The Dark One

by Xenon

Post season three. Simon de Belleme is back in Sherwood.

4. Four

John and Robin had started off at speed, but they had not gone terribly far before it became clear that at least one of the horses was not up to it. Whilst they had only been walked to the manor, and not ridden, they were still tired, and the one that Nasir had stolen from Nottingham Castle had clearly not been well looked after by its previous owner. Consequently the pace became much slower, until before long they were barely averaging much more than a trot. Robin glanced skyward, trying to gauge how much time had passed since de Belleme's escape, and tried not to look too frustrated.

"The trail's still clear, Robin. We won't lose him." John was recovering his senses well, and was finding that he could think clearly again now. It was a familiar feeling - the awakening as if from a deep, heavy sleep. He had hoped never to know it again.

"It's going to rain." Robin was watching the approaching dark clouds with trepidation. "If it's as heavy as it looks like it's going to be, we won't be able to tell which way he's gone."

"And you don't think that Herne might help out there?" John smiled at him. "Don't worry Robin. If we really are supposed to find him, I'm sure that we will. We both know how it works in cases like these. Herne lets us know what we need to know."

"Yes, and not a whole lot else." Robin managed to dredge up a smile of his own in reply. "Look, I appreciate your being here. Really."

"I know." John fell silent for a few moments, then glanced towards his leader once again. "Robin? I... I just wanted to say sorry. For doubting you."

"There's no reason to apologise, John. I doubted me, and if I couldn't be sure of myself, there's no reason why you should feel any differently. What changed your mind?"

"I don't know. It's hard to say exactly." He remembered the moment of waking, when all the thoughts that had been locked away inside him by the baron's spell had suddenly and at once been set free. It had been a deluge of astounding clarity, and he had know then, somehow, that Robin of Loxley was not the conjuring of some madman or evil sorcerer. He shrugged his powerful shoulders. "So what convinced you?"

"Herne." Robin remembered that meeting, and the relief it had awoken in him. The feeling of being allowed back into the fold. "We talked. It felt just like before."

"Except this time he told you that you have to die." John's face was very serious, although his voice retained a note of gentle humour. Robin frowned. Even after all this time, he knew John well enough to be sure that there was some meaning to his words. John's eyes softened.

"It's just strange, Robin, that's all. He's your father. Why is he so quick to tell you that you have to die?"

"Because some things are necessary." Robin remembered the words of the prophecy. It had made sense, even if it had been hard to listen to. "I was supposed to die before, and I didn't. That threw things into disarray. It's not so bad, really you know. Not so tragic. I was ready for it once before, and it never came."

"And that's it, I suppose." John whistled softly. "I hope I can be so calm about it, when the time comes. You're a brave man, Robin."

"I don't feel brave. I don't want to do this, you know. I'd much rather be with Marion, and the rest of you. Living in Sherwood, just like before, with all the fun and the games, and the wine we used to steal from the traders. But this is my responsibility. You didn't see, John, how close he was. The baron. This... this thing that he summoned, straight from hell. It was horrific, and it was so nearly born. I don't know if he'd have been able to do that, if things hadn't been so unbalanced by me. By the fact that I didn't die." He took a deep breath, and absently stroked his horse's head. "My death was written a long time ago; predicted, by Gildas. His prophecies have always been supported by Herne. Why should this one be any different?"

"Gildas?" Like all the outlaws, John was aware of the supposed importance of that most highly regarded of prophets. Gildas had predicted the coming of the Hooded Man, after all, as well as lots more besides. "Even prophets make mistakes, Robin. Gildas never claimed to be infallible."

"Neither did Herne, but we've always taken his lead. We always trust him to know what's best, what's right. This makes sense to me. A life was needed, and wasn't given."

"Balance, Fate, I don't know." John shook his head. "That was always your department Robin, and I can't claim to know half as much about it as you do. You're the son of Herne, and that seems to come with an understanding of mysticism and magic that the rest of us can't hope to keep up with. But that doesn't mean that you're always right, any more than Herne is or Gildas. Nobody can know that much about what's going to happen."

"If you're trying to tell me that you're not going to stand back and let me die, I appreciate it. I never expected anything else. I just want you to understand why I'm doing this. Why I feel that it has to be me who goes to face de Belleme, and why I'm so sure that I'm not going to be going home to Sherwood again. I don't want to die, and I'm not going to throw my life away. Why else would I have asked you to come along and help? I'm not going to let him kill me."

"I'm glad to hear it." They shared a smile, although the moment was somewhat strained. "So what did Gildas say this time? That the Hooded Man was going to die for the good of us all?"

"Nothing that clear. You know what his writings are like." Robin could still hear them resounding inside his head, and he spoke them aloud with a detached air, as though they were words of little importance, written about somebody else. "One must again be dead. It makes sense."

"I suppose so." John was frowning, staring at the road ahead. A faint rain was beginning to fall, and promised to become much heavier soon. It had brought the sky closer, lower, heavier. It wasn't helping his mood. "But you were never dead, were you. How can you have been, since you're here now?"

"You're splitting straws. Okay, I wasn't dead. Herne said that I was taken by the spirits of Sherwood. They must have healed me, although either it took them a long time, or they didn't want me to leave them until now. Either way, I might as well have been dead. I don't remember that time at all."

"But you weren't actually dead." John nudged his horse to go a little faster, for Robin was drawing ahead. The former leader of the outlaw gang had the determined look on his face that meant no rest, no waiting, no hesitations, until he had got where he was planning to go. "If you never died, why would you be the one that has to die again? How can you die again?"

