Page 82 of Queen of Sherwood

Then my hand came down in a slash, aimed at the front carriage.

One of the guards was bent over, beginning to lift one of the birch trees with a grunt and the help of another soldier.

Arrows whistled out of the darkness of the trees.

Guards gasped. Shields lifted.

The man lifting the birch tree took one in his ass, immediately straightening with a howl—dropping his shield so he could grab at his buttock.

Another arrow took him in the throat, and a final one lodged itself in his chest. He dropped face-forward into the trees with a jarring thud.

“Bandits!” screamed one of the front-most guards.

He spun around for the carriages, sprinting—

Earning two arrows in his back, one of them stabbing into his spine. The guard rolled forward into a wheel spoke and didn’t get back up.

Swords rasped out of scabbards as the guards formed a semi-circle around the second carriage.

They didn’t need to announce that they meant to protect whoever was in that second carriage, because they didn’t need to. We all saw it.

We focused our energy on them, firing arrows en masse.

Shields rang out with wooden thuds and metallic screeches as arrows were batted aside. Four other guards ventured off from the carriage toward the sides of the road where we hid.

Little John bellowed and rushed out of our hideaway, Will Scarlet hot on his heels. On the other side, Robert and Briggs yelled their own battle cries and engaged the soldiers, frightening them with their painted faces and wicked weapons.

Steel clashed. Sparks ignited from the melee.

I jumped up from my knees and sidestepped to get a better angle on the guards surrounding the second carriage, all of them facing outward toward the trees. The smell of copper, pine, steel, and oiled leather was thick in the air.

There were nearly ten guards near the middle carriage, and they didn’t join their comrades engaging John, Will, Robert, and Briggs. They stayed disciplined, showing their superior battlefield tactics.

I needed to break that line. If we wanted to cut down on death, we needed to cut down their morale.

So I joined John and Will.

Tuck came in from a rear approach with three other Merry Men, charging the road toward the third, backmost carriage.

Guards swarmed out of that one and met the friar, Atonement, and Discipline. The clash of their weapons clanged and jarred my brain.

I pulled an arrow from my shoulder quiver, aimed, and tightened my bowstring on the nearest soldier fighting John.

They moved fast in the dark, arms wheeling and steel crashing against the firm, fortified wood of Little John’s staff. My mate held it with both hands, using it as a defensive tool until he saw an opening and swung hard—

Just as I found an opening and loosed my arrow into the guard’s arm.

He lifted his shield at the last second—too late—and the arrow embedded in his shoulder.

Growling in pain, the soldier’s shield dropped and his arm hung limp as I knocked all the feeling out of it.

The guard backpedaled toward the carriage and the ring of soldiers defending our arrows.

John lunged, closing the gap, and cracked his quarterstaff over the man’s head, caving his helmet in. Blood spurt from his nose, mouth, and ears as his skull was crushed.

I scanned left and saw Will Scarlet dancing around the other two soldiers at the fallen birch trees. His twin swords blurred in the moonlight, creating a rapid staccato rhythm of clanking steel against shields and guards’ blades.

Will growled, teeth bared, and spun around one man, slicing into the back of his calf, hamstringing him. As he spun behind the soldier, his second blade parried the other soldier’s lunging weapon, then he rotated again.

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