Which is why, even now, the massed armies of Nottingham marched north, to the forest. To end the threat of the outlaws, the danger they posed to the Shiriff’s easy lifestyle, once and for all.
The Woodsman knew the outlaws, had lived with them, fought alongside them for what seemed a lifetime now, though in fact it may have only been a couple of years at most. And he knew that their cause was just. And any just cause, he would lay down his life for, gladly. He knew that, should the hordes of mercenaries arrive tomorrow, baying and bellowing their battle-cries at the border of the forests, he would gladly and bravely lead the Foresters into battle alongside the outlaws of Sherwood. He knew not whether they would win; this battle ahead proved to be far harder than those of before; out on the fields, rather than within the forest itself.
Yet that would not deter him.
He knew not whether he was, himself, invincible; whether he could survive this coming battle. Since the desperate fight against the Khrdas, within the great hall of Pen-Merethia, when Stone had imparted his revelations to him with but a gaze of those green eyes, the Woodsman had, but once, come across a foe his equal; the great armoured berserker, Bavard, clad in his foul iron encrusted with glowing runes and wielding his mighty warhammer. Even then, he had risen again, thanks to the sacrifice of the shaman Wrynn.
And he had found himself growing stronger, faster, his senses more keen all the time. Surely there would be nothing out there on the plains tomorrow that might be his equal? Nothing in this world of mortals, where magic was all-but-unknown and men wore coats of mail rather than slabs of ensorcelled iron, could pose a threat, could it?
Maybe it could, who knew? A stray arrow or crossbow bolt. A stampeding horse, flailing with its iron-shod hooves. Anything, any small and otherwise insignificant detail in the swirling chaos of battle could prove deadly, could leap out to kill an unwary man at the most unlikely of moments. Even such a man as he.
Yet, again, this did not deter him. For what better way to go out, what better legacy to leave than to be struck down fighting for the rights of common people against a cruel and uncaring tyrant? No, that did not deter him.
But something else did.
There was a feeling, in the back of his skull. A nagging, a pulling, a pressure almost. It was like the tension in the air before a great storm. And it had nothing to do with the battle ahead. No. he had felt this before; the approach of great power, sending ripples before it. He knew that it could mean only one thing.
But, despite everything, he hoped against hope that it wouldn’t happen too soon. As much as he knew his destiny, as he knew that he and his brave Foresters had a calling, a great part in the future of mankind, he could not even think to abandon his new friends here.
Without the Foresters fighting alongside them, the outlaws would be crushed in battle with the Shiriff’s men. And, despite the humility within him, that kept him grounded at all times, Alann knew that without him, axe high, leading the charge, the morale of the commoners would falter and break. If he fell in battle, that was one thing; that would merely enrage the outlaws, make them fight all the harder.
But if he were to not fight at all…
Alann gazed about the dying fire at the faces in the night air. They were glum; they had already discussed their plans for the battle on the morrow and had now retreated into themselves, just as he had, mulling over their own feelings about things past and things to come. He could not burden any of them with his worries. None would understand. Not even Iain, sat there, mug of ale in his hands as he stared into the orange flames, would understand fully.
No. Only the Three with whom he shared a subtle bond of Stone’s revelation, might stand a chance of understanding. But where they were, in space and time, Alann didn’t know.
This night, about this fire, even in the company of such brave heroes as these common folk, Alann the Woodsman was alone with his thoughts.
***
The horses milled about, uneasy, whinnying in the cold, morning air, trails of their breath streaming from flaring nostrils and past nervous, equine eyes. The clouds overhead were dark, menacing. Ominous.
Gisborne didn’t like it. But this only fuelled his bloodlust.
Horse shimmying beneath him in tension, he looked out, first to his left, then to his right. A thousand men-at-arms, a mixture of city guards and mercenaries. They stood in serried ranks, poleaxes, halberds, spears, all held aloft, swaying gently in the stiff breeze. Their faces as dark as the clouds above them. Archers, too, by the score, ready to unleash a storm of arrows should the enemy show their face. His officers clustered near, atop their own gaudily barded steeds.