"John..." Robin fell silent, searching for the words that would allow him to explain. "I was supposed to--"

"So you said. You were supposed to die two years ago, and you didn't. You think that's got something to do with why de Belleme is able to tap into such powers now."

"It created an unbalance. These things can lead to greater chaos. Men like de Belleme, able to do greater and greater things, because the universe is no longer in harmony. You know that nature calls for balance."

"If that's the way that Herne speaks, no wonder you and Robin always look so confused when you've finished talking with him." John flashed his old friend a smile. "Just think about it, that's all I'm asking. You say that somebody has to die, who was dead before. Well de Belleme was dead before, and is alive again now. Why can't the prophecy be about him instead? He's a powerful man, so surely he'd be a suitable sacrifice, if that's what you want to call it."

"De Belleme?" Robin was silent for a while, riding onwards with his head bowed in thought. "I hadn't thought of that."

"But you admit that it makes sense?"

"I suppose so. He did die, admittedly. But Herne..."

"Herne never says anything that direct. He might not speak to me, Robin, but that much I do know. And even if he had told you that you were the one who had to die, well you've said yourself that he's never claimed to be infallible. He's just a man, whatever force, or power, or god he might represent. All men make mistakes, and that includes him, and Gildas... and you."

"Point taken." Robin smiled, mulling the idea over in his mind. De Belleme? It did fit, in a way. Robin himself had been chosen once because of the strength within him of the powers of light and darkness, but those powers were just as strong within the baron. The only difference was that he had only ever used the darkness, rather than the light.

"Then you'll consider it." John reined in his horse, reaching out to catch hold of the bridle of Robin's own mount. "Promise me, Robin. Don't go in there expecting to die."

"I promise." He didn't feel as though he had got a reprieve - not yet. But it was certainly something to consider. Could it be the baron who had to die, and not him? Could it be that he still had a future in Sherwood Forest, with Marion and all of his friends? The more that he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to become. The one who had already been dead. The one who was at the centre of this current wave of darkness. He couldn't deny that it made sense. Maybe this wasn't the end for him after all.

**********

Huntingdon reined in his horse as soon as saw that the trees were thinning out. Before the animal had stopped he dismounted, leading it slowly to the edge of the forest, staring out into the dull, wet world beyond. The heavy rain made it difficult to see far ahead, and he knew that it would be impossible to tell whether anybody was watching for signs of pursuit. Gisburne stared down at him, contemptuous as always.

"I doubt he's expecting anybody to follow him. We could probably just ride straight up and attack him."

"You never wonder why my men keep beating you, do you." Managing not to sigh and roll his eyes, no matter how much he wanted to, Huntingdon turned his back on his half brother. He could see the ruined church now, standing just as he had imagined it to, in the midst of clasping undergrowth and twisted bushes. Several of the beasts that de Belleme had summoned lay around outside, like guard dogs watching out for thieves and raiders. Gisburne finally deigned to dismount, tethering his horse to a nearby tree.

"I can shoot those dogs before they know we're here." It was a shameless boast, but Huntingdon did not doubt that he believed it was the truth. He nodded.

"Perhaps, but we'll take two each. Shoot clean. They mustn't make a noise."

"They won't." Sounding grim, Gisburne unslung his bow and fitted an arrow to it. "We should get a little closer. My bow doesn't have the range of your Saxon monstrosity."

"You really can be a snob at times, you know that?" Moving away before the knight could reply, Huntingdon slipped silently out of the trees, running at a crouch to a better position, rather closer to the church. One of the great beasts moved slightly, but it gave to sign of having heard him. Rain was a useful camouflage for unexpected noises, and he was glad for that even if the constant deluge was a hindrance in other ways. A few moments later Gisburne arrived.

"I don't see what's wrong with disapproving of long bows." He looked flushed from the awkward dash, for he wasn't used to moving so fast or so quietly. "They're the weapons of peasants and poachers, and they have no place in the armoury of a gentleman."

"They do if the gentleman wants to be able to shoot over long distances, or stand a chance of killing a man protected by decent armour and shielding." Realising that he was allowing himself to be drawn into a pointless argument, Robin scowled and gestured towards the beasts nearby. "Take the two on the left."

"Ghastly creatures, aren't they." Gisburne levelled his bow. "Nearly got us earlier. I, er..."

"I didn't save you so that you could thank me. Especially not now." Robin sighted along his arrow, hoping that de Belleme was not yet aware of them. He wondered what the sorcerer was doing inside the church, and whether he had already begun new magics.

"Well if that's the way you feel." For a second Gisburne looked hot and angry, then his face went back to its usual sulky expression, and the haughtiness returned to his eyes. "What do we do when we've killed these creatures?"

"Get inside. I'll handle de Belleme, you worry about the Sheriff and Abbot Hugo. If the baron tries to use spells, you'll have to get them to safety. I won't be able to help you."

"I don't need your help." Gisburne gave a brisk nod. "Alright, we'll follow your plan. Just remember that the baron might turn out to be more than you can handle. Being the son of a pagan legend doesn't make you invincible you know."

Huntingdon couldn't help smiling. "Does that mean that you're worried about me?" His answer was a glare so ferocious that the smile might have faded from his lips, had he been a man of a more nervous disposition. So much for the idea that two brothers might find common ground through a shared purpose. Gisburne gestured at the animals still lying so close by.

"Are we going to kill these creatures or aren't we?"

