Strange and Unusual

He was an odd one, this newcomer. Will did not begin to trust him. Not that there was anything unusual in that, the one-time soldier was prepared to admit; he didn't trust much of anything, these days. This man, though – ah, this man was all kinds of strange. He was not one of them – not a labourer in fields or a shepherd or thatcher or fletcher or wainwright, not a serf or a villein who had lived all his life under the Norman heel. Hell's teeth, he was not even English!

Nothing about him was right, in Will's simple estimation. He was too silent, too watchful, and too much given to slipping off on his own. His weapons, from which he was seldom parted, were strange as well; elegantly curving blades, quick bright knives as sharp as a serpent's fang, and that short light bow that looked like it should snap like a twig but had matched their good English longbows shot for shot. His name was a nightmare, his language was impossible – he'd barely said three words in it, but even that little had sounded like someone drowning a cat in a tub of honey – and from what Will could tell, he would touch neither ale nor wine. That, as far as Will was concerned, was downright unnatural.

John was unconcerned, even by the untouched wine. "Aye, well, means more for the rest of us, doesn't it?" he'd rumbled, when Will had pointed it out. Will had rolled his eyes at that, impatient that John had missed the point.

"Yes, but don't you think it's strange?" He had hoisted the ale jar and taken a healthy swig, shooting the dark stranger a mistrustful glance. "'T'ain't right, an' that's God's truth."

"Moderation, Will." Tuck had managed to sound smug even as he wrested the jug from Will's hand and took a mouthful of his own. "Maybe you should try it."

John had laughed. "Look, if it bothers you that much, I'll drink his share. Naz won't mind." And then, ignoring Will's frantic shushing gestures, the great lummox had turned and called over his shoulder, "Will you, Naz?"

The stranger – a Saracen, though Will was fairly sure that someone had told him that Saracens were supposed to have horns and tails and eat unbabtized babies for breakfast, and so far as he could tell this man preferred to break his fast on bread and cheese – had only glanced up from oiling one of his many blades, lifted an eyebrow at the ale jar and then dismissed them all with a flick of his dark eyes.

That had been three nights ago. Will had had nothing to do with the Saracen since then. It was not difficult to avoid him; the man seemed to spend half his time up one tree or another, vanishing off into the forest with nary a word. He rarely ate with them, and seemed to pay his weapons more mind than the people around him. If he had seemed only a little less sure of himself, Will would have been inclined to be kinder, to give the newcomer the benefit of the doubt. As it was, the man made his hackles rise. Then, this evening, with the light slanting golden through the trees, the Saracen had strode into camp with a yearling buck slung over his shoulders, the carcass already half dressed. He had lowered it neatly to the ground and quickly cut away a portion of meat from the beast's haunch before getting back to his feet and looking at Tuck.

"For you," he'd said, indicating the carcass with a tap of one booted foot. Then he'd left.

Robin blinked after him, surprised, then looked back to the deer. "Well, at least we know he can hunt."

"Huh," Will grunted sourly. He glared at the deer as if it might turn to poison while he watched. "That's about all we know."

Robin sighed, his mouth forming a hard line. "Give over, Will."

"Well, it's true. All we know is he were the Baron's man, an' now he ain't. Why's he even here?"

"He's here because he chooses to be," Robin answered, in that pompous, preachy voice that made Will want to hit something. "He was the Baron's slave, Will. You think he doesn't know what injustice is?"

Will scowled and scuffed his boots in the dirt. "No. I'm just saying, is all. We don't know him. I'm just saying." Then, rounding on Tuck, "Well, are you going to stew it or roast it or what? I could do with a nice bit o' stew."

"You, Scarlet," Tuck announced, as he settled in with a small knife and a cooking pot, "are enough to turn a saint to drink. Bring me a drop of that wine we took from our merchant friend, will you?"

"That merchant weren't our friend," Will pointed out with a feral grin. "And you ain't no saint." But he brought the wine all the same.

