Shadow of the Wolf

by Tim Hall

  “But … how?” Borston said.

  “The Sheriff is riding out, to Crowcote,” Will said. “That plays into our hands. Perhaps all we need do is make sure this Robin Hood gets his shot. Afterward, we’ll be there to take the reins, put the Guard back on the right path.”

  Will glanced around the room; the other two drinkers had vanished. “Come on, drink up. I’ll tell you about it on the way. Borston, go and get the horses, we’ll meet you at the armory. This is our chance, and it might be the only one we’re going to get.”

  Robin returned to the garrison church. He took cover between two gravestones. The storm raged, a powerful wind wailing through shattered crypts. Faint beneath the wind were the voices of the sentries, patrolling the grounds.

  “You want to know what I hear,” one of the men was saying. “He doesn’t kill you quick. He takes you deep into the wildwood, still living. He sits you down while he prepares a woodland banquet.”

  “Can’t you talk about anything else?” the second sentry said.

  “He calls it ‘feasting the Sheriff’s men.’ Once you’ve finished your meal he asks for payment. Ten pounds is his price. And if you don’t have the silver you pay with your flesh. He strings you up and eats you alive.”

  “Can’t you change the subject, just this once?”

  This time Robin intended to wait for the changing of the guard—only then would he strike. But it wasn’t easy to remain patient. In his left hand he gripped the vixen-girl’s gift. It shook itself and a savage shiver ran up his arm.

  A crack of thunder. The squelching of the sentries’ boots. Robin’s senses had become keener-edged than ever. One of the guards carried a bared sword—Robin could hear the lighting reflecting off its blade. He could feel in his skin the sentries’ movements through the night air.

  The shadow stirred again, tendrils of it flowing between Robin’s fingers and encircling his wrist. It became suddenly scalding, then cold as winter-steel. Robin gritted his teeth—he didn’t know how much longer he could wait.

  “Changing of the guard,” came a shout from the garrison at last, followed by the clanging of a bell. “Matins hour. Changing of the guard.”

  The nave door creaked open, then banged heavily where the wind took hold of it and flung it wide against stone. The sky rumbled. The two sentries hurried inside and their replacements trudged out. The newcomers put their shoulders to the door and struggled to heave it closed against the wind.

  The shadow of the wolf fizzed and twisted in Robin’s hand. It uncurled itself and swirled. It tugged at him and raged—a caged creature, desperate to be free.

  Robin could resist no longer. The shadow hauled him to his feet.

  Lightning flared just as one of the sentries turned.

  “Up there! It’s him! He’s here!”

  Robin’s left arm came up. The shadow shape warped and flowed, bending into the form of a bow.

  “Guards! Everyone. Here!”

  Within the church sounds of men running, of crossbows being wound, of swords being drawn. The clanging of the bell.

  One of the sentries came to his senses, reached for a throwing dagger at his belt …

  Robin’s right arm came up and drew and released, drew and released, and the shadow bow loosed twice—black arrows taking shape and flying—pieces of the night made murderous. There was a noise like the beast inhaling in the cave, devouring all other sound as the arrows flew. And quicker than thought both sentries were dead.

  They fell without a splash of blood, without a whimper. As if they had died of pure fear. Or as if their lives had been sucked out. And already Robin was thinking: Too much. Not like this.

  Shouting at the entrance to the church. More soldiers emerging.

  “There he is. With me.”

  “Take him alive.”

  But the rangers did not rush at Robin. Because this time their quarry wasn’t running. Instead he stood above them in the graveyard, his head tipped forward and to one side, the amber eyes of his hood flashing as lightning flared. He held the shadow bow horizontally at chest height, the weapon weaving and misting in front of the soldiers’ eyes.

  For a moment nobody flinched. The rangers just stared.

  Then someone raised a crossbow.

  “Wait,” another soldier shouted. “Don’t—”

  But Robin’s right arm was already on the move, drawing and letting loose. The shadow weapon expanded, contracted, expanded, contracted. Dread arrows flew—each one making that monstrous breathing noise—and three more soldiers fell.

