“Long live the Lionheart!” Philemon bellowed. He glanced to the sky. He had no idea how long the battle had been raging or when dawn might be coming. He wasn’t sure if it would show them more horrors, but he hoped it would drive at least some of the darkness back.
“We are winning,” Old Soldier shouted to him.
Whether or not he believed it or was just trying to bring relief and reassurance Philemon didn’t know. Either way he was grateful, because he felt his spirit lift just hearing the words.
“We’ll have them all slain before King Richard can join the party,” he said.
“The King might thank you for that. Then again, he might wish you left a couple alive for him,” Old Soldier grunted. But Philemon was worried that the king might be fighting more than his share inside the castle.
“I’ll gladly let him yell at me for a fortnight.”
He’d welcome Richard and Robin yelling at him for a lifetime, if it meant they both made it out of the castle alive.
“Robin’s going to be just fine,” Old Soldier said. “He’s a cunning fighter,” he added as he bested another man. “I never saw his match with the bow and arrow, and he’s not bad with a sword either.”
“I hope so, since a sword is what he has.”
“It will be more than enough, you’ll see,” Old Soldier said, grunting as he blocked the blade of a particularly large opponent who had arms the size of tree trunks.
“Need any help with Goliath there?” Philemon asked.
“Nah, you know what they say.”
“What’s that?”
In response Old Soldier dropped to the ground and swung his sword, which sliced clean through the giant’s knee. The man screamed in agony as he toppled backward.
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall?” Philemon offered.
“If you need a leg up, cut them off at the knees.” Old Soldier wiped gore off his face with the back of his sleeve.
Philemon shook his head and turned back just in time to face a soldier who was charging him. He got his sword up to block at the last possible second and cursed himself for not paying close enough attention to what was happening around him. This wasn’t over, and he needed to remember that or it would be his son doing the mourning.
* * *
Robin became convinced that he was going in the right direction because the whispers grew louder, more incessant. He could almost hear what they were saying, but he didn’t try, instead working to block them out. Something brushed against him and he lashed out, but did not turn his body.
Every step forward was harder and harder to make, as though he were walking through a snowdrift. He had to push his foot forward each time. He realized in anguish that his progress had been slowed to a crawl. His feet were mired, though there was nothing actually holding them—at least, nothing that he could see or feel.
“Get away from me!” he shouted. The words sounded muffled, as though he were listening to someone speaking from far away, behind a closed door. Nor was there an echo. It was as if what he said was held captive.
Which meant no one would hear him, no matter how loudly he screamed. If King Richard still lived and made it back, they might spend days within a couple of feet of each other and never know it. The thought brought new panic.
His father and Old Soldier would be fighting their way through the enemy soon, if they weren’t already. They were counting on him to get the king out of the castle. Yet he wasn’t even going to get himself out.
The darkness became even more solid. He started to feel fingers plucking at his clothes. He shouted the first couple of times and then gave up. He tried swatting the air, but there was nothing there. Whatever was there could touch him, but he couldn’t touch it.
Lifting his right foot he tried to push it forward, but couldn’t. He strained with all his might until his muscles were quivering.
At last with a gasp he managed to get his foot down in exactly the same place it had been when he picked it up. He stood, trapped as though in quagmire. Something punched him in the stomach and he doubled over, fighting to keep his balance. Robin knew that if he went down it would all be over.
Something kicked him in the back of his right knee. Even as it buckled he frantically threw his weight onto his left leg. He overshifted, though, and nearly fell straight to the left. His arms flailed wildly.
God help me!
There was no way out.
“You’re going to die,” a voice cackled just behind him.
Robin shouted and tried to twist, swinging his sword up. There was nothing there. He twisted back around. Despair roiled within him. The voice was right. He was going to die here.
Suddenly, a blinding white light flooded the far end of the room. Robin could see it even through his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes and yelped in pain at the brightness after so much darkness. There was something in the center of it. He squinted. He must be dead and an angel was come to take him.
Then it moved, and he realized that he knew the stride, the stride of a man who was confident in his own rightness, assured of everything he did. King Richard ran toward him, sword held aloft.
The blinding white light came from the weapon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Sire!” Robin shouted. The king looked to be twenty feet away. As Richard held the sword high, Robin heard the darkness around him.
It screamed in pain and terror.
“Back to hell with all of you!” Richard roared.
The darkness ran from him and the light from the sword began to fill the room. Robin struggled to move his feet. Whatever had hold of them was losing its grip as the king approached. Richard had a large sack slung over his shoulder. Setting it down, he reached into it with his free hand and pulled out a short sword.
“Catch!” he shouted, throwing the blade to Robin. The sword spun in the air and Robin was able to snatch the hilt without slicing his hand open on the blade. As soon as he grasped it the weapon blazed forward with light just as blinding as that which came from the king’s sword.
He slashed downward, seemingly through thin air, but heard more screaming. Whatever had hold of his feet let go, and the darkness retreated back to the corners of the room. Thus freed, he raced across the room, slashing with the weapon until there was only light shining throughout the chamber.
