by Tim Hall
“There’s another reason I’m here,” Will said. “Last time you talked of the Sheriff’s aims, and his fears. You know about the divination. What do they call it, ‘The Wyrdwood Dream’? I need you to tell me what you know.”
Marian continued eating.
“The Sheriff takes this seriously,” Will said. “And events … perhaps they’re starting to turn the way he feared. I’ve been receiving strange reports. A patrol returned today from Winter Forest. They found … bodies. What is it the Sheriff has been trying to prevent?”
No answer.
“Marian, if we are to succeed in this we need every advantage we can get. I hear snippets of this thing. I overheard Bishop Raths reciting some of it. I think it went: ‘Lock the son in darkness; the daughter in chains. Two shall meet; blood will rain.’ What’s the rest? And what do they mean by ‘winter-born’?”
“Is that as far as you’ve got?” Marian said, her mouth full. “They don’t breed you lapdogs for your brains. You’re deeper in the dark than I am. And you came here to give me hope?”
Will sighed. He pulled his cloak close against the fetid air. He reached inside his tunic and took out the half-arrowhead amulet. He laid it at Marian’s feet.
“I found one of the guards with it,” he said. “I believe it belongs to you.”
The jade amulet had already disappeared inside Marian’s clothing, but she hadn’t looked up. She was kneeling, stuffing more food into her mouth. Will went back to the basket. A noise caught his attention; he froze. At first he told himself it was one of the wretches above. But no, this new noise was coming from below.
That’s impossible. There are no deeper caverns or caves—no depths more abysmal than this.
But there it was again, louder and more dreadful. Scraping, slithering, clicking sounds, filling Will’s head with images that did not belong together.
What was it?
Marian had heard it too—he could tell by the slight straightening of her back, her brief stillness. But then she went back to eating, apparently unconcerned. Perhaps she had slipped further than Will thought, and there were no horrors left that could reach her.
You’ve got to get her to the surface, and soon. Next time you come here, she’ll be ready.
He climbed into the basket and looked at her once more.
Just pray she lasts that long.
He pulled on the rope and headed gratefully for the world above.
Murderer. Monster.
The wind breathed the words through the trees.
“No!” Robin shouted into the forest. “Those men … their deaths … it wasn’t me. It was … the other. That’s not who I am.”
The wind snickered through aspen leaves, mocking him.
So then, who are you?
“I am … I was … a squire. I learned a code of honor. I was going to become … a knight of the realm.”
The wind moaned through hollow trunks, and this time Robin heard the voice of Sir Bors.
You’re dead to us now, Loxley.
Yes, the forest whispered. Whoever you were, whatever you wanted to be, all that is lost.
“I was raised in Wodenhurst. My father taught me to hunt. My mother sang to me at night. I am … a son. A brother.”
The wind strengthened to howling derision.
Your family left you. You are none of those things. Who are you?
“I am … Squire Loxley … Sir Robin … I am …”
You are Robin Hood. You are the Sheriff’s doom. Here are more of his men, listen.
Robin had been trying to ignore the soldiers: four separate patrols thrashing through the undergrowth. They were coming now in ever greater numbers.
These are your enemies, the wind breathed. They took everything from you. And Robin’s other, savage-self was rising. He headed toward the nearest patrol. As he strung his bow he battled with himself—finally he came to a halt.
“No! Not this way. It would serve no purpose.”
They would kill you, if it was in their power.
“I am not like them.”
You are the same. Only stronger. Accept your true nature.
Robin continued toward the patrol. He had the feeling this was the end: When he destroyed these men, Robin Loxley would die with them. He would lose himself forever inside this god-skin—and he found he was glad. He left the glade and headed toward the rangers at a run, sinking into dumb animal fury.
But then the wind whispered once more, softly.
Robin, come back to me.
It was a voice he recognized, vaguely.
Our fates are tied, we’ve always known that.
Marian.
It’s not enough to be strong—you have to be clever. I can’t do this alone.
Robin stopped on the path. Rain began to fall, drizzling across his face. He gripped the jade amulet at his chest.
