He stared in fascinated horror at a torch close by. Something thick and dark oozed up the wall toward it. It reached the torch, ran up along its sides, and then snuffed its flame completely. The liquid blackness didn’t stop there, but kept going, sliding up the wall.
Robin turned and saw that the stuff was covering the door that led to the front of the castle, as well. He shuddered at the thought of touching the door and coming into contact with whatever the substance was that was inexorably coating the walls.
“What is it?” Much asked, the fear heavy in his voice.
It was too thick to be some sort of ink, and too substantial to be a shadow—even a demonic one. Robin glanced around and saw that the remaining torches were also threatened. The ooze had only just begun its ascent on the far wall. He blinked, wondering why it was happening faster, the closer it was to them.
A sudden, terrible suspicion occurred and he turned his eyes back down to the floor. The soldiers still lay on the floor, blood pooling around them. Only the blood didn’t remain there. It ran in streams and rivulets away from the bodies. The liquid that was climbing the walls of the room—sealing off their escape and extinguishing all the light—was blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
They needed to get out of there. Robin raced to the door, where the blood was still oozing, flowing upward like a slow-moving tide.
Everything in him revolted at the idea of touching it, yet he stretched out his hand. He needed to open the door so they could get out of the room, flee the castle, and rejoin his father and Old Soldier outside in the cool, fresh air.
He reached for the door but the closer his hand got the harder it shook, becoming impossible to control. It was as if the limb had taken on a life of its own and was fighting him to keep from having to touch the liquid.
It’s just blood, he told himself fiercely.
That wasn’t true, though. Blood didn’t behave like this, it didn’t flow up walls. It had been enchanted somehow, and that terrified him. He tried to will his hand to reach the last couple of inches, to touch the blood-covered door. An image flashed through his mind of the liquid turning and flowing up his arm until it coated him, sliding up his face, choking him to death before it even blinded him.
His stomach lurched and before he realized it he was on his knees vomiting. There was blood on the floor, as well, which was staining his clothes as it flowed around him and beneath him, striving to get to the wall.
It’s not flowing up my body. After he’d emptied the contents of his stomach he struggled back to his feet. He tried once more to reach out, and again his hand fought him. With a scream of frustration he gave up and spun toward the far wall.
The blackness was crawling up over the last two torches. They sputtered, flickered.
Then they went out.
* * *
There was no rational reason for the pagan king to have executed the nobles. No reason at all.
Except...
Philemon spun toward Old Soldier.
“It’s a trap,” he gasped. “They knew we were coming.”
Suddenly something hit him from behind and threw him to the ground. He landed, his head right next to the severed one of Lord Montjoy, who had been his friend since childhood. Philemon was godfather to his son, Rory.
Through the sudden grief he could feel pain as someone pummeled his ribs. Old Soldier was fighting someone, he realized, just steps away. The ring of steel on steel cut through the air. If the whole army hadn’t known before that they were there, they did now.
Philemon heaved himself up and threw off the man who had knocked him down. His opponent tried to scramble away, but Longstride flipped him and grabbed hold of his legs. He twisted and was rewarded with a scream when the man’s leg bent forward and then broke.
Leaping to his feet, Philemon stomped on the man’s neck, crushing his windpipe. Then he drew his sword and spun just as two more attackers appeared from out of the darkness. What he would have given to have his own sword right then, and not one scavenged from a dead man. Still, it was weighted nicely, and he was able to twist and twirl it through the air with a great deal of speed and force. The flat edge of the blade rang against the metal helm of one of his attackers. Though no blood was drawn the man fell, grabbing at his head.
Philemon stooped under a blade thrust by another soldier. He grabbed the sword of the fallen man and stood up, bringing them both to bear. The second soldier took one look, spun, and started running. With a curse Philemon yanked a dagger free of his belt and sent it spinning through the air. It sunk in the other man’s back up to the hilt so there was no sense in trying to retrieve it.
He turned just as Old Soldier felled the man he was fighting.
“Robin,” Philemon gasped.
“Leave him to fight his way out,” the old man said brusquely. “We’ve got problems aplenty out here.” He nodded in the direction of the holding pen and Philemon saw the glint of more steel in the darkness.
“They’ve been waiting for us,” he said bitterly.
“It seems as though,” Old Soldier said. “Just wish I knew how they knew to expect us.” Philemon moved so they were back-to-back.
“I don’t know,” he grunted. “All I know is where they’re going.”
“Tell them to spit in the devil’s eye when they get to hell,” Old Soldier said.
“And here I was going to tell the ones I killed to kiss his arse.”
“If we can get through to the holding pens, we might be able to release our men.”
“If they’re still alive,” Philemon said grimly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Old Soldier raise his sword high.
“If…”
* * *
Robin stood, sword raised and heart pounding in darkness that was so complete, so absolute, that it was like nothing he’d experienced before. This had to be what it was like to be blind. His eyes strained, but there wasn’t a hint of light. It began to hurt, and more than that it was unnerving.
He forced himself to take a deep breath and closed his eyes so that they were no longer straining. Even through his eyelids the blackness was oppressive, but not unbearable. He could hear frightened breathing close by.
