Mark of the Black Arrow (43 page)

“I need the elixir,” Robin pressed. “There are many in England who have fallen sick. A dark wizard has put a curse upon the land, and his pox is killing innocents.” Thoughts of his mother and sisters stabbed into him.

He pushed them away.

“What you say might well be, but what has that to do with me?”

“The land is being poisoned by this monster,” Robin persisted. “It’s only a matter of time before Sherwood feels his evil, as well.”

“Your kind heart is much admired,” the young man said, “but go away, for I am tired.”

Robin felt anger flaring white-hot. This small, delicate-looking creature stood between him and life for his friends and family. If forced, he would wring its neck and take what he needed. He glanced uncertainly at the stream, wondering if it was the source of the potion, or if it was somewhere else, hidden safely away.

“I need that elixir,” he said. “I’m prepared to do battle with you to get it.”

“You don’t know the battle’s begun. How could you hope to see it won?”

Robin’s hand lay on the hilt of his knife while he tried to decipher what the creature had told him. The large blue man had said that Robin would have to
win
the elixir. His mind began to spin. So he took a deep breath, and answered.

“The hour is late, my patience is low…” He paused to think, “…but without the elixir, I will not go.”

Yes.

The boy sat up.

“Even if you play my game, my answer will still be the same.”

The bard would be much better at this than I.

“You may not care or have a heart, but I am sworn to do my part.”

“Then speak it now to the air, and tell me why anyone should care.”

“Death comes to all in time, even to boys who love to rhyme. That does not mean we should embrace the night. All are tasked to stand and fight. I’ve come far, and through much strife…” His mind tripped, stumbling as he reached for the words. His chest drew tight. “And I will take the elixir, that gives back life.”

“Then convince me now, for you must, that any beyond the forest are just.”

“I know a man whose Lord has bled. Without this potion he’s as good as dead,” Robin said, thinking of the good friar, and all he had done to try and help the people.

“For one holy man you may speak more, but for the elixir give me four.”

Robin blinked, not sure if he understood what the insane child wanted. Four what? He prayed it was only to know that there were four other good people beside the friar.

Taking another deep breath, he continued.

“One a lady, fair of face, fights as a man in man’s own place. Another with tongue of solid gold speaks for the people with a heart so bold.” He swallowed hard as his thoughts flew to his little sisters. He had been told they were dead. He prayed it was not true, but he might not want to tell the boy of them, in case they were. “A holy man of station high, yet he gathers all the lowly nigh. A man who’d risk his own dear life, to cut off the hand that holds the knife.”

He wasn’t sure if that was what the boy wanted, or whether his answer even made sense. He waited, holding his breath.

The creature regarded him. Finally he spoke.

“For six good souls tried and true, the elixir now I give to you.”

Robin tilted his head to the side, not knowing who the sixth good soul might be. As if sensing his confusion the boy continued.

“Of your five friends, you spoke so true, but number six, my friend, was you.”

Robin blinked hard. He found it strange to think of himself in those terms. Flawed? Yes. Belligerent? Definitely. Perhaps others saw something in him that he didn’t see in himself.

The boy leaned down and dipped his hand in the river. The waters which had been trickling peacefully suddenly churned violently, swirling around his hand. A few seconds later he lifted it out, and instantly the waters calmed. In the boy’s hand was clutched a tiny silver bottle with a cork in it. He held it out, and Robin took it and tucked it inside his tunic.

It was such a tiny bottle.

How could it save so many lives?

“One drop per bucket is all you need—the water, the earth, the elixir, the seed. If you drink Merlin’s tears you will find your fever clears.”

Robin nodded. “My thanks you have, it now is true, and so I say good day to you.”

“That the sun does drop, the hour is late, but first a word concerning fate. With another you must strive, if you hope to stay alive.” The boy held up his hand and pointed. Robin turned to follow the line of his indication, and his eyes landed on a tree a fair distance away. Something protruded from it.

A single black arrow.

For a moment he felt his heart stop.

