move.
* * *
Robin’s hand held the hatch’s rope handle. He nodded at Will and Marian.
“Once I drop down, you follow,” he whispered. “We can deal with the guards if we move quickly.” He looked past at Friar Tuck and Alan-a-Dale. “You two watch for sailors.”
One by one they returned his nod, each of them gripping a weapon. Will had his rapier and Marian held Raleigh’s saber. The fat friar carried an axe handle with no blade, just a stout stick of wood, its business end blackened from being fire hardened. Alan brandished two Scottish dirks each the length of his forearm. Their blades were nicked and notched from use, proof that they were of sturdy construction. “Wait.” Marian held out her hand.
Robin turned to her.
“Something doesn’t feel right.” The moment his hand closed on the hatch handle, her skin had begun itching. Not the dry-winter-skin-against-wool itch, to which she had become accustomed, but the feeling that something with too many legs crawled across the bends and folds of her body.
“We don’t have time for this,” Will hissed.
Robin glanced at his cousin, then back at Marian. He raised an eyebrow in a silent question.
What feels so wrong?
Her mind turned. Perhaps it was just the winter and the wool, after all, that made her itch under her clothes. Maybe her sense of unease was worry about the mission. They were about to attack soldiers. They had surprise on their side. Their chances were good.
She looked at her compatriots, capable fighters all. In Robin, one more than capable.
A small sound came through the wood of the hatch. A cry from a young throat, cut short before it could really start.
Gripping her sword tighter, she nodded to Robin. He took a deep breath, and pulled the hatch up.
Light blasted out, scouring the vision from Marian’s eyes.
The world went black-red, her vision only saved by the fact that Robin took the brunt of it. Raw force slapped the front of her body, making her step back. Immediately her mouth filled with the acrid taste of spoiled milk, and all she could smell was sulfur. Tears streamed down, freezing to her face as she blinked to clear her eyes.
Behind her Will, Tuck, and Alan all cried out. Only Robin in front of her stayed silent. Black fog replaced the glare, and swelled around them from the open hatch making Robin hard to see, even though he was only a foot in front of her, and moonlight still poured from the open sky above.
* * *
A sword punched out of the swirling dark, and Robin barely had time to knock it aside with his own blade, the cut so close it sliced the hem of his cloak.
He fell back, pushing Will and Marian with him. Everything was darker than it should be. He would be blind if he hadn’t jerked back just in time for the edge of his hood to shield his eyes from most of the blast.
Someone yelled behind him, a male voice but he couldn’t tell who. His attention was focused on the people spilling out of the hold.
There were soldiers, armed to the teeth with long swords, and among them were men and women, some older, some younger, dressed in strange clothing that looked nothing like uniforms.
He blinked away the black on the rim of his vision and leaped forward, bringing the fight to the steel of the attackers.
* * *
Will watched Robin sweep his sword to parry two soldiers who struck in unison. His cousin, first to battle.
Then he reached out his hand, brushing Marian’s hip. She lurched toward him, eyes streaming tears down her cheeks, soaking into the black scarf she had covering her mouth. His own eyes hurt from the magic blast, but she had gotten worse than he.
“Get behind me,” he hissed. “I can still see, mostly.”
Soldiers not fighting Robin circled around toward her, and he did not like the look of the people in the robes. He pulled at Marian and stepped around her, rapier out and ready to strike blood.
* * *
Alan-a-Dale elbowed Friar Tuck. “Can you fight?”
“Always.” The big monk hefted his
* * *
Robin’s hand held the hatch’s rope handle. He nodded at Will and Marian.
“Once I drop down, you follow,” he whispered. “We can deal with the guards if we move quickly.” He looked past at Friar Tuck and Alan-a-Dale. “You two watch for sailors.”
One by one they returned his nod, each of them gripping a weapon. Will had his rapier and Marian held Raleigh’s saber. The fat friar carried an axe handle with no blade, just a stout stick of wood, its business end blackened from being fire hardened. Alan brandished two Scottish dirks each the length of his forearm. Their blades were nicked and notched from use, proof that they were of sturdy construction. “Wait.” Marian held out her hand.
Robin turned to her.
“Something doesn’t feel right.” The moment his hand closed on the hatch handle, her skin had begun itching. Not the dry-winter-skin-against-wool itch, to which she had become accustomed, but the feeling that something with too many legs crawled across the bends and folds of her body.
“We don’t have time for this,” Will hissed.
Robin glanced at his cousin, then back at Marian. He raised an eyebrow in a silent question.
What feels so wrong?
Her mind turned. Perhaps it was just the winter and the wool, after all, that made her itch under her clothes. Maybe her sense of unease was worry about the mission. They were about to attack soldiers. They had surprise on their side. Their chances were good.
She looked at her compatriots, capable fighters all. In Robin, one more than capable.
A small sound came through the wood of the hatch. A cry from a young throat, cut short before it could really start.
Gripping her sword tighter, she nodded to Robin. He took a deep breath, and pulled the hatch up.
Light blasted out, scouring the vision from Marian’s eyes.
The world went black-red, her vision only saved by the fact that Robin took the brunt of it. Raw force slapped the front of her body, making her step back. Immediately her mouth filled with the acrid taste of spoiled milk, and all she could smell was sulfur. Tears streamed down, freezing to her face as she blinked to clear her eyes.
Behind her Will, Tuck, and Alan all cried out. Only Robin in front of her stayed silent. Black fog replaced the glare, and swelled around them from the open hatch making Robin hard to see, even though he was only a foot in front of her, and moonlight still poured from the open sky above.
* * *
A sword punched out of the swirling dark, and Robin barely had time to knock it aside with his own blade, the cut so close it sliced the hem of his cloak.
He fell back, pushing Will and Marian with him. Everything was darker than it should be. He would be blind if he hadn’t jerked back just in time for the edge of his hood to shield his eyes from most of the blast.
Someone yelled behind him, a male voice but he couldn’t tell who. His attention was focused on the people spilling out of the hold.
There were soldiers, armed to the teeth with long swords, and among them were men and women, some older, some younger, dressed in strange clothing that looked nothing like uniforms.
He blinked away the black on the rim of his vision and leaped forward, bringing the fight to the steel of the attackers.
* * *
Will watched Robin sweep his sword to parry two soldiers who struck in unison. His cousin, first to battle.
Then he reached out his hand, brushing Marian’s hip. She lurched toward him, eyes streaming tears down her cheeks, soaking into the black scarf she had covering her mouth. His own eyes hurt from the magic blast, but she had gotten worse than he.
“Get behind me,” he hissed. “I can still see, mostly.”
Soldiers not fighting Robin circled around toward her, and he did not like the look of the people in the robes. He pulled at Marian and stepped around her, rapier out and ready to strike blood.
* * *
Alan-a-Dale elbowed Friar Tuck. “Can you fight?”
“Always.” The big monk hefted his
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