Shadow of the Wolf

by Tim Hall

  “Nobody wants you here, you know,” Narris said, scratching his face with the stump of his left arm.

  Robin ignored him. Of all the things that looked smaller than he remembered, Narris Felstone looked the smallest of all. He led Ariadne to the barn, made her as comfortable as he was able, then went into the house. Mabel brought a bowl of nettle soup and she and Robin ate in silence. She gave him bedding and he laid it in front of the hearth.

  When Mabel and Narris were sleeping Robin tried once more to make sense of Sir Bors’s scroll. It was impossible by the light of a single candle. He put the parchment back in his pack.

  He couldn’t help thinking of his friends competing in the tourney today without him. He couldn’t help listening to the memories scuttling in the corners of this house. Eventually, he slept.

  He woke to a muffled thud and a crash and a wailing noise. Panicked geese and the barking of a dog.

  He went out of the house and stood in the croft. He saw four soldiers wearing bloodred cloaks, swaggering across Mill Bridge on foot. The day had dawned a sickly yellow, and at this distance it was difficult to tell, but he suspected these were the four rangers he had seen yesterday on the road. Each had a different weapon slung across his shoulder: a crossbow, a flail, an ironwood club, a boar-spear. Two of the soldiers were shouting something, but their words were swallowed up by Winter Forest before Robin could hear what they said.

  He watched one of the men go into a house and come back out dragging old Robert Wyser by his hair. Another swung his bludgeon and Stephen Younger went to the ground, curled in on himself. William Tanglefoot, his hobble more pronounced than ever, was trying to move quickly across the common ground, a ranger flicking at him with his flail.

  Mabel Felstone and Narris came out of the house and stood beside Robin.

  “Why are they doing that?” Robin said. “Why are they here?”

  “Same reason you are,” Narris said. “That girl of yours. She attracts all the unwanted guests. Like flies around—”

  Mabel slapped Narris on the back of the neck, stopped him short. “They’ve been here before,” she said. “The younger two in particular are terrible boys, and vicious. Each time they come back they get worse.”

  “Supposing I was to go down there,” Narris said to Robin. “Tell them exactly who you are. Tell them you and Marian used to stick closer than a bee on honey. Maybe they’d even give me a reward.”

  Mabel slapped him again on the neck. “You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  “Why should the rest of us suffer?” Narris said. “I bet he knows exactly where she’s hiding. He must know she’s near, or he wouldn’t have come back here.”

  “What Robin knows or doesn’t know is none of our concern. We brought this on ourselves and you know it.”

  Robin continued to watch the Sheriff’s men. He could see now they were indeed the soldiers he had seen on the road. The one he remembered most distinctly—the young man with wasp-orange hair—was standing over Robert Wyser and brandishing a pair of wool shears.

  Shouldn’t Robin do something? How many times had Sir Bors lectured them about honor and duty—about defending those unable to defend themselves? He put one end of his bow on the ground and deftly looped the string into place. He rested his right hand on the quiver at his hip.

  “Robin, you should go,” Mabel said. “Before they see you. This is our burden, not yours.”

  Robin watched the soldiers prowling through the village, kicking out with their nailed boots, leaving women and children bleeding. He took an arrow from his quiver.

  “You, come down here with the others. Don’t make me come up there and get you.” This was the short ranger with orange hair. He had finished with Robert Wyser and he had turned and was shouting up at Robin and Mabel and Narris.

  “Go,” Mabel said, pushing at Robin. “Sneak out the back and down to the river. We’ll say you were a stranger, passing through. Hurry.”

  The ranger who had shouted was already coming up Herne Hill.

  Shouldn’t Robin stay? Shouldn’t he help protect the weak?

  You’re not here to fight the whole world, he told himself. You came back here for Marian, remember. In any case, these people hated you, cast you out. You’re not their defender.

  The wasp-haired ranger was drawing near.

  “My horse…,” Robin said to Mabel, “she will be valuable to you, if you care for her. If I don’t return, take her to market. You should get ten pounds for her, at least.”

