Hall The Blind Bowman: Dark Fire

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-78845-330-1
Verlag: David Fickling Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 448 Seiten

Robin and Marian's quest to save Sherwood Forest continues as the Sheriff's army advances closer, leaving destruction in their wake.Old magicks and ancient myths call out to Robin, leaving his relationship with Marian at breaking point. Can they survive the sparks that may become merciless flames . . . ?

T.K. (Tim) Hall is a former journalist who has written for various national newspapers and magazines. He spent two years in Bermuda, reporting for the Bermuda Sun, and has travelled extensively in South America. He now lives near Stroud in Gloucestershire with his wife and two daughters. In addition to writing, he works for the Stroud-based charity The Door, which supports disadvantaged young people and their families.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hall, Tim

Leseproben

Prologue
‘It’s dead all right – the whole town,’ said Fyn MacDair, coming back up the trail just as thunder began to rumble in the distance. ‘I rode as far as the counting house. There’s not a soul anywhere.’ The news, even though it was half-expected, spread disquiet through the war party – knights exchanging glances, squires muttering beneath their breath. ‘… an entire market town …’ ‘… must have been two hundred people in Tyrwell …’ ‘… even in these shires? Whole realm a wasteland …’ Sitting straight in his saddle, determined not to show his own dismay, Sir Bors addressed the scout. ‘Can you say for certain it wasn’t plague? Did you see any fresh graves?’ ‘No, and no crosses on doors either,’ said Sir Fyn. ‘There was a stench, true enough, but not like rotting flesh. More like stagnant water.’ Setting his jaw, Sir Bors stared towards Tyrwell, its highest roofs just visible at the foot of the valley. His question about plague had been a waste of breath. You know full well it isn’t disease that’s killing this land. It’s a more malignant force. He turned to address his men. ‘Hear this, all of you. We cannot outrun this storm. Therefore, we must take shelter where we find it. But the Sheriff’s men have been here ahead of us. MacDair, go on ahead. Take Hawkwood and Tarcel with you. If soldiers are still lurking in these hills I want forewarning.’ As the scouts rode away, Sir Bors kicked his destrier forward, and the remainder of his force clanked into motion behind him. ‘You can’t truly think anyone would be fool enough to challenge us out here,’ said Sir Derrick, at his right-hand side. ‘Forty fighting knights and a score of squires. A whole battalion of rangers wouldn’t dare stand against us.’ ‘In days past, perhaps,’ said Sir Bors. ‘But the Sheriff grows increasingly desperate. And he has been searching for this child a long time.’ Twisting in his saddle, Sir Derrick looked back. ‘Can one boy truly be so vital? Each time I look at him I find it harder to believe.’ Looking back himself, Sir Bors inspected his knights, their tabards emblazoned with the emblem of the golden arrow, their silver cloaks billowing in the wind. His gaze came to rest on Ifor Rowland, a young warrior so big and strong he was known on the tourney field as The Destroyer. And there, perched in front of the knight, was the forest-born child. The boy kept his head bowed and the hood of his tunic raised, his tiny pale hands gripping the pommel of the saddle. The entire time they had been on the road he had barely stirred, and not uttered a single word. Sir Derrick was right, it was hard to imagine such a child tipping the balance in this war. But then Sir Bors had underestimated the forest-born before, and he had vowed never to make such a mistake again. As thunder rumbled once more, Sir Bors led the retinue onwards, through a landscape that grew increasingly bleak. With Tyrwell deserted, there were no oxgangs to work the town’s ploughing land, so crops stank where they had been left to rot. There were no livestock in the pasture – only dead sheep down by the river. The cartways and the roads were crumbling and overgrown and swirling with dust. The oppressive atmosphere intensified as they entered the town itself, crossing the old Norman bridge and passing beneath the deserted tollhouse. As they wound up through the eerie streets, the only noise was the clopping of hooves on the cobbles, and a loose shutter banging in the wind, and the skittering of leaves. ‘Those of you not on watch can get some rest,’ Sir Bors told his men as they dismounted near an old coaching inn. ‘These are not the days you dreamed of when you joined the household guard. But our destination is close. This time tomorrow we shall be sitting around campfires, drinking wildwood beer and sharing songs with the outlaws.’ Sir Bors wished he could feel as optimistic as he was trying to sound. As he entrusted his horse to his squire, and he paced alone through the dismal streets, his spirits sank ever lower. He had been to Tyrwell in better days; he remembered the babble from the taverns, and the cajoling of merchants, and the quick games of children in the lanes. Now there was nothing. No life, human or otherwise. Not so much as a stray dog howling at the storm. As he crossed the market square he saw exactly why this place had died. At the heart of Tyrwell was a sacred spring, where townsfolk had drawn their water for generations. Where pilgrims had come in their thousands to bathe wounds or beg a favour of the gods. But such days were over and would never come again. Because the Sheriff’s men had destroyed the wellhead, blocking it with mud and rubble, then poisoning the water with the carcasses of sheep. The water now dribbled into a sick and stagnant pool, which swarmed with mosquitoes. For a long while Sir Bors did nothing but stare at this degradation, the pestilent vapours raw at the back of his throat. No matter how many times he had witnessed such scenes – villages where the Sheriff had poisoned sacred streams, or uprooted hallowed trees, or burned ancient groves – they always left him numb, with a feeling almost like grief. Where would this lunacy end? How could people live without their water, without their soil, without the very air to breathe? Someone went hurrying past, pulling Sir Bors from his reverie. ‘Forgive me, sire,’ Ifor Rowland panted as he ran. ‘I swear, he’s like a wisp. I don’t know how he slipped away.’ Only now did Sir Bors see the forest-born child. He was standing at the northern edge of the market square. With his hood raised, he was staring up and out of the town. ‘Leave the boy with me,’ Sir Bors said, waving the big knight away. ‘I wanted to try speaking with him again in any case.’ Sir Bors went and knelt at the child’s side. Following his gaze, he looked to the horizon. There, sweeping up and away with the hills, was the endless dark mass of Sherwood Forest. Carried on the storm winds, the din of the wildwood was swelling – the treetops churning and roaring like the ocean, the creatures shrieking and barking and bellowing. And beneath all this was a more mysterious sound that shivered the hairs at the back of Sir Bors’ neck. A howling groan so low and so strange it might have been echoing up from within the deep earth. ‘It was a long time ago you were orphaned from the forest,’ Sir Bors said to the boy. ‘No doubt it seems daunting to you now. But trust me, it will be your sanctuary.’ The boy said nothing, only went on staring towards Sherwood. ‘What should I call you?’ said Sir Bors. ‘At least tell me that much. I was told the other boys in your village called you Jack Frost. Have you had other names besides?’ Still no response. Sir Bors sighed heavily as he stood. He could only trust that the boy would find his tongue eventually – or else this whole quest truly had been a fool’s errand. ‘So then, come along with me,’ the overlord said, turning away. ‘We must get you indoors. This storm will hit hard. But it will pass.’ ‘No, it will not.’ Sir Bors went back, dropped to one knee. ‘What was that? Did you speak?’ ‘You are wrong,’ the boy said, his voice tiny beneath the wind. ‘The storm will not pass. It will swallow us all. Even the forest will be powerless.’ The boy lowered his hood and turned his head. This was the very first time he had looked squarely at Sir Bors, and for the overlord it was a shock. Because the boy’s skin was as pale and unlined as an infant’s. But his eyes … his eyes were older. They were ice-grey, and weeping. They might have been the eyes of an ancient. ‘You are not talking about this storm, here and now,’ Sir Bors said, as lightning licked at the forest. ‘You may speak freely with me. Tell me – what do you see approaching?’ The boy closed his eyes, and when he opened them again there was a single tear on his cheek, and he was smiling. Despite himself, Sir Bors felt a shiver of something move across his skin. ‘It is too late,’ the boy said. ‘He is already here. But you need not be afraid.’ He reached up, and with icy fingertips he touched Sir Bors’ battle-scarred, heavily bearded face. ‘You have stood too long. It is time you took your rest.’ Sir Bors jerked upright and stared to the west. Fast riders were entering the town. It was Fyn MacDair and the other scouts. ‘The Sheriff’s men – heading this way,’ Sir Fyn panted, heaving his sprinter to a halt. ‘Rangers – a dozen or more – over the brow of that hill. And others with them – the look of mercenaries.’ ...