Disclaimer: Robin and Guy are public domain, as is everything else you recognize. Don't we all know this?
Author's Note: I still have writer's block, but I also have a great need to write something. Hopefully, this comes out less than forced. It was written as an alternate ending for the ballad about Guy of Gisbourne (never liked the number of coincidences in the original), and also as a way to get feedback on my ability to write a one on one fight. So please tell me what you think! Cheers! — Loki
Thwack! The arrow struck the target with a satisfying sound, quivering slightly in the knot of the tree. Grinning impishly, the man holding the bow turned to his companion. "Now, I believe, it's your turn."
Guy of Gisbourne squinted at the tree— the first arrow had struck within a hair's breadth of the knot, the second had landed squarely— and swore. There went twelve pence. There was no way he could shot anywhere near that well. Nevertheless he selected an arrow from his quiver and knocked it, drawing it back and squinting at the tree he'd chosen as a target. His strong hands were steady on the bow, but his aim had never been nearly as good as the stranger's.
The first arrow he loosed missed the tree entirely. He tried to calm his flaring temper as the stranger chuckled quietly behind him. In frustration, Guy knocked another arrow and loosed it almost without aiming. This one at least struck the tree, but over a hand's breadth from the knot, nowhere near as close as the stranger's arrows had been.
"Well, when you suggested an archery contest, I must admit I had expected to have to use a third arrow," the stranger announced as he unstrung his bow and coiled the string, shoving it nonchalantly into the purse at his belt. He had an open face and brown hair sun-bleached almost blonde in places. He dressed in a green tunic that was darned in places and stained from dirt and water. Guy took him to be a forester.
Grumbling, the mercenary pulled coins out of his purse and counted them out. "When I suggested archery, it's not as if I knew I was going up against the only man in England better than Robin Hood," he announced.
The stranger chuckled again at this comment. "Say what you will, sir, but I'm no better than the Wolfshead," he announced.
"And I suppose you've shot against him yourself?" Guy asked, snorting derisively. "Even in Nottingham, that must be considered a great honor."
The stranger shrugged, and Guy's coins followed his bowstring into the purse. "We've met."
"Ah, would you tell me a little bit about this bold outlaw, then?" Guy asked, his interest piqued. "I have been offered a good deal of money for his capture by the sheriff of Nottingham for his capture, but I fear I know next to nothing about the man himself. The sheriff said only I'd know him when I saw him." He rolled his eyes— by all accounts, the sheriff had proven himself a shrewd enough man, but when it came to Robin Hood, it seemed his shrewdness failed in his fury.
"That depends," the stranger announced conversationally, looking Guy over. "I'm rather interested to know why a man dressed as you are is wandering in Sherwood forest myself."
Guy lifted an eyebrow, already on the edge of a temper tantrum from the man's already irreverent attitude. "Do you seek to insult me?" he demanded.
"I only mean to say that Nottingham rarely pays host men who distinguish themselves in such a way."
Guy relaxed, but only slightly. Dressed entirely in horsehide, he did indeed make a very strange and slightly grotesque picture. It was certainly an attention getter, and very protective against the elements, and that was why he wore it. Especially for the attention— he hated to be ignored. "I mean to distinguish myself from other men," he announced simply.
"While I'm sure Nottingham will be talking about the strange man dressed in his horsehide for days, I'm more curious as to your name," the younger man announced.
"Guy of Gisbourne," Guy replied.
"The outlaw?"
"Not for long. The sheriff has offered me a pardon for the capture of a far more troublesome one," Guy answered. "Once Robin Hood has been killed, the price on my head will be revoked. I shall be a free man again."
"But not an honest one," came the dry reply.
Guy's temper was already fighting its feeble harness. He was not in the mood for barbs from anyone, especially not someone he had just lost twelve pence to. "I've told you about me, stranger. Perhaps now you can tell me more about the Robin Hood you claim to have met."
The man smirked, the picture of someone pleased to know more about something than his fellow conversationalist. "Of course. He's not a big man, nor remarkable-looking. He saves that for his second-in-commands, one seven feet tall and the other with flaming red hair. Like the whole outlaw band, he dresses in Lincoln green. Some say he's a demon, but most people agree he's man. No one I've met who claims to have seen him says there aren't devil's dancing in his eyes."
"I thought you said you'd met him." Guy replied suspiciously.
"I have; sometimes it's easier to go on other people's accounts of him, too, though. He often roams around in disguise, and when he catches you unawares, sometimes you don't know who he is until it's too late."
Guy lifted an eyebrow, thinking hard, something he generally tried to avoid. "You seem to fit the same description you gave me," he commented.
"So he's not a total idiot," the other man announced, his hand drifting down to his knife. "I'm not sure whether to be relieved or surprised."
The rein on Guy's temper snapped, and he drew his sword. "You've been insulting me all along."
