Free The Two Torcs by Debbie Viguié

they were made of cloth, and in an instant the merchant Locksley had known for three decades didn’t even look like a man anymore. Blood and bone splinters sprayed, drenching the side of Bentley’s head. As the gore struck him like a wet slap he screamed a long, pitiful wail, high pitched and mewling, like an animal being slaughtered.
    John’s face pulled into a wide, gleeful smile. He tugged on the scepter and Mercroft’s body shuddered. The thing had lodged in the collapsed skull. John put his foot on the dead man’s chest, grasped the scepter with both hands, and yanked. It came free with a long, lingering squelch that hung in the air, not quite echoing in the room.
    Mercroft’s body slumped sideways, falling against Bentley. The young man was screaming, his wail now undulating as his body convulsed, trying desperately to get away from the bloodied corpse but still bound hand and foot.
    John twirled, his long robe slinging out from his lean body, showing a hairless, blood-spattered chest. His spin brought him closer to Bentley and he swung the gore painted scepter up in an arc, to bash it against the young man’s jaw.
    The scream ended.
    The impact bounced Bentley on his knees, his head twisted sharply by John’s blow. Locksley could see he was already dead. The lifeless body of the young man leaned out, pushed by the weight of dead Mercroft against him, and tumbled off the dais. It fell onto the tiled floor, landing on his neck which creased like a letter to be sent.
    John tossed the scepter into the air. It spun in a lazy arc from his right hand, across his body, and into his left hand.
    The Sheriff spoke.
    “From this moment forward, any time your men fail to stop the Hood from taking a delivery, one of them will die.”
    Locksley turned to look at him. He’d gone numb, left hollow at the casual destruction of two men.
His men
. One he almost counted as friend, the other he’d taken as a responsibility.
    His words to Robin burned deep inside him, below the dullness of shock.
    “And make no mistake,” John continued for the Sheriff. “Fail us many more times, and
you
will be that man.”
    Locksley realized his hand was shaking by his side. He clenched it to make it stop.
    “You are dismissed,” Glynna chirped. “Fare thee well.”
    He turned and stalked out of the room, cursing the name Longstride with each step.
    * * *
    Friar Tuck carefully maneuvered the heavily laden wagon through the forest, heading for the clearing where Will had told him the men would be. He had brought with him tools, such weapons as he could get his hands on, and two casks of ale.
    He had been fortunate, as well, in that Alan-a-Dale had stopped by just in time to accompany him on the short journey. The young man would help in cheering the men.
    “It’s starting,” Alan said softly, interrupting Tuck’s thoughts.
    “What is?” he asked.
    “Everything. These men must be convinced to rally around Robin, to help the cause. If they stand with him, others will, then others, until we actually have a chance at something other than being slaughtered.”
    “You’re in a good mood,” Tuck said drily.
    “I am, actually. Just because I’m being pragmatic doesn’t mean I’m in a bad mood.”
    “Still, I’d appreciate a little less pragmatism and a little more optimism when we get where we’re going,” Tuck grunted.
    “I’ll endeavor to give what is needed.”
    That was what worried him. Alan had been a little too blunt lately, and honest, and it was upsetting to say the least. Maybe bringing him along had been a bad idea. It was too late to turn back now, though. They were almost there.
    And at the end of every day, even blunt, too honest, and in a foul mood, he would rather be in Alan’s company than anyone else’s.
    * * *
    As they rolled into the clearing, the man known as Old Soldier stood, alone and alert, a sword in his hand. He slowly lowered it as he nodded to Friar Tuck.
    The old man let out a whistle and the tall