Stone Rising (3 page)

Alann growled. The Boy. He should have known.

“What are you doing here? Trying to give away our position to the entire enemy force?”

The smile remained on The Boy’s youthful face.

“I managed to sneak up on you, didn’t I?” A mischievous glint in his eyes. “And don’t sound too grateful, will you? I only saved your arse…”

Alann nodded behind The Boy.

“Oh aye? And who’s going to save yours?”

Three figures paced closer from the trail, alerted by the sounds of voices. Two raised their crossbows, aimed and ready to fire, murder shining in their eyes. The third lingered behind, rondel dagger shifting uneasily from hand to trembling, sweaty hand.

The Boy’s mouth opened in alarm, but before he could make a sound, force beyond force threw him aside to fall into the leaves. The twang of crossbows and all The Boy could do was gaze up in awe as events unfolded before him as if in slow motion.

The first bolt flew with invisible speed and impeccable aim, but was greeted by the flat of an axe blade, rebounding off in a shower of sparks to fly back whence it came. Even as the soldier fell, steel helmet cracked asunder by the force of his own, redirected shot, Alann whirled in an arc, axe whistling through the air over the startled Boy, before releasing and soaring towards the second crossbowman. Axe flew, even as bolt flew, the two meeting in mid-air by chance or aim, the sharp edge of the Woodsman’s weapon cleaving the bolt in harmless twain, before carrying on to its prey. The crossbowman left the ground, axe buried in his chest, the power of the throw carrying him ten feet backwards to crash into the unyielding trunk of a sturdy oak, before falling, broken and lifeless, to the forest floor.

             
Alann walked, slowly, purposefully, towards the third, trembling man. The soldier’s breath coming in short, ragged gasps, as he gazed about the forest floor, seeing two of his comrades lying, slain, in as many moments.

             
“Who… who are you?”

             
Alann sniffed.

             
“Merely a Woodsman.”

             
Horror lit the man’s face as what was left of his courage fled, legs buckling as he fell to his knees, dagger falling from shaking fingers.

             
“Please… please don’t kill me.” Tears glistened the man’s eyes. “ I have a wife. I have children…”

             
Alann regarded the soldier. His lined face. The bubble of snot threatening to erupt from one nostril. This was no bloodthirsty Clansman. No gibbering demon.

             
This was nothing more than an unfortunate soul, press-ganged into the service of an uncaring lord. The Woodsman nodded.

             
“Go. But go straight home. Do not return to your lord. Do not give away our position.” He placed one foot on the chest of a fallen soldier, wrenching his axe free, before fixing the sole survivor with a meaningful glare. “I will know if you do…”

             
The man nodded, a smile of ecstasy lighting his face at such luck, before spinning and flying from the forest.

             
“Why?” The Boy’s voice pierced the silence as the Woodsman cleaned his axe of his enemy’s blood.

             
“Why what?”

             
“Why did you let him go? He’s no different from these pigs here.” The Boy kicked at a corpse, a look of disdain on his face. “He would have gladly killed us, had he the courage. Was it just his spinelessness that caused you to take pity on him?”

             
Alann laughed and shook his head. He had grown used to The Boy’s blunt questions over the time they’d been in this land. The lad was eager, latching onto the outlanders from the off, willing to learn their ways. He was brave, too. And smart. Alann suspected that he had the seeds of greatness within him. But whether his impetuosity would ever let them mature…

             
“You will learn, my young friend, that it’s not the common man that’s your enemy, but rather those he fears. Give a man a choice, a way out, and he’ll almost always take it over killing you.”

             
The Boy nodded, then inclined his head to the corpse that lay slumped at the base of the tree.

             
“And what about him? And the other two?”

             
Alann paused.

             
“Some people won’t see the choice, even when it’s right in front of their eyes.”

             
“But if they’d lowered their weapons, you’d have let them go?”

             
Alann thought for a moment.

             
“Maybe. It depends on the man. I like to think the best of people, but even so,” he looked down at the lined scowl that creased the dead man’s face, “you get scum in every barrel. Come, let’s get back to camp. I have a feeling that Iain’s fretting over our whereabouts…”

***

A city in the forest. A myriad huts, campfires, men, women, children. The smell of food, the scent of beer. The sounds of merrymaking. The sonorous preaching of the clergyman. The laughter of the children. Outlanders and Englanders as one.

             
The din of life.

             
This place was a refuge, a haven, for those forced to flee their former homes. But a haven no longer, for once more the enemy were at the gates. Alann cleared his throat. The hubbub died down.

             
For when the Woodsman spoke, people listened.

             
“My friends, I’ve known you long enough to not insult your intelligence. The rumours are true; our foes are on the move.” Murmurs amongst the crowd and Alann pressed on. “The army we face is large, I’ll kid you not. But this is our home. Our opponents fight for fear or coin. We fight for our freedom. We cannot be defeated. Not if we stand as one.”

             
John marched forth from behind his leader, his great stature looming above even the Woodsman as he bellowed out from behind his bushy beard.

             
“Who amongst you will answer the Call of the Forest?”

             
As expected, every Outlander stepped forwards. As expected, so did every able-bodied Englander. Alann’s chest swelled with pride till it was fit to burst. This, he thought. This is how tales are made. Not with demons, not with demi-gods that bestrode the battlefield on wings of fire.