"I suppose we are." He felt strangely guilty about it, even though the beasts were creatures straight from hell. Killing the unwary was never the best way to feel good about one's self. He checked his aim.

"Ready when you are."

"Then fire." Gisburne's shoulders tensed, and Huntingdon reacted likewise. At the same moment they loosed their first arrows. Without a sound, two beasts keeled over, but there was no chance for the two men to celebrate. Snatching up a second arrow, Robin fired it after the first, less than a heartbeat before Gisburne did the same. In the act of rising, the second two beasts also rolled over.

"He might know what's just happened." Slinging his bow back on his shoulder, Robin started forward again. "We should get inside quickly."

"If you say so." Guy followed at a crouch, his movements mirroring Robin's own. They looked like brothers at that moment, and Huntingdon was acutely aware of it. Perhaps it was no small wonder that Guy had been able to shake off de Belleme's spells, when he shared the blood of one of Herne's Sons. For a moment Robin wished that he could say as much, and tell the knight of their connection. It seemed as good a time as any, if he was to die soon. He didn't say a word. Even if this had been the right time; even if there had been a proper opportunity, he knew that he still couldn't do it. Gisburne would never find out the truth by his actions. The arrogant knight probably wouldn't believe it anyway. Would anyone?

"I can't see anybody." Peering in through a window hole, Gisburne was trying to see something of use in the interior of the building. Huntingdon chose another window. Inside there was a darkness that was far too complete for a place that didn't have a roof, let alone proper walls. Why wasn't the daylight illuminating it? He decided that he probably didn't want to know.

"Maybe they're in the crypt." Where else would de Belleme be? It seemed the ideal place to look for him. Gisburne made a face.

"Great. And now I suppose you're going to say that he probably knows we're out here?"

"He probably expected somebody to come after him, yes." Robin drew his sword, surprised momentarily by the difference of its weight to the weapon that he had become used to. It wasn't Albion of course, and his fingers closed more tightly around the hilt at that thought. Of course it wasn't Albion; Albion was elsewhere, with another man. Herne had obviously thought that Loxley needed it, which seemed to Huntingdon to be proof that he was doing the right thing now. He could come here, and he could fight de Belleme, and he could die with the knowledge that the sword was safe. If de Belleme survived, or any of his summoned minions, they would not get their hands on Albion.

"That's a good sword." Gisburne had drawn his own, a typically expensive Norman model, presumably a family heirloom. Huntingdon nodded.

"It is." Presumably Nasir had managed to steal it from the one guard in Nottingham who actually cared something for his weaponry. Odd that a Norman guard would have a Saxon sword, but then Fate had a way of working out like that. He smiled, and gave the blade a quick polish on his sleeve. "So are you ready?"

"Yes." Gisburne led the way to the door, a rotting chunk of wood hanging by one hinge. "If we survive this, Huntingdon..."

"What?"

"I just want you to know that I don't feel indebted to you. You might have saved my life earlier today, but it was nothing compared to the lives that you've taken since joining with Herne's rabble. You've turned against everything that people like us are supposed to stand for, and there's nothing in this world or the next that could ever make me forgive you for that. Just so we're clear."

"Oh we're clear. We're very clear." So much for the chance of getting to know his brother better; of maybe lessening a little of the hostility. "If we survive this, you'll try to kill me."

"Not today, no. I'll let you walk out of here. I'll get the Sheriff and his brother back to Nottingham, and see that they're safe. And then I'll come after you, just like before. Nothing changes."

"Nothing ever changes with you." He smiled, though it was not with much humour. "I understand."

"Good." Gisburne switched his sword to his left hand, then held out his right. "Then perhaps you'll shake my hand, before we go in there. You could have made a good soldier, Huntingdon."

"Thankyou." It wasn't much of a compliment to a man of Robin's beliefs, but he understood the context in which it was meant. Shaking his half brother's hand, he matched the other's smile with his own. "But I won't say that we could have been friends."

"I don't expect that we ever could have been, no." Gisburne took his hand away, and crossed over the threshold into the darkened church. "They say that Huntingdon blood has always been bad. Now how do you suppose we get into the crypt?"

"Look for steps I suppose." Letting the comment about Huntingdon lineage pass unremarked upon, Robin followed his brother into the darkness. Inside the church it was almost impossible to make out any features, save the altar at the far end. It looked as though it had been struck by lightening.

"Why is it so confoundedly dark?" Tilting his head back, Gisburne tried to search for some light. He could see straight through the rafters, towards a sky that was lit by a pale, wintry sun, but no light nor rain managed to get into the church. It was dark enough inside, even in the daytime, for bats to be fluttering and squeaking. A rat ran across Robin's foot.

"Don't worry about the light. Just worry about de Belleme. And keep your voice down!" Using his sword the way he had seen blind men use their sticks, poking and sweeping the ground ahead of him to look for obstacles, Robin tried to find a safe path across the church floor. Gisburne followed suit, making rather too much noise.

"There's no need for you to try to sneak in, gentlemen." The voice startled them both so much that they jumped violently. Gisburne nearly dropped his sword, shocked by the familiarity of the voice as much as by its unexpected arrival.

"My lord Sheriff!" He hadn't heard the other man speak more than a few words since his enchantment by the baron, and it seemed hopeful to hear him now. A low laugh came in answer, and Robin threw out an arm to stop Gisburne rushing forward.

"He's not himself. Keep back." Gisburne glared at him.

"He sounds it. You're not the expert on these matters that you like to think you are."

