Stone Rising

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Will used the brief pause to catch his laboured breath, to look about him and see how the battle fared. The men of the forest fought bravely; several of the Shiriff’s war-machines now stranded, burning, even as the storm sought to extinguish them. But the numbers were beginning to tell; here and there, he could see the corpses of fellow outlaws. Rarer, but still evident amidst the maelstrom of battle, the lifeless bodies of Foresters, too, having given their lives to protect the Englanders’ homes and families.

  The thought gave him a pang of grief in his heart, yet also pride. But pride could only carry them so far. Could they win this battle? Was it conceivable? Even now, hordes of Gisborne’s warriors clustered about the remaining machines, protecting them from the assaults of the outlaws.

  Yet there was always the chance of victory. A flash of silver caught his eye. Yes, there was their chance. There was the inspiration that might drive them on to win against such odds.

  The Woodsman carved his way through the enemy, like a ship parting the waves before it. Nothing could stand in his path. Nothing could defeat him. He was a one-man army; a storm of grim death that hew down all before him with impunity. Even as Will watched, Alann looked up, spying the form of Gisborne atop his steed, before powering on, slaughtering a path of destruction towards his foe.

  Yes, thought Will. Yes, do it Alann. Take him out. Without the stern figurehead of their cruel leader, the Shiriff’s army would crumble and flee.

  The Woodsman drew near his goal, Gisborne’s eyes widening in mounting fear as his foe approached, unsure whether to stand his ground and risk being butchered like all those before him, or whether to turn and flee, bringing upon himself shame, but living to fight another day.

  Before his decision could even be revealed, a crash of booming thunder from above, louder than anything Will had ever heard, the battlefield whited out by the flash of lightning. He looked up into the dark, stormy thunderhead above them, squinting against the stinging rain, then the lightning flashed once more, bleaching his retinas with its fury.

  The flash faded, and as he blinked, after-images on his eyes, of a winged and monstrous shape in the heavens, soaring through the clouds.

  No, he frowned. Not possible. Eyes playing tricks.

  The din of battle seemed to have lessened somewhat, following the thunder, then gasps from all about drew his eyes back down to ground level. As he gazed about, blinking away the pain from his eyes, the strange taste of tin on his tongue, his heart froze in his chest as he realised what had changed.

  The Foresters, their allies; gone. The Woodsman, carving his bloody path towards the head of their enemy; gone.

  A tremble of sudden fear passed through him at the realisation.

  The outlaws were suddenly, inexplicably, alone against the foe.

  ***

  No! It was just as he had remembered them appearing; a bright flash of light that bleached the very air about them, then that strange and persistent tang of tin on the mouth. All that time ago, John remembered, when they had been under threat of being crushed by the Shiriff’s forces, the Foresters had arrived in such a manner, just in the nick of time.

  And now, it seemed, they had disappeared the same way, at the very worst possible moment.

  Was this some trick of God? Some divine comedy that he couldn’t see the humour in? He snarled beneath his beard, sodden through with the onslaught of the rain. There was nothing funny here; the battle had dragged on too long; the element of surprise long since lost and the numbers of their foe beginning to tell. Perhaps if Alann could have reached Gisborne, taken him apart with a sweep of that flashing axe, then maybe they could have salvaged the day.

  But now he was gone. And with him, a good portion of their force.

  He roared in frustration and rage as he swung his staff in an arc about him, knocking two opponents flat to the ground in his wrath. Do they sell their lives dearly, he thought, fighting to the last man on this field?

  No. If Alann had taught him anything, it was that there was a legacy to be left. Memories. Inspiration. No, that would not do, to die here. The forest would still burn, their families, women, children, would still die.

  There was no honour in that. No sense.

  No, better to fight like the Foresters had taught them over their time here. Hit and run. They had hit. Now they should run. He turned from his latest fallen foes, roaring out his orders above the din of battle, that all his bewildered men might hear his commands.

