“Lay your weapons on the ground,” Guy raised his voice, knowing fully well that they wouldn’t obey him. They never did. Every fool criminal thought themselves a mastermind—they always thought they could outthink or outfight or outrun the Nottingham Guard, and it rarely went their way. Perhaps it was animal instinct, or perhaps just a blind rejection of reality. Guy did his best to explain, to not startle them. “It will go much better for you, I promise, if you go peacefully.”

“You will take no one!” growled Wendenal. “Captain Gisbourne, the Sheriff himself told me these men were not to be harmed or arrested.”

He might as well have doused Guy with a bucket of river water. “What?” Guy reeled at the betrayal, but had no chance to strategize.

“I have come with an offer of peace, and that peace will be respected!”

“No arrests?” shouted a short scofflaw with a young face. The young ones always thought they knew the world. “Sounds like we can do whatever we want!”

His hands drifted to his back, and Guy’s men responded in turn. Morg tightened his grip on his halberd, while Reginold and Bolt looked to each other for guidance. Jon Bassett’s fingers twitched, ready to pull steel. If anyone were to spring this too early, it would be Bassett.

Guy’s eyes sharpened again on Devon of York, the latest addition to his regiment.

The only gerold who might prove himself worth the spit on his sleeve.

Guy squinted, hoping the young man would have any insight. Devon’s head gave a quick quiet nod, an affirmative. It was Guy’s only advantage here amongst the enemy, crippled by the Sheriff’s short-sighted pacifism. Guy chose—and prayed he chose correctly—to trust.

Guy ordered his men to stand down.

“If you are eager to throw your own lives away, then think not of yourselves. Think of your friends, your family. Look around at this place, and consider heavily what comes next.” They were quiet, and Guy reserved a small place in his mind to hope this might go well.

A deep voice bellowed from the edge of the room, “Let us hear this peace then!”

Emerging like a bear from a cave, the man carried a quarterstaff that made a heavy thunk with each step. Guy gave a quick glance to his men, whose eyes clearly begged for instruction.

“Weapons down, then,” he commanded. “And take a seat. Let’s talk of peace.”

Their eyes screamed with fear, but each of Guy’s men obeyed. The halberds lay down on the ground. Their hands did a remarkable impression of laziness. Guy let his own belt slip loose, sloughing its weight into one hand and lowering it onto nearby slag. The beast of a man with the staff nodded with some gravity at the gesture.

Wendenal bowed his head. “John Little?”

“Aye,” spake the bear.