The Two Torcs

by Debbie Viguié

John, the Sheriff, Glynna Longstride, and several others stood nearby. The others wore cloaks, and had the hoods up so she could not tell if they were strangers, or persons she knew. She looked in vain for the monster that had brought her there but didn’t see him.

  Thank God for small favors, she thought, and immediately regretted the blasphemy.

  “Ah, the little princess is awake,” John said, turning to look at her. “You know, I’ve always thought it was going to be a great moment when you fell beneath my knife. Now thanks to you I have the torc, and with your sacrifice, I will become the rightful king of all of England. Neither Heaven nor Earth will dare to dispute it.”

  “Do what you will, but you will never be the true king,” she said. “They will come for me.”

  “Of course they will, but they’ll be looking in the wrong place. You see, we made a grand spectacle of parading your unconscious body around the castle before we left. Your friends will look for you there first—and what they’ll find instead is their doom.”

  The monster, she realized. That’s where he was—at the castle, waiting to destroy whoever came for her.

  * * *

  Robin struggled not to let his men see his pain. His men. He wasn’t sure when he’d come to think of them that way, but there it was. At any rate he needed them now more than ever.

  Much had gone to fetch the men he’d recruited, and escort them to the camp. The boy had grown up a lot, seemingly in the span of a few short weeks.

  “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for,” he said. “Our chance to put an end to Prince John’s reign of evil. If we fail, the chance will never come again. You’re hurting, and you’ve lost much, but this is your opportunity to take back at least some of what you’ve lost.” He glanced over at Alan. “Or, at the very least, take your vengeance for it.”

  “No bloody way are we following you to another slaughter,” one man shouted angrily.

  Before Robin could say anything, however, Old Soldier turned and hit the man so hard that he fell down unconscious.

  “Enough of that talk,” the old man growled. He turned back. “We’re with you, Lord Robin.” Others nodded and voiced their agreement.

  “So are we!”

  Robin turned to see Much entering the clearing, with more than two dozen men following him. He nodded, and Much beamed at him. He’d done well. When this was over he’d need to make certain the young man received the credit he was due.

  If they were both still standing.

  “Marian is the key,” Robin said. “If nothing else happens, we have to get her out. The trials she survived granted her sovereignty over this land. Rescuing her is our mission.”

  “You focus on doing that, getting in and getting her back, if she’s the key to ending all of this. The rest of us will do what we can about the others,” Little John said. “Whatever may come.”

  * * *

  Glynna stared at Marian, a mixture of feelings running through her. Mostly she felt glee that the princess would soon taste the knife.

  It didn’t sit well with her, however, that it would be to further the fortunes of Prince John, and increase his power. Her man should be king, not the whining brat.

  For the moment, it was her job to guard the prisoner while the others finished their preparations.

  “Lady Longstride, please, you have to help me,” Marian said.

  “That title means nothing any longer,” Glynna said, and she gave the girl a withering look. “Regardless, I don’t have to help you, and I won’t.”

  “Think of all that’s happened because of John,” Marian implored. “We’ve all lost so much to him. You’ve lost three of your children.”

  “Three? Then Robin’s dead is he?” Delight coursed through her at the thought.

  Marian blinked and then frowned.

  “No… I don’t know,” she said, seemingly startled by the reply. “I was talking about Robert.”

  “Robert?” Glynna said. “Robert’s off with his father.”

  Marian’s eyes widened. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” Glynna asked, her pleasure turning to irritation. “What are you talking about?”

  “Robert is dead,” Marian said. “I’m so sorry. The king sent him back to make certain his kingdom was safe. The Sheriff… the Sheriff killed him.”

  Glynna blinked at that, struck through by the thought. As much as she’d always hated Robin, she had liked her girls, in an abstract kind of way. Robert, though, had been her pride and joy. So strong, so handsome, the envy of all.

  She glanced over uncertainly at her lover. If this was true, why would he not have told her?