  “Men of Sherwood – withdraw! Back to the trees!”

  At his words, the men did their best to disengage from the battle, hurling their opponents back and turning, fleeing from the swords and halberds and making their way as fast as they could to the edge of the forest. As they ran to the jeers of their foes, hails of arrows followed, most missing, but some thudding into backs and sending outlaws skidding to the ground to die in pain.

  John almost collapsed as he made it to the cover of the trees, his breathing hard from the strain of carrying his bulk at full pace. Yet worse than the pain in his chest, the feeling of abandonment. It was times like this, where defeat was looming, that he would turn to Alann, the younger man restoring his faith and courage with some words of wisdom.

  No longer.

  “Why… why would they be taken from us at a time like this?”

  The gasped words came from Will, the youth stood nearby, hunched over as he sought to regain his breath. The glistening in his eyes and the pain the wracked his face echoed John’s own feelings. He shook his head.

  “I don’t know, lad. Alann always said that they would be taken from us. I wasn’t sure I’d ever even believed him…”

  Silence now, save the patter of the rain, the drawing of breath from tired outlaws, and the distant cheers of the enemy army. John looked out, weary, from between the trees, to the field beyond. The forces there were gathering their strength, regrouping. Though the warriors of the forest had wreaked a fearsome toll upon them, they still outnumbered the outlaws by many men to one.

  “What do we do?” asked the quiet voice of Will.

  John paused, thinking, knowing that not only Will, but all his men would be listening to the next words that came out of his mouth. He didn’t get a chance to speak, however; the second-in-command of the enemy army riding forth atop his barded steed, till he stood at the front of his force, facing the forest, two hundred yards distant.

  The man called out, loud and clear, that all the outlaws might hear him.

  “Men of Sherwood,” the man began. “Traitors to the rightful ruler of England. Hear now, the Shiriff’s merciful offer. Lay down your arms, come out, and you can expect a fair trial before the people of Nottingham. And your women and children shall be spared…” John spat on the ground in distaste at such blatant lies, as the man continued. “But continue to resist and know this; we will burn every last tree to the ground until you have nowhere left to hide. Choose wisely.”

  John could feel every eye on him, the burden of leadership his now.

  It was the old veteran, Nial, that approached him, slowly, his grey hair and lined face showing a compassion and a fierce pride, despite the circumstances.

  “What would you have us do, John?” he enquired. “Name it and we shall do it.”

  A chorus of nods and murmurs of approval from all about as John thought.

  “There is only one thing we can do,” he proclaimed, his voice low, sorrowful. “We must flee, once more, before the wrath of our foes. We must return to the village as quickly as we can, gather up our women, our children and what few belongings we can and fly from the forest. Put miles between ourselves and those that hound us.”

  The mood was sombre, but no-one objected. It was the only way, they all knew. To stay and fight would be to die. And they knew better than to trust the words of the Shiriff’s men.

  That voice called out once more, strident, insistent.

  “Well, outlaws? What say you to this kind and merciful offer?”

  A whis
tle, a shriek of parting air from above as a small black shadow flitted high overhead, faster than the eye could follow. It soared from the forest towards the distant host. Then the faint thud of meaty impact. The man atop the horse opened his eyes wide in astonishment, looking down at his chest.

  A fletched arrow stuck out from his heart, feathered flights ruffling in the stormy breeze.

  His mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out. Then, eyes glazing over, he fell sideways off his steed, to hit the ground a lifeless corpse. A gasp of shock, from both the Shiriff’s men and the outlaws, then John turned, tracing the path of the arrow back behind them to the woods.

  There, standing high atop a fallen tree, a figure holding a bow by his side, a quiver of arrows at his back. His leather hood was up, to shelter his face from the rain. His eyes were everyman, yet his bearing noble. He held himself with a pride, yet also a strength that spoke of suffering recently mastered. His face was youthful, but this was no boy, but a man.

