Free Stone Rising by Gareth K Pengelly Page A

sirrah!”
     
    ***
     
                  “Oh, for pity’s sake…”
                  Iain’s incredulous voice filled the hut, the messenger staggering back a step as though expecting the man to throw an object at him for bearing such news. John placed a meaty hand on the Outlander’s shoulder, guiding himself aside and stepping forward to speak to the messenger himself, eyes serious in his bearded face.
                  “And you are certain it was them, man? The shadows played no trick on your eyes? Nor indeed ,the ale?”
                  The man shook his head vehemently.
                  “No, John. It be them, clear as day, I tell thee. Saw ‘em with me own eyes taking the Shiriff’s shilling in the Trip, not two days ago.”
                  A look of sorrow flickered across John’s face, then he nodded and bid the man be on his way, before turning back to the table behind him, Iain at his side as they looked to the figure that sat, silent, up until this point.
                  It was Iain’s voice that broke the pregnant silence.
                  “What do you think, my lord?”
                  Alann looked up from his contemplation, pausing for a moment, before speaking to John.
                  “What do we know of your man from the town? Is he trustworthy?”
                  Eyes closed in sadness, the big man nodded slowly.
                  “Aye. Franklin has been a friend to us for a goodly time now. I have no reason to suspect he lies about this.”
                  “Hmm.” Alann looked thoughtful. “Then we are forced to acknowledge that the two have indeed joined up with the Shiriff’s men. The only question is, why…?”
                  To their credit, none of the two before him voce the obvious: treachery. Will had been with the outlaws since the beginning, fleeing his village along with several others, joining the exodus to the countryside before the arrival of the Foresters.
                  The Boy, however, had appeared later on, perhaps two years ago. Stumbling, wounded and starved, through the depths of the dark wood, where the outlaw scouts had found him, brought him in. It had taken a long time before he would even speak, catatonic from whatever traumatic experiences he had suffered. And then, when he finally had spoken, all he voiced was his hatred of the false king and his men. A hatred he had proven in battle half a dozen times since those early days, each time slaying the Shiriff’s men with his deadly accurate bow-fire.
                  No, treachery was not at play here. Instead, something more subtle.
                  And far more foolhardy.
                  The last words of Rodney the tax-collector sprang to mind and the eyes of all three widened as comprehension dawned.
                  “They… they can’t be thinking…” Iain began, but John was nodding solemnly, an expression a curious mixture of pride and disappointment etched on his broad face.
                  “Aye, they mean to kill the Shiriff before he comes to get us first.”             
                  A pause, then Iain spoke again.
                  “What do we do about it?”
                  “It’s a suicide mission,” John replied. “They have no hope of getting out alive; even should they succeed in slaying him, his guards will fall upon them instantly. Their heads will be mounted above Nottingham’s gates the very next day.” His mighty hands balled into fists. “We must go in, find them, bring them back.”
                  Iain cocked his head, frowning in confusion.
                  “How do you think we should go about that, then? The two of them could find their way into town easily enough