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71 pages

English

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Why had Herne called Marion to his cavern and not Robin? And why was she afraid to tell him what the Lord of the Trees had shown her? Forced to face his personal nightmares and his darkest secret, the Hooded Man needs his friends more than ever. But the outlaws are afraid... and no one knows who to trust. To make matters worse, an old enemy is stalking Sherwood - but which one?The Power of Three is the twelfth book in Spiteful Puppet's Robin of Sherwood collection, based in the Robin Hood universe of the classic ITV series.

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Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)

Adventure (Guyana)

Adventure

Fantasy

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	21 janvier 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781913256524
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Power of Three
Part 12 of the Robin of Sherwood Series
Jennifer Ash

Originally published by
Chinbeard Books
The edition published by
Spiteful Puppet
www.spitefulpuppet.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Ash
The right of Jennifer Ash to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Television series Robin of Sherwood © HTV/Goldcrest Films & Television 1983. Created by Richard Carpenter.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Prologue

Trying to block out the sound of Tuck’s snoring, Marion stared into the shifting black and grey shadows that made up midnight in Sherwood.
Swaddled in a pile of warm sheepskins, she rolled over to face her friends. They were all fast asleep.
‘Why can’t you ever sleep quietly? Honestly, Tuck, you’re...’
Marion stopped grumbling as a sharp gust of wind ruffled her hair. She looked up at the trees above her. Nothing stirred. Every spring leaf was as motionless as it had been seconds before.
Squinting into the dark, she felt the familiar prickle of approaching danger dance up the back of her neck. A moment later Marion sensed movement between the trees. As she reached out an arm to shake Robin awake, a familiar silhouette emerged from the trees.
‘Herne! Thank goodness.’ Getting to her feet, Marion whispered, ‘Shall I wake Robin?’
The spirit of the forest responded with a silence that made Marion’s head ache, his reply etching itself onto the inside of her mind.
Only you, Marion of Leaford.
Neither Robin Hood, nor his outlaws, stirred from their sleep as Marion picked up her bow, and followed Herne the Hunter, Lord of the Trees, into the night.

