Scarlet

I couldn’t feel it. I felt sick and numb, my heart racing and slamming without any emotion behind it. I felt tears—or maybe blood—on my face and I ground my palms into my eyes.

“Scar?” Much said.

I ignored him.

“Scar, I doubt the sheriff will kill him. He’ll want someone to hang, and the Hood is a pretty damn good catch. Come on. We’ll fix you up and come back; no one’s leaving Rob to die.”

The only thing I could hear were running water. Running water and my heartbeat, beating my insides up. Wait—running water.

I looked up, searching the rocky cliff. There it were, tucked far to the side, not so much a tunnel as a spout, a river of water draining out from the castle. From the prison.

“Scar!” John yelled.

Before anyone could stop me, I scaled the rocks and slid into the spout. Water splashed down my front and I yelped, but I fit. I fit, and no one else would. I pushed forward against the water, crawling deep into Castle Rock.

He damn well better be alive.

The tunnel ran at a sharp incline and I had to claw my way up, freezing water running over the worn rocks. It ran over me, too, like it didn’t know that I weren’t no rock, quick and cold through my wound so I didn’t feel it none. I weren’t sure if it were still bleeding or if it would kill me, but I didn’t much care.

My feet slipped now and again, sending me sprawling against the rock or, worse, sliding back down till I caught my feet again. My shoulders burned and trembled and shook, but the longer it went on, the less I noticed it. It didn’t matter none. I were going onward and upward till I couldn’t fit no more or till I found Rob.

After a long while the tunnel started getting tighter, scraping my sides round. The water didn’t have nowhere to go, so it ran over my front and back and shoulders and face and thighs. I spat it out of my mouth, trying not to think of the blood and ash and sweat and waste that were in it.

A rock tore at my shoulder and I stopped for a moment. I pushed my head to the side, tears welling up about the stupid fix I were in. He were more than like dead, and I would die in this tunnel, and then the sheriff would burn the whole shire trying to get a drop of tax out of the people.

I stayed there too long, leaning into the rock, the water pulling over me, pulling tiny little pieces of me down the tunnel and away. There were no light in there, no day, only the sound of the water, never stopping.

I may as well have been dead already. If there were a Hell, this were it, hung in limbo between the living and the dead.

“Gisbourne says we can muck you up a bit, as long as you’re alive to hang,” I heard. My head twisted; it were the torture master. Were I closer than I thought?

“You can kill me all you like. Have at it.”

My blood lit up like a torch. It were Rob. Rob, sounding cavalier and confident and, more than anything, very much alive. I scrabbled along the rock. The water didn’t matter no more, nor did my flesh or the rock against it. I saw a thread of light twisting through the water, and I went for it like a hound.

I didn’t hear any cries, any whip cracks or none, which didn’t sit well. The tunnel opened up a bit beneath the prison, and I pushed above the water, hugging to the side to avoid a thick trail of blood sliming down. I could see firelight and the shadow of the torturer.

“A little more?” he grunted.

I heard Rob heave a breath and spit, and I dodged to avoid that as well. I gripped the grating, trying to move it. It were welded and strapped into the stone with heavy iron spikes.

There were a deep groan, and a few moments later there were more blood drooling down. Stupid, helpless tears burned at my eyes. It were Rob’s blood. Rob were bleeding a fair lot. I took out my knife and started stabbing at the rock around the iron pins.

“I’ll let that set till morning, and we’ll see what you can take then.”

I heard the footsteps go, and I began working the grate hard. With no one to hear, Rob’s groans got heavier and more labored.

“Christ, Rob, I’m coming,” I called to him. The knife were slipping off the rock, not finding any space or purchase.

“God, haven’t I been tortured enough?” he moaned.

I stopped, pain sinking into my belly. “Rob . . . ,” I tried.

“Don’t turn my own heart against me, please,” he said. It sounded pitiful. I heard something shuffle and then a rattle of metal and heavy chains.

“Rob?” I wailed.

No answer came.

“Rob!” I shrieked. “Rob, answer me! Rob, I’m so sorry, please! Please!” Tears started, fierce and hot from my eyes. I slammed my knife at the grate, cutting my hand. “Rob, please, I’m sorry I got you into all of this. I’m sorry I brought Gisbourne down on you. Please, just be alive.”

No answer came. My knife snapped, and so did my will. I stayed, calling his name till my pipes gave out. When I couldn’t yell anymore, I dropped my knife and let the water carry me down.

What had taken so long to mount took nothing to go down, and I were dumped off the ledge and into the main fall of the river. I let it carry me down, away, rinsing me clean and sending me back to Sherwood and the lads.

Chapter Sixteen

My feet were dragging over the roots and rocks as I stumbled back to the cave. I didn’t make it all the way, falling against a tree. My body felt encased in lead; a deep breath didn’t move my chest none. I whistled, and closed my eyes.

It weren’t long before I heard crashing through the woods. I opened my eyes. John were there, hauling me up by my arms. “Can you walk?” John asked.

“Of course she can’t walk,” Much said. “Look at her.” John started to pick me up, but Much yelled, “Careful of her back! It looks like her shoulder’s bleeding pretty bad.”

John slung me over his shoulder, and he began taking big-legged steps through the forest, his bones jammed deep into my belly. I let my arms dangle and drop, laying limp.

It weren’t long before John’s footsteps got closer and slower, and he pulled me off him. He laid me down on one of our sleeping pallets. I rolled on my stomach, and Much pushed my shirt off to get to my wound. I balled it up in front and closed my eyes.

“It’s deep, Scar.”

I nodded.

He began to brush the dirt out of it, and it were sore and hot. “Scar, we have to stitch this shut.”

“No,” I said, sitting up, clutching the shirt to me. “Don’t.” I’d had cuts stitched before, and it were the kind of painful where you passed out for a day and had to drink heavy besides.