Robin.

He shook his head, certain that something had called his name. Yet there had been no sound. He turned and glanced at the boy, who shook his head solemnly before returning his attention to the river.

Robin.

He began walking toward the arrow, his eyes fixed on it. There was something about it that pulled him, as if he wasn’t even telling his feet to move. They were doing so on their own.

Robin
.

Then the voice in his head was singing, softly as a lullaby. He fought the urge to close his eyes and listen. His body began to sway slightly as he walked, almost dancing to the tune that played in his mind. Suddenly he was close, only a moment away from reaching out to touch it.

Yet the boy had said that he needed to strive with another. What would the guardian of the black arrow want? Would it be a game of words? Of wits?

He heard the ringing of a sword being pulled from its sheath, and spun as his hand went to his own dirk. An enormous man towered over him, his face twisted in a snarl, naked steel in his hands.

This would be a game of weapons.

R
obin barely had time to pull his knife from the scabbard before the arrow’s guardian brought his sword down.

He deflected the blow using the thick spine of his blade, gritting his teeth as he felt the flesh tearing over his ribcage where he was wounded. Blood flowed down his side, but he forced himself to keep his eyes on his opponent.

“I am going to take the arrow,” Robin informed him.

“That arrow is death,” the giant said, circling. “It kills whatever it pierces.”

“All the more reason I need it,” Robin said. With the arrow he could finally put an end to the prince and his black magic schemes. “I have a great enemy I need to take down.”

“You worry about him, when I stand before you?” the man asked. “He is either a great foe, or you a great fool.” He thrust and Robin spun, feeling the blade graze his already injured side. He sucked in his breath with a sharp hiss, but forced himself to refocus. He lunged and the man blocked.

Blows rained down on both sides. They each twisted, turned, blocked. Robin finally scratched the other man’s cheek, but was unable to do more damage. He was losing ground and losing strength. The earth beneath them became trampled, Robin’s blood mingling with the dirt and turning it into mud. His hands were sweat slick, sliding on the dirk.

He was losing. He had to do something soon or it was all over, and he couldn’t let that happen. So he gave way under the next blow, then again—maneuvering his body toward the tree with the arrow, allowing the bigger man’s blows to drive him where he wanted to be. When he was close enough, he reached out with his left hand and yanked the arrow free.

In that moment his opponent jumped forward and twisted Robin’s arm. The arrow spun out of control and then sliced through Robin’s tunic, stabbing him in the shoulder.

The huge man let go and stepped back, a look of anticipation on his face. Robin reached up and yanked the arrow free of his flesh, spun it in the air, and then plunged it into his quiver.

While the giant gawked at him, Robin lunged forward, knocking him to the ground. He brought his blade to the man’s throat even as he stood on the sword to keep him from raising it.

“Do you yield?” Robin panted, blood and sweat flowing freely off of him. The other man nodded, so he eased back, but kept his knife at the ready. The giant stood slowly, leaving his sword on the ground.

“We must look,” he said, pointing at Robin’s shoulder where the arrow had struck him. Robin frowned and, with his free hand, peeled back the torn edges of the tunic. As he did so, the giant peered eagerly.

“The arrow has branded you,” he said. “Truly, it is yours now.”

“What does that mean?” Robin asked.

“You claimed it by pulling it from the tree, and the arrow chose not to kill you.” The man pulled up his own tunic. Along his left side was a scar very similar to the wound Robin had received. “It chose you to be its next guardian. It is now your responsibility to protect it.”

“I’m not sticking it back in that tree,” Robin said. “I have things to do.”

“You will be back,” the giant said. “This forest is home to the arrow. It will always seek to return here.”

“That may be so, but it will have to wait,” Robin said. “I’m leaving now.”

“Yes, you have much work to do, and it is late. Perhaps too late.” He tipped his head forward in salute. “Thank you for freeing me from my prison.” With that he turned, stepped away, and faded from sight.

