The Two Torcs

by Debbie Viguié

  “Something doesn’t feel right.” The moment his hand closed on the hatch handle, her skin had begun itching. Not the dry-winter-skin-against-wool itch, to which she had become accustomed, but the feeling that something with too many legs crawled across the bends and folds of her body.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Will hissed.

  Robin glanced at his cousin, then back at Marian. He raised an eyebrow in a silent question. What feels so wrong? Her mind turned. Perhaps it was just the winter and the wool, after all, that made her itch under her clothes. Maybe her sense of unease was worry about the mission. They were about to attack soldiers. They had surprise on their side. Their chances were good.

  She looked at her compatriots, capable fighters all. In Robin, one more than capable.

  A small sound came through the wood of the hatch. A cry from a young throat, cut short before it could really start.

  Gripping her sword tighter, she nodded to Robin. He took a deep breath, and pulled the hatch up.

  Light blasted out, scouring the vision from Marian’s eyes.

  The world went black-red, her vision only saved by the fact that Robin took the brunt of it. Raw force slapped the front of her body, making her step back. Immediately her mouth filled with the acrid taste of spoiled milk, and all she could smell was sulfur. Tears streamed down, freezing to her face as she blinked to clear her eyes.

  Behind her Will, Tuck, and Alan all cried out. Only Robin in front of her stayed silent. Black fog replaced the glare, and swelled around them from the open hatch making Robin hard to see, even though he was only a foot in front of her, and moonlight still poured from the open sky above.

  * * *

  A sword punched out of the swirling dark, and Robin barely had time to knock it aside with his own blade, the cut so close it sliced the hem of his cloak.

  He fell back, pushing Will and Marian with him. Everything was darker than it should be. He would be blind if he hadn’t jerked back just in time for the edge of his hood to shield his eyes from most of the blast.

  Someone yelled behind him, a male voice but he couldn’t tell who. His attention was focused on the people spilling out of the hold.

  There were soldiers, armed to the teeth with long swords, and among them were men and women, some older, some younger, dressed in strange clothing that looked nothing like uniforms.

  He blinked away the black on the rim of his vision and leaped forward, bringing the fight to the steel of the attackers.

  * * *

  Will watched Robin sweep his sword to parry two soldiers who struck in unison. His cousin, first to battle.

  Then he reached out his hand, brushing Marian’s hip. She lurched toward him, eyes streaming tears down her cheeks, soaking into the black scarf she had covering her mouth. His own eyes hurt from the magic blast, but she had gotten worse than he.

  “Get behind me,” he hissed. “I can still see, mostly.”

  Soldiers not fighting Robin circled around toward her, and he did not like the look of the people in the robes. He pulled at Marian and stepped around her, rapier out and ready to strike blood.

  * * *

  Alan-a-Dale elbowed Friar Tuck. “Can you fight?”

  “Always.” The big monk hefted his bludgeon.

  “Then stop being lazy.” With that, the bard launched himself at the people in the robes.

  * * *

  Robin’s sword sang off the steel of the soldiers, slashing tabards into shreds and cleaving deep into the rough iron mail beneath. The rings held, too tough and too flexible for him to shear through, but he creased them, plowing them deep into muscles like a saw.

  Two fell to his blows, then two more. He struck hard enough to feel each impact in his own chest, the thud of steel against bodies.

  He cursed himself for leaving his bow and quiver with the horses, over the ridge and inside the forest. If he had his bow he could have made short shrift of these soldiers, even in such tight quarters. Instead he bashed and hacked until, one by one, each of them lay still on the ship’s deck.

  Sucking air into burning lungs, he looked to find Marian and the others. They fought the cadre of robed people, swinging their weapons, which appeared to clang off empty air before striking. He took a step toward them when the sound of cracking wood made him turn back toward the hold.

  Wooden planks that formed the deck, timber that had been cut and planed and slotted together, all of it now buckled, pulling apart and slapping back together into a haphazard pile. On the other side of the disruption stood a tall man in a monk’s robe with dark eyes full of insanity. He gestured with the over-knuckled hands of an arthritic, and shouted words in a language Robin didn’t recognize. Even so, they made his ears burn deep inside.

  Witchcraft.

  * * *

  Agrona moved nearer the Mad Monk. The clash of battle around her was lovely—chaotic and exciting. She felt it between her thighs, warming her from the cold.

  The clang of swordplay drew her attention and she turned. A slim, hooded figure parried with a soldier twice their size, yet their skill and determination set the soldier retreating. The hooded figure attacked with the ferocity of a starving wolf, swinging his heavy saber in sharp, chopping arcs.

  Agrona murmured a spell, rolling it off her tongue and into her hand before slinging it toward the brave fighter. It was a minor magic, barely anything at all. Agrona was a priestess of the dead, though barely an acolyte when casting against the living, yet the spell struck true and the hooded figure faltered, just for a second.

  Just long enough for a soldier to dart in and swipe the edge of his blade across the shoulder, black wool parting to flesh, pale in the moonlight for a split second before blossoming red.

  The figure growled in pain, a hard animal sound, and lunged, his attack spinning the two off into the chaos and out of Agrona’s sight.

