by Tim Hall
Nothing remained for him, in this world of man. So then, he would cast it off forever, go deep into the wilderness and shed the last scrap of his human skin. He knew he could do it because twice before he felt himself slipping into the quietude of the green. He would live deep in Winter Forest, the way Cernunnos had all this time, unconcerned with human things.
There was only one thing he needed to do first. He picked his way unsteadily through the forest, stumbling toward Wodenhurst.
Dazed with grief, Robin staggered toward the valley of his birth. He reached the wildwood edge and crouched there above Wodenhurst. Before he faded forever into the green, he felt the need to come back here. He couldn’t say exactly why. To remember his family, fully, for the final time? To say good-bye to his old self, and to Marian, and the life they might have had?
He sank into the web of green, probing the details of the valley below, searching for a safe route—his forest-mind nosing through the grass with a vole, taking flight with the bees, sweeping down Herne Hill on the wings of a swift, scurrying into the village with the fleas on the back of a brown rat.
What he finds there is … his old village … and yet … what has happened here? Wodenhurst now is little more than a husk. A charcoal patch marks where the hayloft has burned to the ground; ditches and fences are rotting and overgrown; the waterwheel is silent.
Numbly, he discovers something worse, far worse. The Trystel Tree has been destroyed. The body of it lies twisted and shattered, houses flattened beneath. Even the tree’s stump has been torn from the earth. Why would anyone do that? And how? These are the ways of man. Leave it all behind.
Probing farther, borrowing the ears of domestic cats that stalk the rats between the homes, he discovers no people. His forest-mind sweeps back out of the village, taking flight on the tattered wings of a crow, leaping with the grasshoppers in a wild flower meadow, finally shivering amid the barley on the opposite slopes of the valley. He finds the villagers there in the fields, every pair of hands pulling weeds.
So, a clear path to the house.
Leaving the forest, crossing the spirit fence, Robin went through High Field, and down Herne Hill, then through the orchard and the croft. And here he was, outside his old home, crouching beneath the window he had leaped through countless times when he was young.
He felt cold and hollow, his senses unusually dulled, so when he heard a clicking sound he put it down to a creature’s teeth working in the thatch.
He circled the house, went inside. He was met by silence. The absence of his mother’s singing, of his brothers’ laughter, hung thickly in the air. The home he remembered smelled of crushed apples, and sweet woodruff in the rushes on the floor. Now this house had a deathly odor: a family of dead rats left to rot in the rafters.
Already he wished he hadn’t come back here. Why he would want to torture himself like this?
Then another thought struck him.
The village was not deserted, after all.
There’s someone here. In this room.
She was sitting still and silent in the gloom, the same way Robin had in the weeks after he had lost his eyes. Her one good hand gripped the distaff that had made the clicking sound Robin heard from outside.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” It was Mabel Felstone’s voice, but thin as water. “You’ve returned to us,” she said. “I knew you would, one day. I think it’s kept me alive. The idea I would get to say sorry. Please. Sit with me. This creeping death has stolen my sight, but I know it must be you. Come closer. I’ll know your face with my fingers.”
Robin stepped back toward the door.
Mabel sighed. “I can’t blame you,” she said. “We pushed you away last time. We didn’t want you here to remind us of what we did. What we didn’t do. At least … before you go … let me tell you a story. Allow me to do that much for you. It is a tale you should have heard long ago.”
Robin hesitated at the doorway.
Mabel sucked breaths that died wheezing in her chest.
“This story …,” she said, “is about a headman of a village. He was a farmer and a father … and a woodsman and a hunter. And he was the noblest man you could ever meet.”
Robin came back into the room.
“One day …,” Mabel said, “while he was tracking a white hart through Winter Forest, the headman heard the crying of a child. He abandoned his quarry and followed the sound. Sometimes, when the crying was faint and his way faltered, there was a robin, hopping branch to branch, leading him on with its song. He came to a yew tree, hollow with age. Inside was an infant, barely hours old.”