"Very good. I'd have had to be the insulted one in the end, though, if you hadn't shown me you had some sense." Robin ducked the first swing of Guy's sword, drawing his hunting dirk. It was by no means a short blade as they went, but no real match for a two-and-a-half foot sword. Pity he wasn't as good with throwing knives as he was with shooting arrows.
He dodged another of Guy's swings, grabbing the bigger man's wrist and using his own momentum against him, sending him flying across the road. Guy narrowly missed a tree and came charging back ferociously. Robin easily sidestepped him, ducking again as Guy rounded back on him. "Does one of have to die before we part ways?" he asked, still with enough breath left to try to be pleasant.
"Yes," Guy growled shortly, making Robin jump out of the way with his next cut.
Pity I never could resist a challenge, Robin decided. More's the pity I couldn't resist taunting the man. Robin had never liked the idea of a fight to the death with anyone, and he sidestepped and outmaneuvered the other outlaw when he could, depending on having the greater speed and hoping there might be a way to part without killing him. Finally, though, Guy's sword made contact with it's target, sliding up Robin's arm, leaving blood and searing pain running down Robin's left arm.
It would have to be death, then. Guy wouldn't walk away with him alive.
Robin stepped inside Guy's next swing, catching his arm as it caught him in the chest, and pivoted, sending Guy spinning and not caring that his knife opened a deeper cut in Guy's upper arm than the sword had in his own. By this time both men were sweating heavily and breathing hard— even Robin's ability to break the silence with a wisecrack had failed in favor of getting the air into his lungs. As Guy stumbled and tried to regain his balance, Robin wiped his hair from his face, trying to judge the stocky swordsman's next move.
He wasn't quite ready to jump out of the way when it came, and the blade bit deeper into his already injured arm. Adrenaline, at least, had always acted as a pain-killer, and instead of leaping out as any sane man might have done, Robin turned inward. While the blade just bit deeper with Guy's weight behind it, it was still slicing muscle. Robin reached over with his left arm and grabbed onto Guy's shoulder, heedless of the sword as it flew precariously near his ear. Guy's other hand shoved him, and as close as they were perfect balance was impossible. Robin hit the ground hard.
He rolled out of Guy's next swing and got to his feet. Sweat was in his eyes and dirt irritated the cuts, but he ignored the pain and blinked through the sweat— one wrong step here would cost him his life, and focused on Guy's sword.
When the mercenary swung again, Robin stepped into the swing again. He wasn't quite so fast this time, and the other man's arms expelled the air from his lungs. Robin turned in again, though, inches from the other outlaw's face. He brought the dirk up and slashed it across Guy's throat before the other man could try to get his sword in a position to retaliate, and pushed the bigger man away.
Already choking on his own blood, Guy didn't really manage to hold his feet. He must have known death was coming because he didn't really try to bring his sword back up before he fell.
Robin's knife dropped from his hand and he leaned against a tree, winded and gingerly touching his arm as the pain of the damaged muscle and the irritation of the dirt started to blend together into a throb. "Damn, that was close," he murmured, glancing at the fallen man and feeling sick for more reasons than his own lost blood and spinning head. "You're right, Johnny— I really do have to learn to be careful."
It was an hour or more before Robin managed to clean and sheath his knife and find his unstrung bow and quiver. By then his arm was stiff enough he was working one-handed. He left Guy's body and weapons for someone else to find— even if he had been feeling compassionate enough to bury a man that had tried to kill him, he was in no condition to even try to dig a grave.
Will or Little John might start to worry that one or another of the sheriff's schemes had actually worked, but he probably needed the wound dressed before anything else, and Friar Tuck's cottage and chapel were only a few miles away. The only person better for tending wounds would have been Marian. He started down that road, glancing at the sun. Was it really only mid afternoon?
Somewhere between the fight and the chapel he ran across the path of a boy of about twelve, who looked Robin up and down with interest. "Wha' 'appened to ye, sir?" he wanted to know.
Robin grinned impishly and fumbled at his purse, drawing the two sixpence he'd won off of Guy earlier that afternoon out of it. "Will you run a message for me?"
"Yessir," boy answered, though cocking his head and obviously wondering what that question had to do with his.
Robin handed him the coins. "Go to Nottingham, and tell one of the sheriff's servants that his master should try to hire men that are slightly less flamboyant when he wants a mercenary. The one sent was far too noticeable." He grinned as the boy just stared and seemed to figure out who he was. "Yeah, it takes more than a man dressed in horsehide to do away with anyone at Greentree, most of all me." He winced as he glanced back where the fight had taken place. After that you'd have thought I would've learned not to be so cocky, wouldn't you? "If you don't mind, son, I'd like to get to the friar about these wounds."
The boy nodded and took off down the road. Robin laughed as he watched him and shook his head. The twelve pence would find a better use than it would have in his pockets, though the sheriff wouldn't think kindly of the message. He continued on to let Tuck clean the wounds and lecture him on the dangers of outlawry.