“I am Robin Loxley. I am Marian’s champion.”
You are me, just the same as I am you.
“I made a promise. I will find her.”
He stood there in the rain until the last of the killing rage had drained away. He began to think more clearly, and to plan. These soldiers did not need to die. Their murder would be cowardly, inglorious. What was more, their deaths would not help Marian.
The rain strengthened to a torrent. He moved off again through the forest, but this time he left his bow unstrung. He needed answers, and now he had an idea how to get them. He would employ a different sort of weapon.
* * *
“It’s bandits. What else could it be?”
“You know what else. You’ve heard what they’re saying.”
“This phantom outlaw? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Gordon would know, wouldn’t he? He was with them when they found the bodies. Bul and Oxman. He said they’d been eaten. Nothing left but gnawed bones.”
All four rangers fell silent at that. Robin listened to the squelch of rainwater in their boots. He smelled the rust that had leeched from their armor into their tabards, and the first beads of sweat that had appeared on their foreheads.
Finally one of them snorted. “Eaten? They took attack dogs, didn’t they? Oxman probably forgot to put them back on the leash. You sure we’re on track, Finks? I haven’t seen a waymarker for a while.”
“There’s one to your left, carved on that tree. We’re still heading east.”
“Yes, but,” the second ranger said, “the skeletons were full of arrows. More spines than a hedgehog, is what Gordon says. What kind of dog kills with a bow? And they didn’t even find a trace of—”
“Listen, all of you,” a third man said. “I’ve heard enough talking. It doesn’t matter who, or what, killed Gunthor Bul and Guy Oxman. One thing is for sure: It will die. And we are going to be the ones to kill it. All you have to think is—”
“Ssshhh, listen. What was that?”
“Shut up, Scutter, stop trying to—”
“Quiet, I’m serious, didn’t you hear—”
Robin snapped another branch, this time on the opposite side of the track. All four soldiers spun, their cloaks slapping sodden against their backs, their blades sucking from their scabbards. For a long time none of them moved. The only sounds were the dry swallowing in their throats, the booming of their hearts.
Finally one of them barked a laugh. “Ha, Scutter just wet himself. He’s been listening to too many of Gordon’s stories.”
“Leave him here to chase shadows,” another man said.
“Come on, the rest of you, we’ve got a job to do.”
The men moved away, jeering at one another. But already their voices were not quite so loud; their strides not quite so steady. And distracted by Robin, squinting in the mist, they had missed their designated turning and were now blundering up the wrong path.
* * *
“What is it? What’s out here?”
Robin dogged the soldiers’ steps, walking behind them in silence, rustling a branch ahead, but always slipping ou
t of sight when they spun with crossbows cocked and blades bared.
“Who are you? Show yourself!”
He scuttled overhead, rattling the boughs. He whispered close to their ears. He allowed them only the barest of glimmers—the shadow of a shadow.
“What was that? There!”
At every fork in the trail Robin was there to harass and confuse, shepherding the rangers deeper into the forest-maze.
“What are you? Come and face us!”
Crossbow bolts fizzed harmlessly into the trees. Swords swung wildly. One blade cracked against an oak. And now night was falling. The first bats had emerged for their reconnaissance flights. Robin listened to the flutter-fluff of their wings and the tiny clicking of their echo sight. And he listened to the soldiers’ voices growing frantic, then delirious.
“Scutter? Where’s Scutter?”
“I’m here! Finks, Brooks, I’m here!”
“Where is he? Brooks, he was right behind you!”
One of the soldiers had taken a misstep, followed by another, and now he found himself on the wrong track, alone. “Where are you? Stop. Wait!”
Crouched on a bough, listening to the soldiers below, Robin knew the missing soldier was barely more than an arm’s length from his companions—but he was disoriented in the dark, and stupid with fear, and each desperate step was taking him farther away. His voice faded to ghostly wails.
“We have to go back,” another soldier said.
“We’re not turning again! You want to spend the night in here?”
“We can’t leave him.”