"He's right you know, Gisburne." The mockery in de Rainault's voice was so very much like he was used to that he frowned in surprise and confusion at it now. "I'm still very much under the baron's control. And it feels... wonderful!"

"My lord, you don't know what you're saying. We're here to help you, and--"

"You're here to help yourself, as usual Gisburne." Feet clicked on the floor as the Sheriff walked towards them, and seconds later they were able to see him at last. Only because their eyes had adjusted to the gloom were they able to pick out any real details of his appearance, but it certainly seemed that he had been telling the truth. He clearly was not himself. His hair was matted, he was in need of a shave, and his clothes were far more dirty than he would ever usually allow them to be. Although his smile was familiar, from the mocking humour to the suggestion of malice, his eyes were hot and unnaturally bright. His clothes had been torn, probably during the stampede of the hell creatures back at the manor, and the pentagram was visible now, glowing softly with an eerie red light.

"The baron is expecting you. He doesn't want you to throw down your swords, or surrender especially. I think he's appreciating the chance of a fight." He gestured off into the darkness, presumably towards the place where de Belleme had hidden himself. "Please don't keep him waiting."

"I don't plan to." Stalking past, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up and quivering, Huntingdon peered ahead into the gloom. He could see steps now, just past the ruined altar, surrounded by a broken railing covered with fungal growth. The steps were of stone, already well worn, and faintly slippery beneath his boots.

"Loxley?" The voice below was the baron's, and Huntingdon smiled grimly. Then he had reached this place first. That at least was cause for some feeling of triumph, whatever was to come next. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it out of his eyes, and carried on down the steps.

"No, not Loxley. Huntingdon. Disappointed?"

"Not really." There was a burst of low light, and suddenly the flickering of many tiny candle flames illuminated the room. Somehow the place looked more menacing now than when dark, but Huntingdon did not hesitate in going down the rest of the steps. He looked about, taking in the grim, damp room, and the grinning, mad-eyed baron. Nasir's arrow still protruded from de Belleme's shoulder, and the exposed flesh around the sunken tip was discoloured and distended, like the skin of a dead man. It seemed to cause him no great pain however, for he did not hold his arm awkwardly, or flinch at necessary movements. Instead the injury just seemed to make him more at one with his unpleasant surroundings - a hideous place, decorated with grinning argoyles and real skulls. They were of all kinds, including human, and were piled on wooden shelves upon the walls. At least a thousand empty eye sockets stared at Robin as he faced de Belleme, and he felt the scrutiny of every one.

"You know why I'm here." Sword at the ready, Huntingdon met the baron's stare with steady eyes. De Belleme nodded.

"I imagine you have the curious idea that you can defeat me. You have all the arrogance to be expected of a son of Herne, at any rate."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Robin pointed his sword at the other man. "Are you ready?"

"Ready?" De Belleme laughed. "My dear boy, that sword is nothing to me. I can take it away from you without laying a hand on either it or you. I could cut your throat with one flick of my finger from half the room away, and not need to whisper so much as a spell to make it happen. You can't beat me with that pitiful weapon."

"Huntingdon?" Gisburne's voice, filled with its usual authority, interrupted de Belleme's tirade, and the baron's head snapped around in anger to face towards the stairs. "Huntingdon, are you alright down there?"

" For now." Robin kept his own voice calm, trying to suggest that he was in control of the situation. "You worry about your end of things."

"Oh you don't need to worry about that." There was the sound of footsteps from above, as Gisburne circled the Sheriff of Nottingham. Hugo had come from the shadows as well, armed with a long stave that he would ordinarily never have been seen using. It would not be easy, Gisburne realised, to fight the pair without hurting them, but he was certain that he was up to the challenge.

"Sir Guy of Gisburne." De Belleme's eyes flashed as he turned back to Robin. "When I've finished with you I'll enjoy flaying the skin from his worthless body."

"He's not worthless." Huntingdon was surprised to realise that he actually meant it. "He managed to break the control that you had on him. You couldn't keep him under your spell."

"We all make mistakes. Mine was in not keeping full control of the fool. Believe me, Huntingdon, I'll not make that mistake again."

"You won't be making any mistakes again." Robin squared his shoulders, wondering how exactly he was supposed to make the first move. "You won't be doing anything from now on."

"Oh I wouldn't be so sure if I was you." De Belleme moved his hands, painting pictures in the air. "You're the one who's making mistakes now, Hooded Man. Coming here, into my trap, like a lamb to the slaughter. Except that it's not a slaughter that I have planned for you exactly. More a slow, lingering death."

"Whatever it is you have planned, I think you might be disappointed." Robin began to edge forward, eyes firmly upon de Belleme. The hands, long and pale, were still painting their curious images, and Huntingdon didn't like it. With every strange stroke it seemed to him that the very air was buzzing, and the many candles in the crypt began to flicker.

"And I think that you're wrong. Look around you, Huntingdon. Tell me that you don't see my triumph written on every stone in the walls."

"I'm not falling for an old trick like that one." Angry that the baron wouldn't fight him, Huntingdon took another step forward. De Belleme started to laugh.

"The only old trick here is in the ancient magic that I'm invoking. You destroyed the creature that I was trying to summon, Huntingdon. A creature capable of sucking every drop of energy from Sherwood Forest; of destroying the spirits that have guarded it all of these years. I could have broken Herne's empty husk of a body over by knee, but you destroyed that. The curious thing is that I'm finding I don't care. I have other plans, Hooded Man. Other spells." He pointed a finger at Robin, and the young man felt his strength begin to waver. He wobbled uncertainly on his feet, and the sword in his hands became suddenly heavy. He struggled to concentrate.

