The Two Torcs (2 page)

At night, he wouldn’t be able to see his hand in front of his face.

“I’m riding with you to protect Locksley’s goods and keep you safe from ghosts, goblins, and fey.” Will’s hand was still on the hilt of his rapier. He flicked open his cloak as his voice dropped, low and dangerous. “But it won’t be my tongue you find sharp, if you threaten me again.”

The soft man jerked around in his saddle, so violently it made the horse under him stumble a step or two sideways. His moon eyes were full.

“I… I… I meant no disrespect!” A pudgy arm in a thick wool sleeve wiped across his mouth. “It’s the forest. It makes me nervous, and I speak without thinking.”

Will Scarlet’s voice took on a cruel tone. “Frightened by children’s ghost stories and old wives’ tales of will o’ the wisps? I’m surprised Locksley trusts you to deliver his goods for him.”

The merchant’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “It’s not the ghosts that get to me. It’s the Hood.”

Will sighed, breath pluming into the air. “Oh yes, the Hood—the scourge of Sherwood, swooping through the trees and robbing any merchant who dares take the only road to market.” He made a show of yawning. “I’m sure you’ll find him just as real as the will o’ the wisps.”

“He
is
real,” the man insisted. “He stole my brother’s merchandise just a month ago. Robbed him, stripped him naked, and sent him back tied across his horse with an arrow in his arse.”

“Well, the good Lord Locksley has also paid me to keep arrows out of your arse. That is, unless you like that sort of thing.”

The merchant looked sharply at the man who rode beside him. Slim and small, Will Scarlet was like a snake in fine clothing. His movements either nonexistent or too quick for the eye to follow. He rode on a silver-trimmed saddle of imported leather. A red velvet jerkin, with family crest embroidered on the breast, fit tight to a slender chest. Linen ruffles spilled from the throat and cuffs of his shirt and the wide brim of a felt hat was pulled low over a boyish face with dark eyes and a sly grin. Many ladies of the court had succumbed to that smile.

Rumor was a few men had, also.

In particular John, the acting king.

Will didn’t say anything for a long moment, dark eyes cold as black ice. Then he chuckled—a soft rasp, a scuff on leather.

The merchant tittered, a hateful, nervous giggle brought on by the unsure feeling that he had just avoided some terrible consequence he couldn’t even imagine. His eyes jumped away, returning to the forest canopy above.

“Locksley neglected to tell me what we’re transporting on this fine winter’s day.” Will looked at the large wagon trundling along behind them. A sturdy carriage the size of most huts from the village, it rolled on wide axles and stout wheels built to carry heavy loads. They squeaked through ice-crusted puddles left in the muddy earth by an earlier storm, a mix of wet sleet and fat droplets of rain.

The sides were thick wood planks banded and roofed with iron, the only windows thin slits cut high near the roof. The iron door on the side was fastened with a lock the size of his head. The behemoth was pulled by a pair of steady, dull horses guided by the sallow-faced boy who was the merchant’s apprentice.

“It must be worth a great deal,” he added, “to warrant a rolling fortress such as that one.”

“I only know that we are to deliver goods, wagon, and all to the Kraeger Estate on the other side of Sherwood.”

“We’re not going to market?”

“No. Whatever is in that wagon gets delivered directly to Lord Kraeger.”

Will’s eyes narrowed. “Curious.” Pulling back on the reins of his horse, he brought it to a stop. To his left, in the shadows of the forest, flared a small light.

Suddenly a flaming arrow streaked the air by his face, stinging him along his cheek, then thudded to a stop, quivering in the wood of the wagon inches from the head of the merchant’s assistant. The boy sat for a long second, mouth hung low in shock, before tumbling sideways and falling in the mud. Scrambling to his feet he ran, a flurry of elbows and heels that disappeared down the road back to town.

The wagon shuddered to a halt, though the cart horses were unaffected by the commotion.

The merchant cursed, twisting in his saddle and sawing the reins. His horse lurched and stomped with a sharp whinny that shushed as soon as it hit the trees. Jowls shaking, he whipped his head around, looking for the source of the arrow. Will instead pointed down the path in front of them.

A man in a hood stood in the center of the road, an arrow notched in a stout longbow and pulled tight against his cheek.

“The Hood!” The merchant’s voice hissed between his teeth. “I told you he was real.”