Between the regiments of soldiers, war-machines; catapults, laden with tar, ready to be lit on fire once they drew near enough. Ready to lay waste to the vast, dense blanket of green before them. Ready to burn the forest to the ground.
And with it, all resistance to the Shiriff and his whims.
A cruel smile twisted Gisborne’s scarred face; let the outlaws come out and try to defend their home, if they dared. He had men enough to slaughter them all, should they try. What a choice, to burn alive in your homes, or to come out and face your foe. Death, certain and merciless, either way. One merely quicker than the other.
He would be interested to see which they would choose.
He turned to his second-in-command, Lucian, a man chosen more for his strident voice than his skill at arms, giving a nod. Lucian turned his own horse about, till he faced the hordes behind them, raising his sword arm into the air and calling out, his voice clear, loud, in the cold, morning air.
“Warriors of the Shiriff! Loyal king’s-men! Today is the day you do your rulers proud! Today is the day we put to an end the treachery of the outlaws and rid our green land of their pox! What say you, o’ brave men of Nottingham?”
A roar answered him, the bellowing of a thousand war-hungry men.
With a smile, Lucian turned to his leader, giving him a nod.
“The men are yours, Gisborne. Lead us to victory.”
The leader grinned.
“Let’s have ourselves a little fire…”
At the sound of trumpets, men began to push upon wheeled catapults, and the entire host began to march, slowly, determinedly, towards the forest.
***
John’s heart beat within his chest as he crouched down in the darkness of the hide. It always did. No matter how big the man, no matter how strong, it was impossible not to feel a flutter of fear within the breast at times like this.
With the thought of violence but moments away.
He could hear the breathing of the nervous men all about him in the enclosed space. He could hear the stomping of feet on earth, of the Shiriff’s men as they passed by above and all about them. He strained his ears, listening for the tell-tale rumble. There; the earth beginning to quiver slightly, loose bits of soil rattling from the sides of the dugout, blades of grass falling from the wicker cover above their heads.
“Steady, men,” he whispered, as quietly as he could. “Steady… steady…” The rumble was close, now, nearly on top of them. “Now!”
With a heave of his mighty limbs, John threw the wicker-sheet away from them and the outlaws rose up with a roar from their hiding place dug into the very field before the forest. The catapult was before them, but five yards away, the men that pushed it starting in shock and fear as the earth in front of them seemed to open up to disgorge snarling warriors into their path. As the outlaws charged, one of the catapult crew seemed to recover, drawing his short-sword and charging towards John with a cry.
A sweep from that mighty quarter-staff, the blade being dashed out of the man’s hands. A second sweep, thrusting into the soldier’s midsection, doubling him over with a drive of the wind from his lungs. Then a final, bone-breaking swing downwards, cracking the man’s head like an egg-shell and sending him sprawling, lifeless, to the ground.
With a roar of challenge, John turned to face the other foes, but his men had
done their work, cutting down their enemy in short order. This catapult was out of action. One down. A little victory. A brief respite.
The big man looked about, taking in the scope of the battle all about him. Outlaws and Foresters had erupted from their cunning hiding places; ditches and dugouts throughout the fields, concealing them well until the last possible second. The melee swirled all about. The rebels had the elements of surprise and they were using that advantage to the maximum, cutting down their foes as they still reeled in shock, trying to take out as many catapults as they could in the opening moments of battle.
But with every passing second, that advantage slipped away. With every passing second, the huge numbers of the Shiriff’s men began to press in on them.
With a grunt, John gripped his quarter-staff and charge once more into the fray, determined that every last second should count. Determined to fight for the last for his home, for the women and children that, even now, cowered in fear and hope in the bosom of the forest.
***
Alann didn’t fight the good fight. Didn’t engage his foes in single combat or best them in dazzling duels of martial prowess. None of this.
The Woodsman slaughtered.