"Cheap parlour tricks." His bravado was wavering, but he struggled to remain firm. "I won't let you succeed, baron."

"You don't have any say in the matter." Raising his arms above his head, de Belleme began to chant. Robin tried to reach him, to shut him up, but found to his horror that he could not move. Around him the many skulls and bones began to rattle. Many of the candles went out, and from the room up above Gisburne's voice again floated down.

"Huntingdon? Huntingdon?!" Robin tried to answer him, but couldn't make his mouth work. He knew that he was about to drop his sword, but he couldn't seem to keep hold of it. De Belleme loomed closer.

"Still think that you can beat me, son of Herne?" He was moving away now, reaching into his robes to pull out a bag of coloured powder. Robin watched helplessly as the evil sorcerer scattered the powder onto the ground, forming hideous symbols and patterns. Sparks flew up from the ground, and several of the candles melted together into a pool of flaming wax. The patterns made of powder were forming words in his mind; words that he knew he could translate because of who he was. They struck at his heart like daggers, and he knew now that he had made a grave mistake in coming here. This wasn't the way to defeat the baron and save Herne and his forest. This wasn't the way to balance the scales of Fate. All that he was doing was making matters worse.

"And now, Herne's whelp, you die." There were shadows flickering in the corners of Robin's eyes, like liquid enemies running down the walls. He tried to turn his head to look at them, but all that he could see were snaking fingers and black, oily hands. Laughter hissed and spat at him, and the glowing powder symbols on the floor caught fire in a rush of heat. Gisburne's voice was fading; sounding further and further away as he continued to shout Robin's name. De Belleme drew a long, bone-handled knife from within the folds of his robe.

"Still think that you can defeat me?" The mocking laughter that filled his voice made Robin's blood boil, but the furious outlaw found that he could not move a muscle. He could no longer even turn his head to watch the creeping shadows. De Belleme touched the knife to his throat, but didn't allow it to cut the skin. "What's the matter? Nothing to say? No defiant last words?"

"My death... isn't unexpected." It was all that he could get out, through lips as numb and immovable as the rest of him. He realised that he wasn't afraid, even if he was apprehensive. His death - the death of Herne's Son - was what was called upon to end all of this, surely? He didn't know how it would work exactly, but he knew that it should. Let de Belleme do his worst, work his spells, make his sacrifice. Robin was staring death in the face more surely now than he had ever done before, but he was at peace. He trusted the predictions that he had heard Herne give, and right now, in this dark and oppressive crypt beneath the ruined church, he was certain that nothing else mattered. He was ready to die.

**********

The rain had all but obliterated the trail, and it took Robin and John's best skills to follow de Belleme to his destination. It had taken them a long time to decipher the muddy tracks and blurred prints, and when at last they drew up outside the church the day was advancing towards evening. There were no longer any birds singing, if indeed birds ever sung beside that enchanted place. They came from a different direction to Huntingdon and Gisburne, and didn't see their horses tethered at the edge of the forest - so it was with surprise that John reined in his horse.

"Robin, look." He pointed to the four creatures, all lying dead with arrows in their throats. "Somebody has been here."

"More than one somebody. No one person could have shot all four of those things. They'd have ripped his throat out before he could manage it." Robin dismounted, running to the nearest dead beast. The creature was still warm, and clearly hadn't been dead for long. Less than an hour, certainly. "Who would come here and do this?"

"I can think of one person." John's voice was quiet and gentle. "Robin..."

"What?" Loxley looked up in answer, then realised that John had not been addressing him. He paled. "He wouldn't."

"Yes he would. For Marion, for Herne... for all of us. He came here to take your place."

"But..." Robin stared towards the church, momentarily uncomprehending. "But if you're right..."

"We have to stop him." John broke into a run, bursting into the church several moments before Robin did the same. They were expecting to see Huntingdon, caught in a last struggle with de Belleme, but all that they saw was Gisburne, sword drawn, circling the brothers de Rainault with a wary look in his eye. He didn't turn at the sound of the new arrivals, but he did speak to them.

"Keep back." There was a warning in his voice, as well as the usual haughty determination to be obeyed. "I won't let you kill them."

"We don't plan to." Robin was taken aback to see the young knight there, but was not inclined to question his presence. "Where's Huntingdon?"

"Down in the crypt." Gisburne slashed out with his sword as Hugo tried to take advantage of his momentary distraction. "I can't get him to answer me anymore."

"We've got to get down there, Robin." John was advancing on the entrance to the crypt, his concern obvious. Robin drew Albion.

"I'll go first. This was always supposed to be my fight." He put one foot on the top step, then froze. "Do you hear something?"

"Rats." John looked about, but couldn't see anything. "It sounds like rats."

"No. More than that. It's like... like something scratching at a door." Loxley spun around, staring about at the broken walls of the old church. "He's summoning something, John."

"And I think it's starting to come through." John was staring up above them, where the broken roof gaped like a yawning mouth. Shadows were gathering there, taking form as large, black creatures. They were thin and spindly, but their fearsome claws and teeth were unmistakable. "What in God's name...?"

"I have to stop him." Loathe to leave John, Robin hesitated at the top of the stairs. "Can you keep these things off?"

"Yes." It was Gisburne who answered. Loxley bit back a sharp retort, his hatred for the Norman almost costing him precious seconds. Nodding his head, he left the two ill-matched allies to defend his rear, and dashed down the steps.