In the light he could clearly see Much’s body, and it tore at him. He turned away, looking back to King Richard who stood, hair fanned out around him like a mane. The lionheart had never looked fiercer.
“You and the boy killed them all?” he asked, gesturing to the fallen soldiers.
“Yes,” Robin said, barely finding his voice.
“When did the darkness kill him?” he asked, gesturing to Much as he strode forward.
Robin shook his head. “Five minutes, half an hour, I don’t know. Time didn’t pass in the normal way.”
Richard strode over to Much’s body. He stared down at him for a second.
“Brave lad,” he said.
“As brave as I’ve ever known.”
Richard dropped to one knee. “God Almighty, if it be Your Will, we ask that you return this warrior to us,” he prayed. He lifted his sword and placed it on Much’s shoulder as though knighting him.
Robin stared in wonder.
Suddenly light seemed to shoot out of the body, and before his eyes he saw the wounds on the body heal and disappear. King Richard lifted the sword and stood up.
“Rise, Much,” he said, his voice full of authority.
The young man’s eyelids flickered and then opened. He sat up abruptly and then, hesitantly, as though unsure of himself, climbed to his feet. He gathered his balance, rose to his full height, and stood there, blinking in the light.
“I heard you calling me, sire,” Much said to Richard, his voice shaky but recognizable. “You did, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Richard said. “It wasn’t time for you to leave us yet.”
Much nodded as thoug
h he understood. Then he turned and looked at Robin and his eyes lit up.
“You’re alright!”
“I am,” Robin said hoarsely. He walked forward and grabbed Much’s shoulder, desperately needing to convince himself that what he was seeing was real and not some illusion. “And so are you.” He flicked his eyes to King Richard. “How?”
Richard hefted the sword. “These were a gift from His Holiness, brought from the heart of Rome. The blood of martyrs and saints has infused them. They have been blessed and had magic worked into them. They can drive back the darkness, when ordinary steel can’t. If we act quickly enough, they can also restore what evil has taken.” He looked at the miller’s son. “A few more minutes, and he would have been beyond our reach.”
“They can restore?” Robin asked hopefully as he stared at the blade he was holding.
“Only what has been taken unnaturally,” the king replied. Robin nodded, then he glanced around.
“We need to leave,” he said. “Did you find the pagan king? Is he still a threat?”
Richard hesitated. “Wulfhere is still here. I lost him when he fled from the room. In searching I found these and knew we would need them when we made it back to England.”
“We can’t worry about him at the moment,” Robin said. “We have men outside working to free your army—my father, Old Soldier, and Sir Lawrence. We must move quickly to help them.”
“My army?” Richard said. “They are still alive?
“I think so, but if we don’t go now and help, they might be dead before the first light of dawn.”
Richard nodded. “Lead the way.”
Robin turned and moved swiftly toward the main doors. The blood had disappeared from them, and from the walls. Where it had gone he didn’t know. When he reached out he braced himself, just in case some spell still remained. His hand touched wood, though, and with relief he threw the doors open.
Holding the sword aloft he hurried out.
Father, we’re coming, he thought. Hold on.
* * *
If he had been tired before, now Philemon was exhausted—he could barely move his arm. His sword felt like it weighed more than his entire body.
Old Soldier had switched hands and had been fighting with his sword in his left hand for ten minutes or so. That lent him new vigor, and Philemon envied him the ability. He had never learned to fight with both hands, though, so he didn’t dare try.
All around him the night seemed to be growing darker. At first he thought it was his imagination, but he quickly realized that it was not. It might have meant the dawn was coming soon, but he feared that the darkness was more unnatural than natural. All he could do was pray that it was a sign of the new day, and not an omen of their doom.
* * *
They followed the clash of battle outside the castle, coming over a small ridge to find men standing on a mass of corpses outside a shabby pen of mud. The swords lit the scene, and it took Robin only a moment to spot his father and Old Soldier, both covered in bloody grime. They crouched back-to-back, surrounded by enemies who looked younger, stronger, and fresher than they. Scattered here and there other soldiers fought, in pairs and in groups, ragged Englishmen against outlaw barbarians.
Robin charged down the ridge toward the men trying to kill his father and his friend. He didn’t shout or unleash a war cry, but ran with the short sword in his fist, living up to his surname as his legs devoured the distance.
Plowing into the back of one of Wulfhere’s soldiers, he drove him off his feet to tumble headlong. Old Soldier didn’t miss a beat, swiping his notched blade across the base of the man’s neck. The sword was too ragged to cut so crushed the skin and flesh and bone. The corpse fell with its helm skewing almost completely around.
Robin spun, slashing out with the sword, feeling it thud against the bodies of the men directly to his left and right. The soldier on the left folded around his wound, dropping to his knees as his own blood spilled between his fingers. The one on the right had a bracer of boiled leather around his middle that ate the slash, saving his intestines from being spilled.