  “How do I know you’re not making that up?” she asked.

  “I know where he’s buried,” Marian said. “You can see for yourself.”

  Glynna took a deep breath. “’Tis no matter. If the Sheriff killed Robert, he must have had reason to do so.”

  Marian stared at her in revulsion. “How can you be so callous over the death of your own children?”

  Glynna settled a hand on her belly. “Herein lies my true child, the one that shall rise to a greatness never imagined by the others. He will have his father’s strength and my cunning. He will feast upon the weak and the foolish. He shall make the lesser man his footstool.” She narrowed her eyes. “He’s hungry now.”

  Marian recoiled.

  “My pet,” the Sheriff called.

  Glynna turned, her momentary annoyance with him forgotten as her blood sang.

  “Remember, my love—the princess isn’t for eating,” he said.

  * * *

  His men were concealed down by the road, ready to go wherever Robin would lead them. He alone had taken the small creature as close to the castle as he dared. He just hoped that the bond between Marian and her pet would allow him to pick up her scent.

  He was just about to set Champion down when he turned and saw something that caused him to gasp in shock. He fought the urge to vomit.

  There, mounted on a pike in front of the castle gate, was the head of his cousin, Will Scarlet. Despite the distance, there could be no doubt. One of his eyes was rolled halfway back into his skull, while the other was gone, no doubt to some scavenger. The skin was white, the lips dark as a bruise.

  Robin stared for a moment, blood thundering in his ears.

  Will was dead.

  He had known it, but a part of him had hoped that somehow it wasn’t true. He just kept staring. In his arms Champion began thrashing back and forth. He should put the fox down, he knew, then find Marian before John could do the same to her.

  He didn’t hear the whisper of sound behind him until it was almost too late.

  He ducked as a sword cut through the air right above his head, whistling as it passed him. He turned to see the creature that had beaten him and taken Marian. It held the blade that had been Robin’s.

  “Guy of Gisbourne,” he ground out as Champion leaped to the ground.

  The thing stopped for just a moment before letting out a deep, rumbling laugh.

  “I thought I killed you,” it said as if relishing another try.

  “I’m harder to kill than most,” Robin said, mind working furiously as he stepped backward, trying to put distance between himself and the monster. He needed just a few feet and then he could use the arrow, so long as it would let him this time. But he couldn’t risk bringing it out in close quarters, allowing the creature to snatch it away. Maybe the arrow had been protecting itself in a similar way during the last encounter. By the time he’d gone to use it, the monster had been nearly on him.

  Then he realized something else.

  The beast hesitated when I called it by name. The creature was ancient, and a similarly ancient magic would have been used to raise it. In that kind of magic, names had meaning, and granted power. To know the name of a thing was to have influence over it.

  There had to be a way to use that to his advantage.

  “This time I am going to take this f
ancy sword and stick it in your guts.” Guy of Gisbourne swung again, and Robin dove away, toward the castle wall.

  He scrambled to his feet and slung his bow into his hand. Moving back he pulled a regular arrow and let it fly.

  It struck the creature in the throat and ricocheted off, tangling in the thick twisted hair hanging off his head. Guy of Gisbourne growled, and stalked forward. Robin moved quickly, angling them away from the castle to avoid attracting attention, launching arrow after arrow, only to watch them bounce off one after the other. The monster threw back his head and laughed. “Your arrows are not as well made as your sword.”

  Robin’s hand closed on the black arrow.

  “Try this one on for size.”

  The arrow came free. Swift as thought he notched it. It sung to him as he let it fly.

  It struck Guy of Gisbourne in the chest, sinking to the feathers. The creature looked down, mouth gaping. He staggered back a step, hand moving toward the notched end that now jutted from his breast. His fingers brushed it once, then twice, then fell limp by his side.

