Lois Bujold: Irresistible Forces

Marian had cause to know. She had herself learned how to use a bow years before, but now knew also how to fletch the shafts with goose feathers, to tie on and seal the deadly iron broadheads with sinew and glue. A few of the sheriffs men had been wounded by her arrows, by the accuracy of her aim that might have, could have, killed them, had she chosen to do so. One day, she knew, she would choose, would be brought to the choice. She did not wish to make it. But so long as such men as the sheriff set upon them desired the lives of men she cared for, Marian would not shirk the task of preserving those lives at the cost of their own.

Now Robin came back from the High Road linking Nottingham to Lincoln, a byway that afforded them opportunity to improve the lot of the poor while inconveniencing the lords and wealthy merchants who protested the loss of coin and ornamentation. He slipped through the trees and foliage as if born to the life, making almost no sound. When he saw what little was left to do before departure, he smiled at her in accord. They knew each other's thoughts. Knew each other's habits.

"Anyone coming?" Will Scarlet asked, picking idly at his teeth with a green twig. "Any rich Norman rabbits for our stewpot?"

Robin shook his head with its cascade of pale hair. "No one."

Little John reached down for his pack. "Gives us time, then, to make some distance."

Alan of the Dales was making certain his lute case rode easily against his shoulders. "We'll have to take a deer once we reach the caves, or go hungry tonight."

"And tomorrow," Tuck put in, patting his ample belly. "No doubt I could go without, but—"

"But we dare not risk it," Scarlet interjected, "or we'll be hearing your complaints all night!"

Tuck was astonished. "I never complain!"

"Your belly does," Little John clarified pointedly.

"Oh." The monk's expression was mortified. "Oh, dear."

"Never mind," Robin told him, grinning. "We'll take our deer and feast right well."

Marian swung her own pack up and slid her arms through the straps. It was a matter of less effort now, to arrange pack, bow, and quiver about her person without tangling anything. Outlawry and privation had trained them all.

Much, grown taller than when he had joined them but still thin and hollow-faced, doused the small fire. He could not fully hide its signs or that people had gathered around it, but his job was to make certain none of them could be identified. The sheriffs men might find a deserted clearing, but there would be no tracks to follow, no indication of who had camped there. Sherwood housed innumerable outlaws. Not every fire, nor every campsite, hosted Robin Hood and his band.

Robin's hand fell on Much's shoulder, thanking him in silence. Next he glanced at Marian. She nodded, drawing in a breath. Then they turned as one to the trees and stepped into the shadows, fading away as if their bodies were wrought of air and light, not formed of flesh and bone. In such meager human sorcery lay survival.

He sensed impatience, emotions that had been dead to him for days, years, decades. He sensed urgency and yearning; he tasted the promise of power, the ability once again to make a difference in the world.

Kingmaker. Widowmaker. Reviled, and beloved. But he knew only one path. Impediments upon it were to be overcome.

Hurry, he wished.

He wished it very hard.

The outcry echoed in the trees. Robin spun around, gesturing sharply to the others strung out behind him on the deer track. Even as all of them dove into foliage, separating to make more difficult targets, a second cry rang out, a different voice now, followed by shouts in Norman French. He held his breath, listening; now it was possible to also hear the threshing of men running through the forest and the louder crashing of horses in pursuit.

Robin, grimacing as he dropped flat behind a downed tree, swore in silence. Poachers, likely, or even known outlaws, had been spotted by one of the sheriffs patrols. It was sheer bad luck that those pursued were heading straight toward him and his party.

He raised his head slightly and searched over his shoulder. Save for the last fading movement of stilling branches and waving, hip-high fern, there was no hint that a woman and six men were hidden close by. He wished he could see Marian, but if she were invisible to him, neither could the Norman soldiers see her.

More crashing through underbrush. Now he could hear panting, and wheezing, and the blurted, broken prayers of a man who would do better to hoard his breath. Not far away another man cried out, and then a triumphant shout went up from the soldiers.

Underbrush broke apart in front of Robin. The second outlaw was abruptly there, his arms outstretched, his batting hands attempting to open an escape route through hanging vines and low, sweeping branches. Robin briefly saw the scratched, agonized face, the staring eyes, the open mouth. And then the man teetered atop the very trunk Locksley took shelter behind.

Growling oaths behind gritted teeth, Robin reared up, grabbed the man's tunic, and yanked him off the tree. The outlaw came down hard and loose, limbs splayed; a knee caught Robin in the side of the head hard enough to double his vision.

"Stay down!" he hissed, as the man lay sprawled belly-down on the ground, sobbing in fear and exhaustion.

A soldier on horseback broke through, blue cloak flapping. He wore the traditional conical Norman helm with its steel nasal bisecting his dark face. Robin ducked as the horse gathered itself and sailed over the tree — sailed, too, over two men seeking protection in its meager shelter.

Robin turned on his knees, shouting a warning to the others. More soldiers were crashing before him now, spreading out. The Norman who had jumped the log was calling to his fellows in French, wheeling his horse even as he raised an already spanned crossbow, quarrel resting in its channel. But Robin had had more time; his own arrow was loosed, flying, and took the soldier through the throat.

Now he focused on another— how many are there? — as he deftly nocked a second arrow. So many— there was no time to think, to plan. Only to react.

He stood. Pulled the bowstring back to his chin. Sighted and let fly.

The Norman flew backward off his horse as if a trebuchet stone had struck him in the chest.

But others had broken through. They had spotted other game now, shouting positions to one another. Even as Robin nocked a third arrow, someone clutched at him. "Don't let them catch me!" the rescued man cried. "They'll cut me 'and off!"

His aim spoiled, the arrow went wide. Cursing, Robin caught a glimpse of flared equine nostrils, the gape of equine mouth, and the flash of a sword blade swinging down at his head.

"Get off— " he blurted, diving for the ground.

But the blade sheared through hair and flesh, and the sharpened tip slid across his skull.

Marian was well-hidden until Robin's arrow took the first soldier through the throat. The Norman tumbled limply off his mount, but one booted foot caught in the stirrup long enough to spook the horse, who responded with great lunging leaps sideways. Marian, directly in the animal's path, attempted to scramble out of the way. But the panicked horse wheeled around, and the body, coming loose at last, was swung out sideways in a wide arc.

The impact of the mailed body colliding with her own knocked Marian off her feet. She was aware of weight, disorientation, her own startled outcry — and then she went down hard against the ground, sprawled on her back, pinned by the weight of the soldier.

She had heard the term "dead weight" before. She had not truly known what it implied. Now she did.

Breath was gone. She gulped air as fear crowded close. She could not breathe—