Page 132 of Queen of Sherwood

Blades blurred as he took on two soldiers at a time. If they hadn’t had their shields ready, each of them would have taken at least five wounds across their flesh within seconds.

As it was, they fended off Will’s initial onslaught, but I knew he was unstoppable. Unlike most men, Will Scarlet did not get slower when he tired. He got quicker.

The rasping of his blades crashing against enemy swords rang out like rapid-fire tapping against a jail cell bar. Sparks flew as his swords slid along guards and steel edges.

He took two men on at once, the ambidextrous fucker scoring precise hits and maneuvering with his left and right hands independent of one another.

Meanwhile, I felt the heat of the battle getting to me. I was bleeding in two spots—no, three spots now, as I felt my right calf trickling warmth.

Wonder how that got there.

I briefly scanned over my shorter opponent, keeping him occupied while I tried to gather my strength. My arms burned, my legs churned, and yet my heart kept a steady, slow beat.

This soldier was not as skilled as the one whose wrists I’d snapped. I let him think he was doing well, but it was only so I could recover, playing defensively.

Tuck came flying in, punched the man in the arm, and then had to bounce away to fight other soldiers who careened toward us.

The arrows had stopped flying in from behind, and I briefly wondered about that.

Across the way, Gregory had just cut a damn man nearly in half with the force of his swing. The soldier on the wrong end of his sword sagged, grabbed at his guts spilling out of the cavernous wound in his side, and quickly started convulsing as he went into shock and dropped.

Robert and Briggs each fought two men apiece.

All of us were completely guarded, nearly overwhelmed.

Will let out a sound—a grunt of frustration—which was rare for him in these moments. He saw the same thing I did: futility, if we kept at this pace.

We had easily cut down a third of these bastards, yet they had fresh arms waiting in the wings. They still outnumbered us, and our entire group was growing tired. The glade and the trees beyond stank of iron, coppery blood, and pine sap. A sulfuric smell of a nearby moor wafted across my nose.

I kicked the guard in front of me and he backpedaled. My staff came up and smashed his shield and sword aside in a swift one-two, opening up his center.

I slammed down into his chest with the haft and he coughed blood across my face. I wrinkled my nose, punched him in the jaw, and wrapped an arm around his neck.

With a firm twist, it snapped, and I dropped him and took a second to recover, breathing heavily now.

Something caught the corner of my eye, and I noticed a newcomer to the fray, walking at a measured pace toward us from the base of the hill.

He was huge, dressed in white, with the telltale red cross splayed across his chest, bright as the moon. His cloak billowed ominously, and I bared my teeth.

He had graying hair, and was nearly as huge and imposing as I was. Maybe more imposing because of his righteous armor, whereas I dressed like a goddamn beggar.

A true warrior, I thought, instinctively moving toward him, stepping into the glade.

The Knight Templar drew a sword from his back that rivaled the size of Sir Gregory’s. He found me through the fray, beyond the soldiers in front of him.

His eyes narrowed, his lips firmed.

I stepped forward—

Then Gregory made himself known, finishing another soldier and taking my place in the glade, across from me.

My eyes flicked over to Gregory.

The Templar’s eyes moved, too.

They locked with each other. Two graying warriors, past the prime of their soldiering days, perhaps, but neither willing to admit it. Incredibly authoritative on the battlefield, still, and I would be the first to admit it.

I had an idea who this man was. He was not a mere initiate like Brandt. His red-on-white outfit looked more ornate than other Templars I’d seen.

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