“Much, close your eyes,” he said. “It will help.”
The young man was silent for a few seconds. Robin listened as his breathing slowed.
“Thank you,” Much said.
“How injured are you?”
“I’m not sure.”
He was probably in shock. Once it wore off, things could change quickly. Robin stood there, trying to decide what they should do. He knew that if he attempted again to open the door it would be just as futile as it had been earlier. For whatever reason, his body wouldn’t allow him to touch the blood.
As his breathing and heartbeat came under control he focused on his hearing, trying to discover if there was anything else alive in the room with them. He could hear Much breathing still, and the slow, raspy breath of a soldier who was dying in the darkness. Then he heard something else.
Just a whisper at first.
He strained, trying to make it out. It came again. Was it a footfall? No. That didn’t seem quite right. It sounded again, echoing lightly this time. Again the hair on the back of Robin’s neck stood on end.
Suddenly the sound came again, loud—so loud it filled the chamber and hurt his ears. It was all around him, roaring, triumphant, diabolical.
Laughing.
* * *
When they passed into the forest Marian heaved a sigh of relief. Even though Sherwood itself was threatened, she couldn’t help but feel safe in its embrace. She glanced at her companions.
Friar Tuck looked tired. She was afraid for a moment that he might fall off his horse, but the friar held on doggedly. Riding next to him was Alan. In the bard’s eyes she saw both relief and pain as they passed beneath the trees. He had sustained some sort of injury, but he hadn’t shared what it was. When they got to camp she’d make sure that he was examin
ed thoroughly. He would have to be treated quickly. They couldn’t afford to have anyone sick or injured.
A short time later they made camp. A few months ago they wouldn’t have had the horses with them, for fear they might make a sound that would reveal the location of the refugees. It had been weeks, though, since any dared to enter the forest. Legends about it being haunted had only grown stronger with the rumors of the Hood’s death.
Dismounting, she handed the reins of her horse to one of the men who used to work in the stables. Friar Tuck practically fell out of his saddle, but Alan sat as though frozen, his jaw clenched in pain.
“Alan, can you make it down?” Marian asked.
Slowly he nodded. A second man came up and held the bridle while the bard attempted to dismount. When his foot touched the ground he crumpled with a deep groan. His horse jumped sideways. Fortunately the man holding him knew what he was doing and was quickly able to maneuver the animal away from the fallen man.
Marian knelt. “Tell me what’s wrong... I mean... Show us where you are injured,” she said, having to remind herself yet again that the bard’s days of speaking were over. He reached down and hissed in pain as he slowly pulled up his pant leg. Marian recoiled as she saw the ugly red bite marks in flesh that was already swollen.
“Something bit you?”
He nodded, but it didn’t look like any bite mark she had ever seen.
“Was it a demon?” she asked, hoping she was wrong.
Alan nodded and grimaced. She looked up at Friar Tuck.
“I don’t know how to treat it,” she told him.
The holy man knelt down next to her and studied Alan’s leg carefully. “It looks as though there’s poison in it,” he said after a few moments. Alan nodded fiercely. He pulled a knife off his belt and made as though to cut open the infected skin. Friar Tuck grabbed his hand, staying the action.
“You want us to lance it and drain the poison?”
Alan nodded again. Desperation was starting to creep into his eyes, and it only served to punctuate the fear that was already there.
A trio of boys lingered near, watching with wide eyes. Friar Tuck barked orders at them to get the cook. They scurried off, and a minute later Jansa ran up.
“I need to make a poultice,” Friar Tuck began. He rattled off a list of ingredients and she nodded.
“I can put that together,” she said when he was done.
“Do it quickly, and bring me some bandages and hot water.”
“Hot water I can manage. Clean bandages will be harder.”
“Do what you can,” Friar Tuck urged before turning his attention back to Alan. Marian clenched her fists at her side, wishing they had even a drop of the healing elixir that had cured the pox. Alas, that was all gone.
“Will it be alright?” she asked, wishing she wasn’t asking in Alan’s presence, but needing to know the answer.
“I don’t know,” Friar Tuck admitted. It looked as if it nearly killed him to do so. She met Alan’s eyes. The fear she saw there hurt her. He shook his head slightly and then shrugged his shoulders.
“Is there some sort of ritual that needs to be done?”
“Probably, confound it all,” Tuck said, his face turning bright red. “Where’s a Cardinal when you need one?” He wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “I need to think. There should be something. Casting out demons, counteracting their effects. Curse it all! What is taking that woman so long?” he roared at the last.
Marian put a hand on his arm, trying to offer him what little reassurance she could. She took a deep breath, willing her own heart to stop its frantic beating. It felt like a caged bird in her chest. She’d lost too many friends, and the thought of losing Alan—especially to something like this—was unbearable.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Friar Tuck bowed his head, and she couldn’t tell if he was considering his answer or praying. Either way she waited until he finally lifted it again. He turned to look at her and there were tears of frustration glistening in his eyes.
“Jansa can assist me,” he said, shaking his head. “You should go get some rest.”
