Chapter 39
Baron was kneeling in a clearing, arms held to the sides by two men I recognized from the camp while at least a dozen others surrounded them.
Looming over Baron was his father. The sheriff’s hand was raised, and he struck Baron powerfully across the face.
“Admit it! You know where they are!” he cried.
Baron shook his head. His black hair had fallen over his eyes, and I saw a trickle of blood drip from his mouth.
“I don’t,” Baron stated calmly. “I never found any of them.”
“Liar!” screamed the sheriff as he backhanded his son.
I released an arrow before his hand was finished following through with the attack.
The arrow grazed his left arm instead of striking him in the triceps as I had meant to do.
Regardless, he howled in pain and doubled over, gripping his upper arm.
All the men surrounding their leader looked in my direction.
I stepped out of the trees and fired a rapid volley of three more arrows. Both guards holding Baron collapsed, but my third arrow merely grazed the tunic of another soldier. All the men thundered toward me.
I didn’t even have time to shout at Baron to run but turned and fled myself, dashing through the trees, following the winding trail I had blazed on my way there.
The men were noisily crashing through the forest behind me.
They were all shouting about the witch and calling encouragement to each other as they pursued me.
Two of the men were faster than I and caught up. I felt their hands swipe through my hair that streamed out behind me as I dashed into a clearing.
I suddenly stopped running and dropped quickly into a tight crouch. Neither of the men expected it, and they tripped as their shins hit my huddled body. They went sprawling into the thicket beyond.
Now the time for running was over; the others had caught up. From my crouched position, I dropped my bow and pulled my knives from my belt to prepare for my next assault.
I threw rapidly, one knife after another.
Some sunk home deep into chests. A few knives were dodged and, finally, I was overpowered.
Three of the remaining uninjured men pounced.
My knives and quiver of arrows were wrested from me, and I was pulled harshly to my feet.
The men I had attacked leered and fumbled for their weapons.
“Leave her alone!”
I looked around wildly. Father, Dale, and Little John emerged from the trees a bit away from me, weapons drawn, ready for a fight. Where were the others? I remembered how several of the men had run in the opposite direction. They were too far away to help now.
A roar erupted from the men around me. There were more of the sheriff’s men than there were of ours.
Several of our enemy nursed wounds, but they were big and mean and used to brutality.
I watched as one man ripped one of my knives out of his forearm.
He ignored the blood that poured from his limb and flung the knife back at me.
He clearly had no experience throwing knives, and the hilt thudded against my shoulder.
It would bruise, but nothing worse. The man who’d thrown it advanced on Father.
“Wait!” called another voice I recognized. It was the sheriff. He assessed the scene and his eyes lit on me.
“You!” he snarled, glaring daggers in my direction where I was still being held back by two of the men, one of which who had managed to grab hold of his sword as well as me. I wrenched at my captors’ grip, but they held fast. “You’ve ruined everything!”
For a second that felt like an eternity, we all froze where we stood. Father, Little John, and Dale shifted their weight, hands tightening on their weapons, eyes sharp.
My captors’ fingers dug cruelly into my skin; I knew I’d have bruises before the hour was out.
No one spoke.
No one even dared to move.
And then—
Father moved first.
The snap of his bowstring cut through the standoff like a lightning strike. His arrow flew across the clearing and buried itself cleanly in the man clutching my right arm. The guard let out a choked gasp and crumpled, dragging me sideways with him.
The moment I felt his grip loosen, instinct surged through me.
I twisted toward the remaining guard, letting my weight drop beneath his center of gravity just as I’d done to Baron months ago.
The man sputtered a curse, fumbling to keep hold of me, but I drove my shoulder beneath his ribs, used his momentum against him, and heaved.
His body sailed over my back and crashed to the ground with a thud that rattled through my bones.
I didn’t hesitate. I kicked him hard in the ribs, felt the air leave him in a grunt, and I tore the sword from his limp hand.
The blade was heavier than any I had trained with, but it gleamed with possibility.
It was my only weapon, my only chance. I vaulted over him and sprinted toward Father just as the forest erupted.
Arrows rained down and the sheriff’s soldiers roared in response, charging forward through the underbrush. The clearing exploded into chaos.
Little John met the sheriff head-on, his quarterstaff cracking against the sheriff’s blade with a jarring clang that vibrated through the air. Little John planted his feet and spun, sweeping the staff low to force the sheriff back.
Three men barreled toward me and I barely had time to lift my oversized sword. The first man swung high. I ducked, feeling the wind of his blade skim my hair, then rammed my hilt into his sternum. He staggered, and I pivoted toward the second.
The sword in my hands was far too heavy, pulling at my recently healed shoulder with every movement, but I refused to let go.
I swung with all the strength I had. The blade met the man’s with a teeth-rattling crash and pain shot up my arm.
I gritted my teeth, shoved forward, and Father’s arrow whistled past my head to strike the third soldier squarely in the chest.
“Keep moving!” Father barked.
I did.
We fought back-to-back, a small island of resistance amid the onslaught of bodies and metal and screams. I tasted dirt and sweat and felt the sting of cuts I didn’t have time to register.
Dale fought at Father’s flank, his sword flashing bright in the spring sunlight as he kept three soldiers at bay.
Then there was a cry.
Dale staggered, an arrow sprouting from his upper arm. His sword slipped from his fingers, and before he could regain his footing, he tripped backward over a root and slammed his head against a boulder.
“Dale!” I screamed, but he didn’t move. He lay sprawled across the earth, motionless, blood blooming beneath him.
The sight ignited something fierce inside me.
I swung my heavy blade in a wide arc that nearly toppled me but forced two men away from Father’s side.
Father and I continued to fight until at last, only one remained besides the sheriff himself.
Father seized the final attacker, pinning his arms behind him.
“Stop!” Another person’s voice rang out. It was powerful and commanding—the voice I’d grown to love. Baron had found us. His face was shadowed by rage, and blood was streaked across it.
The only ones who seemed not to see the newcomer were Little John and the sheriff.
As we watched, the sheriff’s sword cleaved Little John’s staff clean in two.
Little John desperately clutched the two pieces of his broken weapon, but they were no match for sharpened steel.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion.
Little John staggered backward, and the sheriff swung his sword in a wide arc, slashing it across Little John’s chest.
“No!” I screamed as Little John, one of my favorite people in the world, fell backward.