“Aye, Captain.” Eric was drenched in sweat, but did not hesitate in getting to work. Morg lurched to join him, wincing at his arm that was clearly shaking now.

The calm barely lasted a second. Eric ordered them to lie on their stomachs, and most of them did. But they were screaming, yelling. One of them pushed off the ground and Guy’s men swarmed him. Guy would not have so much as blinked if they’d cut him to pieces, but instead the thief backed down, retreating, back to the ground with the others.

He heard a panicked breath and realized it wasn’t his own. Devon stood over the thieves, his whole body trembling, he was pointing his sword’s tip out over them loosely. His eyes wide, his muscles shaking, he looked utterly lost but certain he was supposed to do something.

“Hold!” Guy yelled. Devon was too spooked to know how to control his reactions, he did not have enough training for this. He held his weapon as if it were a snake, and he was more likely to hurt himself than anyone else. “Hold, Devon!”

He turned and relaxed, his eyes softened and focused on Guy, just as an arrow pierced him square in the heart.

Guy had to look twice to be sure it was real. Devon’s mouth opened wide in confusion, but no noise came, then his shoulders keeled inward and he fell backward. Guy closed his eyes against the rest of it.

There was a scream, primal, a noise beyond what any animal could make. Guy opened his eyes to see his men in a panic, bolting for the relative safety of the nearby supply houses. Guy spun around in search of the archer, momentarily blinded by the sun above the supply house behind him. A figure stood there—silhouetted, only a few feet away—bow in hand, drawn taut, aimed directly at Guy’s chest.

“Robin Hood,” his men gasped.

“Let them go,” belted a voice, but it was not Robin of Locksley’s. “Or you’ll be dead before you speak.”

It was the girl, the wild forest girl, Elena. She knelt on the slanted thatched roof, arrow nocked, trained on Guy. At this distance, she would be sure to hit.

Guy’s hands moved out to his side, wide, hoping to stay her shot. When last she had held his life in her hands, visions of his past had flooded him. Nothing came to him now, no fear or regret, just a cold calm. He made a slow signal down, away, for his men to lower their weapons to the earth. With his right hand he found the tie on his belt, letting his baldric slip off his waist. He didn’t care if she loosed the arrow, he would welcome the relief. But he would not lose another man. Not another Jon Bassett. Not another Devon of York.