She was about to open her mouth to argue with him, but her stomach chose that moment to start roiling. Maybe she should rest, she thought. At the very least, the thought of going somewhere and closing her eyes for a few minutes sounded very appealing.
Marian needed to check in with Chastity, too. Her friend was holding up remarkably well, given all she had gone through, but Marian needed to see her, speak with her, just to reassure both of them.
Slowly she moved toward the tent in which she slept, when she slept. The boys who had brought Jansa were talking anxiously and making gestures toward Alan. She realized that while she recognized Audric and Bartholomew, the third one was unknown to her.
He was pale and painfully thin, with jutting collarbones. His eyes darted everywhere as though they couldn’t be commanded to settle on any one thing. He licked his lips incessantly, looking like a wild, frightened creature ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.
“Audric, who is this?” Marian asked sharply.
“He’s from a village that the Sheriff’s men burned,” Audric replied. “He heard there were those sympathetic to the Hood, living in Sherwood. He had nowhere else to go and he wants to fight the Sheriff bad. So he came into the woods hoping to find someone. One of the scouts found him.”
Marian turned and scrutinized the newcomer carefully.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
The boy looked at her with great, round eyes.
“Ean,” he whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The table had been set with the finest silver, and they dined in an open balcony set high upon one of the castle towers. Large steel baskets held miniature bonfires at each cardinal direction, the flames crackling up as high as a man’s chin. The night air was cold but still, and so the heat cast by the fires warmed them like a spring afternoon.
Henry pulled apart the roasted bird on the platter, fingers glistening in the bright, buttery light. Glynna, sitting across from him, cut her meat with a tiny knife consisting of a wrought stem and a razor-edged triangle about the length of her knuckle. It looked and performed quite like a chirurgeon’s scalpel. She ate in small bites, chewing thoroughly to keep the disgust off her face as Henry’s beard shone brighter with grease. He noticed, but he didn’t care.
The Sheriff drank some dark concoction from a large goblet.
“This is nice.” Henry waved a bone in front of himself. “Squab gets a bit cool on the trip all the way up here, but it is tasty.”
“We will give your regards to the chef,” Glynna said.
Henry’s eyebrow went up. “You speak to the kitchen staff?”
“No,” Glynna replied, cutting another strip of meat, “but since you liked their meal we will not have them killed today.”
Henry studied her for signs of humor. He found none as she put food in her mouth and chewed while looking at him the way a cat looks at their own shadow.
A knock came from behind them.
“Enter,” the Sheriff called out.
The door swung open to reveal a soldier. His uniform was filthy, covered in dirt and dried blood. He stumbled in, nearly going to the ground as he drew near. He made it to the table before dropping, the bones of his knees thunking hollowly on the stone beside the Sheriff’s chair.
The Sheriff swung his hand out, letting it drape before the soldier. The man leaned down and pressed his lips to the back of the milk pale fingers. The Sheriff nodded, accepting tribute. He pulled his hand away and spoke.
“What has happened?”
The soldier’s mouth opened, and his throat moved, but all that came out was a rattling hiss.
“What was that?” Glynna asked, taking a drink from her wineglass. The soldier closed his mouth and swallowed, jaw working to create even a bit of moisture.
“A drink please,” he croaked out.
“
Give your report, or I will throw you off the balcony,” the Sheriff said.
The soldier nodded, swallowing several more times. Finally, he managed a whisper.
“The gold has been stolen.”
“Who would dare!” Glynna cried.
“The Hood,” the man rasped. “He is back. I saw him with my own eyes.”
“The Hood?” Henry asked.
“A low thief who travels around the forest, stealing my gold,” the Sheriff said. “I killed him months ago. You passed his head on a spike, on the road that brought you here.”
Henry studiously refrained from observing that there were many heads sitting atop lances along the road to the castle.
“The Hood is dead,” the Sheriff said with finality.
“He is not,” the soldier answered. The Sheriff glared at him and he went limp, face falling to the stone floor with the same force his knees had. From there his voice was muffled. “I am sorry to bear ill tidings, my lord, but he attacked us and took the taxes.”
The Sheriff leaned forward, taking Glynna’s dainty knife from her dainty hand. He speared a morsel on its point, placed it into his mouth, and began chewing it. Pulling it from between his teeth he leaned slightly away from the soldier, letting his hand fall.
The hand holding Glynna’s knife.
The soldier tried again to apologize when the Sheriff drew the tiny blade, just big enough to nick an artery, across the man’s throat. Blood sprayed in a wide fan that washed the Sheriff’s dark armor, running in streams and rivulets off its shiny slick surface. The dead man slumped and then slid sideways as if he were a puppet whose strings had been severed. The Sheriff handed the delicate knife back to his love and turned to Henry.
“Finish your chicken,” he said. “Gather your men, and go into the forest. Find and fetch me the head of this rebellion.”
Henry turned his attention back to his plate.
* * *
Alan waited for his friend to cut him open. His entire leg felt like it was on fire. He began to scratch at it, and once he started it only got worse. He scratched faster and harder until blood bubbled up in a dozen places. Tears welled in his eyes and began to fall.
Sovereign's War Page 18