The Two Torcs (34 page)

“I’ve a passing knowledge.”

“I learned from the Lionheart himself,” she said, “so you will have to do your best.”

“She is correct.” The tall man stood, and he looked at Robin with eyes that seemed to see inside of him. “You can not make mockery of the Thynghowe by not striving to win. The sword will not allow it. You are committed now. Only one will stand. Her or you.”

“I won’t harm her,” Robin protested, even though he knew there was no way he could stop himself.

“Enough talking.” Spinning, Marian lunged at Robin.

* * *

The sound of steel upon steel rang across the canyon, rolling up the walls and skipping over the ground. Marian’s heart was breaking and she wanted to scream in her anguish, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. The sword pulled out of her all her skill, all her speed, all her agility.

Robin and Marian parried back and forth, striking at each other. Marian had been taught a controlled form, keeping her blade close to her body to block attacks, and then using the strength of her shoulder to push her own blade in short chops and thrusts.

Robin swung his sword with reckless abandon, sending it in wide arcs and sweeping cuts. He used the entirety of his body, twisting at the hips to hack and slash as if he were a woodsman clearing a path. He committed his full body to each strike. Against a less skilled opponent he would have destroyed their defense, crashing over it like a flood over a hut, and cutting them down. However Marian was too skilled, too quick, too clever in her own mechanics. She was the mongoose to his serpent, avoiding the bite of Robin’s blade while still striking with her own. Despite the difference in their styles, they were evenly matched.

Neither was winning.

Desperation began to slowly outweigh her pain and her fear. If one of them did not win, if they both fell dead of exhaustion, then John would win and he would destroy everything they had worked to protect.

She could do nothing to stop herself. Indeed, part of her felt rage and violence and was glorying in the combat. That was the work of the sword, too. If she could not use her mind to overpower the sword, to lose on purpose, then she needed to stop fighting the sword. She needed to embrace it and the strength it gave her and use all her wits to find a way to defeat Robin.

Marian shoved her agony into a corner of her mind. She couldn’t think of him as the man she had grown to love. He was only the obstacle between her and the salvation of England, and any obstacle could be removed if one was clever enough and committed enough.

She counted Robin’s blows until she found his pattern, the rhythm into which his body naturally fell.

Just like dancing
, King Richard had told her in their early lessons.
If you watch your opponent long enough, you can find his steps. Learn the pulse of their flow and you can cut in.

Richard
… she thought wistfully. Then she pushed that emotion, too, to the side. It was a weakness she could not afford. She focused in on Robin. And in a flash, she knew how she could let the sword taste blood.

Robin cut three times, changed direction to slash, then stepped back. Without letting him know what she was doing, she led him into his pattern.

Cut, cut, cut…

Slash…

Back.

Then she struck.

Spinning on her heel as he was mid step, she pirouetted, sword arm fully extended. The flat of the blade whipped around. Robin stumbled as he twisted to get his sword up in time to parry.

As she felt the impact of his blade on hers, she lunged and bent her elbow, using the force of her body to push his sword out and away from her. Rolling into his reach she trapped his sword arm with her free hand, drove her foot into the hollow of his thigh for leverage, and clubbed his wrist with the pommel of her sword.

His fingers flew open and his sword flew away.

He stood there stunned as she slashed her sword across his chest, deep enough to cut, shallow enough to save. Blood seeped through his tunic and as he stared down at it she snatched up his fallen sword. She stood there, quivering in rage. She had won, she knew it, but the urge to finish him was overwhelming.

The tall man had said bloodshed, but he had never said anything about death. Why then did the swords not acknowledge her victory?

A sudden flash of insight crossed Robin’s face.

“The swords were crossed. Cross them, Marian.”

Her right arm quivered, ready to thrust forward, but she quickly swung her left hand and clanked the swords together so that the blood on her sword was also touching his sword.

Just like that, the swords released her.

With a sob of relief she dropped them. She stepped over them, grabbed Robin by the front of his tunic, pulled him close, and kissed him on the mouth as hard as she could.