  He swayed as there was a crack and the antlers broke loose from his skull, one skewing sideways, loose and forlorn, the other tumbling to the ground. Black fluid poured from his open mouth as he dropped to his knees. His eyes fluttered, rolling back, and he fell sideways to the earth.

  * * *

  The arrow would not pull free.

  The skin into which it sank had gone hard, until it felt like winter earth under his hand.

  He cursed and pulled again, fingers cutting on the stiff edge of the black fletching.

  People stood around him. He heard their voices.

  He defeated that?

  What is he doing?

  Why does he care so much about an arrow?

  Do you see that thing? It is a monstrosity.

  Giving up, Robin stood.

  He was surprised to see Little John standing next to him. He was looking in the direction of the gate, toward where Will’s head was. They needed to take that down. They didn’t have time, though.

  “It’s not right, what they did to Will,” the big man muttered, anger seething in his voice.

  “They’ve killed every noble who dared to speak up,” Friar Tuck said as he handed Robin a jug.

  “Every free man, too,” Robin said.

  He took the jug, expecting the burn of whisky, and found only cold water.

  “You did well.”

  Robin shook his head. “It isn’t done yet.”

  “Look around you,” Tuck said, gesturing. “These men will follow you into Hell itself.”

  Robin pulled his newly retrieved sword. “Then let’s get them to it, before they lose their nerve.”

  A small yip caught his ear from inside the castle gate. A wave of emotion swept through him, and he started jogging down the road.

  “What is it?” Friar Tuck called.

  “The fox! He’s picked up Marian’s trail.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Carry on.”

  The Sheriff’s voice was harsh.

  Standing over Marian, his hands raised, John didn’t take time to look. He’d just finished cutting symbols into his own arms and the blood ran thin and quick, dripping off his elbows and onto her as she lay bound on a flat stone altar.

  They were in one of Richard’s hidden gardens, recently remodeled for his own purposes.

  The distant sound of fighting, outside of the wall, caused John to pause and turn.

  “They sound close,” he said.

  “My men will stop them,” the Sheriff grunted. “Carry on.”

  Marian struggled against her bonds. “Stop this, John. They’re coming. They will save me. You can preserve yourself by stopping this now.”

  “Stupid girl,” Glynna hissed. “In just a few moments he will have ultimate power. There is no use in begging for your life.”

  “I would never beg for my life,” Marian answered. “I simply offered mercy—far more than he would give.” She rolled her head to look at Glynna. “And I wasn’t talking to you, whore.”

  Hands on her stomach, Glynna turned to the Sheriff. “If he won’t finish, then let me kill her.”

  “I’ll finish,” John said.

  “Then do so.”

  John turned back to the book in his hand. Before he could begin reading the door to the garden burst open with a crash.

  * * *

  The intruders spilled into the garden, clashing swords with a cadre of dog soldiers, Friar Tuck and Little John just steps behind Robin himself. Once inside the open space they moved apart.

  The Sheriff turned to Glynna. “Make him complete the ritual. I will deal with these mongrels.”

  “Your will be done.”

  He turned and stalked toward the fighting, drawing his greatsword from its scabbard. She watched him, feeling things tight and low inside her. The baby kicked, breaking her lust for the Sheriff and putting her mind to the task at hand.

  John was staring at her when she turned back.

  “Get to work,” she growled “or I will pull your eyes from your skull.”

  He peered down at the book, and began the incantation.

  * * *

  The dog soldier in front of him fell, his neck turned completely around from the blow he’d delivered with his quarterstaff. He spun and found that another one had just run a sword through Timothy, who he’d known since they were infants.

  As the young man slid off the dog soldier’s blade Little John dealt a blow to the back of his knees, cutting him to the ground. He dropped onto the thing’s back, hooked his staff under its chin, and pulled back with all his might. He felt the bones of the dog soldier pull apart, separating until it quit fighting underneath him.

  He let the corpse loose and stood.

  Looking around he found most of the enemy had been overwhelmed, and the ones left fighting were hemmed in by his fellow fighters.