  “Go,” Mabel said quietly.

  Robin tucked the arrow back in his quiver. He headed for the rear of the house.

  “You, stop!” the ranger shouted, then Robin heard a war horn.

  He slipped down the blind side of Herne Hill, into Lower Field, and around the marsh. He remembered this valley’s nooks and its running routes and sightlines, and within moments he had bolted away and hidden himself from view.

  * * *

  He crouched in Hob’s Hollow, listening to the rangers on the hillside above. By their shouting, it seemed all four of them were now hunting Robin. No matter how little he owed Wodenhurst he was glad to have lured them away. Through the undergrowth he looked up to Woden’s Ride and he saw two of the red-cloaked figures moving there, heading in the wrong direction. Were they really here because of Marian? Why? He needed to find her, and quickly.

  He moved around inside the grotto, his boots sucking in the mud. He dug through the mulch and turned over rotting logs. He found nothing, but kept searching—he was certain now this was where her trail began.

  Follow the path of angels.

  The memory of it was burning, perfectly clear: It was the day they first met, and he and Marian were hiding here in Hob’s Hollow while her father’s retainers searched nearby. Marian was chewing a deadly fungus—a destroying angel—and Robin had leaped from his rock and saved her life. That was what she meant by angels. She meant here. He was sure of it.

  He kept digging and crawling and looking and eventually among the reeds he found an ice skate, made from the shin bone of an ox. He was right: Marian had been here. She had left this for him. This was a cypher trail, of the type they used to lay for each other when they were children. A trail only Robin could possibly follow.

  He took the skate and left Hob’s Hollow, scanning the fields and hedgerows, looking for any sign of the soldiers. They had disappeared. In fact, it was strangely peaceful now in the valley as he headed for Summerswood. Two otter pups played in Silver River; a single buzzard mewed as it wheeled above.

  He crossed the river and entered the greenwood, its paths cool and quiet, a solitary blackbird singing as Robin crossed a broadleaf glade. He followed the hunting paths to the far southern edge of the wood. He walked down a familiar slope—past a tree still hung with a rope swing, now green with age—and he arrived at Titan’s Lake.

  An ice skate.

  He and Marian had spent many summer days here at Titan’s Lake, but they used to come here too in the winter, whenever the lake froze over. They came here to joust, using ash branches for lances, wearing knights’ helms they stole from a dusty trophy room in the manor house. They wore skates like the one Robin now held in his hand. He stood at the water’s edge, and in spite of everything he couldn’t help smiling. He remembered Marian—her greathelm comically large, lolling from side to side—unable to skate in a straight line, laughing uncontrollably.

  He went to the place beneath a willow stand where they used to store the knights’ helms. They were still there, dented and rusty. Inside one was a jagged rock. He tossed it into the water and walked away from the lake.

  A rock.

  This clue meant Oldcastle Oak. Many times as children they had stood in its crown throwing rocks against attacking rooks and crows. He went to Oldcastle Oak and after much searching he found a chess piece sitting on a branch.

  He followed this trail most of the morning, some of the clues difficult to find and hard to decipher, others pointing the way as
clearly as a raised finger. He found a swan’s feather, a drinking ewer, a glass bead, a clipped shilling, and he followed the trail zigzagging through Summerswood and out to Silver River and back up the valley.

  And with each new clue his heart beat harder and faster, fear building in him cold and heavy, because every waymarker was now leading him closer to Winter Forest. He stared up at it, looming ever larger, churning in the wind. Above the tree line crows spiraled, thick as flies. And still he drew closer, as he knew he would. He was certain now, where this trail ultimately led—where Marian would consider the safest place to hide from the Sheriff’s men.

  He followed the clues back to Wodenhurst, and near Mill Pond he found a snakeskin: This related to a prank they had once played on Narris Felstone while he lay sleeping in his bed. So then Robin had to return to his old home, at the top of Herne Hill. He climbed through the village, every pair of shutters now closed, not a whisper from behind walls, no sign even of a stray cat stalking the goslings. After the noise and fury of dawn, it was as if the village was feigning death, praying not to be noticed. The only movement was a light mist, seeping out of Winter Forest and slithering down Herne Hill, snaking its tendrils between the homes.