“His own stupid fault.”
There was a scuffle, then silence. Finally the remaining soldiers continued through the forest, dragging their feet. Robin followed.
* * *
Not every weapon is forged of steel. Sir Derrick used to tell the squires that, back at the academy, a lifetime ago. Your enemy’s fear can be the blade that slices to his heart.
Here was proof enough of that: These veteran enforcers had become children, whimpering in the dark. They had each lit a storm lamp—Robin could smell the tallow fat burning. Now one of the lamps had come to a halt. A soldier was staring into the mist. He pushed to his lips something that smelled metallic—a silver crucifix. Then he turned and went after the others. Except that glimmering ahead is not lamplight but is instead fireflies beckoning him down a false path. And by the time he realizes his mistake his cries for help will be the merest of squeaks.
So now there were two, and Robin’s work was almost complete.
* * *
The remaining pair came to a halt. One put his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Greigor’s gone,” he said softly. “It took him. It’s just you and me now.”
“I think it’s here,” the other man said. “Standing behind you.”
The first man did not turn to look. Eventually he said: “What do you want? If you mean to kill us, what are you waiting for?”
Robin remained silent. Finally the soldiers’ lamps creaked on their chains and they were shuffling away, back the way they had come, retracing a trail they had walked a dozen times.
* * *
Their fear now was a tangible presence: It dripped through the leaves with the rainwater; it swirled thick as the mist. Robin could taste their terror on his tongue, the way a lizard scents danger in the air.
Their fear. It was glorious.
What exactly had Robin put on, together with this wolfskin cloak? He remembered what Cernunnos had told him about the Wargwolf:
He is drawn to fear, like a moth to a flame.
Had Robin inherited this too from the beast, its appetite for terror? No, he told himself. Their fear is a tool. Nothing more. A weapon I can use.
Yet still he put off bringing this sport to an end. He licked the rangers’ dread from the air and he haunted them, just a little longer …
* * *
Finally they fell down, exhausted, in an old dried riverbed. The first ranger, whose name was Harcour Finks, began to gabble.
“I thought I heard … something … but it sounded like Greigor taking a breath. And when I looked back he wasn’t there. Like the forest plucked him into the air. What did you hear? Why don’t you say something? Anything!”
The other man, whose name was Graize Brooks, seemed to have passed beyond terror, into a place of dread acceptance. Despite his wet clothes and the settling frost he didn’t even shiver. Harcour Finks shook him by the shoulder. “You must have heard something. What is it out here? Talk to me!”
It was Robin who answered, his voice still guttural from disuse. “You don’t need to die here.”
Harcour Finks scrambled upright, his sword jerking from its scabbard. “What are you? Show yourself!”
“Answer my questions,” Robin said. “And I will let you live.”
To his surprise it was the other ranger, Graize Brooks, who answered. “That is not in your power. You can’t grant us life. We died the moment we entered this place. If we run from here, do you imagine the Sheriff will welcome us home with open arms? We’re already dead.”
“Quiet,” hissed Harcour Finks. “He’s letting us leave.” He had dropped his sword and was trying to haul the other man to his feet.
“My questions,” Robin said. “A young woman. Marian Delbosque. Where is he keeping her?”
“You think he’d tell us something like that?” said Harcour Finks. “We do what we’re told, we don’t ask questions. We don’t know anything. Please.”
“The Sheriff,” Robin said. “When does he leave the city? How do I make him come here?”
“Come on, Brooks, come on! There’s no point killing us, he knows that, we’ll just go.”
Robin’s anger began to swell. He nocked an arrow. “Tell me what I need to know.”
“Please. We know less than the scullery maids.”
Robin drew his bowstring. If these men were no use to him …
He took aim at one man, then back to the other. His anger burned. They would kill Robin in a heartbeat, if the roles were reversed.
But I am not like them. I am still me, on the inside. No matter what I’ve suffered, no one can take that away.
He managed to relax his bow. He removed the arrow. Let the forest decide.
“Come on, Brooks, come on! What’s wrong with you?” Finally Harcour Finks managed to haul the other man to his feet. They blundered away together.