He leaned back, moving away, as Robin twisted on his forward foot and drove the sword with his weight behind a straight thrust. The soldier looked surprised another blow came so quickly. Surprised all the way to the red mud in which he fell.
The fury claimed Robin, riding him. It weighed on his back, making him feel wild and out of control. He jerked his eyes around, searching for another opponent, when he was pulled short by the blast of a trumpet.
On the ridge stood Wulfhere. As everyone turned toward, him he tossed the hunting horn away.
“Enough of this,” he bellowed
To Robin’s left, King Richard spoke up, “Then surrender.”
“I will have your head roasting on my brazier.”
“Is that a challenge to combat, Wulfhere?”
The robber king looked at the men he had remaining. They stared at him with cold judgment and Robin understood that his position was held by strength of arm alone. Wulfhere could not refuse an open challenge on the field of battle. If he did, his own men would fall upon him like wolves on a carcass.
“We fight as we are,” he growled.
“I win my freedom and the freedom of all under my protection,” Richard said—but it wasn’t the pagan king who replied. A hulking man holding a fearsome war hammer, its head and shaft matted with gore, stepped forward.
“Aye,” he said. If Wulfhere fell, this man would become the new warlord.
The pagan king spoke again. “And I win the skin of you and everyone under your protection.”
“Not our lives?”
“I will leave you your life,” Wulfhere said. “Mayhap you will be strong enough to hold on to it without your skin.”
Richard sighed. It was the best deal he would receive.
“My oath.”
“And mine.” Wulfhere filled his hands with axe and sword. Without another word, the two combatants rushed each other as their men formed a circle and roared out encouragement.
* * *
Sparks fell into Richard’s eyes, knocked from the edge of the holy sword. He grunted at the impact, the axe blow shuddering pain from his wrist to his armpit.
He was going to die at Wulfhere’s hand.
The pagan king was fierce, stoutly muscled and driven with a feral cunning that lent itself to combat. Richard kicked out, driving his foot into Wulfhere’s hip—not enough to hurt him, but enough to drive them apart so he could catch his breath. The time in captivity had lessened him. The battle had taken the rest of his strength.
The respite lasted only a moment. Wulfhere lunged again, this time swinging up the wide, short sword he favored. Richard danced, striking down with the holy blade to drive away his enemy’s weapon. Wulfhere fought for more than his position as leader—he was fighting for his life. It was powerful motivation.
Richard fought for all their lives.
His foot slipped on a rock.
Wulfhere was there, windmilling the axe and sword in a web of mutilation and death. Richard scrambled back, using every bit of hard-won skill to survive. Behind him, through the chants of the men around him, came a familiar voice. A voice he had heard as a boy, speaking to his father—and then to him as if he were his father.
“Be yourself,” Old Soldier said.
The words rattled in his skull.
Be yourself.
Wulfhere swung the axe, almost catching a shin, but Richard was too quick.
The pagan king was a wolf.
But Richard was a lion.
Be yourself.
The next time Wulfhere lunged toward him Richard changed, not dancing away from the blade but lunging over it. He slipped past the sword that was thrust toward his heart. He used his own arm to trap Wulfhere’s against his body. The pagan king’s eyes went wide in surprise, but he immediately swung the axe up, looking to bury it in his enemy’s skull.
Richard leaned back, pulling Wulfh
ere off balance. Before he could recover, Richard had the edge of his sword pressed against his throat.
“Yield,” he growled.
“Never.”
“I am a king of mercy.”
“I am not.” Wulfhere spat in his eyes. “I will come for you. I will hunt you. I will track every person you love or loves you, and I will destroy them.” The man sought death.
“I believe you,” Richard said softly.
Wulfhere’s head came free of his body before Richard drew half the sword length through his throat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Every man among them was exhausted—practically dead on his feet—yet all were happy to march if it meant getting away from the place of so much misery and loss. They had taken what horses they could from the stables, but there were still many who had to walk.
“I think we need to stop and make camp, rest a while. Eat, sleep,” Robin said. They were about five miles from the castle and more and more were staggering. Many were held up by comrades who were in nearly as bad a shape.
He didn’t like it. Every bone in his body urged him to get back to England before things got even worse there. He worried for his friends and particularly for Marian.
“That would be wise,” King Richard agreed. “Halt! Set up camp, as well as possible,” he called out. “Eat and rest as much as you can. We have a hard road ahead of us, and we will resume in the morning.”
Nearly a third of the men toppled to the ground, most falling instead of simply trying to sit. A chorus of weary groans rose all around.
“We have no food to give them,” Robin noted.
“Actually, thanks to Old Soldier we do,” Philemon said. “As we prepared for you to enter the castle, he acquired a stash of food. It’s about a mile from here. We left it fairly well hidden with a wagon. We can take a horse and go to bring it back.”
“I should have known,” Robin said wryly, then he quickly added, “I’ll go.” Though his father stood straight as an arrow, there was an unfortunate pallor to his face.
“I’ll go with him, to show him the way,” Old Soldier said. Philemon looked as if he wanted to object, and Robin put a hand on his shoulder.
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