the men after they had already made camp for the night and were asleep. She had no idea what had happened to Alan, and while it had worked out, it had been sloppy, dangerous.

  Reaching their horses she discovered that one of the soldiers’ beasts had come to a stop nearby. She mounted her animal, gathered up the reins for the rest, and moved them out at a brisk walk, following the ruts in the ground left by the careening wagon.

  Minutes later she found it, tipped on its side, its rear axle broken and the chest containing the gold lying on the road. Friar Tuck was busy trying to extricate Alan from the two horses, for they had become tangled in the traces. He drew his sword and began hacking away at the leather straps.

  Marian winced as one of the horses screamed and lashed out with its front legs, barely missing Alan in the process. She held back, trying to keep the horses with her from becoming hysterical, as well.

  “Stand still, for the love of all that’s holy!” Friar Tuck roared as he hacked away at another section of harness. Suddenly part of it fell to the ground and one of the terrified horses jumped straight up in the air. It landed and began to buck. The harness slid off, the animal broke free, and it lit out down the road, still jumping and twisting every few feet.

  The other animal seemed to start to calm slightly. It stomped its feet and whinnied restlessly, but let Friar Tuck cut him and Alan free of the whole mess. At last the friar pulled Alan free of the wreckage, then half-carried, half-dragged him to the side of the road before setting him down. He turned back to the horse who was eyeing him, eyes rolling. To Marian’s surprise he actually managed to calm the horse down enough to lead him out of the wreckage, as well. He kept hold of the beast’s bridle with his fist and led him off the road.

  “Well, that couldn’t have gone worse,” he said with a grunt as he came t
o a stop.

  Alan sat up slowly.

  “At least we’re all alive,” Marian said. They had gotten lucky that the soldiers had all been flesh-and-blood men, and that none of the Sheriff’s demons had been among them. It was proof that their enemy had believed the Hood was dead, and that the taxes would be safe.

  Now he knew otherwise.

  Friar Tuck bobbed his head. “What do we do about the gold?”

  “If it’s loose, we’ve got a problem. If some of it is bagged, we can pack it out of here on the horses,” Marian said.

  Friar Tuck let loose of the horse, and to her mild surprise the animal stayed where it was, tired and frightened but not enough so to run off. The holy man went back to the chest, and moments later had it open. The gold inside was in bags—heavy by the looks of it when he hefted one. Still, they could transport those on the horses.

  She glanced uneasily back down the road. They needed to move quickly before any of the soldiers got up the courage to try and come after them. The horses were still skittish, though she was doing her best to calm them.

  “Alan, are you alright?” she asked.

  The bard nodded slowly. She wanted to ask him what had happened, but they didn’t have the time. They’d have to discuss it later.

  “Good. Are you able to travel?” To her relief he nodded again. “Can you help Friar Tuck load some of the gold bags on the horses?”

  Alan stood up and walked stiffly over to the chest. Friar Tuck touched him briefly on the shoulder. They began to unload the sacks.

  In all the chaos Friar Tuck had not been able to make mention of abandoning Sherwood as they had planned. Marian debated briefly whether or not to give up on the idea of trying to use the caves as a diversion but ultimately decided that they had to try. Now that the Hood had reappeared it was going to make the Sheriff all the more intent on sending Henry’s men into the forest. If they could create even a little doubt as to the Hood’s current whereabouts, it would be helpful.

  It took them twenty minutes to secure the bags onto the two extra horses. Then Friar Tuck and Alan mounted slowly and they started out, quick to head toward the caves as agreed upon. They left tracks subtle enough that they wouldn’t be obvious, but which a sharp-eyed hunter would spot. She just hoped that someone did so. If no one bothered to follow the tracks they were leaving, then this whole thing had been for naught.

  There was a sudden sick twisting in her stomach as she realized that, realistically, they would have to do this at least once or twice more.

  And that next time, the Sheriff’s demons would be ready for them.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Philemon was still reeling. The loss of his children weighed heavy on his heart and he worked to hold back the grief. The betrayal of his wife, while not entirely unexpected, was still a struggle to understand. He’d finally given up. Ever since she’d started dabbling with magic Glynna had been a changed person, a moon woman, darker than the girl of light and sunshine he’d married.

  He’d tried to stop her, but clearly he had failed. Then again, if he was honest with himself, she hadn’t been right since the birth of Robin, when she’d claimed the child she had just birthed couldn’t possibly be hers.

  There had been a time he had wondered if the boy was his, but there was no denying that Glynna was the mother. He’d never heard of a woman, though, rejecting her own offspring with such vehemence. It had shocked and grieved him. He had to admit, though, that her hatred of Robin had somehow tainted the way he’d treated his son.

  There’d always been a sense of disappointment with Robin—that he wasn’t like his older brother, or even his sisters. If they made it out of this alive, Philemon would spend a lifetime trying to make up for that.

  If Robin would have it.

  The change in Robin was profound. When Philemon had left England with King Richard, Robin had looked a boy to him. Now he was most certainly a man. Strong, both of body and mind, and with a resilience to him that Robert had never shown.