"Loxley! How good of you to join us." De Belleme's eyes were burning with a light that was almost feverish. Robin stared about. The crypt was alive with weird lights, and the walls were crawling with creatures just like those in the room above. They were hideous, deformed beasts, their arms and legs disproportionately long, their eyes bright and hot. Black, slimy skin left trails on the stones that glowed in the unearthly lights. In the centre of it all, unable to move, was Huntingdon. His sword lay at his feet and his face was deathly pale. Remembering the hardship of their earlier fight, Loxley ignored his enemy for now, and ran instead towards the Norman outlaw.

"Huntingdon!" He shook the young man, but got no response. "Huntingdon, can you hear me?"

"He can hear. Don't expect an enthralling conversation though." De Belleme was coming towards him, and Robin whipped around to face him.

"Keep back. You're not going to kill him."

"Him, you, your friends up above... I'll kill you all before I'm done. The rest of your gang, everybody else in Sherwood and Nottingham, the nuns of Kirklees Abbey, Herne... Why stop there?" He snapped his fingers, and Robin felt an invisible sword slice through the skin of his chest. He winced, but did not retreat. He had faced de Belleme's tricks before, and they seemed old to him now. The sorcerer might be stronger now than he had been when they had first met, but he was still the same man, performing the same magic, aiming at the same twisted ends.

"I don't think so. I've worked it all out now. I thought that I knew how to stop you, and I came here for the same reason Huntingdon did. Neither of us expected to get out of here alive, but that was just what you wanted, wasn't it. The real way to stop you isn't the way we thought it was. It's something different."

"You haven't got a chance, Loxley. Throw down your sword. Help me instead of hindering me, and I'll give you more than Herne ever could. Be the son of my gods, instead of following that fool in the forest."

"No." Loxley put a hand on Huntingdon's shoulder and stared deep into the blond man's clear, light eyes. "Robin. Robin, you have to come out of this."

"You're wasting your time." De Belleme clapped his hands together, and a wave of heat blazed its way up Robin's sword arm. He almost dropped Albion, but clung on even when it seemed that his palm must blister and burn. "You can't win. It's beginning, Loxley. My powers are consolidating themselves. I can taste the chaos. It's all around. Look at my creatures, breaking through, coming to engulf your pitiful lord and master. Herne the Hunter will be a memory by dawn."

"No." It took all that Huntingdon had within him to speak the one word. "You can't win."

"And what can you do about it?" The mockery in the baron's voice should have hurt, but neither of Herne's Sons was listening to it enough to be stung. Loxley glared at him.

"More than you think." His hand dug deep into Robin's shoulder, and he raised Albion. De Belleme tried to stop him with a hiss of suppressed fury, and the creatures dropping from the walls began to converge. Loxley turned the blade around, capturing as much of the candlelight as he could to flash a burst of white light into Huntingdon's eyes. His companion blinked, choked, and finally moved. He seemed winded and weak, but he reached down and snatched up his sword, turning to face de Belleme with a terrible fury in his eyes.

"You're not leaving this room alive, Simon. Not even if it means that the rest of us don't either. Call your creatures off."

"Why? You can't beat me. Your friends above will already have been over-run, and soon you'll go the same way." He laughed as one of the beasts leapt at Loxley, and the outlaw only just managed to knock it aside before it reached him. "That weapon is nothing, Huntingdon. I've told you that before. I've been dead. I died, and came back to life. You think that you can kill me with that pitiful blade?"

"No." Huntingdon was still advancing on him. "It's not you that has to die. It's me. Me or Loxley. That'll end this. It has to."

"No!" Horror-stricken Loxley dashed forward, kicking aside the grabbing creatures as they tried to pull him down. "That's just what he wants! I was wrong, Robin. We were both wrong! It's not one of us that has to die."

"Don't listen to him, Huntingdon. He wants to save your life, because he thinks that it's him who should die. He doesn't want you to die for him." The baron reached out, holding his hand out for Huntingdon to take. "Don't listen to him."

"Huntingdon!" Loxley made a grab for the other man, but was too late. De Belleme had already caught hold of him, his pale, strong fingers gripping the young man's throat. Huntingdon began to choke, his face paling, his knees buckling. Loxley tried to drag him back, but the creatures summoned by the sorcerer were snatching at him, pulling him away. He fell, losing his hold on Albion. Above him he saw Huntingdon fighting back at last, struggling to bring his sword to bear on the baron. He slashed with it, finally managing to stab his attacker. De Belleme laughed.

"I told you that that weapon was no use against me, fool, any more than is this worthless missile embedded in my shoulder. Why are you still fighting me? Give up and die, and end this pointless struggle. Let me take you, and be glad."

"No!" Loxley could hardly move, weighed down by the creatures snapping and tearing at his legs and arms. They were dragging Albion away from him, but he knew that he had to get the sword again. He struggled forward. Huntingdon was on the last of his strength now, barely upright, his arms drooping uselessly at his sides. De Belleme's eyes began to glow, and the lights of all the candles converged together into one bright, cold flame. One of the walls began to crack, and Loxley's eyes widened. He knew that he didn't want to see what was about to come through.

"Get off me!" With the last of his strength he pulled an arm free and snatched at Albion. He almost missed it, for the creatures made one last effort to pull it out of his reach, but his fingers caught the hilt at last. He gripped hard, then swung the sword in a clumsy circle. The creatures screamed and fell back.

"You can't win, Loxley!" De Belleme sounded worried now. Loxley stumbled to his feet.