Robin stood above Mabel. “I know you’re talking about my father,” he said. “Why don’t you just say so? You’re saying he found me, in Winter Forest. You’re saying he wasn’t my father at all.”
“Yes,” Mabel said. “These are the truths we should have told you, long ago. Robert Loxley was not your father, by birth or blood. But in any case he brought you back to his home. He and his wife, Alma, cared for you as one of their own.”
It was the strangest sensation, hearing this. The words cut through Robin—a physical shock. Yet at the same time the truth of these things settled, with barely a ripple, into Robin’s story of himself.
Robert Loxley was not your real father, by birth or blood. Yes, it was true. The moment he heard it spoken, he realized a part of him had known this his entire life.
“So that’s what it means,” Robin said. “ ‘Winter-born.’ It means I was found in the wildwood.”
“Yes,” Mabel said. “That is part of it, yes. Winter-born. Forest child. Named for the robin that helped lead the way to your crib in that tree.” Her voice was growing quieter and by now was barely louder than the blip, blip of her heartbeat. “At first your arrival here was the cause of celebration. The people of Wodenhurst, they … we … regarded you as a blessing from the forest gods. The promise of bounty to come. But then … then we suffered our first failed crop. Some said it was your fault. When sheep caught the red death. When fields flooded. When cattle drowned. Time and again, you were blamed. There were those who said you belonged to the forest—that our fortunes would not improve until you were returned. These people began to fear you, and with fear comes hatred.”
As Mabel spoke Robin was remembering the way he had been treated in Wodenhurst, particularly after his family disappeared. He pictured Narris Felstone and Swet Woolward and the others coming for him armed with sticks.
And it was only then Robin noticed the villagers were returning from the fields. Those in the lead had already crossed Mill Bridge.
“Finish the story,” he said. “Tell it quicker. Does anyone know who my real parents are? Why was I left in the wildwood, as a baby?”
“Something you must understand, Robin, and never doubt it. Robert and Alma Loxley, and Thane and Hal. They were a real family to you. They fought for you.”
“Then why did they abandon me? Where are they now? Are they dead?”
“The years passed,” Mabel said. “You became the healthiest, strongest, quickest of boys. We began to hear stories about other winter-born, rescued from the wildwood, raised in other homes. We heard how the Sheriff was searching for them, destroying whole villages in his search. Some of the men from Wodenhurst, Nute Highfielde and Freeman Byeford among them, rot their souls, they—”
Narris Felstone walked into the house. He froze, staring at the man-beast standing over his mother. A gurgling noise broke from his throat as he staggered back outside and returned swinging a hand ax. Pots and bowls and candles exploded or were scattered. He was shouting now—an incoherent yell.
Robin kept the table between them. The ax thudded into the wood. Robin moved around Narris and out of the house. Others must have heard the commotion—the hue and cry was rising. Villagers were picking up dung forks, scythes, burning brands, and they were coming up the hill, stopping dead when they first set eyes on Robin but then running on, shouting, when they saw he was fleeing for the forest.
Robin felt their fury and their fear as a swarm of red noise. He was tempted to turn with his bow and send them scuttling back the way they had come. But no. No matter how they treated him, he would not act the monster. And already he had decided to leave the world of man. This was merely the final push. He had wanted to say good-bye to the happy times he had known, but even that had been denied him. He had almost heard the full truth, at last, but that too he would live without …
To the top of Herne Hill, across Woden’s Ride, into Winter Forest, and not slowing down but rather running faster, heading deeper into the dark, never to return. The idea bringing with it release, but also further sorrow. Memories of his family—the people who were his family and always would be, no matter what. The river sparkling where he went with his brothers to fish. His father cutting him his first hunting bow.
But saving his final thoughts for her, of course.
Marian, I’m sorry.
I miss you. I failed you.
I’m sorry.
The headman of Crowcote was still alive by the time the flames reached high enough to lick around his chest. The valley was thick with the sound of his screaming and the noise of the balefire as it began at last to fully roar.
