The Two Torcs (27 page)

“You scrawny…” John drew back. Much didn’t flinch, narrow eyes staring at the giant of a man.

John swung.

* * *

Something struck him from behind, knocking into his shoulder and pushing him forward a half step. Pressure circled his arm, gripping it tightly. He turned his head and felt something sharp under his beard against the big vein in his throat. Lenore’s face was inches from his, teeth bared in a hard white line as she clung to his arm like she had climbed a tree. Her breath smelled like a man’s as she spoke.

“Touch him, and you’ll be smiling under your whiskers.”

He froze, unsure of what to do. The knife was at his throat, but he could feel her body on his arm beginning to tremble from the strain of hanging on. In just a few moments she would fall, he was sure of it.

But would she slit his throat as she did?

Anger roared up in him at the helplessness of the situation.

He felt the knife pull away, just slightly, as she slipped down his arm.

His other hand curled into a claw, moving to snatch her off him and dash her little bird skull against the ground.

“Enough.”

The voice cracked across the camp like lightning striking a tree.

Every head turned, John’s included, to look up at Old Soldier on the ridge. He stared down at them, steel in his hand and steel in his spine. For a long moment, time hung in the balance.

Then he spoke.

“Lord Longstride has need of us,” he said. “Pick up a weapon, each of you, grab your sorry excuses for balls, and be quick about it.” He pointed around the camp with his sword. “Anyone who chooses not to come—” He stopped with his sword pointed directly at Little John. “—begone from here before I return, or I will gut you and leave you to fend off the crows and the ravens.

“Do not test me on this.”

* * *

It only took moments for everyone to scramble to readiness. Old Soldier turned to the forest and set off at a pace hard for a man half his age. In twos and threes all the men followed him.

“Where do you think you’re going, serving girl?” Little John asked Chastity, who was sorting through the cooking utensils until she found a wide-bladed knife meant for cutting meat. It had a stiff spine and a sharp edge, and it would do.

She turned on him, eyes blazing. “My friend is captured by John. I’m going to help free her. She is my responsibility.” She looked him up and then down. “I will not wait here like a coward.”

John dropped his eyes. He couldn’t argue with that. She had a sense of duty, a master she was willing to die for. He had once been willing to die for Robin, but that was before…

Chastity gathered her skirts and sliced through them with the knife. A few more slashes made quick work of the bottom hem, turning it into strips that she used to tie the material into pantaloons that she tucked into her boots. She grabbed a small blanket, sliced through the center of it, and stuck her head through. It hung over her shoulders as she turned, and ran to the back of the line of men and children who were following Old Soldier.

As she disappeared he looked around and found himself alone in an empty camp.

“Damned fools,” he muttered.

The fire crackled beside him.

“Damn stupid fools, every one of them.”

A log popped in the fire pit.

“An old man, a bunch of refugees, and some children.”

A cold wind blew smoke in his eyes.

“Damn them all to
hell
for being idjits.”

Little John picked up his quarter-staff and set off toward the trail they had all taken.

In the span of just a few moments everything had gone wrong. Alan looked around him. The blackness—a physical manifestation of evil that filled the throne room—was making him sick, twisting his innards round and round. He had seen many dark things in his time, abominations and desecrations, but never anything like this.

The nobles stood around the room, listless, as though their very souls had been sucked from their bodies. Looking at the stack of bloody scrolls John had next to him, Alan thought it likely that they had been.

Dark magic was clearly present in those scrolls, and the act of signing with their own blood had done something to each of the men who had pledged their loyalty. Better far that they had resisted him.

Each man who refused, died in the act.

Alan shuddered, wondering just how much further John was going to go, and what his intentions were. Whatever they might be, they could not be allowed to come to pass. He was stripping the people… and the land.

The last time Alan had walked alone in the woods, he had heard a weeping sound as though the earth itself was in torment. Nothing was going to survive John’s madness and ambition.