Robin let them go. He had resisted the killing urge—proved he was once again master of his own actions. That was enough, for now. The rangers’ fate was out of his hands. Running through here in the dark, Winter Forest would as likely swallow them whole as spit them out. Let the forest decide.
The soldiers had left behind their backpacks. Robin went through their possessions. He found a few coins and a bone-handled whittling knife and a copper flask full of a liquid that smelled of poppy seeds—a potion for pain relief, or perhaps for pleasure or for forgetting. He would take these things to the cave. Who knew when such objects would prove useful.
As he left the riverbed he heard footsteps following. She came closer, muttering beneath her breath, the words faltering, starting again. A child practicing a rhyme.
Spring. Everything has woken up. Including her.
He moved away from the girl with the fox-red hair, but she followed, singing her rhyme. He ran, she kept pace, and for the first time in months Robin tasted fear that did not belong to someone else but was his own.
Marian wriggled into the crawlspace that connected with the main cavern of her cell. She found the correct spot and she lay there in the dark and the damp. She waited and waited and finally it came: a ray of sunlight that found its way down a narrow shaft all the way from the surface. She closed her eyes and felt the sun on her face and she daydreamed she was back at Titan’s Lake, lying next to Robin on the bank, her wet skin tingling in the summer breeze.
She lost herself so thoroughly in this memory that she didn’t hear the basket descending into the
oubliette. She didn’t even hear the footsteps moving around her cavern-cell. The first she knew of the visitor was a noise that sounded eerily familiar.
Someone making lolling noises with their tongue.
La, la, la.
Marian opened her eyes. She squeezed herself deeper into the tunnel.
La, la, la.
It couldn’t be, could it?
The lolling moved closer. And then came a singsong voice. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. I’ll seek you near, I’ll seek you far.”
A head thrust into the crawlspace. Wasp-orange hair flamed in the shaft of light. Mad eyes rolled and bulged at her. Scarred cheeks twisted into a wild grin. “There you are!”
Marian didn’t hesitate. From beneath her cape she pulled the blade she had fashioned from bone. She stabbed. The bone struck metal—Edric Krul had a steel plate sealed across one half of his skull. She struck at his eyes. This time she drew blood. Edric gasped and his head twisted back out of the tunnel. For a moment there was silence. Then a long manic laugh.
“If you won’t allow me to come in, I’ll wait here for you to come out,” Edric said. “What is waiting to me, after all? Let me tell you of the trials I’ve known, Marian Delbosque, and then you will see what waiting is to me.”
He laughed again, this time quietly, and when he spoke again it was like whispering a secret. “The wildling—this phantom outlaw—he thought he had killed me. He left me for the dogs. But death doesn’t want me. The paralysis wore off—I climbed a tree. I waited up there for days, listening to the dogs eat the corpses of my men. The wildling had injured my hand and it was turning green. I had to remove what was left—I sawed it away with my sword—I seared the flesh with a lantern flame to stem the blood. A lesser man would have lost his mind. But in spite of all, I endured.”
His head burst once more into the crawlspace. One eye was half-closed and bleeding. Marian stabbed at the other. He scuttled back out. A moment passed before he continued whispering his story.
“Finally the dogs went away. But little did I know my waiting had just begun. For weeks I wandered lost in the wildwood, often thinking I could see my escape, just beyond that next ridge, but reaching it only to find an endless sea of trees. Day and night I stumbled on. I was dead on my feet—there were times I truly did believe I had died and this forest was my hell. But I kept fighting through the thorns and wading through the bogs and finally I arrived! Where? At the water hole, where else? Back where I’d started! A weaker man would have lay down then, having gone so long without food. But I said to Bul and Oxman: ‘Do you suppose I fear starvation, after all I’ve seen? Do you imagine mere hunger holds sway over me?’ My men had nothing to say, but they offered up their flesh, what remained of it. What? Did you imagine I would balk at such a meal? Surely you understand by now that death must not have me, no matter what price to be paid.”