  He arrived at the top of the village and searched beneath the window of his old room. He found the weathered skull of a sheep.

  An animal skull.

  The spirit fence.

  He dropped the skull and continued up Herne Hill, through the thickening mist, until he reached Woden’s Ride, his heart thundering, his fear complete.

  Here he was, standing beneath the vast dark wall of Winter Forest. Above him it twisted in the wind, making its dry roaring noise. At his side Silver River glistened one last time before being swallowed into the gloom.

  And there, on the riverbank, was a sailing boat, woven from reeds, with an acer leaf as a little red sail: the type of boat he and Marian used to float on the river, pretending they were Argonauts on their way to Babylon and Troy.

  The reed boat was pointing upstream. Meaning Robin was meant to follow its course.

  Into Winter Forest.

  Into the place he had not been since he was seven years old, when he had woken to find himself alone, his father vanished.

  He stared into the blackness. He saw berries glistening like demon eyes, thorns glinting like teeth. He imagined he heard a child’s voice, drifting out of the depths.

  Where are you? I’m here.

  He realized it was his own voice, echoing down the years.

  Come back, please.

  And for the first time he thought: I can’t do it. I can’t follow her. Not in there.

  In front of him was the spirit fence, its posts topped with the skulls of goats and sheep. The barrier was meant to stop anything leaving the forest, but to Robin it was one more dire warning not to enter: Nothing and nobody should cross this point.

  He tried to persuade himself he must have made a mistake somewhere along the trail. Marian wouldn’t really go in there, alone. She must be hiding somewhere else—he would have to retrace his steps and start again. But then he saw a dull gleam—something half buried in the grass. He knelt and turned the object. It was a pair of manacles on a heavy chain—the kind of shackles he had seen restraining Marian on the display ground.

  She’s been here, he told himself. You’re on the right path. No good lying to yourself.

  “So then, what have you found?” a voice behind him said. “What do you think of this, eh, Scutter? I told you it would work—sit tight and let this one pick up her scent.”

  Robin turned, furious with himself. He had been so obsessed with Marian’s trail, and his own fear of the forest, he had stopped watching for the soldiers. There were two of them, coming up Herne Hill, emerging out of the mist. They must have been hiding in Wodenhurst the entire time. The ranger who had spoken was the short one with wasp-orange hair and scarified cheeks. Behind him was an older guard with a whip at his belt.

  “A peasant called Narris told us about you,” said the orange-haired guard, aiming his cocked crossbow. “He said you’d know where the girl is hiding. I removed these from his mother to make him talk. But, you know, the funny part, I didn’t need to touch the old hag. Her son couldn’t wait to tell us. If Scutter here hadn’t been holding him so tight around the neck, he would have blurted it out, no questions asked. Still, no harm done.”

  Removed these from his mother.

  The wool shears were tucked in the ranger’s sword belt. They were stained red where the blades met. Robin’s stomach turned as the ranger threw something that hit him wetly on the chest and fell away in two parts. Two red-and-white things. He didn’t need to look to know they were fingers.

  His hand went to his quiver.

  “Put those on the ground,” the wasp-haired ranger said. “Your bow too. You can lie down, your hands behind your back. We’re going to have a talk, see what it is you know.”

  “But, Edric, shouldn’t we wait for the others?” the bigger ranger said. “Hold this one until he arrives? What if they’re telling true, back at that village?”

  “Are you scared of one boy?”

  “Yes. No—I mean, the winter-born, though. You know what they say. What the instructions were. We should wait for him to arrive with Jadder Payne.”

  Winter-born. There was that phrase again—the one Robin had read in the scroll. Why had the soldier directed it at him? Who did they think Robin was? He was born in the autumn, not the winter.

  “I don’t need to wait for anyone,” Edric said. “This will be my triumph.” He gestured at Robin. “Didn’t you hear me—I said, lie down on the ground.”

