Authors: Gareth K Pengelly
The demon’s voice growled, low and menacing, but there was an undercurrent there, of respect. And fear.
The man-mountain fixed him with those amused green eyes and smiled.
“You thought that you’d taken from me everything, Baron.” He gestured about him, to the plains, to the Yow that still flowed past, serenely burbling in the background. “My history, my people; and my birth-world, too. The Earth. Thinking me and mine lost, adrift in time and space. You came and you stole, plundered and corrupted what was never yours.” He smiled. “But what if I told you that it was all lies?”
The demon snarled, spitting fire from his fanged mouth to scorch the green grass at his feet.
“These are facts, Stone. Facts. This world burned. The Earth, too, burned. The spirits wailed as they fled. The people, your pathetic human race, fought amongst themselves in their panic, even as our armada descended from the skies. Facts, all of the above.”
Stone smiled.
“No, Asmodeus. Not facts. Possibilities. Potentialities. What you describe is only one possible branch of time. One divergence.” He narrowed his eyes and gestured up, to the vast stone dragon that still stood and regarded the pair with its inscrutable blue gaze. “You take these mighty beings and harness them, clip their wings to serve only as pack mules for your hellish armies. Well I will take these wings of stone, lent to me, willingly. I will take them,” he smiled, “and I will put an end to your invasion, before it even began.
The Baron roared his defiance, axes of flame flashing into existence, charging forward to assault his nemesis, even knowing that it would be futile. Sure enough, his flaming weapons cut through empty air and he stumbled, turning, to see that Stone was already several yards behind him. The twin glaives circled the figure at great speed, rotating as they spun, as if on guard.
Or waiting, like hounds on a leash.
“You are a child!” the demon snarled. “You are a pathetic and overly confident man-thing that knows nothing about the complexities of time and space.”
Stone rose into the air upon invisible currents of power, the vast dragon behind him a terrifying backdrop. The swirling blades rose with him, then found his hands and as his fingers gripped the ornate obsidian handles, his green eyes flashed with unfathomable power.
Wrong, Baron Asmodeus. As wrong about this as you have been about everything else. Today is the rewriting of the chapter you think you know so well. Today is where all your victories are undone and mankind is given a second chance.
The Baron quailed, now, before the mighty tones of that voice that seemed to permeate the very air about him and the earth beneath his hooves. After moments, he recovered, raging into the blinding light that now streamed from the floating figure.
“You know not what forces you meddle with, human! There are limits to even such powers as the dragons possess. You can only change so much!”
A hint of a smile on Stone’s face.
My dear Baron. I only
need
to change so much.
He laughed.
When, once again, you find yourself stepping, for the first time, through the portal to our galaxy, you shall find the human race quite a different prospect to how you did before.
With that, the being of light flew upwards on contrails of ephemeral power. As he rose, the vast dragon snaked forwards with its titanic neck. Stone came to rest on the tip of the creature’s long snout.
From his vantage point, high above the quailing demon, Stone called down.
Goodbye, Baron. When we next meet, this shall never have happened.
He cocked his head.
For you, at least.
With that, a roar from the dragon’s great, gaping maw, that seemed to shatter the reality about it, its great blue eyes flashing as a surge of cosmic power rippled along the length of its outstretched wings.
And, to the echoes of the beast’s cry, that future dissolved.
And a new one, a better one, waited to be born.
Chapter Thirteen:
At first it had felt like victory. But now, after the adrenaline had died down, after the ring of cheering had faded from the night, the truth of the matter had begun to make itself clear.
Their victory was not as assured as it had first appeared.
The Boy – Will corrected himself,
Loxley
– lay pale and wounded upon his pallet. Whether he would live or not was now in the hands of God; the ministrations of the priest and the tender care of the women of the forest village had done their best. But the sword wound had sliced deep. He had lost a lot of blood. Even now, he stirred fitfully in feverish slumber.
And all the while, the hordes of the slighted Shiriff would be gathering their might and drawing near.
But it had been worth it, he thought, as he looked down upon his wounded friend.
Who could have guessed that such mysteries, that such a past could have lain beneath that boyish exterior for so long? That here was a man of blue-blood, a noble, the son of a knight, no less? The son of a knight who had fought for his king, then returned home, only to be betrayed and murdered merely for proving himself loyal to his true ruler.
It explained Loxley’s courage, his drive, his determination. And his hate. It had not been so much impetuosity that had gotten him in trouble these years; it had been anger, a thirst for vengeance that none around him could have guessed.
Why had he kept this side of himself, this history, a secret from his comrades, Will wondered? Perhaps he had hoped that if he had kept that side of him suppressed, then eventually the rage, the pain, would die away of its own accord, like starving a fire of air.
Will couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain of seeing one’s family slaughtered for nothing more than to make an example of them. His own family, though he had not seen them for a time, had fled Blidworth before the Shiriff’s dogs had arrived, moving north, to Sheffield, to stay with family there.