  He also saw too many people he knew lying still on the ground. It only added to the roil of emotions he had been trying to keep in check since the beast had attacked him at the camp.

  He was weak, vulnerable. They all were. There was nothing he could have done to kill that creature. Robin had found a way, though—even broken and hurting worse than Little John imagined he was.

  Somewhere in all there he had been reminded of the boy he had once known and cared for, the fearless child who was not afraid to fight and who loved freedom more than anything. Freedom was what Robin was fighting for. Little John just wished he could have looked past his own anger and pain to see that faster. Not for his own freedom did Robin fight, but for everyone’s.

  Another dog soldier rushed him and he bludgeoned it to death. His arms were knots of pain, bruised purple up and down so that no normal skin color showed, and with every blow he dealt he thanked God for Old Soldier, who had pushed him so hard. Taught him that pain in battle was meaningless, that it was just something to push down into the fire in your belly, adding fuel to it so that you never stopped fighting.

  The old man was a dozen feet away, piling up bodies faster than could be imagined. Old Soldier had never given up faith in Robin. He had been right. Robin and the Lady Marian were all that stood between the people of England and death at the hands of the prince and his demons.

  His eyes found Robin, who had just cut down an opponent, his face spattered with gore. As Longstride stepped over the body, the Sheriff appeared behind him, raising a sword that ran with blood.

  He bellowed out a warning and began to move.

  * * *

  Robin heard a roar that sounded like a bear. He jerked his head and found the Sheriff trying to cut it off.

  He barely raised his sword in time. Even so, the blow tore it from his hand. Off-balance, he stumbled, dropping to one knee.

  “No more!” the Sheriff roared and his jaw distended, opening into a maw. His voice changed, becoming inhuman. “No more shall you plague me, human.”

  The sword raised again.
>
  Robin pulled the knife from his belt, but it wouldn’t be enough. There was nothing he could do but watch the sword fall and end his life.

  Marian… he thought.

  He turned to see her one last time.

  Suddenly Little John was there, plowing into the Sheriff and carrying him to the ground.

  Robin scrambled to his feet. The giant lay on top of the Sheriff, bruised arms clamped around the man. The Sheriff screamed something not meant for a human throat and struggled to get free. Little John held tight.

  He looked up at Robin, blood trickling from his mouth.

  “Go save her,” he slurred. “I’ll hold him while I can.”

  * * *

  Little John squeezed the Sheriff tighter and tighter. He remembered what the miller’s boy had said—that at the monastery arrows hadn’t even phased the devil. He didn’t know if a sword would be capable of decapitating the monster. He would have loved to have tried, but he had no blade, and his quarterstaff lay on the ground, just out of reach.

  Beneath him the Sheriff thrashed like a wild thing. Curses spewing from his lips seemed to actually darken the air around them. Little John didn’t know much about magic or demons, so he did his best to ignore them and focus instead on what he did know.

  He knew that he was the strongest man in England, and even bloodied and battered nothing could change that. He might not have been able to take on the Gisbourne creature, but the Sheriff was much smaller.

  He flexed his arms, squeezing tight.

  Harder! Squeeze harder!

  In his mind he heard Old Soldier barking orders at him, orders he’d never actually said, but what John imagined he would be saying if he was standing there now.

  Squeeze as if the lives of everyone you’ve ever known depended on it, because they do!

  So Little John, strongest man in England, flexed the muscles on his mighty arms and squeezed the Sheriff as tight around the chest as he could. He squeezed until the Sheriff actually stopped cursing because he could no longer draw air into his lungs.

  He kicked at John’s legs, but his legs were like mighty tree stumps, immovable, unshakeable. He could kick all day and it would matter not.

  Suddenly John heard a sharp cracking sound and realized with a rush of glee that the Sheriff’s armor had cracked in two. He redoubled his efforts, shouting in defiance of the man, the prince, and all their monsters from Hell.