He took no pride in this destruction. Took no joy in the rending of his opponents limb from limb. This was systematic, merciless killing that just had to be done. The Shiriff’s men crashed against him, half a dozen at a time, surrounding their hated and legendary enemy, hoping to best him by their sheer number. To no avail. Wherever a foe might dare to approach, that silver axe flickered out, heads and limbs parting from bodies in sprays of gore.
The Woodsman was a living engine of death.
A group of soldiers appeared before him, grizzled veterans each, clad in mail rather than leathers, armed with fine, steel weapons, long swords, maces. One of them held in the nook of his arm a crossbow, taut and ready to fire. With a snarl of evil glee, the man took aim at Alann’s heart. And loosed.
Without hesitation, the Woodsman’s axe shot up, the bolt embedding in the handle, stopping it dead. Even as the gobsmacked warrior went frantically to discard his missile weapon and reach for a dagger, Alann was upon him. In a blur of brown leather and hide, the Woodsman reached his crossbow-wielding foe, wrenching the bolt from the haft of his weapon and stabbing it into his hapless foe’s forehead with a sickening crunch.
Noise from behind him, the dead soldier’s veteran comrades launching into the fray, but Alann was the faster. As a steel long-sword made its sweep, the Woodsman ducked, the shrill whistle of parting air an inch above his head as he turned, swinging his own weapon single-handedly, his aggressor’s leg shooting off to land ten feet distant.
Ignoring the screams of his fallen foe, Alann turned to face the others that came; a man, short, fat, balding, but with the mean, scarred appearance of a seasoned warrior, charged forth with a heavy and wicked looking morning-star. He swung it, the heavy, spiked weight at the end of the chain swinging in a lethal arc towards the Woodsman’s unprotected head, but Alann’s free hand leapt up, catching the weight in his fist with a thud, a trickle of blood from the skin of his pricked palm the only sign of discomfort.
The soldier gasped in fear, but was launched off his feet as Alann pulled the weapon towards him. The warrior’s face flew straight into the Woodsman’s raised elbow, sending the bulky man straight to the ground, where the whistle of the a silver-headed axe would be the last thing he’d ever hear.
Three opponents down in as many seconds. The Woodsman looked up, his eyes, so ordinary, in his face, handsome yet so human, so workmanlike. As his enemies stared into those orbs, it was the ordinariness that scared them the most. That such power, such grace, such lethal destruction could come forth from so normal-looking a man.
They backed away a few paces, but a slight snarl played the Woodsman’s lips.
He would have no mercy. Not this day. Not when he could feel that power, that presence, drawing near with every second.
In a rush of wind, he launched forwards, once more, to the kill.
***
Loxley ran, heart thumping within his chest. Hounds chased him down unending corridors; their faces pockmarked with scars, blackened stumps for fangs as they barked after him.
Toff, toff, toff.
Feeling their foetid breath on his neck, he rounded a corner, bursting through a door and slamming it shut behind him, hearing their frustrated scrabbling at the wood on the other side. The room he found himself in smelt of incense and perfumes and sent a shiver down his spine with its familiarity. A desk, behind which sat an ornate chair, a sword embedded point first within it. As he walked past, a bloodstain upon the stone floor caught his eye. It was still fresh, wet to the touch.
Hearing noises outside the window, he moved, past a burning fireplace, towards where the light streamed in from outside. Squinting his eyes against the bright sunlight, he looked down, to spy a cobbled street spread out before his vantage point.
A crowd had gathered, baying and jeering. Before them, a lonely figure, head resting upon the block as a masked executioner brought his axe down hard. The masked man grasped the severed head by the hair, lifting it upwards so that the crowd could see and cheer. Slowly, deliberately, the axe-man turned, lifting the head high that Loxley himself might see the victim from his window. With a gasp, he shuddered. For the face of the victim was so eerily familiar.
It was him.
No, wait. It wasn’t. There was something different. There was a maturity to the lines, a tanned, weather-beaten look to the skin. A hardness to the eyes, even now, their life drained away. With a sob, Loxley backed away from the window, legs trembling beneath him.
