A wall of raiders crashed through their circle, shattering everything.

Half of Guy’s men were taken by surprise, slammed off their feet, overthrown, in an instant. The new combatants were nobodies—a throng of enraged villagers from Bernesdale, no doubt—a damned mob of Robin’s followers. They brought weapons, bundles of them, and quickly armed the remaining outlaws while Guy’s men still rallied to make sense of what was happening.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Guy screamed, pulling his longsword from its sheath and making a wide spin, daring anyone to close distance with him. “What the fuck did I just say? Don’t you understand what will come of this?”

Of course they did, but they didn’t care.

There were fire brigades preparing already, who had no idea the plan was a ruse. If Guy caught an errant arrow, if he were even delayed … the forest would burn.

They had to be stopped.

There was no controlling the chaos now. Guy twisted, he needed to pinpoint Locksley in the crowd, but he was no longer where he had been last. The Guard was overwhelmed and ambushed, Guy knew it in the stone of his stomach, he knew each and every one of his men would die here in a straight fight. But the outlaws would fall apart if Locksley fell. It was his only chance.

The villagers met his men in fury, steel tore through the night, but Guy stood motionless.

There.

A single glimpse of Locksley on the opposite side of the throng.

But before he could move, his world shrank to the size of the two thieves rushing him. They raised their weapons and howled.

In open combat, the odds favor nobody.

Instinct drew his attention to the attacker on the left. His face was puffy like knotted dough, and he held his sword out as if he meant simply to skewer Guy in one move. Guy cracked his sword down upon the blade, up high by the guard in hopes it would break, but the second attacker did not slow at all to attempt a swing. He simply barreled into Guy at full speed with his shoulder, rolling Guy off balance. He was able to pivot and twist counterclockwise, dragging his longsword behind him and ending its circle with a reckless slash at the doughman. He lucked out, and the end of his blade caught the edge of the man’s jaw, slinging purple pulp in its path. But Guy lost his footing, his sword swung out of weight in only his right hand. A spike of dull pain smashed into his back, no doubt a hasty pommel attack from his shoulder-happy friend. The mail beneath his tabard protected him from a laceration, but his spine screamed.