  Too much. No. Not this.

  More rangers emerging. The baleful bow flexed and pulsed and kept shooting. With each killing its power grew. The next arrow took the form of a shadow serpent, flowing inside a gaping mouth; another was a comet of black flame, engulfing a ranger in dark fire; a third trailed legs, like a monster insect, wrapping itself around a man’s neck; the next was a demon maw, roaring wide as it flew.

  The soldiers slumped, their weapons falling noiselessly against stone, their screams muted, even the storm silenced while the weapon worked, all sound swallowed into the shadow-void.

  No, no. They don’t all need to die. Not this way.

  But it was too late to turn back—the shadow weapon would not allow it—it hauled Robin toward the church. He stepped over corpses, through the nave door, the storm raging at his back.

  More men were inside, weapons drawn. But they were far too slow. The shadow bow breathed and arrows formed and flew and the men died—each of them in their last moment seeing the thing they feared most: a storm of fire; a childhood fiend; a father’s face. And each time the shadow pulsed stronger, gorging on their fear.

  Clattering sounds: the remaining rangers dropping their swords.

  “We’re unarmed,” one of them said. “We’ll walk away. On Christ’s bones I swear, I’ll leave my cloak here and I’ll go back home. There’s no need for this.”

  Robin moved forward; the shadow weapon simmered.

  “Mother’s mercy,” another man said. “There are women and children here.”

  Robin knew this was true: He could hear them shuffling in their hiding places. A miller and his wife pressed against each other. Two forester’s children. A ranger’s wife and their baby son. Robin listened to their frightened breathing and he fought to lower his arm. But the writhing, twisting thing would not stay still. It tugged at him, and raged. It shook and seethed.

  One of the soldiers made a sudden movement. The bow leaped in Robin’s hand. It warped and flowed, flicking out and back, throwing death into the corners of the church. The amorphous arrows howled through pew and altar, stone and wood, to reach their targets. The remaining rangers died, one of them crashing through the rood screen, another slumping across a cadaver tomb, bones skittering across the floor.

  They’re dead. All of them, dead.

  No, not quite all …

  There were other living things in this church. Allies and friends and aides to the Sheriff’s troops. The miller moving around his wife, trying to use his body as a shield. The children cowering beneath the pulpit. The clatter of a misericord where somebody else was trying to crawl away.

  Robin took aim at each of these people in turn, the shadow weapon seething in his hand, demanding he finish this work. He fought, tried to force his arm down, his muscles screaming with the effort, his whole body shaking. The shadow raging, desperate to destroy anything that breathed, even the rats in the rafters and the miller’s mangy old cat. Even the child in that woman’s arms.

  He fought and struggled to keep the weapon still.

  He battled not to let loose.

  Finally he won. Hissing through his teeth, he managed to lower his arm. The bow shuddered; its form fell apart. The shadow swirled and snaked back into his palm. He fell to his knees and stayed there, breathing hard, listening to the wailing of the infant.

  Too much. Not this. Never again.

  He dragged himself to his feet and staggered out of the ch
urch and went back the way he had come.

  * * *

  He lurched back to Winter Forest. He went to the water hole where he had fought the Wargwolf.

  With a herculean effort he tore the shadow weapon from his arm. It came free in pieces, with a sucking sound, taking with it sheets of steaming skin. Flesh tore too, deep as the bone, blue and glistening. The pain was immense. He didn’t care. He ripped at it and ripped, and the thing shrieked and howled—spewing its devoured sounds—and finally it shredded loose. He threw it into the water. It wriggled away, like a swimming snake. He slumped to the earth, clutching his mangled arm. Only then did he realize the girl of the forest was there.

  “Casting it away?” she said, in a soft puzzled voice. Then: “No, no, no, you mustn’t!”

  She dived into the pool. Splashing sounds. Silence.

