The Two Torcs (36 page)

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 fancy 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.”

“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.

* * *

King John spoke the final word. The spell hung in the air around him. It made the cuts in his own flesh sting as if vinegar had been poured into them. The dark energies pulsed around him.

All he had to do was spill Marian’s blood.

He looked down at her, the knife in his hand.

She stared back at him, defiance writ on her face.

She had his brother’s eyes. They were honey brown and fierce.

Glynna Longstride leaned toward him.

“The time is here. Do the deed.”

The potential in the air pulled at him, making him sway on his feet.

The blade seemed to move of its own accord.

He closed his eyes.

Something lifted him off his feet.

For a second he thought he had completed the ritual, and was floating.

Then the pain set in.

John tilted, spinning in the air.

He’d been tossed, like so much garbage. As he struck the ground he rolled, the knife flying away.

The man in the hood was at the altar. He put his hands on Glynna and pushed, knocking her down. There was a blade in his hand and he slashed apart the ropes holding Marian as she leaped off the stone.

He looked at John as if to move on him, then thought better of it and turned. Pulling on her arm, he took her away.

The magic in the spell remained, but now it was agony.

* * *

Little John was winning, he could feel it. The Sheriff was struggling less.
Hold him
, that’s what he’d told Robin he’d do. He was beginning to think, though, that he had a chance to kill him. He was doing his best to crush him to death, but the man was withstanding pressure no human could.

Because he’s not human
, he told himself.

Suddenly he thought of all the times his mother had sat with him at bedtime when he was a child. He began reciting the Lord’s Prayer out loud as he kept trying to squeeze the life out of the creature below him.

“Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

The Sheriff opened his mouth in what looked like a scream of agony, but no sound could emerge still. He was weakening. Little John could feel it, sense it, and he began to shout the words louder.

“Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive…”

He did not know how much time had passed. He did not know if Robin had saved Marian and ended the prince. All he knew was that he wouldn’t let go, not ever.

He heard a whisper of sound above him and sudden searing pain as a sword was shoved into his back. He cursed in his mind. The Sheriff’s soldiers, he’d forgotten all about them.

* * *

The little prince was screaming in anguish and Glynna didn’t know what to do. She looked everywhere for her love, and finally she saw him, striding toward her, armor cracked and hanging off, blood covering him. Somehow it made him look that much fiercer.

“What do we do now?” Glynna asked. Her hands went red, coated in the blood that slicked over his chest.

“We finish it.”

“Can we?”

John threw the knife and the book onto the altar. “We need her,” he shouted, his face twisted in fury. “The sacrifice has to be of royal blood. Don’t you understand?”

The Sheriff pinned him with his gaze. “I understand that fact perfectly, little prince.”

“What does that mean?” John asked, spittle flying from his mouth.

“Just this.”

A white-hot blade, smoke rising off it, appeared in the Sheriff’s hand and he struck upwards, shoving it up into John’s sternum and piercing his heart.