“Yes, you did,” Will growled. “Color me surprised.”

A voice, gruff and deep, rolled down the road toward them.

“Dismount with your hands away from any weapons.”

The merchant leaned in. “What should we do?” he whispered loudly.

Will rolled his eyes. “I suppose we should dismount and keep our hands away from our weapons.” He swung his leg over his horse’s back, dropping gracefully to the ground. He scowled at the squish of mud under his boot heel.

I shouldn’t have worn the calfskin.

The merchant’s descent from his horse was far less graceful. At least the man managed not to fall on his face, though. By the time Will looked again the Hood was only a few feet away. The bow was still pulled back, the wicked iron point of the arrow aimed at the merchant. Razor-sharp edges gleamed in the low light, the fangs of a snake poised to strike. At such a short distance not even bone would stop it, if the man in the hood let it loose. Will put his hands in the air.

The merchant stood, dumbfounded. Will whistled, low and quick. The merchant looked over, mouth hanging open. Will moved his hands and jutted his chin. The merchant raised his arms, dark moon stains showing in his armpits even through the thick winter tunic.

A cowl of leather hung low over their attacker’s face, obscuring it in shadow. All that could be seen was a ruthless glint deep where an eye would be.

“Open the wagon.”

“I… I c-ca-can’t.” The merchant’s bottom lip slapped against his chin in a quiver.

“Then you are of no use to me…” The Hood stepped closer, voice grinding from under the cowl. “…and I’ll kill you where you stand.”

The merchant’s mouth jabbered, no sound coming out. Will saw the Hood’s fingertips slip slightly on the bowstring, preparing to let loose the shaft.

“He has a key to the wagon,” he said quickly. “On a chain around his neck.”

The merchant’s eyes cut over at him. “Why would you tell him?”

“Don’t be a fool, man. Locksley isn’t paying you enough to lose your life.”

The Hood lowered the bow. He kept his fingers on the notch of the arrow, but let the pressure off.

“Listen to your foppish friend here,” he said. “He’s trying to save your life.”

Inside Will’s head he snarled.

Foppish?

The Hood’s foot lashed out, kicking the merchant in the belly, leaving a big smear of mud and pushing him back in a stumble toward the wagon. The man staggered and turned, pulling a key on a chain from under his tunic, all the while gasping to get his breath back. Jerking his head, the Hood indicated that Will should follow.

He did so, still burning over the insult.

Pudgy hands lifted the heavy lock. The key
click-tapped
around the keyhole, dancing in a shaky hand. Finally slipping it in, the merchant turned the key and pulled the lock. The ring of it opened, the weight of the lock itself causing the whole thing to swing and slip and fall to the mud below.

“Open it, fool, and let me see what I’ve won from that black-hearted bastard Locksley today.”

The merchant grabbed the handle. Wrenching the door wide, he screamed, “You win your death, outlaw!”

Out of the darkness of the wagon rushed soldiers, armed to the teeth and with murder flashing in their eyes.

The first soldier out was a giant, arms bulging under a mail shirt, quilted tabard emblazoned with the Locksley coat of arms. Behind him came three of his sword brothers, all wearing the same royal-blue tunic sewn with the same rampant lion.

The sword in the giant’s skull-crusher hand was long steel with a vicious point left from the days when savages from the North came to rape, pillage, and plunder. It was thick and heavy and made for killing. He swung it with a roar that would have made the blade’s original barbarian owner proud, the cold, cruel blade aimed to cleave the Hood in two before he could raise his bow.

Quicker than a blink the Hood drew and shot, his wicked arrow
thunking
deep into the dirt of the road, sinking halfway up the arm-length shaft.

Right through the foot of the soldier.

The giant’s roar broke, becoming a scream of pain. Pinned to the earth by the arrow, he faltered. His body twisted, drawing up in agony.

The Hood swung the longbow, stout yew cracking across the giant’s temple, driving him to the ground with a splash of mud. The arrow shaft broke and pulled free in a boot-darkening spurt of blood.

The other three soldiers stopped, watching their sword brother fall right in front of them. They looked at him as he lay sprawled at their feet, then up at the man in the Hood who stood almost casually in front of them.

Will lowered his hands, watching.

“Surrender.” The Hood’s voice came from under his cowl.

