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And Will Scarlet’s sword came crashing down on it, smacking it low. The young lad spun, crunching his elbow into the man’s nose, sending him collapsing to the ground in a spray of blood.
“Go!” Will said, wild-eyed.
I knew better than to argue with him in that moment. He took my place as the spearhead of our counterattack, and I watched carefully as he shimmied through trees, hardly with a rustle, and materialized in front of our enemies like a living specter.
I watched in awe as Will cut down three men in rapid succession, swords blurring with silver glints in the choppy moonlight. The red sash around his neck swung in the wind, its color muted in the darkness.
Then he was gone from my view, pressing further into the enemy’s disheveled line.
I shook my head, retreating back to the witch’s camp.
Four of my men lay dead. Others were congregating, shoulder to shoulder, awaiting command.
Alan took charge in my absence, yelling and pointing into the fray where he could see Will wreaking havoc on the enemy lines.
The Merry Men charged, hopping over fallen boles and branches. Swords clanged and sparked in the night.
I joined them, standing next to Stump as he bellowed a battle-cry and tore into the enemies.
Their moment of surprise was finished. They had caused untold destruction, yet the Merry Men now fought back, valiantly defending our camp.
How did it come to this? I wondered amidst the madness. How were we found so quickly? Who are these men?
Stump waved a longaxe like a berserker, keeping our dark-clad adversaries at bay. He challenged anyone and everyone. I spun my staff next to him, and we charged the two nearest men together. Brothers in arms.
Glimpsing past the first line of archers, which was quickly breaking in our favor, my stomach sank.
More shadows danced in the distance, and it wasn’t Will Scarlet’s dance of death.
No, it was at least a dozen enemy reinforcements, illuminated by the moon’s slashing light.
“Fuck,” I muttered, and knew we were doomed if I didn’t order a retreat soon.
Chapter 39
Will Scarlet
“Fucking vermin!” I shouted, hand slicing left.
Shlick—
A man’s hand, cut off at the wrist, flying through the air as I pulled my bloody sword back and darted to the next man in line.
“He thinks he cares more than me?!”
My head thumped, blood rushing in my ears. Some blood dripped into my eyes, and I blinked the burn away as I sighted the next man.
“Ahhh-grkk!” he groaned, my blade dragging across his throat, opening up a geyser of red.
“He has to know how much that feisty little vixen means to me! What, he thinks he’s the only one who can feel things? I can feel things too, Little John!”
I had never been good at expressing my emotions with anything other than rage. Good for me, then, that I had an outlet with which to expel my thoughts.
An archer hopped up from a hedge with a cry of dismay, seeing his two friends flailing about—one with a slit throat and the other with a spurting nub at his wrist.
The archer fled, trying to weasel his way through the trees. I sidestepped—gaining a clear shot without branches in the way—dropped my sword, whipped a dagger out, and launched it through the air.
The dagger sank into the man’s spine. His back bowed and he crumpled forward in a tumble of leaves.
