Page 137 of Queen of Sherwood

Only Will Scarlet seemed able to escape battles as fresh as when he’d entered them. That damn whelp, always showing up the rest of us with his singular focus.

My knuckles crunched into a soldier’s side, and I felt something snap where I hit. The man grunted, spun with his blade, and I ducked—if I’d had hair, it would have cut a few inches off.

Next punch landed in the man’s kidney, and if he didn’t die within the next few minutes, he would be pissing blood for weeks.

He choked on his own spit, falling back with rolling eyes.

I landed two more punches into his cheek, breaking skin and slashing blood across the rest of him. The second punch from Atonement took him in the temple, and he dropped like a sack of grain.

Alan hammered at his opponent with overhand strikes, completely uncoordinated and inept.

The soldier he fought kicked out, caught Alan in the chest, and sent him sprawling.

I entered the fray, not appreciating watching the pretty minstrel get lambasted like that.

The soldier was quick, and did a back-cut that caught me in the forearm.

I seethed, hissing, and he swung again, facing me full-on. Alan scrambled to his hands and knees, found his sword on the ground, and then jumped up to his feet to engage.

At least he was trying, though he often provided more of a distraction than help.

The soldier bared his teeth at me, spitting, and I screwed my face up and wrinkled my nose as his nasty saliva landed on my face.

I did him one better, lunging at the man and catching his blade with a sparking shot from Discipline. With his blade turning wide, I stepped into the man’s guard, my bigger belly rubbing up against him.

I could see the darks of his eyes, and then I held onto the collar of his chainshirt. With numb hands, I grabbed at his neck, leaned forward, and bit into him.

My teeth embedded into soft, flexed skin. I clamped harder, eliciting a howl of shock and pain from the soldier, growling like a feral beast as I punctured cartilage and muscle.

Don’t enter a mouth contest you can’t win, heathen.

I tore away a bit of his neck with my teeth, and blood bubbled. He pushed me back, and then big arms wrapped around mine from behind, pinning my bulky arms behind me.

My eyes widened. I hadn’t noticed the second soldier coming up behind me while I was lost in a strange fervor somewhere between cannibalism and survival.

With my arms barred, my belly protruded.

The soldier in front reeled back with his hand, cruel blade fisted at the base, and he stabbed toward my vulnerable stomach—

But the sword abruptly dropped to the ground when Alan-a-Dale’s sword came down and took his hand off at the wrist.

The neckless bastard screamed in agony as he stared down at his nubby wrist. He inadvertently spewed blood onto my face and torso.

I roared in his face, tensed my body, and pulled forward, forcing the man holding me to fly onto my back.

The weight of him and his armor brought me to my knees as I tried to flip him over me, fruitlessly. His legs kicked in the air, arms tangled with mine, and he tried to wrap an arm around my throat to strangle me.

Choking, my vision dimmed. I brought my palms up, fell completely to my hands and knees, and wrapped them around his wrists to try and dislodge his hold.

It was no use. I was going to pass out.

Alan cried out and hacked his blade into the man on my back over and over—not stabbing, in case he impaled him and stabbed into me—but rather slashing. His crude attempt worked, and I was quickly showered by the dying soldier’s gore and stink.

He slid off my back and I panted. The deep breath of air I took whistled raggedly in my throat.

“Are you all right, dear chaplain?” Alan asked, crouching near me with a hand on my shoulder.

I nodded, croaking, “Robin. We need to find the little heathen.”

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