"No. It's you that can't win, baron. I won't let you. Huntingdon won't let you. Herne isn't going to let you." He started to advance. De Belleme pushed Huntingdon at him, but Robin side-stepped the tumbling figure. The sorcerer started to chant spells, but Loxley raised his sword, and used the enchanted blade to fend off the evil trickery being hurled against him. De Belleme paled.

"No!" His voice rose to a high pitched wail of fury. "No!"

"It's the end, de Belleme." Robin pointed Albion at him, aware that the ancient and magical blade of Herne's sword would do what Huntingdon's more ordinary blade could not. The sorcerer glared at him, furious and bitter.

"No. Never the end. Never the end. I'll see you yet, Loxley. You and all your pitiful band. I'll see you yet!"

"Maybe." Robin raised the sword up high. "And maybe not." The sword fell. De Belleme choked. Shrieked. Fell. There was a rush of hot air - and with a scream of fury and pain the scrambling, snatching creatures disappeared. Suddenly weak, suddenly drained, Loxley fell to the ground. Nearby he could hear Huntingdon moving, and as the burning symbols on the floor around them blazed up into a rush of green flame and vanished, Herne's first son heard a tired, wondering voice speak his name.

"Robin?"

"Yes." Loxley was too tired to sit up, or to turn and look at his companion.

"How... how did you do that? You killed him. I couldn't."

"It was Albion. It's no ordinary sword, remember? I'm glad that I had it, but Herne could have killed you sending it to me instead."

"No." Huntingdon lowered his head. "I wouldn't have used it. Perhaps he knew that all along. I never even gave a thought to killing de Belleme until you came here. I was so certain that it was one of us that had to die, and I couldn't see anything beyond that." He rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. "I was wrong though, wasn't I. Very wrong."

"We both were. It was de Belleme. De Belleme was the one that had to die again." Loxley flashed Huntingdon a broad grin. "It was staring us in the face all along, and we missed it. We both nearly threw our lives away for nothing."

"Then it's over." It seemed an anticlimax, after preparing himself for the approach of death. Huntingdon sat up, rather slowly, examining himself for injuries. He felt stiff and sore all over, but there did not appear to be any blood. "Isn't it?"

"I think so." Loxley stood, offering his companion an arm to help him up. "He's dead at any rate."

"So Herne has his balance. The Forest isn't in danger any longer." Huntingdon stared dispassionately at the dead body of the feared sorcerer. "Do you think he'll come back?"

"We should burn his body. See that he can't." Loxley also stared at the sprawled figure, eyes betraying his anger and hatred. He had encountered the baron on several occasions now, and on each occasion his dislike for the man had increased greatly. "I'd do it quickly enough, if I was sure that it would be the end of him."

"But you can't be sure that it will?"

"You weren't raised to the same traditions and superstitions as I was." Loxley smiled to remember some of the tales he had been told as a child; things that would have been omitted from the more noble education of the Earl of Huntingdon's son. Sometimes it was a good thing to forget those old tales, for many of them were no more than fiction; but sometimes, as Loxley had learned, one ignored old traditions and legends at one's peril. "In the old times they used to think that it was dangerous to burn witches, for fear that their powers would escape in the flames when the body was destroyed, and that they'd be able to return to the Earth by perhaps taking another host." Loxley coloured slightly. "I don't know if it's true, but I don't want to take the risk. Not without being able to talk to Herne first."

"Then what do we do? Incarcerate him down here?" Huntingdon paced about the small crypt, eyeing the many heavy tombs. They were fashioned from great chunks of stone and marble, and certainly seemed to be secure. Loxley nodded.

"He won't get out of one of these without help, whether he returns to life or not. Of course he had help the last time..."

"He won't get it this time." Huntingdon used the point of his sword to begin levering off the lid of one of the tombs. "Not if there's anything that I can do to prevent it."

"There may well be." Loxley indicated Albion, lying on the floor where it had fallen. "The last time it was the Silver Arrow that resurrected him, probably because it was the Silver Arrow that killed him. This time he was killed by Albion, and it's up to both of us to make sure that it never gets used to bring him back."

"Both of us." Huntingdon smiled, although he felt a little uncomfortable with the idea that there were two of them now. "Well them maybe it should be both of us trying to open this tomb. The lid weighs more than Tuck."

"Sorry." Laughing, Loxley hurried to lend a hand, and between them the two young men were able to slide the heavy lid to one side. The tomb was deep and lined with lead, and bore a quantity of ancient bones. At least three people seemed to have been buried within the stone casket, all of them dressed in what appeared to be simple robes, although the clothing was so worn that it was hard to see what it had once been. A silver cross hung around a dilapidated neck, suggesting some religious personage, and Loxley nodded in satisfaction.

"This is as good a place as any. Help me to lift him."

"With pleasure." Together they hoisted the dead body of their hated enemy, and heaved him into the casket. He landed with a heavy thump amidst the old bones, scattering them to the four corners of the tomb. Loxley felt rather guilty for disturbing their rest, but hoped that, whoever they were, they wouldn't mind too much.

"I'll be glad to get out of this place." Struggling to replace the lid, Huntingdon cast a final glance around at the eerie crypt. "I wonder what the others are doing?"

"Resting, if they've any sense." Loxley settled the lid into place, and gave it a satisfied pat. "Will looked in a dreadful state."

"Gisburne." Huntingdon shook his head. "Him and his soldiers. Sometimes it seems that there isn't a decent man amongst them."