  “Why so glum, my men?” Loxley enquired, his amused voice calling out through the trees. “I tell you, take heart; for today is not the end of our battles, but merely the beginning.” He laughed at the gawping stares of his incredulous comrades, raising his bow once more and selecting an arrow from the quiver at his back.

  With narrowed eyes and a wry smile upon his lips, Loxley took aim, loosing his missile. The arrow soared, flitting across the battlefield, covering a distance no bowman could ever hope to attain. It hit its mark, smashing into the neck of a torchbearer standing next to a catapult. He fell, screaming, torch flying from his hand to land, with a crash, amidst the bottles of oil beside the war-machine.

  With a great whoomph of smoke and flame, the siege engine was engulfed in flames.

  The enemy army scattered in fear and confusion, even as the outlaws cheered at the sight.

  Loxley’s voice called out once more, even as he jumped down from the fallen tree and strode through the ranks of his men, placing an encouraging hand upon shoulders, flashing that disarming smile.

  “I tell you again, my friends; take heart, be merry. For there will come a time when the common man no longer suffers beneath the cruelty of his masters. When there will be freedom and justice for all.” He came to Will and John, the pair taken aback by the strength of his movements, the colour in his face, the assuredness in his tone. “It will be a long process,” he told them with a nod, then he turned, facing outward to the milling and uncertain hordes on the field before them.

  His keen eyes caught the distant shape of Gisborne atop his steed, the cruel, scarred man bellowing orders as he tried to keep his rabble from scattering to the winds before these new events.

  Loxley smiled.

  “And it’s a process that starts with us.” He took another arrow, nocking it with care as he raised his bow and took aim in one smooth motion. “Right here, right now.”

  He let fly.

  Chapter Fourteen:

  The host moved through the night. Pitchforks, torches, hammers, scythes; anything to hand that could be used in their hunt. For the villagers had seen the sorcery unleashed in their midst.

  And now, at the behest of the Malleus man, they would not suffer the witches to live.

  Vincenzo smiled. The witches had made it too easy; in the hours he’d been kept imprisoned by bars of streaming sunlight, he’d had plenty of time to plan his course of action. As he’d held back the villagers outside from investigating the inn, by sheer force of will, Vincenzo had smiled at his luck. So, his small troupe of Malleus men had been slaughtered by that powerful young sorceress? So what? Her outburst, her brazen display of witchery had been all he’d needed to whip the rabble up into a frenzy.

  How many times had this same scenario replayed over the years? Granted, most of the time there had been no real magicks at work; merely the suggestion, the rumour. But occasionally, very occasionally, real powers had been witnessed, real workers of magic to be persecuted. And that only made the job easier. The rumour mill, the gossip merchants, the village leaders, all lending themselves, out of fear, to his cause.

  This would be easy, he thought to himself, as he strode through the night, the rabble of villagers at his beck, cheering themselves on, the slight trembling beneath their words revealing to his refined senses their undercurrent of fear. So moral, the red-headed sorceress had thought herself to be. Her talk of innocence. He laughed to himself, quietly. Let’s see how long her preconceptions of innocence last when she and her troupe find themselves faced with the angry crowd at his command.

  Would they kill the ‘innocent’ sheep? Would they slaughter the fearful peasants for their own survival?

  It would be interesting to find out.

  He took a deep breath in through his nose, breathing in the subtle yet unmistakable tang of sorcery that trailed through the trees from their quarry. Yes, they were going in the right direction, he nodded to himself. Again, he mused over how different the magicks felt that were woven about his prey; how strong, how adept they felt. In all his wonderings across this world, Vincenzo had come across few lands where magicks were welcomed, where practitioners were given leave to hone and refine their craft. Here, in the old world, for example, such power was largely confined to secretive and cunning creatures such as he; the persecutions of l’eglise making sure that any mortals that dared try their hand did so in the dead of night under threat of merciless trial and execution.