  Robin was physically sick. Those soldiers had thrown down their swords. Yet still they had died.

  But the worst thing had been the urge: that surge of power that insisted he destroy every living thing in that church—even the infant in that woman’s arms. And the feeling that to have done it would have been a triumph …

  He realized Cernunnos was there too, beneath the willow trees.

  “I told you there would be a price. Did you think it would be paid by you alone?”

  “Never again. It wasn’t me, it was her.”

  “This is only the beginning. She will recover the shadow. She will offer you worse. She’s told you of the blood and the teeth?”

  “Never.”

  “You still have no idea, what you have become. The extent of your new form. It is so much greater than quick deed and violent action. It is limitless. But she will keep it all buried beneath rage and hatred. Such a waste. Such a waste …”

  A noise like the cracking of old bark. The old man bowed his head, turned, and disappeared.

  Will Scarlett was halfway across the river when an arrow thunked into the log, narrowly missing his toes. “Go back,” he said.

  Borston Black shuffled backward and Will followed.

  Thunk.

  A second arrow landed where Will had been standing a moment before. They retreated faster, their boots slipping on the slimy log. They found themselves back on the bank. A third arrow sank into the soil at their feet.

  “I guess that’s a no,” said Borston Black.

  “I think he made himself clear,” said Ironside. “So that’s that. Time to forget this whole business.”

  Will looked at these two veteran rangers, both of them built like barrels, with fists like hammers. Two of the toughest, bravest warriors Will had ever known. Like him they had survived wars and ocean storms and a five-year crusade. Yet if Will didn’t know better he would say at this moment they were afraid. And it wasn’t plotting against the Sheriff that had unnerved them. Instead, it was this place: the wildwood, lurking the other side of the river. Not that I can blame them, Will thought. But if I show fear now this is over.

  He unclipped the baldric from his back and laid his scabbard and Saracen sword on the ground. “I’m here to help you,” he called across the river. “I’m coming over alone. Unarmed.”

  Borston Black laid a hand on his shoulder. “You know how this goes, Will. Rangers go in that forest, they don’t come back out.”

  “I have to take the risk. I don’t think he’ll attack an unarmed man. Besides, I think we’ve met before.”

  I just hope he remembers me in a good light, Will thought.

  He stepped onto the crossing. “We can help each other,” he called.

  An arrow landed just in front of his toes. He stepped over it and continued across the log.

  I hope I’m right about this.

  Another arrow landed; he stepped over it and continued. He forced himself to walk as tall and as steady as he was able, while he listened with dread for the whisper of the third arrow. He felt Ironside and Borston Black watching him, holding their breath.

  There was no third arrow. He reached the far bank and pushed through the undergrowth, into the forest.

  “If you had come here a week ago, you would be dead,” a voice said. “I want one more life, then it’s finished.”

  Will stared in the direction of the voice, but he could see no sign of Robin Hood.

  “We want the same thing,” Will said. “I’ve come to bring you information. In two days’ time the Sheriff travels to a village. Crowcote. It’s on the edge of Winter Forest. This is your opportunity—he seldom travels this far from the city. We’ll help you do it, if we can.”

  Something moved in the undergrowth. High in the branches a jay shrieked in alarm.

  “I recognize your voice,” Robin said. “You were there, the day they took her.”

  Every sound in the wildwood became horribly distinct: the droning of a hornet, the shuffling of something in the leaves. The creaking of a bow being drawn?

  “You tracked us through the forest. If it wasn’t for you, Marian would have gotten away.”

  The hornet buzzed louder.

  “I was following orders,” Will said. “If I had refused … there were ten men ready to take my place. If it had been done by another guard … it might have been done crudely. She was not harmed, not so long as I was—”

  “Where is she now?”

  Will took a deep breath, gathered his courage. “She … is dead. I’m sorry. She was brave—braver than I could have been. But it was too much for her, in the end. She … chose to take her own life.”

  A choking sound drifted from the trees.

  “I did everything I could,” Will said. “I took her food and curatives.”