Will Scarlett looked away. He had seen enough men die at the stake. He had seen the way the fat drips and bubbles from the ends of their fingers; he had watched their eyeballs begin to melt from their faces while they are yet still living; he had no desire to see another such death. And Jadder Payne was in charge of these executions—a guarantee of prolonged suffering. The torturer had ensured the balefires were built mostly from green wood so they would smolder and smoke and the condemned would be slow-cooked while their skins blackened. Jadder Payne stood now in front of the dying man, gauging his craft.
The executions were being staged at the eastern edge of the village. While the first man burned the other four waited, tied to their posts. One of them had twisted his head and was staring at the burning man, transfixed, eyes mad with horror. Would the waiting be as bad as the pain itself? Will thought.
Meanwhile, in the center of the village, the other peasants were even now being made to proceed with their work, sawing and hacking at their Trystel Tree. This labor had been going on for weeks, a garrison of guards stationed in Crowcote to oversee the work. And yet still the colossal oak showed barely a scratch. Many of the villagers, in contrast, looked broken. Even as Will watched he saw one exhausted farmer collapse, still gripping his blunted ax in a claw-like hand.
Crowcote stood on a slight incline, and was separated from Winter Forest by five or six oxgang of plowing land, freshly sown, dotted with green shoots. Several crossbowmen now stomped across these fields. Nearer the tree line pikemen patrolled, their shields raised. Longbowmen had taken up position in the village itself.
Twice as many men as I assembled, Will thought. It was not unlike the Sheriff to change arrangements at the last moment, keeping his real intentions obscured even from his most senior men. But still, Will felt a shiver of unease. Is he more afraid of the outlaw than he’s willing to admit? Or is something else happening here?
Borston Black and Ironside were stationed among the guards at the western end of the village. Will felt them staring at him. He didn’t turn to meet their gaze.
The death wails of the burning man were increasing in volume. One of his fellow condemned began calling from his unlit pyre: “I demand my right to trial by combat. I call the Sheriff a coward and a liar. If he isn’t man enough to face me himself, let him choose a champion. Are all his men so frightened?”
The Sheriff sat unmoved by the man’s entreaties. His black mare pawed at the soil and he stroked her neck with a gloved hand, clicked his tongue to calm her. Will waited with the Sheriff at the southern end of the village, next to a stone wellhead that had been garlanded with dried flowers. Behind them three captains sat silently in their saddles.
“My horse has been unusually skittish,” the Sheriff said. “Animals can smell thunderstorms, is that not so, Chief Rider? I have often thought they possess other faculties denied to people. They can taste fear, or hear betrayal, perhaps. She senses trouble of some sort, of that I’m certain.”
“Most likely it’s the smell of burning flesh,” Will said. “I’ve not known a horse yet it won’t unnerve.”
The Sheriff smiled slightly. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps.”
The wind changed direction, sending blue-black smoke billowing south. The Sheriff put one hand beneath his breastplate and took out a cloth pouch, stuffed with herbs and petals. He pushed the scapular to his nose and took deep breaths.
“I sense, Chief Rider, you have no appetite for our task here today.”
This took Will off guard. A moment passed before he replied.
“Speaking plainly, sire, there are bandit companies running amok in the eastern shires. There are crime lords conducting their own private wars. And here we are, with a whole battalion, because these shire-folk chose to speak their prayers beneath a sacred oak.”
“Others see matters differently,” the Sheriff said. “Bishop Raths feels we are still being too soft in our war with the old gods. If he were here, he would be entreating me to burn every one of those peasants as heretics. The children included. However, I believe these five men will suffice. This smell will carry for miles, and will carry our message with it. And I agree with the Inquisitor on that point at least: The message is of vital importance.”