  Yet in other countries he had visited, lands where the Vatican held little sway, primitive cultures still embraced the old ways of magic. In the far east, he had witnessed, first-hand, monks summoning forces that let them bend metal, harden their bodies to withstand punishment from fire and sword. En Afrique, he had seen men bedeck themselves with war paints, calling upon the strength of ancestors to aid them in the hunt.

  And, in the New World, he had seen tribal shamans summon forth the rains for the harvest, call fire from the very wood itself and beckon the beasts of the plains to their side with no more than a thought. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more like that shamanic magic of the far west this new sorcery felt. Only stronger, fresher, more alive; borne of necessity, rather than kept alive out of tradition.

  No, this wouldn’t do, he thought, one thin lip rising in distaste. Blatant magicks could not be allowed to exist. Witch-hunting was all well and good whilst it was he that guided it, he that steered the righteous zeal where he wished it to go. But too much power, spread across too many, might cause a crusade of persecution; the paranoia of man leading everyone to become suspect.

  Even those at the top.

  No, this night, the witches would die. And if they resisted? If they hew down the rabble of baying men at his back? Well… they’d have learned a valuable lesson about this supposed ‘innocence.’

  ***

  Arris stared out into the night, straining his eyes to pierce the darkness, to catch the faintest glimpse of burning torch or flicker of movement in the gloom. Yet nothing. Even from his high vantage point, standing in this balcony high atop the side of the windmill, the great blades slowly whooshing past as they were stirred by the breeze, he could see nothing.

  And it was infuriating.

  Back home, back at the Retreat, Arris had trained as a tracker. And he’d been good at it. The spirits of water had moved at his command, showing him the hidden paths, the truths of all things. His blue eyes had seen clearly the world about them, as the spirits of water had rippled about every footprint, every half-hidden trail in the forest, rendering them all as clear as day.

  Even other truths, the truths of words, thoughts and deeds, had been there to see; the spirits of water cared not what manner of truth they uncovered.

  But here, now, he may as well have been blind.

  It was frustrating. Since the moment they’d entered this land, he’d felt cut off. Weak. Incomplete. The spirits had been all about, just as always; in fact, this land, if anything, seemed even more bustling, vibrant and alive with the
spirits than even his homeland of before. Yet the creatures of the invisible world had been reluctant to come near, wary, shying away from his mental urgings. Yet at least they’d been there, to see, to hear. Familiar.

  Now they were gone entirely, keeping far, far away from the troupe. And their absence was painful.

  He knew why they were suspicious; the shamans were out of place, out of time. That Gwenna had managed to convince them to aid at all in the healing of Pol was amazing. Sure, throughout their travels she’d been able to convince minor spirits to aid in small healings; each time drained and suffering at the strain it had taken on her energy. But such a mighty work, healing a mortal wound as a soul hung on the edge of death; without the circle of power, the shamans sharing the burden of the spirits’ toll, Gwenna would likely have died that night.

  Which made Virginie’s feat all the more impressive.

  How the gift had so suddenly and powerfully blossomed within the girl, at so opportune a time, Arris could not even begin to fathom. Yet blossom it had. He recalled how she had called upon the Earth Tap, wrenching the iron bars from their prison with but a tug of her slender arms. He remembered the feeling of cackling hunger as the spirits of flame had lent her their power, scorching swords and hurling forth balls of flame.

  How long must the girl have been filled with their power, to track them down and to release them? All through that night she must have been using their power, tracking her friends, moving at speed through the woods.

  Skills that should have taken years of teaching to learn, called upon as if by instinct.

  Skills that should have left her dead, as the spirits fled, each taking with them their due till nothing remained.

  Yet she lived. Even now, within the building behind him, the girl lay on her bed in the small side-room. Asleep. But alive. Again, he couldn’t fathom it; by all rights she should be dead, now. But she wasn’t. Something had caused her to live, despite the powers upon which she’d called. Was it destiny? Was it provenance?