Irresistible Forces

distracted — you must go now!'

She was dizzy, blinking at him woozily as she put a hand to her mouth. Blood filled it again.

'You're swifter than I,' Tuck wheezed. 'You must go on. Take Robin and go!'

That got through. 'Robin?'

'Injured.' Tuck yanked her to her feet. 'Can you stand? Good. Here…' He pulled her to a downed tree.

She saw Robin then, slumped against the tree as blood sheeted down the side of his face. 'Go, both of you.' Tuck pushed her. 'The others are leading them away. Waste no time. Tis Robin they want more than any of us.'

She knelt beside Robin. He was conscious but clearly in pain. She put a hand to his face and realized they both bled badly.

'Up,' Tuck insisted. He helped Marian back to her feet, then pulled Robin from the ground. 'Go on. Get as far as you can.'

'Caves,' Robin said between gritted teeth, weaving in place.

Tuck nodded. 'We shall meet you there when we can.'

Marian spat blood again. Hers, she realized, not the dead man's. She had cut her mouth. 'Can you walk?' she asked Robin.

Through the blood, he managed a twisted smile. 'Given a choice between that or hanging?' He closed her hand in his own. 'Say rather I can run.'

Robin pulled her over the fallen tree, and then both of them were running.

Awareness encompassed more than he had expected ever to sense again, to know, to feel. It was nearly tangible now, coming closer, closer. If hands were his to use, he could nearly touch redemption. Nearly know release.

Come—

Robin's lungs were afire, but even that pain did not match the pounding in his head. His right hand clutched Marian's left; otherwise, he would have pressed it against his temple in a fruitless attempt to dull the pain. To halt the blood.

Head wounds. He had learned on Crusade how badly head wounds bled, even if they were not serious. And he believed his was not; the pain was immense, but no worse than anything he had felt before. He remained conscious and on his feet, albeit those feet were clumsy.

Marian's breathing matched his, ragged and whistling. Together they stumbled through the foliage, attempting to put distance between them and the Normans. Tuck had done them a huge service, Robin knew; it was possible he and the others were captured by now, some of them even killed. But the monk had gotten them away from such danger, and if they were careful they might yet be worthy of his sacrifice. He did not know where they went, merely that they ran. They left behind the deer trail and fought to make a new one, raking aside with outstretched hands impediments such as vine and undergrowth.

'Wait—' It was barely the breath of a sound expelled from her bloodied mouth. 'Stop—'

He halted, catching a hanging vine to hold himself upright. Marian released his hand and bent over, sucking air noisily. Her long black braid was disheveled, strands pulled loose by branches as they ran. A bruise was rising on her face, blotching one cheekbone. She wiped her mouth free of blood, studied the slick hand dispassionately, then looked at Robin, still panting.

'— head?' she asked.

'Attached.' It was all he could manage, clinging to the vine.

Marian nodded vaguely, attempting a smile. She straightened, then turned and staggered toward a great old oak, roots thick as a man's thigh where they broke free of the soil in a tangle akin to Celtic knotwork. She drooped against the trunk, pressing her forehead into bark.

Robin loosed his grip on the vine and made his way across to her, wincing against the renewed pain in his head. With care he avoided tripping over the oak roots, but when he reached the trunk he nearly fell. He caught himself with one outstretched arm, then turned and set his spine against the trunk, sliding down until he sat on the ground, cradled between two twisted roots.

With gentle fingers he explored the side of his head. Fortunately the sword blade's motion had mostly been spent. It had sliced into the flesh above his right ear, but had not cracked the skull beneath. That skull would no doubt house an abominable headache for a day or two, but he was mostly undamaged.

Robin shifted his position to a more comfortable one.

Breath came more easily now. Marian's surcoat swung as she turned; then, like him, she sat down amidst the roots. She looked aside, spat blood, then blotted her mouth against her tunic sleeve.

She studied the soiled sleeve critically. 'Stopping, I think.'

Robin stretched out his arm, slung it wearily across her shoulders, and pulled her close. 'I think we are out of danger.' He paused. 'For now.'

Marian didn't answer. She was staring around, frowning. 'Where are we?'

Robin glanced into the shadows, noting the trees seemed almost uniform in size, shape, and placement. Mistletoe clustered in branches, foliage crowded the ground, but the huge trees took precedence over the rest of the forest.

He felt at his head again. 'When I was a child, my mother told me there were oak groves planted by Druids in Sherwood. That they were the oldest part of the forest, and sacred. But she was always telling me stories. I never knew which were true.'

'These are oaks,' Marian said. 'And—' She broke off sharply. 'Robin… there are faces.' Alarm chilled him. He sat bolt upright, preparing to gather his legs under him until she waved him back down. 'No, not Normans — at least, not living ones. Look! Do you see?' She gestured. 'Look at the trunks.'

He looked, and saw nothing.

Marian got to her feet and crunched through fallen leaves to the oak closest to the one Robin leaned against. 'Look here.' Her blood-smeared hand touched the massive trunk, tracing a shape. 'Here are the eyes, the nose — and the mouth. See it?' She looked back at him, waiting expectantly.

He rolled his head in negation. 'A trick of light and shadow.'

'On all of them? Look around, Robin.' Marian's out-stretched arm encompassed their surroundings. 'This is an oak grove, one far older than you or me… or even, I daresay, our fathers' fathers. Just as your mother told you.' She moved to the next tree, intent. Once again her hand traced a shape. 'Eyes, nose, mouth… and here is the chin.'

He made a noncommittal sound.

Marian's expression was sympathetic, but clearly she was certain of what she saw. He closed his eyes and rested as she walked from tree to tree, murmuring to herself. He was nearly asleep when she reached his tree, circling it. He heard her stop, heard her startled blurt of sound, and then abruptly she was attempting to haul him to his feet.

'Come and see,' she ordered.

His remonstration made no headway. She dragged him around to the backside of the huge old tree, took his hand in hers, and pressed his fingers against the wood.

'Feel it.' She moved his hand, tracing something. 'Here, see? The brow, the bridge of the nose, the cheekbones — this one is much clearer than the others. Do you see it?'

He did. This time, he did. There in the bark, no longer merely a trick of light and shadow, was the shape of a face. It was more defined than those in the other trunks. Sightless eyes stared.

'It's a man,' Marian said quietly.

And then, beneath their bloodied hands, the wood began to move.

The spell attenuated, began to shred, broke. He felt it fail, felt the last minute particles attempt to bind themselves together once more in order to also bind him, but it was too late. Awareness melded with spirit, merged with comprehension, joined with the power that had been held too long in abeyance. He tapped it, called it, welcomed it; felt it bound joyously back to him like a hound to its hearth. One moment it was absent; the next, present.

With a roar of triumph, he ripped himself free of the tree. wood chips flying, banished the clinging aftermath of the long, dreamless sleep and stepped into life again, into the world again, into his body.