Later, with a belly full of rich stew and the fire burning low beside him, Will had more time to think. Yes, the Saracen had been in bond to that snake de Belleme, but that did not do anything to set Will's mind at ease. He had seen the man wield both bow and blades, and he knew enough about fighting to know mastery when he saw it. In fact, when a man could handle weaponry the way that the Saracen did, as natural and sure as breathing, keeping him bound would be no simple thing. And it was not as if Naz …? Nasir …? Nasir. It wasn't as if Nasir had been in hobbles, or marked with symbols of enchantment like John. He'd had access to his weapons, to a horse of better quality than anything Will had ever handled, to armour and livery and a degree of freedom. Slave? If the Saracen had been a slave, what had bound him had been something stronger and more subtle than simply chains.

Not, Will could concede, that that was impossible. A man could be chained by many things, not only links of iron. Memories, honour, thoughts of the past and hopes for the future ... after all, were those things not what bound all of them now, to Robin and this idealistic nonsense of his, to the forest and whatever strange spirits lived in it?

So then, perhaps the Saracen had been a slave. And perhaps he was as glad to see the Baron taken down to meet his own personal devil as the next man. That did not mean that Will had to like him. The others who'd joined them, who'd come to the band after their escape from Nottingham and the Sheriff, they had been men Will could understand. Not relate to, perhaps – they'd been decent enough, but there had been no fire in them, no spark of fury like his own, or of passion like Robin's, or of justice like John's – but they'd at least been proper Englishmen. And they'd died well, as deaths went. The others – Marion, Much, John – didn't understand that, didn't seem to know that there were good ways for a man to die … in fact, they had seemed surprised that anyone could die at all. Will had spent too many years a soldier to be surprised by that, and seen too many deaths not to recognise that some were better than others.

Nasir understood those things. Will realised that suddenly, without thought. He had seen it in the man's eyes at Castle de Belleme, in the moment that the outlaws had levelled their weapons at the Saracen and he had faced them with his blades down and his head high: this was a man who knew what death was, and who was ready to face it on his own terms. In spite of himself, Will found he could respect that. The man was a warrior, that much was clear. A soldier, like Will himself was a soldier. Well, they had that much in common, at least.

A faint scraping and rustle from the far side of the camp drew Will's attention. It was the Saracen returning. He did not come forward to share the fire's warmth, showed no interest in the good smells wafting from the still warm stew. Instead, he set his swords – why in all hells would a man need two swords? – in their odd harness within easy reach and crouched on his heels, his back against a tree as he surveyed the others, already sleeping quietly. Will smiled in the dark. It was not an entirely pleasant expression.

"Oy, Naz."

A quick glitter of eyes was his answer. Will's smile widened. Quiet one, wasn't he? Well, that was just fine.

"You take first watch."

There was no response to that, and Will rolled over without waiting to see what the other man did. After all, if Nasir was a soldier too, he would appreciate the need to keep sentry. That, at least, was a good thing. Will was tired of doing all the work around here.

Robin might have been an idealistic young fool, Will thought two days later, but there were also times when he was too big for his own boots. Right now was one of them. At sword practice, Will could still set the lad down a notch or two, in spite of the fancy blade he'd found for himself – but when it came to the bow, Robin was a right show off. After he'd dropped the swinging hide target three times in a row by shooting through the twine Much had used to anchor it, John had chased him off with his staff, threatening to rearrange his skull. Will could still hear the clacking of wood on wood and the peels of laughter from beyond the clearing, where Robin defended himself from John's revenge with Much cheering them both on.

"That's it, John," he muttered happily to himself. "You show 'im."

Beside him, Will heard the hiss and snap of a bowstring being released, and looked automatically toward the now repaired target. A black-fletched arrow struck it with a dull thud, quivering in the centre. Nasir shot nearly as well as Robin did – the archery contest had shown that, if anyone doubted it – but when he shot it was with the air of a man seeing to business, not of a boy bragging to his friends. Now the Saracen lowered his bow with a faint frown and tilted it slightly, examining the tip of one limb.

Will eyed the man's bow. It looked for all the world as if it should break at the first strain, put together the way it was. It was made of layers, dark wood and light and something else that might have been bone or horn, and shaped in a series of smooth, switch-back curves. Will had fought all over France, and he'd never seen its like. It seemed to work well enough, though. There was no arguing with that.