One by one, their eyes narrowed as anger sparked between them. Will could almost see the thoughts forming in their skulls as hands tightened on weapons.

Who does he think he is?

There are still three of us and one of him.

He shook his head.

Fools
.

A soldier, young but already battle-scarred with a livid line that ran from his brow, around his eye, and across his cheek, pointed at the man in the hood. He stepped over his fallen companion.

“Who do you think you are?” he demanded. “There are three of us and—” A fist crashed hard and savage across the soldier’s jaw.

The man dropped to the ground, a puppet on cut strings.

So predictable.

Before the other two could move the Hood spun, driving his boot deep in the stomach of the man on the right. The soldier bent sharply in half as he lost his breakfast on the road. The bow whipped down, clubbing him across the back of his skull. He dropped to his knees, slowly falling to his side.

The man in the hood flipped the bow in his hand as he turned. The last soldier was just raising his sword when the bow fell, hooking over his head. The Hood leaned back, jerking the bowstring tight across the soldier’s throat and yanking him off his feet. Planting a foot across the soldier’s shoulders, the attacker pulled up, bow bending sharply in his hands.

Will began counting in his head.

He didn’t get past twenty before the soldier stopped struggling, and was out cold.

The man in the hood held the bow tight for another three-count before releasing the pressure. He unhooked the string from under the soldier’s head. Straightening slowly, he kept his head down in his hood, shoulders rising and falling as he breathed deeply.

He’s tired.

Will pulled his rapier from the scabbard without a sound.

Behind the man in the hood the merchant snuck, jagged knife in hand. Piggy eyes glittered in their flesh pockets, jowls split wide with dark, murderous lust. The knife swung back, ready to strike, to bury itself hilt-deep in the kidney of his target.

The butt of Will’s sword bashed across the back of the merchant’s head, splitting the skin wide below the edge of his cap.

The soft man dropped like a felled ox, mud splashing as he struck the road face first.

The Hood whirled, hand drawing an arrow from the quiver across his back. Then he stopped, staring at Will and the deadly point of the rapier, hovering between them.

The silence of the forest closed around them, circling them in an eerie, unnatural hush.

“You’re welcome,” Will said as he sheathed his rapier with a quick movement, and then shrugged his cloak back around him.

The man in the hood relaxed, letting go the arrow and slouching back.

“I was wondering if you were going to help, or just watch me do all the work.” He reached up. Calloused fingertips flipped the leather cowl back, revealing a face nearly as dark as Will’s. The features were harsher, cut from heavier, swarthier stock than his own, but the similarity was there.

“Oh, please, the day Robin Longstride can’t handle four Locksley thugs by himself is the day you should come out of these woods and take up cross-stitch with the nuns at the convent.” He shook out the ruffles at his cuffs, letting them fall down to cover his hands. His fingers were nearly frozen. “Besides, I would be of no help seeing that I am… what was the word? Oh, yes, ‘foppish’.”

Robin smiled, a small pulling at the cheeks, unrecognizable if Will hadn’t known what it was.

“Did that hurt your feelings?” the bowman asked. “Do you stand there offended, in your mighty fine hat and your fancy padded cloak?”

“I can’t help being handsomer than you, outlaw.” Will sniffed. “And it
is
a very fine, very
warm
hat.”

“I find myself very jealous of it.”

Will waved away the statement with the flutter of a ruffled cuff.

“Don’t be. It would look all wrong on you. Your ears stick out too far. Best continue with the hooded reaver look you’re perfecting.”

Robin knelt next to the giant soldier, who still lay unconscious. His hand closed on the handle of the Viking sword, retrieving it from the mud. Wiping it clean on the end of the giant’s tunic he hefted it, looking down the blade. Hammered into the steel, along the blood-groove, were letters cut from darker iron.

Will leaned in. “What does it read?”

“
Ulfberht
.”

“Who is Ulfberht?”

“No one knows.” Robin twirled the sword, swinging it easily through the air. “Whoever Ulfberht was, however, he made the finest swords ever seen. They are rare and near unbreakable. This blade alone is worth a hundred English swords.” His voice dropped as he lifted the blade again, eyes glittering as they ran along the sword’s clean lines and razor-sharp edges. “It’s amazing that a raw, pagan barbarian could create something so wonderful.”