Only Will had elected to stay in Nottinghamshire, to join with the rebels and fight for their cause. To become an outlaw. Sometimes he thought back to his mother, his father, his sister. Sometimes he missed them. But the difference, he knew, was that he could, if he wished, go and visit them at any point. It would be a long journey, sure. But it would be a journey he could make, nonetheless.
There was no journey that Loxley could make to see his family; not while he yet lived.
A groan, and Will looked down again, at his friend and comrade. In the gloom of the tent, with only a small candle to light the night air, Loxley looked pale as a corpse, only the low moaning and the shallow, laboured breathing betraying the life that yet lingered. Will had overheard some of the Outlanders speaking before. In their world, before they’d supposedly arrived in this land in a flash of great white light, they’d had healers with them, they’d said. People with power to heal grievous wounds until not even a scar remained.
Whether he believed them or not, whether he agreed with such magicks or not, he did not know; he only wished that one such companion had managed to find their way here with the Foresters, to lend their power in Loxley’s time of need.
For Loxley had become something of a hero to the folk of the forest, this night. The tales of his courage, of how he had stood up to the Shiriff till the end and faced his death with dignity had already become legend, spreading throughout the camp like a wildfire. He had stared death in the face and smiled. He had pushed the Woodsman aside, taking the blade meant for him. That Loxley was revealed to be of noble birth, that he had blue-blood running through his veins didn’t matter to the folk of the forest. He was one of them, fought for them and had almost died for them.
Perhaps, Will thought, it would do the outlaws some good to have a noble amongst them; it was a sign that the struggle for freedom was not merely the poor against the rich; but rather, it was a fight between the
good
and the
evil
. Wealth, status, birth had nothing to do with it.
It was what was in the hearts of men that mattered.
A motion behind him, the quiet rustle of the door to the tent being drawn aside. A looming shape beside him, then a firm yet gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Come,” spoke John, his own eyes gazing with tired concern to the youth that lay on the bed. “The Woodsman calls us. Plans are being drawn for the defence of the forest.”
Will nodded, feeling a slow burning anger at the foe that had almost cost him his friend.
“Very well. Let’s make ready for our last stand.”
***
The mood about the fire was glum. The joy and excitement of their evening’s return had ebbed away, till they were left with nothing more than worry. Loxley was ill, perhaps on death’s door. And at their heels, the massed forces of an irate Shiriff. Tomorrow, the outlaws would fight. And the Foresters would fight at their side. Same as they had done before, time and again.
Only this time, the full force of the Shiriff’s men were coming. Not to enter the forest, to capture and kill. But to set it alight. To burn them out.
Alann shook his head as he thought of the madness that must possess a man to even consider such a proposition. A forest, this forest in particular, was a bounty of resources, a treasure trove of timber and wildlife. That anyone would seek to destroy it in its entirety, merely for vengeance. He couldn’t fathom it.
He’d succumbed to some dark rages in times past, giving himself over to the seething anger within. But never would he willingly sacrifice the very land itself, simply to get his revenge. The Woodsman was no shaman; he had no truck with spirits, not like Gwenna, not like Stone. Perhaps this very forest thronged with invisible life? He didn’t know. But it wasn’t communion with the spirits that caused him to feel so close to the land. This place in which he had found himself, this
Sherwood
, reminded him in so many ways of his homeland. The thick, sturdy trees, the thick carpet of leaves on the floor, the trickling streams and the clearings, through which ran the rabbits and foxes. The canopy up above that dappled the light, home to owls, falcons, woodpeckers.
The woods here, like the woods of home, provided shelter, sustenance, resources. As long as they were carefully managed, the forests and man could live in perfect harmony with each other. He remembered his village, what seemed so many years ago now. He could still picture the cosy houses; the low-roofed inn; the lumberyard with its waterwheel that powered the saw. No longer did he shudder with cold pain at the thought of his past; thanks to the revelations imparted him by Stone, he had moved on from his sorrow and hatred.
But the memories remain, they always would. The wheel would always turn.
And what was life, other than leaving memories? Leaving a legacy for those left behind? For life was fleeting, mankind’s entire span passing in but the blink of an eye. All one could do was learn lessons as best they could, then leave those lessons on to the next generation, so that they might not make the same mistakes. Each generation getting wiser as they learned from the mistakes and achievements of the past.
Yet cruel and narrow-minded men such as the Shiriff and his distant king to the south didn’t understand this. They cared only for the treasures and comforts of the now; subjecting those beneath them to hardships for the continuation of their luxury. To them, the future only mattered if it contained a threat to them.
Which is why, even now, the massed armies of Nottingham marched north, to the forest. To end the threat of the outlaws, the danger they posed to the Shiriff’s easy lifestyle, once and for all.