Robin stood for a moment, panting. The arrow
had
been calling to him. He knew it for certain, and if it would mean an end to the nightmare that gripped the land, he would gladly return it to its home.

Now, though, he had work to do.

*  *  *

Glynna was worried. She recognized the signs, the subtle changes, even though it was early days. She was with child. The thought of carrying
his
child, the thought of placing the infant in
his
arms, filled her with an unholy joy, but it was tempered with her concern for those in her household who might find the timing of this pregnancy suspicious. She calculated the number of weeks since her husband had been gone. She might be able to pull off the charade that it was his, at least until it was no longer required.

She had considered for many months bringing her daughters under her tutelage, introducing them to the magic that her own mother had kept hidden from her. She saw now, though, that they were just a distraction. Perhaps it was the best of all situations that they had come down with the pox.

She would miss them, but her grief would be nothing compared to the joy of raising this new child with her master. She stared at the little black vial of liquid that sat on her altar. He had brought it to her in the night, a cure for the pox. He had left it while she slept, but whispered to her in her dreams what it was.

There was enough to share with her daughters.

She had meant to, but then she thought about the baby. If it was an only child she could devote everything to it. She wouldn’t be distracted by others demanding her attention. Truly, this was the child she had always been meant to have. She could feel it inside her already. She could almost swear it felt her, too, that it knew she was its mother.

She uncorked the vial and drank it down, shuddering as it burned all the way. After the fire passed a tingling set in. At last she looked down at her arms and saw the red marks vanish as though they had never even been there. Her master loved her, protected her. How much more would he love her when he found out that she was carrying his child? Then again, maybe he already knew.

Her smile grew broader.

*  *  *

After what seemed like an eternity, trudging through the gloom, Robin staggered out of the forest. Sherwood had never felt so large to him as it had stumbling away from the chapel. Somehow, though, he knew the way.

Marian, Alan, and the cardinal were all waiting. Marian was the first to see him. With a cry she jumped up and ran forward. Her cheeks were flushed when she reached him.

“You’re alive,” she said, sounding relieved beyond measure.

“Barely,” he said, summoning a smile.

“Did you find it?” she asked, still a bit breathless.

“I did.” Then her eyes took in the wound in his shoulder.

“Robin, what happened to you?”

“It’s a long story,” he replied. “I’ll tell you later, when we have time.”

Together they joined the others.

“Did you succeed in your mission?” the cardinal asked, not bothering with a formal greeting. In response Robin pulled the silver flask out of his tunic.

“One drop in a bucket of water,” he said.

“Let us find some buckets then.”

*  *  *

At the monastery they gathered around a bucket filled with river water. Robin handed the flask to Cardinal Francis, who uncorked it and very carefully tilted it over the bucket, allowing a single silver drop to splash into it. When he was done, he carefully sealed the flask again.

They all stared at the bucket. Robin, for his part, was waiting for something to happen. He expected the water to change color or consistency, for there to be boiling or vapor.

Nothing happened.

“Is that it?” he asked, looking up at the others.

“What were you told?” the cardinal asked. “Were there any rituals, words, something we might be forgetting or overlooking?”

Robin thought back. “‘One drop per bucket is all you need—the water, the earth, the elixir, the seed.’ Those were his exact words,” he said.

“What if it was all a ruse?” Alan said. “We know the liquid can also be used as a poison—what if that is its
only
purpose? We might be dooming someone to a horrible death, worse than the pox itself.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to test it on ourselves,” the cardinal said grimly.

“But none of us has the pox,” Marian pointed out.

“I know, but there is no one else we can ask to try it,” he replied.

Robin picked up the dipper that was on the table next to the bucket. He filled it with a little of the water and then brought it to his lips. The water was cool, but he only drank a little.

Then he handed it to Alan. The others took turns drinking, as well.

He began to feel warm all over, like he was heating up from the inside. He shifted on his feet uncomfortably, trying to avoid panic. He’d managed to get the bleeding stopped from his various wounds before coming out of the forest, but they were burning now, feeling hot and itchy.