Alan glanced over at Marian, who had been tied to a chair to keep her from trying to escape again. Her skin was unnaturally pale, nearly translucent. He could see veins throbbing in her hands, neck, and face. The poison in the room was having an effect on her as well—a profound one.

The cardinal had been right about her. She was the one to save them. If only he could save her first. Yet he didn’t have his instrument. It was across the room. His hands, too, were bound, so even if he did have it, he couldn’t play. That left only his voice.

The greatest weapon a bard possessed.

“Prince John, heed my words.” he said, letting his voice echo around the room. “There is no victory here for you. You oppress the people of this land, a land carved by the very hand of the Creator and set as a beacon on a hill. The Goodly-Wise and the Many-Gifted will not see this people laid to waste.

“We are ancient. We have stood against evil before, and we will continue to be steadfast. Turn aside and honor your vow to the rightful king, Richard the Lionheart. Forgo this mad quest to usurp the sovereignty of England. Turn toward the light of wisdom and knowledge.

“Choose to follow darkness at your own peril.”

Silence rang at Alan’s last words.

John began to clap… slowly, each one a mocking reverberation.

He descended from his throne, snake-like eyes locked on Alan’s. The bard stood, chest out, unwilling to give an inch of ground. His was the right. His was the truth.

“I have met a couple of your kind before, bard,” John said as he came to stand before him. “So arrogant, so smug, feeling like you know everything and the world should listen to you. I can respect that on some level. You know what your problem really is?”

Alan stood, unblinking, refusing to answer.

“None of you know when to hold your tongue.” John flashed him a wicked smile and suddenly there was a curved knife in the man’s hand. “So I shall do it for you.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Hold him,” he barked.

The guards on either side of Alan grabbed his body and head, even as he realized what John intended.

He clamped his lips shut.

John just stabbed him in the face, knife prying his jaws apart. Then pain unlike any he had ever known coursed through him as blood filled his mouth. Everything went black.

* * *

Marian screamed in horror as John cut out Alan-a-Dale’s tongue. It was the ultimate desecration, the worst thing that he could have done to the bard. Alan slumped unconscious, and as John held his tongue aloft the guards let the bard fall to the floor.

John was laughing, blood dripping down his arm as he paraded around the room with the tongue held high for all to see. At last he stopped and turned to look at Marian.

“Oh, don’t feel too sorry for the bard, little Princess. Your turn is coming,” he said with a cruel smile. “And we have something much more special in store for you.”

“You will pay for this, all of you,” Marian warned. Her eyes flitted between John, the Sheriff, and Robin’s mother. Clearly the woman had bound herself to the Sheriff. Marian didn’t know if Robin was aware.

“Actually, it’s you who will pay,” John said. “And them,” he added, carelessly waving a hand at the nobles who were standing around the room like statues.

“You are not king, and you never will be. The earth will spit you out. Richard will return and the rightful king will sit on the throne,” she said. “You have surrounded yourself with darkness, but the light always wins.”

John chortled as though she had said something funny.

“Not always, dear niece, and not this time. No, I
am
king, and soon I will be the greatest king. The King of all the West.”

“A sorcerer is what you are,” Marian spat.

“Yes, but Sorcerer King of all the West is a little too long a title, don’t you think?”

“So, you admit it,” Marian said, raising her voice and looking around, hoping against hope that at least one or two of the nobles still had their wits about them. None seemed to react at all.

“Don’t look to them for help,” John said, following her gaze. “They are all now bound to me, their wills are mine.”

“You sold your soul,” Marian accused.

John shook his head. “No need to sell anything if you have the right spell. Say, a spell that will raise an arch-demon and bind him to you,” he said, eyes glancing toward the Sheriff.

Marian’s blood ran cold. An arch-demon. The Sheriff just continued to stare with his unnatural eyes. She looked past him, and tried to make eye contact with Glynna.

“Lady Longstride, help me,” Marian said, her voice pleading.