The wind swirled again and brought the foul miasma to Will’s tongue. The Sheriff breathed through his scapular, before clearing his throat. “After all,” he said, “is it not our God-given duty to keep order in this realm? If we allow every man to pick and choose his own idol, to worship a hallowed spring, to propitiate a sacred stream, how can we expect anything but pandemonium?”
Once more the defiant prisoner called out: “The Sheriff is a coward. Him and all his men. Spineless, every one. I demand trial by combat.”
Will had to admire this man’s courage. His fellow condemned had dropped their chins to their chests; two of them were visibly shaking and the other had gone deathly still. But this fourth man kept his head raised and continued to repeat his demands and provocations in a clear, even tone. Little good it will do you, Will thought. You may as well try drawing blood from a stone.
The Sheriff peeled off his kidskin gloves. He examined one perfectly clean set of nails and then the other. “But I anticipated your unease, Chief Rider. I know what sort of man you are, at your core. You are a man of sweat and blood and steel. You would rather be battling outlaws than keeping watch over peasants or hunting demons of the forest. But come, do you see no glory in this work? The Inquisitor believes we are on the verge of extinguishing the old gods forever. Think of that. Think how the scribes will record—”
He broke off. Something was happening at the edge of the village. The defiant prisoner had turned away from the Sheriff and had taken to cursing the rangers closest to him, calling them cowards and weaklings and worse. One of the rangers had snapped. Horor Conrad advanced on the unlit balefire. He took a stiletto blade from his belt and Will thought he was going to slit the prisoner’s throat. Instead, he used the blade to sever the rope binding the man’s wrists. He did it none too subtly and when the villager stumbled from the balefire and fell to his knees he was bleeding freely from his forearms.
Horor Conrad turned and spread his arms wide. “I declare myself champion of the Sheriff’s Guard. I declare I will cut this worm into pieces and leave him for the birds. I declare that when I’m finished he will wish he had shut his mouth and taken the fire. You got anything more to say, worm?”
The villager had been tied to that stake for many hours and now it appeared to be a struggle just getting to his feet.
“My name is Much Millerson,” he said slowly. “I declare myself champion of Crowcote. This is our home. I ask God, or the gods, whichever of them is listening, grant me strength to defend it.” He looked at Horor Conrad
and then at the Sheriff. “If I win,” he said, “you must leave this place and never return.”
Much Millerson had hands large as cartwheels and a face like a flattened boulder. But his size won’t help him, Will thought. No farmer would be a match for Horor Conrad. The Prime Marshall was a born killer who had grown up knife-fighting in the city’s roughest dens. He had the face to prove it: his chin and forehead were crossed with scars; he had half an ear missing and a patch over one eye.
The Prime Marshall took a second stiletto blade from his belt and tossed it at his opponent’s feet. Much Millerson shook his head and left the dagger where it fell. Horor Conrad shrugged and showed his teeth. A boy, around ten years old, ran over from the village. He was holding two wide strips of leather. Much Millerson held out his hands and the boy began to wrap one strip around each set of knuckles.
At Will’s side, the Sheriff had stiffened, his displeasure clear. “Horor Conrad was ever a blunt tool. I have watched him closely, to see if he might shape his raw anger to his advantage, but I must admit he never will. He will never understand himself well enough for that. A man who does not know himself is like a blacksmith who has not learned one tool from another. He spends his life thrashing around. All heat and no finished product. Is that not so?”
At the foot of the execution ridge, the boy was still wrapping Much Millerson’s knuckles. Horor Conrad didn’t wait for them to finish. He came forward, moving on the balls of his feet, flicking the blade from one hand to the other. Much Millerson raised a palm just in time to block a knife thrust to his face. He went into a fist-fighter’s crouch, his big shoulders flexing. Horor Conrad stabbed at his stomach, then up at his eyes. He changed his grip to overhand, slashed at his opponent’s ribs.
Much Millerson barely seemed to move, yet he must have been quicker than he looked, because most of Horor Conrad’s thrusts were missing. Other attacks the big villager blocked with his open palm, the dagger glancing harmlessly off leather.