             
No. With real men and women. Humble, working folk that simply dared to stand up and be counted when the time came to heed the call.

             
John turned, nodding to his leader, and Alann smiled.

             
“Form fighting groups. Distribute the weapons. At daybreak, we crush our foes.”

***

No! This is not how it was planned. Rodney turned about, spinning, twin axes ready to strike down his foes, but none drew near the tax-collector. Not because they were afraid, no. These outlaws didn’t seem to know the meaning of fear, not like his own, cowardly troops. No, they were not afraid.

They were cunning.

Sneaky. Attacking, then fleeing, drawing Rodney and his men ever deeper into the bowels of this God-forsaken forest, this dark, twisting labyrinth where the horses would fall and numbers count for nought.

             
Here and there, he would catch a glimpse of others fighting alongside the outlaws. Steely, determined men and women that appeared like wraiths from the dark, striking down his soldiers with preternatural skill, before slipping back into the shadows.

             
The Outlanders. He had heard tell of them. How they’d appeared, as if by miracle, to save the outlaws from the clutches of defeat. Hah, fairy tales, he sneered. Them and their leader, the Woodsman, they called him. Ten feet tall, they say. With eyes of fire and a voice like thunder.

             
Bullshit.

             
One of his own men came flying towards him, feet lent wings of fear, eyes wide with horror. One of Rodney’s own axes put an end to the coward’s flight, a whipping arm slicing his throat and sending the traitor careening to the floor, hands grasping at his sundered neck.

There was nothing more to these forests but shadow and superstition. He would prove that himself. And by doing so, win the praises of his lord.

              His watery grey eyes scanned the gloom, fixing on a hide-clad youth, mouth breaking into a predator grin. The lad’s attention was elsewhere, crouched where he thought himself hidden, loosing arrow after arrow into the fray with impressive speed. The youth was good. He’d best make this quick.

             
A strong arm hurled an axe, the sharp, heavy head whirling in an whistling arc towards his prey, ready to smash his skull into fragments, but luck or some sixth sense caused the youth to duck at the last instant. The axe snatched the cap from atop his head, the lad turning in shock, hand feeling with comedic drama the empty space his cap used to occupy.

             
Rodney snarled and charged, hoping to catch the youth while still in shock, but, to his credit, the archer regained his wit quickly, nocking and loosing an arrow at the charging soldier. Even against a fast approaching target, his aim was good and Rodney winced in anticipation as a missile soared his way. An impact and the warrior laughed incredulously, the arrow lodged firmly in the leather of his shoulder, but missing his flesh entirely. God was with him this day. With a roar of triumph he lunged upon his startled foe, crashing down upon the slight youth, dashing the bow to one side and making ready to slay with his axe.

             
The boy wasn’t going to go down without a fight, grasping Rodney’s axe arm with both hands in an effort to keep him at bay, but his muscles were young, still developing, and the bigger man’s bulk began to tell as the youth cried out in desperation and fear. The boy’s knee rose, smashing into his assailant’s midsection, but the leather armour shielded him from the worst and, with a snarl of savage glee, Rodney began to force the axe blade down towards his younger opponent’s neck.

             
A sudden and fierce pain in his shoulder, white hot like fire, and the soldier cried out in pain, releasing his pressure on his foe enough for the youth to bring his legs up and kick him away. Stumbling backwards, Rodney felt behind him as best he could, noting the sticky wetness that coated his fingers. He didn’t have to wait long to find the cause, as another youth grasped his former opponent by the arm and helped him up.

             
“Good timing, Will.”

             
The youth’s saviour nodded, spinning the bloodied dagger in his other hand.

             
“Don’t mention it.” He nodded towards the soldier. “Now let’s take care of him.”

             
Rodney laughed, despite the pain, throwing his head back.

             
“Yes! Let’s have at it, children. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

             
“No lads,” another voice behind him, deep and resonant. “This one we leave.”

             
Rodney turned in surprise, axe ready, eyes ranging higher as he took in the bulk of his new foe. Bushy beard, twinkling eyes and a raised, meaty fist.

             
An instant later, blackness.

***

It was an hour later that the man finally stirred, the side of his face a swollen mass of bruise and dried, crusty blood.

Remind me never to anger John, thought The Boy.

Groans, blinking, then the grogginess slowly wearing off as the harsh reality of his predicament dawned. The prisoner found himself bound to a stake at his back, the rough rope digging viciously into the skin of his arms, now that he’d been stripped of his leather armour. His eyes cast about, drowsiness subsumed in a tide of alarm as he realised where he was.

A crowd of people surrounded him, a sea of faces, some curious, others gloating, all to some degree or another, angry. From the throng, a man strode forward to speak to him. The bearded giant. A shiver of recognition went down the tax-collector’s spine, a recognition that went back further, he now realised, than the painful bruise on his cheek.

He spat the words through swollen lips as the man drew near.

“I know you…”

John smiled, though there was no mirth to be found there.

“And I know you, Rodney.” He spread his arms to encompass the crowd that gathered about the forest clearing. “As do all those here.”

Rodney thought back, back all those months, to the scouring of the villages north of the city. The driving out of those who failed to pay their dues to their new monarch. The burning down to the ground of homes. The roars of men, the cries of babes, the screams of the womenfolk. He gazed about again; yes, yes he recognised these people, alright.