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I stayed low to the ground and surveyed the scene ahead. Still, like a boulder. Watching.
The breeze moaned softly through the leaves and reached my nose.
And I smelled blood on the wind. When I squinted, I noticed the first signs of battle: boot prints dug into the grass and dirt, churning it into mud.
I saw no bodies, yet I recognized the long divots in the ground near the ruins, where it seemed people had been dragged through.
My breath came shallow. I fought off the ache and tiredness in my head, wishing for another sign. Wishing I knew what had happened. I had half a mind to shirk my stealth and barge into the clearing to demand answers.
From what I could see, no Merry Men were here. Our camp had been ransacked. Strangely, all the tents and accoutrements still stood.
My sign came in the form of a low rasp deeper in the trees, not ten paces from where I watched. The rasp was followed by a groan, and I located it past a glade ahead.
I stayed under the branches. My breath caught in my throat when I appeared in a small, cleared area.
Brandon, the man they called Stump, was on his back in the middle of the clearing. Trickling blood from a dozen wounds. His massive chest rose and fell with struggling, painful breaths. Blood trickled out the corner of his mouth. His head twisted when I neared him.
He didn’t have long to live. Even a man like Wulfric wouldn’t be able to heal him of his copious, deep wounds and blood loss.
“Stump,” I whispered sadly, resting a hand on his brawny bicep.
He smiled weakly at me, coughed, and gurgled another bubble of blood. “Am . . .”
“Am? You are what, friend? What happened here?”
His eyes jerked toward the ruins. I leaned in to listen to his rattling breath. “Ambush,” he hissed. “Waiting. F-Fly away, little starling.”
My shoulders sank, face twisted with sadness. “What of Little John and the others? I can’t abandon them.”
“R-Rescue yourself . . . to rescue t-them . . .”
His eyes closed. His head slunk to the side.
I wondered how long he’d been keeping himself alive just to relay his message.
I scanned the trees and the ridge of the ruins with a new objective in mind. With Stump’s newfound knowledge, I saw the telltale signs of men hiding in the outpost: Chopped wood set up to create little walls to obstruct views; tree limbs unnaturally placed around the campfires; slight rustlings in the bushes that were mistimed with the breeze.
I put my hand in Stump’s bloody paw, threading my fingers into his, and squeezed. He was cold, yet the blood was thick and warm. “Thank you, friend.”
He said nothing.
I looked down.
His chest rose and fell no more. His eyes were open. Glassy and sightless.
I sniffed and then slowly, quietly backed away in my crouch, away from the trail leading to the witch’s cabin.
The Merry Men weren’t here. All that awaited was the result of whatever fierce battle had taken place here—the victors. My guys had been overrun.
I couldn’t believe they were dead. I wouldn’t do it.
Can I go to the next location on the map and find them?
The thought unnerved me. If this map had gotten out to others—namely the Sheriff of Nottingham or Sir Guy of Gisborne—then nowhere in Sherwood Forest was safe for the Merry Men.
They had to know that, but now I had no way of warning them.
I was too late. Nothing I could do would stop this.
