Stone Rising (16 page)

Perhaps Iain had convinced himself, long ago, of the invincibility of his lord. Wherever the Woodsman had set his face against his enemies, victory had followed. Once – and only  once – Iain had seen Alann fall in battle, defeated by the unnatural might of the Huntmaster and his hounds. Yet, even that had proven no more than a setback, no more than a vagary of fate that had landed Alann once more in the right place at the right time, enabling him, unawares, to turn the tide of a vast battle.

Yes, perhaps Iain had convinced himself. And, he had to admit, it was easier than ever, these days, to get swept up in the belief. Rumours of the man’s prowess had spread throughout the outlaws as well as the Foresters, over time. A figurehead, he had become. A symbol of the working man’s resistance to bullying; their refusal to bow down before an uncaring ruler and to demand, instead, justice and freedom for all.

A thought struck him, all of a sudden. Alann believed that sooner, rather than later, Stone would be coming back, returning to claim them and take them home to whatever destiny awaited them. So did Iain himself, he realised, after a moment’s contemplation. But what then, for the outlaws of the forests of England? What then, when their figurehead was taken from them, spirited away, never to return? The thought left him cold, a chill that had little to do with the rain. Would the fighting spirit of men survive without his quiet strength as an example? Or would lessons be forgotten in time, the forests burned and the predations of evil men reign supreme once more…?

He glanced, once more, at the leather-clad figure beside him, striding through the rain, oblivious to the scrutiny. So ordinary looking. So…
human
. That one such person could have such influence beggared belief. Yet it was true, men needed heroes. They needed someone to look up to, to strive to be like. An example to follow.

Yes, Iain nodded to himself in the dark of the evening. Time was short, he could feel it in their bones. Even if they survived this expedition, they were not long for this world, for this time. Perhaps, just perhaps, if they set enough of an example with their deeds, then other men might follow. Perhaps, given time, a new figurehead might rise. A new champion of the people to take on the mantle of the Woodsman, long after he had gone.

That was it. Men could die. Heroes slain. But legacies lived on. Legends endured.

As the tall spire of Blidworth’s lone church began to gleam orange in the night sky up ahead on the road, Iain gritted his teeth and strode on with renewed determination. If, by rescuing two such fools as Will and the Boy, such a legacy might be given chance to take root, then it was a risk worth taking.

***

The warmth of the crackling hearth was a blissful relief after the misery of the march. The five intrepid warriors sat in separate chairs, spread out in a small semi-circle before the fire in the low-ceilinged inn. Tomorrow would see the last day of their journey to town, a long march south that would bring them within striking distance of the castle.

              For now, they rested, conserved their strength, allowing the gentle warmth of the blaze to permeate their flesh and bone, each man with a jug of ale to their side, nursed with relish; the usual tipple of the outlaws, brewed in the depths of the forest by the Preacher, was a strong, meady concoction, bitter on the tongue despite the generous lacing of honey. This pint was an altogether more wholesome affair, made, no doubt, all the more so by virtue of the long day’s march.

             
A gentle hubbub in the background, murmuring talk between locals, eyes glancing in their direction every once in a while, but the great bulk of John and the lean, warrior-like look of the others caused loose tongues to stay within mouths, kept pickpockets and drunken brawlers well at bay.

             
“I wish to apologise, John.”

             
Iain started, made to look around to see who had broken the mutual silence of the group, then realised that it had been, in fact, him.

             
“Oh?”

             
The big man looked puzzled.

             
Iain took a gulp of his beer, then nodded, solemnly.

             
“The things I said. They were cowardly and wrong. You’re right; what is the point of family if such notions are abandoned at the first hint of risk? I do not know Will or the Boy all that well, myself; but they stand for the same cause as each of us.”

             
The giant smiled beneath his beard, then replied, his voice as full of warmth as the orange glow from the fire.

             
“Still thinking of before?” He chortled. “My friend, have you not yet learned? We Englishmen are quick to ire, but we are just as quick to forget.” He picked up his ale, reaching forward with his tankard. “Water under the bridge.”

             
Iain smiled, a burden disappearing from his heart as he reached out with his own tankard to tap the two vessels together.

             
“Water under the bridge,” he echoed, before knocking back a gulp of beer.

             
John settled back in his chair, taking a gulp of his own, before wiping the foam from his great bushy beard and speaking out loud once more.

             
“That leaves us with one thing to discuss tonight; what are we going to do when we reach Nottingham? How are we to find our men in such a city and stop them from doing the deed?”

             
It was Alann that replied.

             
“The Boy is impetuous and a fool… but he’s a clever fool. He knows that the longer they’re within the city-guard, the greater chance the enemy have of discovering their true purpose. He will strike as soon as he can.”

             
A chorus of nods.

             
Iain spoke.

             
“They will not be able to strike at the Shiriff within his quarters; there will be veteran guards, security they won’t be able to breach. And they won’t strike in public, for that will only harm our cause in the eyes of the masses. They will have to wait for some opportunity where they are in close proximity to the Shiriff, but away from the public eye.”

             
It was the old tracker, Nial, that finally lifted his head, keen eyes peering out from a lined face as he answered.

