He gouged at his own skin with his fingernails, starting to tear out hunks of it as the agonizing fire grew and the itching consumed him, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. What passed for a scream was wrenched from him, and he began to thrash on the ground.
God, take the itching and the pain, he begged in a fit of agony.
Or take me.
Tuck and Jansa came running up. They hit the ground next to him and grabbed his hands, trying to pull them away from his bloody skin. He fought back. They had no idea how terrible it was. The scratching brought fresh pain, but also a momentary sense of relief. He knew the itching came back double, but he was beyond being able to control himself.
He who had always been entirely in control of his mind and body.
Alan had never been drunk, because that was to lose control. He had never allowed himself to fall in love because that was to lose himself. When John had taken his tongue he’d never lost his pride, his dignity. His mind had remained clear and wholly his during the torture.
But this... this agony sent his mind skittering out of control. Logic, reason didn’t matter. In his mind he screamed prayers to any deity who would listen—desperate, nonsensical words filling his mind. Nor would his body obey his commands. He wasn’t himself anymore. He was slipping away. Every painful moment was part of the larger tapestry of chaos that reigned supreme within him.
He was...
He was...
I can’t even remember my own name.
His hand flashed out and he grabbed at the knife that Friar Tuck held in his left hand. If only he could get the blade, he could plunge it into his own breast and end this torment.
“Hold him!”
The friar bellowed to someone, though Alan didn’t know or care who. Hands—at least he thought they were hands—grabbed him, pushing him down on his back on the ground. Someone knelt on his shoulder. Someone else straightened his leg.
He screamed more, a choking, incoherent sound.
Just kill me!
Just kill me!
He wept because they could not hear him. Then, he saw the knife in the big man’s hands. It lifted into the air and then came plunging down. For a moment pain worse than anything he had ever dreamed could exist flashed through him… and then all was darkness.
* * *
Friar Tuck sobbed for his friend, for the agony he was in. He sobbed because he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to help. He sobbed because he couldn’t remember the stupid words to any blessing or prayer that might bring healing to the man who had gone deathly still beneath his knife.
So he did all that he could. He cut into the swollen flesh. Black and green and yellow liquid exploded outward, spraying him and Jansa. The stench of rotten meat filled the air.
Dear Lord in heaven, how did the wound become infected so quickly?
Resolutely he continued, trying to cut out all the infection. Tears stung his eyes and clouded his vision. He couldn’t wipe them away because his sleeves were covered with his friend’s blood and the poison that was raging within him.
“I’ve never seen this,” Jansa said, her voice shaking with horror.
“A demon bit him,” Tuck gritted, unable to keep the grief and fear from his voice.
“Dear heavens. How far has the poison spread?”
“I don’t know.”
“You might need to take the leg.” It was one of the men who had been a friend to Little John.
“I can’t,” Tuck wailed. “It would kill him.” The same thought had already come to him.
“It might kill him,” Jansa said. “The poison will definitely kill him, if you can’t get it all.”
“No, I can’t,” Tuck said doggedly. He hadn’t the skill. He hadn’t the courage. “I don’t know how to do it and save him. I won’t.” He was babbling and he knew it.
Jansa laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get out everything we can then, and put on the poultice. We’ll pray and we’ll find some other way.”
He nodded. There had to be another way. But even as he told himself that, he couldn’t get the horrible feeling out of his heart and his soul.
No matter what he did or didn’t do, Alan was going to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Much was afraid, but he trusted Lord Robin. Lord Robin would figure out a way to get them out of there. That’s what he kept repeating over and over in his mind, to try and block out the laughter.
The laughter seemed to be coming from all around them. That shouldn’t be possible, Much thought, but then again blood shouldn’t be able to climb walls, and yet somehow it had done just that. Lord Longstride had warned them that the king of the castle was in league with the devil. Clearly he was right. Not that Much had ever doubted him in the first place.
“At the back of the room, there was a doorway but the door wasn’t shut,” Robin said.
“I remember seeing that,” Much said.
“That’s where we have to go. We can’t touch the blood on the walls, but without a door we should be able to walk right through.”
It sounded like a good plan. Much wondered where the doorway led, and he hoped that they could find King Richard by going that way. Really he just wanted out of the room that they were in very, very badly.
“How do we find our way there?” Much asked.
“Carefully,” Robin said, his voice grim. “I can navigate fairly well in the dark.”
Much wasn’t about to argue with him. If Lord Robin said he could, then he could. A moment later a hand descended on Much’s shoulder, and he jumped.
“It’s me,” Robin said.
Together they started walking, slowly. Much trusted Lord Robin to lead the way. They would go a few feet, pause, and then walk a few more. Much wasn’t sure, but he thought they had made it about halfway down the hall when all of a sudden the laughter stopped.
Lord Robin came to a halt.
The silence was as thick as the darkness.
“Why did it stop?” Much asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” Robin said.