  Robin didn’t move.

  The kaw-kaw of crows, turning blackly above.

  “He’s deaf,” Edric said. “I need to unblock his ears. A crossbow bolt should do the trick.”

  He took a step. Robin didn’t flinch.

  The ranger came forward again.

  “We need to be careful,” the one called Scutter said. “You know what the man said. He wants—”

  “Quiet,” Edric said. “This one will learn to obey. Filthy shire-folk. How dare they—”

  The soldier had taken another step, stumbled. His crossbow fired. The quarrel whispered past Robin’s leg and embedded itself in the soil.

  For a moment both soldiers just stared at the crossbow bolt. In that moment Robin stooped, picked up the manacles, moved forward, swung the chain. The iron bonds cracked the younger ranger across the side of the head.

  A sickening crunch. The soldier slumped.

  The second ranger had turned and slipped in the mud and was picking himself up and running back toward the village. Robin watched him go. He forced himself to look at the soldier called Edric, motionless on the ground, his legs sprawled at an odd angle. His skull-helm was too big for him and the manacle had caught him beneath that and now blood pumped thickly from above his left ear. Robin had no doubt he was dead.

  He had killed a man.

  He bent double and was physically sick. No amount of training with Sir Bors could have prepared him for this.

  He stood and breathed and tried to think. It had all happened so quickly, and now a man lay dead.

  What should he do? Bury the body?

  No, you don’t have time. You didn’t want this to happen. He left you no choice. It wasn’t your fault.

  He looked toward Wodenhurst. The mist was pouring so thickly now from the forest he could barely see even the Trystel Tree. From somewhere in the valley he heard a war horn. The second ranger must be summoning help.

  Robin looked at the dead soldier and he knew he could not stay here. He thought of the citadel, and Sir Bors, and he knew there was no going back.

  You will be dead to us.

  The war horn blared once more and was answered by shouting.

  She needs you, he told himself. You’ve come this far.

  He turned and walked past the spirit fence and pushed through the clawing branches into Winter Fore
st. Immediately the world turned darker, the air colder. He kept going, pushing through the thicket, all sounds from outside fading to silence.

  He clambered on, keeping the twisting river on his shield side, following its course upstream as it snaked between mossy boulders and beneath fallen boughs. He battled with thorn bushes and hanging vines, thick as rope. The riverbank became steep and he had to drag himself forward on hands and knees.

  A hot tingling in his spine, cold sweat at the back of his neck. He was angry at himself for feeling this way. When he had been lost in here, all those years ago, he had been a child, with a child’s fears. Now he was practically a man and he had killed a man, and anyway, it was just as Sir Gilbert used to tell them back at Sir Bors’s estate: There are no monsters except those which men create.

  He hurried on. From somewhere close came a high-pitched squeal. A stoat had found an underground den and was busy killing whatever was home. Overhead a buzzard screeched.

  He stopped, suddenly sure he was being followed. He crouched, his every muscle tense, listening intently for the tiniest sound. He heard only the chattering of a squirrel, a jay cackling in alarm. He convinced himself he was imagining things. He clambered on, but still with the feeling he was being watched.

  There are no monsters except those which men create. But that was easy for Sir Gilbert to say. Easy to think that way from the safety of the citadel, surrounded by farmland and towns, the wildwood cleared for miles around. Here it was different. You felt it the moment you entered this ancient place. A crossing over. A changing of the rules.

  He continued along the steep bank, the river sometimes wide and marshy but here narrow and twisting and overgrown. The smell of yew needles and of mist; the skittering of clawed feet and the trilling of water over stones. All of it perfectly distinct, fear amplifying each smell and every sound.

  He told himself to stay alert and to keep calm. It wasn’t working. A knot of fear had lodged itself in his throat, a sickly sensation spreading from his groin—all the feelings of a lost child. But the worst thing, as he continued to slip and fight his way along the riverbank, was the sensation of something tugging at him. Something insisting.