“The fate of your father is the fate that awaits all traitors, young Loxley.”
The voice came from behind him, cold, calculating. He turned. The Shiriff stood there, regal, resplendent in his finery. At his waist, a dagger, ornate and gilded as though there merely to complete the look.
“My father was never a traitor,” Loxley spat, though his words seemed to lack power.
The Shiriff merely laughed, sidling closer, a menacing look in his narrowed eyes.
“Mere semantics, my boy. He was loyal to Richard for sure, but what, pray tell me, the point of staying loyal to a far-off king, when there are powers closer to home that demand your fealty?” He grinned. “Life is about choices, Loxley. It’s about seeing what makes your life easier in the here and now and making that choice, being brave enough to make that decision.”
“Not when it costs innocent people their livelihoods,” Loxley retorted, though his voice was trembling as he spoke. The Shiriff grew nearer and, as he did, he seemed to loom larger, the shadows gathering all about him.
“Such weakness,” sighed the Shiriff, as he drew that ornate dagger from its scabbard at his belt. “Have you learned nothing from me, boy?”
With a lunge, he was upon Loxley, dagger driving up, deep, deep into his chest beneath his ribs, till he could feel the cold steel in his very heart. The Shiriff took a step backwards, wrenching the dagger out in a spray of lifeblood, a smile on his face as they parted.
Slowly, Loxley looked down, to spy the spreading shadow of crimson that soaked his leather jacket. He touched his fingers to the wound, feeling the warmth of his blood, smelling the coppery tang in the air.
So, he thought to himself, as a creeping warmth began to work its way across his skin. This is what it feels like to die? Strange, he mused; he would have imagined things to become blurry, limbs to become weak. Instead, as he looked up to see the Shiriff’s puzzled frown, things seemed to leap out at him with renewed clarity. The crackle of the fire in the hearth. The noise of the crowd outside in the streets. The sound of his heart, beating, strong and true.
Wait…
“What sorcery is this?” The Shiriff backed away a few steps, glancing down at the bloodied dagger in his hand as though it had betrayed him. “I… I stabbed you right in the heart. You are dead, man! Dead!”
A bright, warm light filled the room, causing both Loxley and the Shiriff to cover their eyes.
That is not one heart at which you stab with your pathetic pig-sticker, Shiriff. Rather, the hearts of every proud Englishman now and for the next thousand years. And they will not be defeated by the likes of you.
The voice boomed out, filling the room with such power that Loxley was amazed the very stones of the castle walls didn’t shatter before its might. There, next to the desk, a figure of blazing light now stood, taller than any man he had ever seen; taller, even, than John and twice as heavy, with power in his limbs, long brown hair and startlingly green eyes. On his handsome face, a playful smile, as if permanently amused, yet as the Shiriff rounded upon this new arrival, the eyes blazed with fearsome power, the steward vanishing in a cloud of smoke with a scream.
The titan turned to Loxley, gazing into his very soul, yet no fear did the Englishman feel. Merely awe. Merely reverence. He fell to his knees.
It’s time for you to awaken, Loxley, the being told him. Destiny is calling. And she doesn’t like to be kept waiting…
***
Will whirled, this way and that, trying his best to avoid the incoming blows. Already he bled from a score of minor cuts on his arms and chest. His limbs felt leaden, weary, as he lashed out with his twin daggers. The storm, which had opened up on them minutes before, didn’t help matters; the rain streaming into his eyes and obscuring his vision.
A snarling brute of a mercenary lunged towards him with a halberd. Will just managed to lean to one side, the sharp, axe-like head of the weapon clipping his leather jacket, but not piercing to the skin. He rushed forwards, closing the gap to his foe, leaping upon the man before he could react, bringing him crashing to the muddy ground. In a flurried exchange of desperate blows, one of his daggers managed to find the man’s exposed neck, his frenzied struggles beginning to cease as his lifeblood bled away into the sodden ground.
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