When they were done, she turned to the tall man.

“There, defeated.”

He nodded his head gravely. “A leader must be willing to sacrifice all that they love for their people. A wise leader also knows the difference between sacrifice and slaughter, understands that leadership is not clear, not black nor white, but understanding and embracing all the shades of right and wrong. Do not rejoice too long in your victory for I know of what is happening out there, and it is most probable that one of you will yet have to lose the other… or lose all.”

Then, with that somber warning, he disappeared. Before they could even react, the mighty Oak of Thynghowe split open. With the sound of groaning wood, the trunk yawned apart as if cleft by a giant’s axe. Golden light spilled out from the inside, bathing them in its warm glow. A fragrance lilted out of the opening, the scent of some intoxicating flower.

Inside the tree hung two torcs.

She grasped his hand, and they moved closer.

The torcs nestled on a pair of pegs, their circles entwined. The one on the left was slender, made of a bright gold and woven of dozens of thin strands that twisted around one another, mimicking the pattern of ancient knotwork, and ending in the form of birds.

The one on the right was thicker and crafted from a dull grey iron. It also wove from strands but these were thick, nearly the size of Marian’s last finger. Its ends were capped with the heads of boars, cunningly carved from the iron and with sharp tusks jutting from growling mouths.

Marian reached into the opening.

Robin touched her arm. “It cannot be this easy.”

“This wasn’t easy.”

“You know what I mean. Why did we bring the book, the one the cardinal gave his life to put in your hands, if we could just reach inside and take these?”

Marian frowned. “You are right.” She pulled the book from her pouch. Opening it, her eyes went wide, and she found that the pages had gone blank. Frantically she flipped through them, each one bare of the words and symbols she’d seen before.

At the end she found a phrase.

“What language is that?” Robin asked, looking over her shoulder.

“English.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Of course it is.”

“Marian, that is not English. It’s a scribble of shapes and symbols.”

She turned her head, looking at the book from the corner of her eye. In the blur of strained vision the words morphed and she caught a glimpse of what Robin was talking about. The line written in the book was in an indistinct scrawl, unreadable to her.

When she looked at it full on, the words became clear. This must be what the cardinal was talking about in regards to her ancestry. Perhaps only someone with her blood could see the words and understand them.

She took a deep breath.

“I’m going to read them.”

“If you are able.”

“I am able. ‘Worthy of honor. Worthy of glory. Worthy of worship. Too humble to seek them. Strong enough to hold. Brave enough to fight.’” With each sentence her voice rose. “‘Wise enough to rule. I stretch forth my hand and lay claim to the heritage of Thynghowe. I lay claim to the very sovereignty of this land.’”

Marian cried out the last words, and then held her breath.

Silence.

“I expected something to happen,” Robin said with a frown.

“So did I,” she admitted, and she reached in and took hold of the iron torc. It chimed as it slid free of the gold one. She turned toward Robin with it in her hands. “I need you to open this.”

“Why?”

“So it can go around your throat.”

“I am not the king.”

“You heard the guardian,” she insisted, “and Cardinal Francis sent us here to claim the sovereignty. We must do as he instructed, or he will have died for nothing.”

“I am not worthy.”

“You
are
,” she said, becoming impatient.

“No,” he said, sounding like a child. “I don’t want it.”

“And this is why you are worthy, Robin of Longstride.” Tired of their disagreement, she thrust the torc toward him. He took it, gripped the carved boars’ heads, and pulled. The metal was stout, but with a struggle he opened it up. Then he handed it back to Marian.

“Lean down,” she said.

He did. She slipped the torc around his neck. Like the glow, it was warm.

Nothing happened.

“Well,” he said. “I expected something.”

“What did you expect?” she asked.

“I have no idea.”

“How does it feel?”

“Heavy,” he replied. “Heavier than iron should.”

“Well, that’s something.”