             
“The Shiriff inspects each new batch of recruits at the end of their first week. That will be the ideal time for the pair to strike. Lined up, weapons to their sides, the Shiriff strutting before them like a peacock. One quick sword thrust is all it would take.”

             
Alann narrowed his eyes.

             
“You sound like you’ve thought about that before, old man.”

             
The tracker smiled wearily.

             
“I served my time in the guard, Woodsman. I only wish I’d seized the chance when I could have made a difference.”

             
Alann nodded.

             
“Aye. But times have changed. The Shiriff is surrounded with cronies. You find with regimes such as this that they are a hydra; strike off one head, only to find another growing in its place. The only outcome of their plan would be to lose us two good men.” He took a sip of his beer, the others hanging onto his words as he stared into the crackling fire. “It is only by the power of the people that things can change. It is the bard that wins the heart that holds the power. Not the assassin that strikes at it.”

             
A murmur of consent, then Luis spoke for the first time.

             
“You say that the Shiriff inspects at the end of the first week?”

             
“Aye, the morning of the last day.”

             
“And when might that be?”

             
Iain thought back to when they’d heard tell of the young pair joining up, taking into account the time it had taken their messenger to reach them.

             
“That’d be the day after tomorrow…”

             
The mood suddenly grew tense, as the import sank in.

             
“Then we’d better hope this weather clears up,” rumbled the voice of John, as he reached for his tankard. “For it appears that tomorrow we have some walking to do…”

***

The Boy strained, arms burning with effort, trying in vain to keep his head up, up, out of the puddle, but it was to no avail. With one last grunt of exhaustion, his weary arms collapsed beneath him, his face plummeting into the cold, wet mud of the training yard floor.

             
“Get up, maggot.” Scarface’s venom positively dripped from his every word as he berated the new recruit. “When I say fifty press-ups, I mean fifty. Not thirty-four. Now get up and give me twenty laps of the yard. And I mean twenty, not any other number that decides to make an appearance in that thick head of yours…”

             
With a wearisome effort, the Boy hauled himself upright, his training tunic splattered with mud and soaked through with rainwater from the puddles, before forcing himself on. He had seen too many of the other recruits go down to a right-hook from their ‘instructors’ to even think about arguing back. As he jogged along, his legs still half-numb from sleeping on his cold pallet the night before, he saw Will being put through his paces by one of the other drillmasters, the two sparring back and forth on the slippery flagstones.

             
Will was a keen fighter, and an expert with his daggers, but the halberd he was wielding was a slow and cumbersome weapon and took some getting used to. With grim and painful inevitability, a gap in his defences appeared that his instructor was only too happy to exploit; a sudden sweep with the wooden end of the poleaxe, and Will went over, his foot swept out from under him.

             
He landed hard on the stone floor, the wind driven out from his lungs.

             
This is how the Shiriff trains his men, thought the Boy? By running them ragged and beating them within an inch of their lives? Small wonder, he mused, that they all turned out to be so cruel in the end.

             
So fixated was he at watching the punishment being dealt out to his fellow recruits, that he failed to see the obstacle in his path before it was too late. He ran into the object, hard and unyielding, rebounding off and almost leaving his feet in his daze. He turned, shaking his blurred vision, half expecting that he had run into a stone column.

             
The meaty bulk of Guardmaster Cooper stood before him, looming large, eyes cold as flint and suspicious in his scarred and pockmarked face.

             
“Excuse me, sirrah,” mumbled the young outlaw, making ready to continue his run, but the officer held up his hand to stop him.

             
“No, no, my apologies, young lord.” The big man’s voice came out loud and mocking.

How the Boy wished he could wipe the look of amusement off the Guardmaster’s face. Well, perhaps given the size of him, maybe not. Though he would gladly settle for a quiver of arrows, a bow and a twenty yard start…

“Pray tell, your eminence, how are you settlin’ in? Things to your likin’, I presume? My comrades-in-arms not bein’ too harsh on you, I trust?” The hulk smiled again, black teeth showing as his eyes scanned the bruises and cuts that beset the Boy’s youthful features.

“No, sirrah,” the Boy forced out. “No cause for complaint.”

The smile vanished from the brute’s face and, with it, what little strength remained in the Boy’s limbs. The Guardmaster had the look of one who could kill with his bare hands.

In all likelihood, he had.

Cooper narrowed his eyes as he continued.

“You hide it well, child,” he gestured to Will who was being helped up by one of the other recruits, “and you may have your friend over there fooled, but not me. I know your kind. Highborn.” He spat on the ground. “And none of your kind joins up to the Guard, not willingly. I don’t like it.” He eyed the Boy as someone might look at something they’d found on the bottom of their boot. “This is my house.
Nothin’ happens here without me knowin’ about it. I’ll be watchin’ you…”

With that, he jerked his head, indicating that the Boy should continue running.

He needed no further encouragement.

As he continued his lap of the yard, he could feel the cold eyes of the officer boring into the back of his head.

***

Loud was the air in the barracks, where the soldiers and recruits sat to eat their mid-day meal. The veterans sang and cheered, washing their meals down with weak beer. The recruits, those still in the process of being beaten into shape, sat more sullenly in the far corner, away from the warmth of the fires, away from the pickings of the food.