Suddenly Will became aware of dark eyes watching him. He glanced up and found Nasir's unreadable gaze on him. At once, his previous good humour faded; a scowl began to steal over his face. Then, to Will's surprise, the Saracen tipped his bow toward him.

"You."

"Me?" Will frowned, unsure. "Me what?"

Nasir paused, then set the bow more firmly in Will's hand. "You … try."

The Saracen's English was rudimentary at best, his accent doing odd things to words he barely knew, but Will understood enough. He took the bow and hefted it, feeling the way it sat light and balanced in his hands. His brows shot up in approval.

"Nice," he said. Carefully, he raised the bow and drew back the string, startled at the weight of the draw. He released slowly, forearm burning as he brought the bow to rest. "Strong for a little thing, ain't it?"

Nasir cocked his head, then drew one of his arrows – shorter than the great yard shafts Will was used to, to match the smaller bow – and held it out wordlessly. Will took it. The Saracen indicated the target. There was no hint of challenge about him; Will would do it or he wouldn't, Nasir's stance seemed to say, and it would not matter much either way. Will shrugged. "Why not."

The bow drew smooth and sure, far more stable in his hand than Will was used to. He anchored his draw, sighted and released … and watched the arrow spin harmlessly to one side. His eyes shot to Nasir, ready to snarl something defensive about the strange cant of the weapon, but the Saracen only shrugged and offered another arrow. This time it found the target, sinking in half the length of the shaft.

"Aye, it's not bad, for what it is." Will handed the bow back, then gestured at the sinuous limbs. "Why's it shaped like that, then?"

Nasir blinked and frowned. "Stronger," he managed. "Scythian. From …" he cast about for the right word. "…husaan, cheval, hippos … horse?"

Well, that made no sense. Either the man had just said the bow was made from horse bones, or that it was made for use on horseback, and either sounded wrong to Will. No one could manage a thing like that from horseback. All the same he smiled and nodded, giving the Saracen a slap on the shoulder. "Horses, eh? And here I had you pegged as an infantry man."

Nasir, who could in fact wield his recurved Scythian bow with deadly accuracy from the back of a galloping horse and no matter how unheard of that might be to an ignorant English barbarian, nodded back calmly and went to find his wayward arrow.

It still didn't mean Will had to trust him, of course. So the man was a fellow soldier, a professional in a world of amateurs, and so he knew a thing or two about weaponry. That was useful, given that Robin, who could barely be relied upon not to cut himself with his own sword, seemed to be taking this whole protector of the people lark more seriously than Will had expected; if they were going to go looking for trouble, it was good to know they'd have an even chance of fighting their way out. John was a fair hand with the staff, of course, and Tuck was quicker than his bulk let on, but Will had always preferred to put his faith in a decent length of steel.

It was a warm day and the outlaws were taking their ease near a newly discovered fishing hole after a morning spent dodging foresters near the Newark road. Tuck, who fancied a fish supper, had rigged a crude line and had it balanced between his toes as he lay back on the bank, snoring softly while he waited for a bite. John and Robin were arguing playfully over the morning's events while Marion dandled her feet in the stream a little further along, humming a quiet tune that seemed to blend perfectly into the green and gold of the forest. Listening to her, Will found that he could easily have dropped off to sleep, soothed by the dappled sun and the soft sound of her music. Instead he propped his back against a young tree and his feet against a smooth rock and brought out his dagger to spin in idle fingers while he watched the others.

Nasir, who had revealed a new bag of tricks this morning – the man could, it seemed, track a butterfly by its bloody shadow if he wanted to, and hadn't that frightened the daylights out of the foresters when they had realised that the hunters had become the hunted – had set his twin swords aside to oil the harness in which he carried them. Much, tiring of flicking small stones towards Tuck for the pleasure of seeing him twitch, gazed at the finely curved blades, wide eyed. One hand crept out, touching the nearest hilt and darting quickly away as if burned. Nasir's eyes flicked sideways, but he said nothing. Taking courage, Much reached out again and picked up the sword.