  The horrors Old Soldier had recounted had further cemented his respect for his youngest son. All those times he had criticized Robin for spending hours in Sherwood, he now thanked God for. Had it not been for Robin’s familiarity with the forest, so many of their people might have died—or worse.

  Most surprising to him was the revelation that Robin had married the Lady Marian. Philemon hadn’t been blind—he had seen Robin’s feelings for her ever since they were young. He hadn’t suspected until the night of King Richard’s announcement, though, that Marian in any way reciprocated them. Had he known, he would have suggested Robin as a match for her. How might that have changed everything, had he done it a year ago?

  Well, in the end neither he nor the king had had any say in it. It had been his observation that when a man and a woman loved each other, nothing could keep them apart, not for long at any rate. It hadn’t with him and Glynna.

  Glynna. He still couldn’t understand it.

  Old Soldier walked beside him, the two of them slipping quietly through the dark. They weren’t far from where the English crusaders were being held by the pagan thief’s men. Last he had seen them, most had been alive. He prayed that was still the case. It sounded as if they’d need all their forces, if they hoped to retake England from the demon who now desecrated the throne.

  Assuming they managed that, there’d be the question of setting back out for Jerusalem. Other kings were heeding the pope’s call to go and fight. If only his holiness could have realized that evil would make its first stand in England...

  Old Soldier reached out and touched his arm, and Philemon came to a halt. The man was older than him—by how much he couldn’t guess—but he’d take Old Soldier over half a dozen young men any day. He knew things about battle, strategy, that you only learned by hard, bitter experience. Even Philemon was willing to defer to him.

  Once they stopped moving Philemon heard the sound of footsteps. There was a guard ahead. The man was pacing. Old Soldier moved to the right and Philemon went with him, giving the sentry a wide berth. What he really wanted to do was kill the man, painfully and with relish. They had agreed, though, that they needed to wait until two hours before dawn. They needed to give Robin a chance to maneuver inside the castle.

  They shifted course again, and suddenly the stench of squalor and death assaulted his nostrils, the odor powerful enough that he nearly started to gag. They had to be just downwind of the prisoners. He pressed his sleeve against his nose and mouth, grateful that he had been able to acquire a new shirt since having escaped the castle. He tried to breathe only through his mouth, but it was difficult. His eyes began to water as he struggled to keep from coughing or retching.

  A glance at Old Soldier revealed twisted features that proved he, too, was struggling with trying to breathe in the fetid air. Nevertheless they began to maneuver closer. The silver lining was that they were unlikely to encounter any guards over here. No one with any choice whatsoever would be where they walked.

  * * *

  Robin would have given just about anything to be outside rescuing the soldiers, instead of standing in the castle’s throne room staring at the man who had been in league with John and now with the Sheriff.

  The pagan king was shorter than Robin expected. Not small though, no—he was possessed with an almost bestial vitality that sang through him as he stood. He was dressed like a barbarian of old, a Norseman come over the waves to plunder and pillage, thick beard and wild hair. He even wore an iron hammer on a leather thong around his neck, and a thick gold arm ring fashioned like a dragon eating its own tail.

  Perhaps most surprising was that he carried himself with even more arrogance than John had—something Robin wouldn’t have thought possible. The man moved slowly, not because he was lazy, but because he knew that by making people wait he exercised even more power over them. He reveled in the fear and uncertainty of those around him, and it made Robin sick. His fingers began to twitch, and he realized that he was a hair’s brea
dth away from trying to put an arrow through the man’s heart.

  But monsters who danced for the devil could be hard to kill. He couldn’t risk trying and failing, not before he’d been able to free King Richard. Next to him Much shifted from foot to foot. Robin could feel his unease and silently willed him to calm down.

  The king studied the parchment that Robin had brought, something that was ostensibly from the Sheriff, but was in fact a letter composed by Robin and his father. Finally he glanced up from it.

  “So, the Sheriff has brought his people to heel, has he?”

  Robin cleared his throat and reminded himself to answer with arrogance in kind.

  “Milord has won the loyalty and adoration of his subjects,” he said. Then he added, “Any who might have felt otherwise no longer have their heads.”

  “We are pleased to hear it, Lord Locksley,” the king said.

  Robin forced himself to smile. That’s what the real Locksley would have done. The man had been many things, but his name was helping Robin now, and he was grateful for that.

  “So, he is ready for the next part of our plan,” Wulfhere mused.

  “That is my understanding,” Robin said, continuing to leer. He thought of Will and all those weeks spent kissing up to John. He wondered how his cousin had managed it for so long. He found it painful, just for a few minutes. Still, the thought of Will gave him strength, and he forced his smile even bigger.

  “Milord has asked that I bring back your response quickly,” Robin said, “and that I report on the state that John’s brother is in.” He said the last part as though it was distasteful to even admit that John had a brother. In a way, it was.

  “Of course,” Wulfhere said. “You can be on your way in the morning, but tonight you will be my guest for dinner and a little... entertainment.” That sent a chill up Robin’s spine, at the mention of entertainment. He was sure that whatever this barbarian had in mind, it would be an abomination. He thought of some of the entertainments John had provided and feared that whatever was in store that evening might be infinitely worse.