  She turned back toward the Mad Monk.

  His magic rolled against her as he gestured wildly and yelled in Northern Enochian, a language dead for centuries. The decking had ruptured, making a pyramid of splintered wood.

  She moved closer as he changed his gestures and his voice dropped into an octave too low for a human throat.

  Her skin flushed hot even in the cold winter air, and her mind processed the spell he now cast. It rolled through the gray folds of her mind like lamp oil, and lit hot and bright behind her eyeballs.

  The gods-damned fool is going to set the whole ship on fire.

  * * *

  Robin took a step forward, dropping his shoulders, preparing to leap over the hole in the deck, to drive his sword into the sorcerer on the other side. Smoke began to curl from under the kindled wood and flame licked from the edges of it, catching as if the wood had been soaked in pitch.

  The smoke burned his eyes, blurring his sight as he moved.

  He tensed, body low and ready to spring, when a dark shape knocked the sorcerer aside and out of his sight.

  With the smoke, he couldn’t tell who it was that took the man down. Another movement made him turn, and he found Marian fiercely fighting a soldier. She and Will were of similar size, and the cloaks they all wore were fashioned to make them indistinguishable for most people. Still, he would recognize Marian no matter what. Pluck out his eyes, and he’d still be able to see her.

  Her shoulder was bleeding.

  He pushed off, closing the gap, and slammed the pommel of his sword hilt against the soldier’s skull. The man’s knees buckled and he dropped to the deck, and then slumped forward.

  He stepped over the man and moved to her.

  “You are hurt.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not bad.”

  “Looks bad.”

  “It’s fine.” She pointed with her saber. “The ship is on fire.”

  He looked. The flames had grown, and were crackling in harsh snaps over the noise of fighting.

  “There are no children here,” he said. “We have to get off this ship.”

  “Get Wi
ll and Alan,” she responded. “I’ll get our Friar.”

  * * *

  “You bitch! What were you thinking?”

  The Mad Monk climbed to his feet, brow creased and his dark eyes crackling with anger.

  Agrona leaped up and shoved him.

  “You fool,” she said, “you can’t call down banefire while we are still on board this damned ship. I love the dead, but I do not wish to join them—not yet.”

  He looked at her as the smoke around them grew. His mouth had parted slightly, lips soft in the bristle of his beard.

  “You love me.” There was awe in his voice.

  She snorted. “You aren’t that good in bed.”

  He smiled a wicked smile. “Oh, I will be now.”

  “You’ll never get the chance, if we cannot get off this vessel. Your fire lies between us and the gangplank.”

  His arm wrapped around her, scooping her up against his chest like a father with a child.

  “I’ll have my chance,” he said, and in four long strides he reached the rail of the ship.

  He began chanting.

  Then he stepped up, and stepped off.

  * * *

  Back on the shore, Tuck spun one way, then another, wishing he still had hold of his weapon. As it was, all he could do was shout out warnings to the others. His terror was practically choking him, and he struggled to keep his voice strong and not let the fear close up his throat, as it was threatening to do.

  Turn around.

  He listened to the voice in his head and twisted just in time to see a humpbacked man rushing toward Robin. There was a flask in his outstretched hand, which he cocked back as if making ready to throw the contents.

  “No!” Tuck bellowed and threw himself between the two men just as the liquid in the flask was released. It hit him squarely in the face and he screamed as he expected to feel hot oil or burning acid removing his skin.

  It took him a moment to realize that he felt nothing but wet. He blinked open his eyes and stared at the man who was, in turn, staring at him, eyes wide in a kind of fascinated wonder. Suddenly blood bubbled out from the man’s lips. Tuck looked down and saw a sword protruding from his chest. He tumbled to the ground and Marian pulled her sword free.

  “Are you safe?” she shouted.

  He could barely hear her over the din, but managed to nod.

  “What was that?”

  Poison.

  The thought came, horrific and sudden. He tried to swallow down his panic. There was no reason to frighten her. Not yet.

  “Nothing, I suppose,” he managed to shout back.

  It had to be poison. Why would the man have thrown something harmless? It made no sense.

  He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. If only the man wasn’t dead, maybe they could have forced him to reveal the truth. As it was, the flask was smashed on the ground, and there was no way to tell what it once had held.

  “Get out of here!”

  He turned. Robin was shouting to him—to all of them. He wanted them to leave. Were they losing? Were the others dead? He looked around, trying to pick out other cloaked figures among the smoke and flame, but he couldn’t.

  Dead, all dead, he thought.

  Then he saw someone mounting a horse. He got a good look at the boots. Fancy. They had to belong to Will. What was Will doing mounting a horse? Maybe he should, too, if he could get one to stand still long enough for him to try and haul his girth onto it.

  Alan was there, pulling a horse forward, his cloak over its eyes to keep it from shying away from the flames that were engulfing the ship.

  Something in Tuck’s chest broke and relief flooded him at the sight of the slender bard. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been worried for him.

  “Get on,” Alan said.

