“I have to go,” Guy whispered, more for himself. But Eric grabbed him and pulled him close, shivering, his fingers clutching for companionship in this, the final moments of his life. And Guy could not even give him that. Eric was the last of Guy’s old regiment, the only one who still remained from barely two months ago. Guy had lost every last one of his men, to the scourge of Robin Hood.

The world split into sparkles before Guy even realized there were tears in his eyes.

Eric’s mouth sputtered out blood.

“I can’t … I have to go,” Guy said, and left his friend to die.

Mercy had no fairness to it. No kindhearted soul was spared. No cruel heart received his due. That was how the outlaws win, because they didn’t care who remained when the insanity was over.

Guy wouldn’t survive this, either, he knew that now. His men were being butchered around him—there was no knowing how many of the Black Guard still stood. He thought about fleeing, flying back to Nottingham to stop the fire brigades at least, but he knew they would catch him. Guy’s fate was writ, there was nothing about tomorrow to regret now.

But before he fell, he would take the devil with him.

Steam pumped through him. His muscles burned afire.

“That way,” Eric had said, his final words. There were people in that direction, so Guy cut through them.

His body moved on instinct. He parried a skinny man’s lunge and used the momentum to cut through the man’s arm below the elbow, then a side step and a drag of his blade through the man’s belly. Guy moved as if in a dream. He swept low and took the legs out of one opponent—and left the rest to Silas of York, who came down on the enemy with an overhead smash. As his body fell, Guy had already moved on.

He buried his sword into another villager’s head. He didn’t even stop moving.

That way.

Locksley.

His path was blocked by a bearded sack of meat who was quick to find steel, and his body tumbled into Guy and spun him around. Guy punched his blade into the meat-man’s neck and turned back, but he had lost his bearings. A Guardsman was nearby, Ryon, a thin young man that was a better archer than swordsman, fumbling with his bow to find a target in the mist. Then his bow slipped from his hands, the arrow jumped limply forward, and the young bowman sloughed to the ground.

Another knife in the back.

Guy moved forward but a tree branch tripped him. He looked up just as a shadow disappeared with a white glove.

Traitor, Guy cursed. The White Hand. One of his new recruits had turned against him. Unless he had been a spy all along.