Much tensed. He tightened his grip on the knife he’d used for most of the fight, knowing he should have picked up a sword from one of the guards. Old Soldier had made sure he could fight with a sword, although he was better with the knife. If more of the enemy was coming for them, though, they wouldn’t be able to see them to fight.
They won’t be able to see us either, Much realized. It was some comfort, but what if the king had demon soldiers that they hadn’t run into yet? Could those see in the dark?
A shiver crawled its way up his spine and shook him hard.
“Are you okay?” Robin asked.
“Yes,” Much hastened to reassure him. He didn’t want Lord Robin to know that he was scared of what might be waiting for them.
“Let’s keep going,” Robin said. They took a couple of steps, when suddenly Much felt like something was standing on his other side. Pain knifed through his arm as though he’d been scratched by something. He swore.
“What’s wrong?” Robin asked.
“Something scratched me,” Much said, hating that his voice was shaking a bit.
“What?”
“I don’t know. I felt like there was someone or something next to me, and then the scratch.”
“Is there something next to you still?” Robin asked tensely.
“I can’t feel anything.”
“Tell me if there’s anything else.”
“I will,” Much promised.
Slowly they started walking again.
* * *
Robin was sweating, and it was taking a lot of effort not to swear with every step. That wouldn’t help calm either of them down, though, and calm was desperately needed.
Something had scratched Much in the darkness. Robin had a terrible feeling that something had been a demon. Walking through the dark, feeling that there were hostile eyes watching them, reminded him of the night he’d tried to assassinate John i
n his bedchamber.
This darkness was alive, writhing around them. As much as he tried to ignore it, to focus on their destination, he couldn’t. Every time he stepped forward he had the sensation of something backing up just a couple more inches to keep him from running into it.
They were being taunted, toyed with.
That feeling was growing stronger with every passing moment. He’d hoped briefly that the cessation of the laughter had been a good sign. Now, though, he feared it was just the beginning of something diabolical.
His senses felt as if they were on fire, and he was starting to get overwhelmed. He couldn’t keep his mind off the things slithering in the dark, just beyond reach. They would be coming for Much and him soon. The question that remained was how to fight them.
He wondered again where the doorway would lead them—if and when they reached it. He prayed that once they were out of this room there would be light again, and they’d be able to find their way out of the castle.
If they could do all that and find King Richard, too, then they’d be unstoppable. Of course, at the moment all of it seemed highly unlikely. Robin prayed that his father and Old Soldier were faring better outside.
* * *
The bodies began to pile up. Between the soldiers they’d killed and the corpses of the slain nobles, it was getting hard to find places to step where he wouldn’t be walking on bodies or tripping over heads.
“How many more, can you tell?” he asked.
“No,” Old Soldier said with a grunt as he pulled his blade free of another opponent. “But let’s assume a couple hundred. That way, if it’s less, we can be pleasantly surprised.”
“I’d forgotten what an optimist you are,” Philemon said sarcastically. “We need to set our soldiers free, and we can’t do that from here.”
“We also need to survive, and here we have the advantage. We’ve figured out where to step.”
“Mostly,” Philemon said as he felt his heel come down on what was probably a hand. There was no time to readjust his footing as another attacker came charging at him. The man’s sword whizzed past his ear and he cursed before slashing his attacker across the throat.
A sudden thought occurred to him.
They didn’t even know if their countrymen were here and being held alive. After all, the nobles had been slaughtered. If the fighting men weren’t alive, then he and Old Soldier needed to flee. If they were alive, and close by, they needed to know help was on its way, and that they should fight with whatever they had in them. The enemy already knew exactly where he and Old Soldier were, so he had nothing to lose…
“Good Christian men of England,” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “I am Philemon Longstride! Can you hear me?”
A voice rang through the darkness, and his heart leapt.
“Aye, Lord Longstride, we hear you!” It was a familiar voice, but he couldn’t place the man to whom it belonged. “We are here!”
“We are fighting to free you,” he called back. “Do what you can, and we will reach you shortly.”
A cheer rose up and he was heartened to realize all the voices came from nearby.
“Awfully optimistic, aren’t you,” Old Soldier muttered. “Still, that’s one question answered.”
“Now, to get them,” Philemon said.
“And just how do you plan to do that?”
“Simple,” Philemon answered. “We attack.” Saying that, he lunged forward, sword hacking left and right as he ran through the enemies who stood against him. So startled were they that he gained ground quickly. Behind him he heard Old Soldier curse as he started after him.
He killed some of the enemy soldiers, others he knocked to the side with his charge. Out of the darkness he could see a fence of some sort, looming up just ahead. That had to be where they were holding their men.
“We are almost to you!” he shouted.
“Hurry!” the familiar voice called back.
He reached the fence, grabbed it, and looked through to see men lying on the ground in masses. His heart stuttered. He wondered where the ones who were cheering had been.
