Page 10 of Wench

A heavy silence follows, the men shifting uneasily in their saddles. Marian’s heart hammers, but her face remains fixed, still as carved stone. She presses her palms flat against her thighs, willing her fingers not to tremble.

Finally, the driver’s voice cuts through, low and decisive. ‘We’ll take the Roman road.’

A chorus of protest erupts at once. ‘Saints preserve us, no?—’

‘That path winds straight through the heart of Sherwood?—’

‘The fae hunt those shadows. You’ll get us all killed!’

‘We’ve no choice.’ The driver cracks his reins. ‘The last turn was a mile back. Better chance with Robin Hood’s shadows than the Sheriff’s temper. You want your skin intact by sunrise, we move.’

‘Stay sharp, keep your steel close,’ one of them hisses over the crunching of hooves and jingling of bridles as they reorient the carriage. ‘And pray we don’t draw attention.’

Marian’s pulse drums at her temples. Her cheek still throbs, but the ache is distant compared to the chill crawling up her spine. She closes her eyes, bracing as the carriage rattles back into motion.

Outside, the guards fall silent. The air seems to grow colder the deeper they press. Thick trunks and tangled branches cast long, dappled shadows over the muddy path.

The silence of the men unsettles her more than their grumbling. No laughter, no idle talk, only the occasional muttered curse when a branch snaps against a shoulder or a hoof slips in mud. They are listening, too. Listening for what waits in the trees.

Only creaking wheels and the squelch of wet earth beneath them answer.

Until a cry splits the air.

The horses screech and whinny as the carriage bucks violently to one side, metal groaning and wood splintering. Marian is flung against the opposite wall. Her shoulder cracks hard against the panel, breath fleeing her body in a whoosh as the coach lands on its side. Ignoring the pain, she forces herself up, fist sinking into the mud that seeps through the panels. Another shriek echoes. She scrambles to the other window, bracing herself against the frame as she peeks her head out.

What she sees turns her blood to ice.

Blurred in the half-mist, half-light, figures move with a grace that makes her stomach pitch. They dance between the trees without touching the ground. Their laughter rings sharp as chimes, cold and bright, cutting through the chaos with a kind of cruel delight.

They come from everywhere at once, as if the forest itself has split open and bled them into the clearing. Shapes dark as bark and pale as fog, flashing like copper flame or river gold, eyes glimmering strangely. Blades gleam for an instant, then vanish again as the fae dart close, strike, and melt back into shadow.

One of the guards roars, sword raised high. It doesn’t meet its mark. A fae figure slides low, the tip of a curved blade hooking neatly around the guard’s ankle. The guard topples with a crash, his weapon spinning harmlessly into the moss.

A laugh follows, rich and mocking. ‘Too slow, mortal. Even your clanking boots have better balance.’

They move like water. Before a soldier can even shout, his attacker dips beneath the arc of his blade and tugs the belt from the soldier’s waist with a flourish, sending his trousers dropping to his ankles. The guard stumbles backward with a shout, tripping over his own feet as his sword is plucked from the mud and tossed harmlessly into the underbrush.

Another guard tries to rally, charging with a spear levelled. Two fae corner him, one tapping the butt of the spear aside with an almost lazy flick, the other reaching out to rap the man’s helmet with the flat of their blade.

‘Who let this child play at soldiering?’ one of them sings as he stumbles.

Another guard lunges, only to find himself spun around by a second fae with a braided crown of leaves and bark. They grab him by the wrist and flip him like a dance partner. He lands with a graceless grunt. The fae grins, and pats his cheek before smacking his horse’s rear, both of them vanishing into the mist.

All of the remaining ponies rear, eyes wild with terror, and the carriage surges forward again, only to stall, half-canted in the mud. The driver shouts, his curses swallowed by the groan of harness leather tearing.

The forest is alive with movement now. Shadows darting, laughter rising in the mist like chimes rattling in the bones of the earth. It’s not battle. Nor is it war.

It’s play.

They’re toying with them.

The fae aren’t striking to kill. They nick belts, slice reins, snap bowstrings with precision. One soldier lets out a howl as his quiver is kicked from his back, arrows scattering across the ground.

‘Careful now,’ a voice calls from the branches above, ‘you’ll put someone’s eye out. But certainly not one of ours.’ Laughter ripples through the mist.

Horror and awe collide in Marian’s chest as the largest fae she’s ever seen lumbers out from between the boughs. He’s a massive bear of a man at seven feet tall and broader than any person she’s ever seen, with shoulders like felled oaks. His cloak hangs ragged from one shoulder, woven of dark wool that drinks the light, the edges frayed and matted from years of wear. Beneath it, he only wears a heavy kilt of deep green, the fabric pleated and bound with a leather belt studded in bronze.

Marian’s breath snags at the sight. His tan skin is inked with ivy vines that wind up from his knee to vanish beneath the hem of the kilt. The other leg’s tattoo mirrors it, but is broken by a wide bandage, soaked through with blood. The linen has slipped, revealing angry flesh beneath, raw and swollen, the skin torn as though something had tried to rip him open from the bone out.