  The choking sound grew thicker and became a wailing noise—a sound of limitless anguish and anger. Will battled the urge to bolt from the forest.

  “Marian helped me see what must be done,” Will said. “That’s all we can do for her now—continue as she would have wished. I believe we have a chance, together.”

  He used his cloak to wipe the cold sweat from his brow. He looked up—and finally he caught sight of Robin Hood. The outlaw was standing no more than twenty paces away. His body was shuddering, and it was this movement that caught Will’s eye and made Robin faintly visible through the branches and the leaves. The animal pelt that formed his cloak was wrapped close and fell as far as his feet. The cloak was mottled brown and dotted with moss and buzzing with insects—just another part of the wildwood—so it was almost as though Will was looking through him.

  Had Robin raised his bow? Or was that just another branch, crossing the figure at chest height?

  The choking, wailing grew louder, then abruptly stopped. Robin became once more as still as a deer and Will had to concentrate hard to stop his outline fading from sight.

  “You deserve … to die today,” Robin said, his voice faltering. “But others have died in your stead. Leave this place. Never return.”

  Will lowered his eyes and let out a long breath. By the time he looked up Robin had disappeared.

  * * *

  Marian is dead.

  Robin knelt on the cold earth, perfectly still, squeezing his arrowhead amulet, the jade cutting his palm. He was weathering a storm of horrendous visions: all she must have suffered at the hands of the Sheriff.

  Chose to take her own life.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet, went to the tree line. He listened to the soldiers riding away. Why had he let them live? Why should they continue with their lives while Marian had to die?

  He drew a short-feathered flight arrow. They were three hundred paces away; if he was going to do it he would have to do it now. He nocked the arrow.

  As he did so a creeping sensation began in his bow hand—the way cold liquid seeps through your chest, or when fear makes your blood run cold. The feeling grew more intense and began to spread.

  Something was moving across his skin—no, beneath his skin. Black threads, thin as the veins in a leaf, were spreading upward from his left hand. He felt them flow quicker, up past his
elbow, twining around his shoulder—he heard them making a splintering noise, the way an iced lake cracks before it gives way beneath your feet.

  Robin thought he had discarded the shadow weapon, but now he understood a shard of it remained. It had seeped inside and lurked there, waiting …

  The shadow veins continued to spread, at first gossamer thin, but then beginning to pulse and swell, like rootlets drinking in the rain. They rippled across his chest, down his right arm. He felt them leak deeper, into his muscles and his bones.

  They tugged tight—a puppet master pulling strings—Robin’s bow rose. His right arm drew the bowstring. He took aim at Will Scarlett.

  The soldiers were four hundred paces away. Too late. Out of range. But the shadow threads twisted tighter, creaking as they became taut, adding strength to Robin’s arms and chest. At the same time the shadow spread from his fingers into his bow, splinters of it encircling the point of his arrow, gifting power and weight and extra killing edge.

  Five hundred paces away, yet still he could do it. It was no more than these men deserved. It would be a measure of revenge, for her …

  The shadow veins bubbled up through his skin and snaked around his left arm. They shook and shivered, while his anger burned, urging him to shoot …

  And that was why he didn’t let loose. That was why he relaxed the bowstring and fought to lower his arm. He had to prove he was not the shadow weapon’s slave.

  Shaking, shuddering, he managed to remove the arrow and unstring his bow. The shadow threads merged and swirled and flowed like black mist, being drawn back across his body and down into his left hand, and then they faded to gray and were gone. At the same time he felt all his anger draining away, to be replaced by … almost nothing. A cold, deep emptiness.

  She’s dead. It’s over.

  And suddenly he knew, without question, what he would do next. In his mind rose the screams of all the soldiers he had killed—and worse, the silence of those who had died in that garrison church—and he knew he was finished with all this violence and death. It had all been for nothing, because Marian was gone, and nothing could bring her back. Even revenge now seemed an unreal and unimportant thing.