Chapter 1

A fire flickered in the middle of the neglected hermit’s cottage, but it did nothing to warm the air or fight the damp of midnight. Nor did its occupants want it to.
This was not a hearth to huddle around while telling stories to lighten the soul on a spring night – although its purpose was bound to a soul.
One soul.
To begin with.
The two women, clad only in simple lightweight grey tunics, muttered over the spluttering orange glow. Their chant inspired sparks of livid red to join the pattern of light provided by the flames.
‘...da nobis per spiritum virtutis Dei tenebris O dominum... da nobis per spiritum virtutis Dei tenebris O dominum... da nobis per spiritum virtutis Dei tenebris O dominum...’
Rhawn glared at the controlled blaze in frustration. Each letter of every word she uttered was undercut with a frustrated pleading.
‘Give us power over the spirit god, Dark Master!’
She threw a handful of richly scented herbs onto the flames, watching them fizzle to dust through narrow, hungry eyes.
Feeling the glower of her sister’s stare upon her, Rhawn jerked her chin up in defiance. ‘For the last time! I’m telling you this isn’t working. We need more minds to conjure the power to bring his soul down. We need a new coven! ’
‘We do not!’ The reply was tight and worn. They’d had the same argument almost daily for more months than she cared to remember, yet the older sorceress remained firm. ‘We are making progress. His soul and his mind are affected!’
‘But not affected enough! He might be an old spirit, but he’s strong. It would take a covens’ worth of souls to end him.’ Rhawn spoke more evenly as she eyed her companion. ‘You can no longer deny that you are not what you were you...’
The crash of pottery as the nearest vessel was picked up and hurled across the tiny cottage sent Rhawn ducking for cover.
With patience as thin as a communion wafer, the sorceress rounded on her sister. ‘The seeds of confusion are sown. He weakens. I can feel it. This very night he acts to try and stop his demise, but he knows it is coming. We need but one more soul to vanquish the forest’s protector forever.’ She paused. A smile that held no humour crossed her thin blood red lips while her habitual calculated calm returned, as if it had never been disturbed. ‘You and I - and one other. That’s all. Don’t underestimate what the power of three can achieve, Rhawn.’
Throwing another handful of herbs into the flames, the younger witch, still unconvinced, tried a more placating tone. ‘But sister, you are Morgwyn of Ravenscar! You were so close to bringing our Lord Lucifer to power!’
An enraged hiss shot from between Morgwyn’s closed lips. ‘We will not fail again. Don’t you see, my sister? Last time our very numbers defeated us! Too many betrayers... but now, from within his own forest, we will destroy the spirit that halted the rise of the Dark Lord.’
Striding closer to the cauldron that hung, suspended from the ceiling, above the fire, Morgwyn swept her arms just above its rim. The flames, splitting into shades of red and yellow, leapt around the sides of the vessel. They darted towards her palms as she peered into the pitch-black substance that stewed and seethed within the large metal pot.
Rhawn hesitated. She was unsure if she should speak the words that had started to form on her lips. She’d muttered them to herself so many times, but never dared ask her sister the question she burned to have answered. Yet now, as the time for action drew nearer, Rhawn found herself muttering, ‘You were left for dead, sister, and yet you live. How is that possible?’
Having braced herself for another outburst of rage at mentioning Morgwyn of Ravenscar’s greatest moment of weakness, Rhawn was surprised to be greeted by a malevolent grin.
‘How? Because my master protects his loyalist of servants.’ The sorceress gave a rasping chuckle as the red and yellow flames blended to a fiercely vibrant orange.
‘But he... they... those men, they left you for dead.’
‘And there lays Herne’s puppet’s weakness, my sister. Only a fool would fail to check that his enemy’s body had stopped breathing.’
Rhawn licked her lips, instinct telling her that, despite Morgwyn’s apparent calm, she should continue to trend through this conversation with care. ‘Robin of Loxley is dead. Herne the Hunter has a new son.’
As if stung by a bee, Morgwyn’s fury reignited. ‘I say he lives!’
The liquid within the cauldron glooped ferociously as Morgwyn railed. ‘He’s the same man within a different husk! As long as the ties that bind Herne to Sherwood remain, there will always be a Hooded Man.’
Despite every instinct within her telling her it would be wiser to hold her tongue, Rhawn shared her confusion. ‘But sister, he is a different man. Robert of Huntingdon wears the hooded crown now. He has done so ever since the sheriff, that fool de Rainault, finally culled the one who humiliated you.’
The enraged curse that escaped the former Abbess of Ravenscar’s mouth sent Rhawn reeling against the wall of the cottage, reminding her why she rarely spoke her mind in her older sister’s presence.
Swallowing her damaged pride, Rhawn said no more as she watched Morgwyn’s palms weave intricate patterns over the cauldron. The words her sister muttered while she worked caused the fire beneath to shoot upwards. Each flame becoming unnaturally straight and motionless as it heated the underside of the caldron.
The moment’s peace did not last for long, for Morgwyn’s anger still simmered towards her sister.
‘A humiliation that may not have happened if you’d been at Ravenscar to help me as I requested!’
Stung by the unjust accusation, Rhawn drew back to the fire’s side. ‘And if I hadn’t come from my coven when I did, ready to celebrate the victory you were so sure of, you’d have drowned where they left you. You may have escaped the outlaws killing blow by our master’s grace, but I pulled you away from a different death. A little gratitude would not kill you!’
‘Take care, Rhawn.’ Morgwyn growled as she pushed her long greying hair over her shoulders. It had been years since she’d abandoned the habit of an abbess she’d used to disguise her role as the most powerful Devil worshipper in England, yet she still held an air of ecclesiastical zeal about her- albeit more suited to the crypt than the alter. ‘You didn’t have to stay with me, sister. That was your choice.’
‘How could I go back to my people after that? It wasn’t just your reputation Loxley destroyed! And now, after loyally sheltering you, stealing food, conjuring spells of deception to keep us hidden, you dare talk to me as if I’m nothing more than one of your failed acolytes!’ Years of resentment suddenly burst from Rhawn’s throat as she glared at her kin. ‘I’m not such a fool as to expect thanks, but all I do get is riddles, with no real knowledge of what it is you scheme over. You demand my help but fail to trust me!’
Morgwyn clapped her palms and the flames relaxed back down into the bed of the fire. Her tone was suddenly as smooth as honey. ‘Calm yourself, Sister! Huntingdon, Loxley – they are just places with men named for them. A man could come from anywhere and be appointed Herne’s Son. When one falls another is chosen. If we are to be revenged on the son who destroyed my life’s work, w