“Where are you!” he bellowed.
“Right here, Lord Longstride!”
He turned his head to the side and his blood ran cold as he realized he was staring into the face of a traitor.
* * *
Robin could feel the darkness shifting, moving around them. It was alive. He forced himself to keep his eyes closed, knowing there was still nothing he’d be able to see and the attempt to make out anything would pull attention away from his other senses. The result could be deadly.
Something brushed past him and it caused him to jerk. In turn Much jumped, as well. He wanted to stop moving, but their only hope of survival was getting out of this room. He forced himself to keep going as steadily as he could.
He stepped on something that slithered beneath his boot and he quickly kicked it to the side. Then he paused for a second and could hear Much starting to mutter under his breath. It took a moment for him to realize the young man was praying.
“Much, keep praying,” Robin said softly, “but do it silently. I need to hear what’s around us.”
Much stopped speaking, and silence once again descended. In it Robin’s ears were straining nearly as much as his eyes had been earlier. Whatever was in the room with them was moving without making any noise. As they began to move forward he wished that they were also silent, but each footfall sounded as if it was made by a giant.
At least he knew they were headed the right way. The one time they’d drifted too close to the wall his foot had refused to move forward until he adjusted direction. By his calculation they had probably walked almost two thirds of the length of the room. They just needed to stay focused and keep moving.
A sudden whispering broke the silence, and he was about to reprimand Much when he realized it wasn’t the miller’s son. The sound came from all around them, sometimes near, sometimes far. He couldn’t make out the words, but the menace behind them was clear.
He heard something directly in front of him and he slashed at the space with his sword. It was empty, nothing was there. Suddenly, something wet and hot licked the back of his neck. He spun with a shout, nearly toppling Much in the process. Again he swung his sword and again he connected with nothing.
Standing still for a moment, limbs trembling, he tried to calm his mind. Whatever was there didn’t want them to leave the room. It tried to distract and confuse him. Very deliberately he turned to one side.
“Are you all right?” he asked Much as he put a hand back on his shoulder.
“Yes,” Much whispered, his voice shaking.
“We need to keep walking. Whatever we hear, or feel, or think we feel, we have to ignore it. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” But the young man sounded doubtful.
He turned again and began to walk forward. The whispers intensified. Something brushed Robin’s arm but he ignored it. All that mattered was getting out. Something else swiped at his calf, causing a sting of pain. He gritted his teeth and kept moving. Something tugged on his ear and it took all his will not to shout and start swatting at it.
It’s not there, he told himself. You’ve tried attacking it with your sword, twice, and there was nothing there. Just keep going. It wants you to stop, wants you to lose focus and become trapped in here.
He forced one foot in front of the other, keeping his hand clamped tight on Much’s shoulder. The two of them were going to make it out of this together. They just had to keep walking.
He stepped again on something that slithered and again kicked it to the side, but without missing a stride this time. An invisible hand yanked his hair. The whispers grew louder and he knew they had almost made it. Then, suddenly, from behind him in the darkness, back where he had been licked, he heard something that made his blood run cold.
“Lord Robin, why haven’t we started walking yet?” Much asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
&nbs
p; Robin stood, frozen to the spot, his hand still on what he had thought was Much’s shoulder. His mouth had gone completely dry as he struggled to decide which was the real Much—the shoulder he was touching, or the voice behind him in the darkness.
“Much,” he whispered, “can you hear me?”
There was no sound from whatever was standing next to him.
“Much!” he called loudly. “Where are you?”
“Standing here, waiting to walk. You said we were going to walk and not stop for anything. We haven’t started yet, though. Why is your voice coming from so far away?”
“Much, is my hand on your shoulder?”
“Yes, Lord Robin.”
He wanted to thrust his sword into whatever was standing next to him, but even through the haze of terror in his mind he reminded himself that he couldn’t be sure which was real and which was the trick.
If Much was standing next to him, why didn’t he speak? Was it because something was keeping him from doing it? Every instinct told him that the real miller’s son was the one behind him. He’d taken his hand off the man’s shoulder when the thing had licked his neck. It was possible that when he reached out again, that this thing had been there instead.
Sweat poured off him as he tried to determine what to do. Whatever he decided, he had to do it quickly. He twisted and kicked out. If it was Much, he would stagger and cry out under the onslaught. His boot connected with something solid, but it didn’t give.
With an oath he let go of the thing he’d been holding and swung his sword around. It sang through the air but connected with nothing. Whatever it was, it had moved or become immaterial again.
“Much, I need you to walk toward the sound of my voice,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
There was a pause and then Much spoke up.
“I can’t, you’re holding me back.”
“Much, I’m not the one holding your shoulder,” he said.
Much gave a shout of panic and Robin heard the sound of a fist hitting something. Much shouted again and there was a mighty thud as of someone or something hitting the floor.
Sovereign's War Page 19