Page 131 of Queen of Sherwood

The man’s chin exploded, teeth lodging into the roof of his mouth and brain as it dislocated. Bits of bone and teeth sputtered out of his broken mouth.

He fell back with a heavy thud on the ground—

And a sizzling pain lanced across my left bicep.

I spun just as a flanking soldier reeled back to stab at me again—deeper this time.

Backpedaling, I smacked his blade away with my staff. He kept on the offensive, swinging his blade in quick strokes that kept me off-balance.

Growling, I kept pace, read his movements, and anticipated correctly. He didn’t score another hit, but I was useless when I wasn’t on the attack.

An arrow flew into the man’s lower side. My eyes darted left to see Alan-a-Dale drawing another arrow from where he hid in the trees, ten feet away.

The soldier grunted but didn’t relent, embracing the pain and continuing to bring me to heel.

I roared angrily, trying to match his movements, but he finally got another strike across the top of my hand and the pain burned to my bone. Though shallow, the hand was a horrible spot to get struck.

Luckily, I’d already lost a finger there. I was well-versed in the pain associated with little appendages.

Blood trickled down to my knuckles as I gripped my staff tighter. Alan’s next shot went wide, because he’d be the first to admit he was a shit shot.

Then a soldier was on him, too, and he threw his bow down and drew his sword to engage.

I bared my teeth at the soldier. He matched my ferocious look—he was a big man, and he could fight like hell through the agony of an arrow in his side.

He would tire, though. I just hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

A bellow shivered the trees of the glade. Sir Gregory charged into the open air like something from a legend. A Knight of the Round Table, perhaps. His sword was giant—the height of him—and he swung in huge arcs that kept four separate soldiers at bay. He was not afraid to stick to the woods rimming the glade. He opted to run right into the fucking clearing, like a madman.

Gregory was like me. Experienced and patient, because he had to be with a greatsword like that. He was trying to draw as many people to him as he could, and while he did that, Robert and Briggs danced around his peripheries and struck little blows at soldiers, confusing their attack.

They didn’t know who to go for. Robert was quick with a blade, but even better with his bow. If I wasn’t occupied with this fiend of a soldier, I would have run over to help them, so Robert could get to where he was better suited: arrow nocked along his bowstring.

The arms of the soldier I fought flexed, veins popping. His biceps showed, and I finally found an opening.

Next swing, I spun my wrist, bringing my staff with it, and cracked it over his receding hand.

He dropped his shield, wringing his hand out, and stabbed with his short sword, his swings becoming more wild and frantic.

I spun, parried. I’d earned at least two dozen nicks across the hearty wood of my weapon. On his next attack, I sidestepped again, noticing my surroundings—

And his sword slashed into the bole of the tree right next to me.

My staff came down viciously, full force, before he could reel back or dislodge his blade. It cracked across both wrists and snapped them, the shards of bone glistening in the moonlight as they broke through the skin of his forearms.

The man howled as he stared down at his broken, useless hands, hanging limply in front of him.

I prepared to end his misery when a comrade of his came up beside him to fight me off. Gritting my teeth, I engaged, letting the other soldier keep wailing since he was incapacitated anyway.

Then a sharp blade jutted through the front of his open mouth, spraying blood across the tree where his sword was still stuck. His eyes rolled and he dropped—

Just as Will Scarlet yanked his blade free from the back of the man’s neck. He flicked the blood off his sword with a quick swish and then joined me to engage my attacker.

Three more came at us, trying to surround us.

I went back-to-back with Will, my greatest, most prized warrior. While I fought with strong movements, sometimes lumbering, Will was lithe and precise. My battle position was hulking, his was dancing on light feet.

And now he danced.

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