Will said, "Much." Swinging about with a wide smile, the boy brandished the blade with an awkward flourish that came close to slicing off his own ear. Will surprised himself with a laugh. "Put that bloody thing down."

Obediently, Much lowered the sword, turning back to Nasir and extending the weapon blade first. "Here Naz. Sorry. I should've …"

The boy cut off with a yelp as the Saracen's second blade hissed out and tapped down the sword he held. At the sound of steel, Robin's head came up sharply.

"Nasir!"

The Saracen rose gracefully to his feet, expression calm and steady. He did not take his eyes from Much, or lower his sword, but neither did he attack. Much looked uncertain. Robin started to his feet, voice urgent.

"Nasir, what …"

"No, Robin, it's all right." Will recognised what he was seeing. There was no danger in Nasir's stance, only a quiet dignity that had its own intent. "It's a lesson, is all. I had an officer once, always said no man should level a blade unless he means to use it." He paused, looked consideringly at the dark foreigner. "I think Much could have worse teachers, if he wants to know how to use a sword." To Much, he said, "Well, go on, you daft lump. He's waiting."

Much swung about worriedly, looking from Nasir to Robin to Will and back again. "But … but … what's he want?" the boy said, almost pleading. He pushed the blade towards Nasir again, only to have it batted away. "Naz, please. Take it back."

"He could if he wanted to," Will pointed out with a nasty grin. "Don't fret none over that. But you did draw steel on him, Much. Now he wants to see you use it."

"Oh." Much looked stricken. "But … I don't know how."

Nasir shifted slightly, opening his defence, gesturing the boy forward. Will nodded.

"There you go. He'll teach you."

The lesson was short, but to the point. After having had the sword flicked out of his hand three times, Much learned to hold it correctly, and how to stand so that he could move in and out as Nasir directed. The boy finished with a smile that lit up his whole face, whooping proudly to his foster brother as Nasir reclaimed his weapons and put the twin swords away. "Did you see, Robin? Did you see? I used a sword! Just like a knight, Robin! Sir Much, that's me!"

"Sir Much." Will snorted good naturedly and looked to Nasir. The man was smiling a little to himself, watching young Much with amusement. He caught sight of Will's eyes on him and inclined his head in a small bow of acknowledgement. Will nodded back. "Yeah," he murmured to himself. "You're all right, you are."

The sound of blades clashing rang across the small forest campsite. Steel whirled and darted, singing around the two men who fought on the open ground among the trees. The others gathered about, cheering them on.

"Come on Will, don't let him push you!"

"Ah, he's toying with him, look …"

"Teach 'im, Naz! Needs a few lessons, that one does."

Will ducked and scrambled back from one particularly quick surge. Nasir moved like a cat, fast and balanced, his twin blades scything a net of steel about him, reaching out almost effortlessly to knock Will's heavier sword aside. Panting, Will flung himself behind a convenient tree and came back swinging, roaring happily. Nasir stepped neatly to one side and let him spin past. The Saracen was all control and efficiency compared to Will's ruthless energy, silence to Will's sputtered shouts and curses, and when he laid Will's guard open for the second time running and tapped one of those short, sharp blades – scimitars, he called them – against Will's stomach with a knowing smile in his dark eyes, Will found he didn't mind. It made it Nasir's bout, best two from three, but that was no surprise. They'd been doing this every evening for a week, and Will had scored a point or two but he had not won a match yet. Of course, there was always tomorrow.

Nasir stepped back and gave Will a small bow, acknowledging the effort. Will, who had never bowed in his life, laughed and caught the waterskin that John tossed at him. The Saracen was still a strange one, an oddity with his quiet ways and deadly skills, his name was still a nightmare

(Nasir Malik Kh … K … what?)

and his language was still impossible, he still would not touch wine or ale or mead and the expression of disgust on his face when John had offered him a slice of pork from the boar they'd caught had been priceless, but Will supposed he could live with all of that. He grinned into the Saracen's face, holding out the waterskin for his friend to take it. Nasir did, neat handed as ever, and hesitated only slightly before taking a drink. Will laughed and punched him lightly on the shoulder as he made his way back towards the fire and the pot that Tuck had simmering over it.

"Aye, Naz. You're all right, you are."