Pushing on the ends he closed the torc so it wouldn’t slip off his throat. He nodded toward the tree. “Your turn.”

Marian lifted the gold torc, and was able to pry the soft metal open. She slipped the torc around her throat, and pulled the ends closed.

“Well?” he asked.

“It…”

Light exploded from her.

It blasted out from her chest, so bright that Robin could see the outline of her bones. He cried out and covered his eyes as the wave of magic swept over him. He blinked it all back, and when his vision cleared he found Marian suspended in front of him, floating a few feet off the ground.

“Marian!” he cried, and he took a step toward her. Then he stopped.

She didn’t seem to be in pain. Golden sparks swirled around her, and a wind he did not feel whipped her hair around her face. Her mouth opened, and she sang, her voice transformed into something beautiful, angelic.

The notes fell out into the air, and he wept at her feet.

* * *

They were almost back at the camp and Marian wanted nothing more than some warm food and to curl up and go to sleep.

It had taken an hour for her to come back to herself, back at the tree. Retracing their steps, they found that the tests had vanished, and the distance was surprisingly shorter. Champion danced around their feet, carefully avoiding the risk of being kicked.

Several times Robin asked her if she felt any ill effects.

“No,” she said. “I don’t even recall what happened. One moment I put on the torc, and the next you were standing there, looking at me as if I had grown an extra nose. You looked quite silly, really.”

“At least I kept my feet firmly on the ground,” he said, and he laughed. There was a worried edge to it, however. She felt strange, unsure what was to come next. All she knew was that they were going to make it back well before the solstice.

In fact, the cardinal had told her she just needed to accomplish the task before solstice. So, they had done it. Still, something wouldn’t let her quite breathe. She didn’t know how this was going to help them to defeat John. A terrible suspicion kept rising in her mind that it hadn’t been about defeating him, but about stopping him from gaining even more power than he already had.

Robin stopped suddenly, every part of him going still.

“What is it?” Marian asked, and she glanced around for any new threat.

“Something terrible has been here,” Robin muttered.

“Stay here,” Robin said softly.

Marian shook her head fiercely. “Whatever it is, we face it together,” she said.

It wasn’t the time to argue, so he nodded, moving forward quietly as they continued for the clearing.

The camp had been abandoned, and hastily. They had taken the essentials, leaving only the debris of their passing.

“What happened here?” Marian whispered.

He didn’t reply, and reached for the black arrow. As they moved to the center of the clearing, his eyes fell on a still, bloody figure.

“Little John!” he cried as he rushed forward.

The giant of a man had been beaten half to death. His face was swollen almost beyond recognition. Robin’s mind reeled as he wondered what manner of man was strong enough to best John Little. There were no cuts, was no evidence of a sword or a club. Whoever had done this had used only their fists.

“Is he dead?” Marian asked from behind.

“No, he’s still breathing,” Robin said, knowing he should be grateful for that.

Then the hair on the back of his neck raised suddenly, and he felt a bird’s wing brush the crown of his head.

He spun around and saw a nightmare striding across the clearing toward them. His heart flew into his throat. His first thought was that the hideous form was one of the guardians of Sherwood. With the next breath he realized that couldn’t be, because nothing so evil called the wood its home.

He heard Marian gasp as she followed his gaze.

“Run,” he said.

Her mouth opened and he whirled on her.

“I said to run!” he shouted.

Marian hesitated only a moment more, then turned and slipped into the woods.

* * *

Swinging his bow into his hand, he pulled arrows, one by one, and sent them at the creature as quickly as he could. They struck the antlered giant and each one burst into splinters. The creature charged forward.

Robin’s hand moved, and he felt his fingertips brush against the black arrow. Surely it could fell the giant beast. He yanked, but the arrow didn’t move, remaining instead firmly lodged in his quiver as though it refused to be drawn against this enemy.

Cursing, he dropped the bow and drew the sword at his side. He cast his eyes around, looking for some advantage.

“That pigsticker will be no use against me,” the thing growled, its voice that of a feral creature.