  “No, you take the horse. I’ll…”

  Alan pushed him. “I can run faster and farther than you, and I know the forest. Get your fat arse up on this horse and give the horse its head. It will get you to safety.”

  Tuck quit arguing, grabbed the saddle, and began pulling himself up.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Marian’s mind raced frantically as she kicked her horse faster and faster away from the scene of the ambush. Images of burning men filled her mind, and she prayed that none of them was Robin.

  The others would be regrouping at the monastery no doubt—except for Will who might make his way straight to the castle in an effort to avoid suspicion. He would look for her there, and worry when he didn’t find her.

  She couldn’t think about that right now, though. They needed Richard to return. Only he could help set things right, and it was time to stop sending emissaries, most of whom couldn’t even grasp the full extent of the danger that they were in. It was becoming more and more of a struggle to leave the castle unseen, and this might well be her last chance, her one hope to get word to the king.

  Even if it meant going herself and leaving behind those she cared for. She tried not to think about what might happen to Chastity in her absence. The truth was, if they didn’t stop John and the Sheriff, they were all as good as dead anyway. She had to have faith in her friends, too. Chastity was clever. She was a survivor, and Marian had to believe she could outwit the others, and either find a way to hide in the castle or to escape, if it came to that.

  She rode through Sherwood. The forest had ceased to hold any terrors for her. It was far safer than the open road. The messengers she’d sent had been too afraid of the forest to use it for passage to the northern harbor. She was not. Whatever had befallen them on the road—whatever the creature was that had attacked her—she hoped it would not be watching.

  Her shoulder burned like fire, but she could not stop and inspect her wound. There would be time enough for that once she was aboard the Kestrel. Beneath her she could feel her horse trembling in fear. Whether it was from the fight or from the forest she did not know. She put her hand on the animal’s neck and tried to whisper soothing words to it. At the same time she was wary, knowing that the horse could easily be sensing a danger that she couldn’t.

  After a minute the animal seemed to relax, but Marian remained alert. The closer she got to the harbor, the more she worried that someone or something would try to stop her. She could not afford to be caught, not now. There would be no explanation for her appearance, or the fact that she was there.

  She considered abandoning the cloak in the forest, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She might still have need of it. Besides, if more than one of them was found, then their enemies would have proof that more than one person was masquerading as the Hood.

  That is, if the rest weren’t already dead.

  She swallowed around the lump in her throat, urging herself to focus. She couldn’t help any of them at that moment, but she could save whoever was left… if she could just make it to the king.

  * * *

  When she was within minutes of the harbor her heart began to pound even harder, and she wanted to kick her horse into a full run. Inside her mind, though, a small voice whispered vigilence. This might be the most dangerous part of her journey and she couldn’t afford for it to end in failure simply because she abandoned caution.

  She slowed her horse to a walk and forced herself to listen as hard as she could. The edge of the forest came close to the harbor, but she would still have a lot of open ground to cover once she exited the safety of the trees.

  Something brushed her hair and she jerked, startling her mount. She twisted in her saddle and forced a sigh when she realized it was just a branch. A couple more steps and she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned just as another limb seemed to suddenly stretch out beside her, and catch at her cloak.

  Marian blinked rapidly. She was seeing things. That had to be it. She was overly agitated by everything that was happening.

  Yet she could have sworn the branch actually had moved.

  Another one caught her hair, and then another. A root seemed to thrust
suddenly upward from the ground and her horse tripped, nearly falling. The beast whinnied in fear and Marian lacked the words to calm him. Around her the forest began whispering, and she felt chilled to the bottom of her soul.

  It doesn’t want me to leave, she realized at last. But why? Why were the trees suddenly acting alive, and trying to keep her from her destination?

  All the old stories came flooding back to her, about the forest and its fey. Was it trying to do her mischief? If so, why wait until now? Or was it something else?

  A warning, perhaps.

  Her heart pounded painfully hard in her chest, and her horse began to lift its feet higher, eyeing the ground with clear suspicion.

  “Please,” Marian heard herself whispering. “Please, I have to make it to the harbor. The lives of so many depend on it.”

  No.

  She blinked, stunned. She had heard the word whispered on the wind, as clear as any word ever spoken by man.

  “I must.”

  Can’t.

  “I will.”

  No answer this time. All around her the trees started shuddering, as if shaken by a fierce wind, although there was none upon her skin. Then it was as if they shrunk back from her slightly. She could see light, the edge of the forest. Ten more strides and her horse stepped free of the trees, coming onto a small rise that overlooked the end of the harbor.

  Marian looked down.

  The entire dock was on fire.

  * * *

  They were all of them dead men. Will kicked his horse harder, streaking through the forest. At a signal from Robin they had scattered. He could hear guards chasing behind him, practically feel the breath of their horses upon his neck. Scatter and regroup, that was the plan.

  This had been a trap, and Will knew he needed to get back to the castle as soon as he could, before someone realized he hadn’t been there when this debacle took place. Marian had taken off seconds before him, though in a different direction. He didn’t have time to go chasing after her, though. She was smart, and a better rider than most men. She could make her way back to the castle. Hopefully at least one of them would make it. If they were together the odds increased that they would be caught.