Glynna turned and looked at her as though seeing her for the first time.

“Why, whatever is the matter, my dear?” she asked.

“The Sheriff is a demon, and John means to destroy everything.”

Glynna smiled at her. “Not everything, dear,” she simpered. “But then again, you won’t be around to know, will you?”

“What does she mean?” Marian asked, turning back to John.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. To seal my kingship, only one little thing is left—and, you, my dear niece, are going to make the perfect sacrifice.”

* * *

Robin had been watching the castle for hours, his fear for Marian gnawing away at him and driving him toward insanity. Too many times he’d had to control himself. Rushing in, getting killed, would leave her defenseless.

Not helpless, though. Not Marian.

He prayed that her strength remained enough.

At last he heard the sounds of movement from behind him, still coming from a way off.

It was another ten minutes before Old Soldier crouched down next to him. The others arrived in groups, and remained back a few steps. Fifteen souls ranging in age from a young boy to an old man. He prayed it would be enough.

“We are here, Lord Longstride,” the man said.

Robin didn’t correct him. The title chafed him, but he knew it was important to Old Soldier.

“There are almost no soldiers around the right side,” he said, pointing. “They’ve focused mainly on the front and the side where the kitchen is, since those are the easiest points of entry.”

“Begging your pardon, Lord Robin, but I spent years as the king’s right hand and shield. I know this castle.”

“You know a better way in?”

“That I do.”

Robin nodded. “So, let’s hear it.”

“There’s a secret way into the dungeons—there to get the king to safety if need be—which they likely don’t know about. It can be accessed through the king’s garden. They won’t have but a guard or two in the dungeon. We arrive on the inside, and then fight our way outside.”

Robin clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Lead the way.”

Prince John looked like a fool, prancing around the room, crowing over Marian and the bard. Glynna could tell that her love felt the same way. There was no change of his countenance as he stared at the little prince, but she could feel his contempt. The little fool had been going on for what had to be hours. She wished he would just get on with it already.

She leaned back against Nottingham, who stood behind her.

“All the boys lusted after that one,” she said, pointing to Marian.

“She’s no match for your beauty,” he said absently, stroking her hair with a gloved fist.

Glynna thrilled at the compliment.

“Maybe not, but a match with her would put a man one step away from the throne.” Before he had left, Philemon had urged Robin to try to claim the Lady Marian for himself. The thought of Robin as royalty was laughable to her. The boy had never cared anything for power or responsibility. He was content to play in his woods like a child.

Robert would have made a good king. He was away playing soldier with his father, though. Like as not they would both be killed. It didn’t matter, though. Even if they did come back, they would find things much changed. A new power would be on the throne, and she very much doubted it would be the little prince.

She rubbed her stomach absently with one hand while she continued to watch John lording it over his prisoners. Such a waste of time. Torturing them, she could see, but all this talking was so… boring.

“Soon, my pet,” the Sheriff rumbled in her ear, as though sensing her impatience. It was nice to have someone who understood her—all of her—so completely.

“It’s just so tedious,” she whispered.

“Let him gloat while he can.”

He pressed icy lips to her temple and she felt it low and deep inside her body.

Idly she wondered if any of the nobles had any fight left in them to protest the sacrifice of Maid Marian, and if they even knew it was happening. Somehow she doubted it. The black marks they had earned from signing the scrolls bound them to the darkness, and the darkness was far more jealous than the light, fighting to the death for what was its own.

Of course, it didn’t matter, since most of the nobles were all snugly tucked up in guest rooms all over the castle. They had been escorted there by the guards a little earlier. Most of them would be asleep by now.

Sleeping the sleep of the wicked
, she mused.

The Sheriff tensed. She could feel it where her body was leaning against his. She twisted her head to look up at him. His dark eyes were fixed on the far wall, where there was a door. He shifted her weight forward so that she was standing on her own feet. Then he began to move.