"I doubt that there's a decent man in the whole of Nottingham Castle." Loxley frowned at him as they began to mount the slimy stairs that led to the main body of the church. "Why did you bring him with you? I was meaning to ask before, but there wasn't much opportunity."

"Ah." Robin flushed a little. "He was handy, at the time. Nasir and I were alone, and we didn't know where anybody else was... and you've got to admit he was useful. He watched my back when I came to help out at the baron's manor. If it hadn't been for him I'd never have been able to use the Silver Arrow to send that... that creature back to hell. I'd have had my throat cut by Little John and the others."

"The strangest of allies." Loxley stepped out into the church, surprised to feel the soft fall of rain on his face. It seemed that the baron's spells had been broken, and he could see the darkening evening sky now, its faint light at last shining through the broken roof. Water splattered on the stone floor, making little puddles and rivulets that trickled through the holes between the flagstones.

"He was useful here, too. I couldn't bring anybody else to help out, and I'd never have got past the creatures that were guarding the entrance without him. He kept the de Rainaults distracted so that I could face the baron, too." He looked around, thinking about Gisburne again for the first time in some while. "But speaking of our favourite wretch, where is he?"

"Gone, obviously." Loxley smiled at him, eyes teasing. "Looks like your ally wasn't as allied as he could have been. He probably took off with his masters. Freed them, or waited until the baron's death did it for him, and then ran."

"Charming." Huntingdon frowned. "Then where's Little John?"

"There." Loxley's sharp eyes had spotted a large figure lying sprawled on the ground near to the door. "Looks like he was laid out by something."

"Gisburne no doubt." They hurried over, in time to hear the first sounds of reawakening from the unconscious form. "He must have hit John when he left with the Sheriff and Hugo." His face turned serious. "We're lucky John wasn't killed, with those three against him."

"The de Rainaults wouldn't have been up to it, and maybe Gisburne was still being a good ally." Loxley smiled teasingly. "He must like you."

"I doubt that." Huntingdon answered the smile with one of his own, and gave John a hand to climb to his feet. The big man seemed rueful, and he blushed when he greeted his two friends.

"I don't think this is my day."

"Well it feels like it's mine." Loxley clapped him on the shoulder. "It's over, John, and you were right. I was a fool not to think of other possibilities. I could have got myself killed for nothing."

"Aye, well. You always did need looking after, Robin." John laughed at him, throwing a burly arm around the neck of his old friend. "And you too Robin. Why Herne chose a useless pair like you two to be his sons is anybody's guess."

"I think I agree." Huntingdon couldn't help grinning, and felt sure that he was probably beginning to look rather daft for doing so. "I'm sorry John. If you've got a headache it's probably my fault. I can't believe I was fool enough to trust Gisburne."

"I'm glad you were." John rubbed his head. "It wasn't him that hit me. It was the Sheriff. He was going to run me through, but believe it or not Gisburne stopped him. I was barely conscious, so I suppose I could have dreamt it - but I could have sworn that I heard him saying it wasn't right. Did you have some kind of a pact with him?"

"Maybe I did." Huntingdon whistled softly. "Well I never. Maybe there is a shred of decency in him somewhere. I'd be glad if there is."

"Well I doubt it's a big one, if it really is there." John stretched his big frame, recovering his strength all the while. "Still, I suppose I shouldn't speak ill of him, at least for the rest of the day."

"Which isn't very long, fortunately." Loxley grinned at them both. "So what do you say that we get on back to the others, always supposing that our Nottingham friends have left us any horses?"

"I think they took the chariot. The de Rainaults might not have been up to riding." John led the way out of the church. "It's a strange experience, waking up out of something like that."

"And I'm sorry that you had to go through it again." Loxley put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "But de Belleme's gone now, and with luck he'll stay gone." Little John nodded.

"I hope so. But enough of being so serious, Robin. Let's just get ourselves back. I have a feeling that Marion is going to be especially pleased to see you. Both of you."

"All of us." Huntingdon wondered how it would feel to see Marion's greatest pleasure being in the safe return of somebody other than himself, and smiled sadly. She was lost to him now, for good and all.

"Aye, all of us. I reckon you're right." They reached the edge of the trees, where their horses still waited. Gisburne's was gone, but sure enough the others still remained. They looked disgruntled at having been left alone for so long, and in such inclement weather, but they showed no sign of unwillingness to be ridden. The three men gathered the animals together, and started them off on the journey back. It was cold, it was wet and it was growing progressively dark, but not one of the three felt at all uncomfortable. Far from it.

Night had fallen before they reached the baron's dilapidated mansion. A fire burned near to the gates, and Much was huddled close to it, clearly standing watch. He looked up at the sound of approaching horses, but didn't look especially happy. It was clear that he was not expecting all of his friends to return, and both Robins felt a pang of guilt for that fact. They slowed their horses, entering the firelight together; a threesome soaked and muddied, weary but triumphant. Much gaped up at them, and they saw the shock and delight that raced across his expressive young face.

"Robin." He didn't sound as though he believed what he was seeing. "Robin."

"Hello Much." Loxley dismounted, hugging the boy close. Much pulled away.

"But I thought-- But you said-- How, Robin?"

"I was wrong." It was easy enough to admit it, especially to his foster brother. Much stared up at Huntingdon and John, eyes bright with tears.

"All of you. You're back. Then is the baron dead?"

"Aye lad." John almost threw himself from his horse's broad back, clapping the young man on the shoulders in a hearty display of affection that looked almost as violent as one of Gisburne's interrogations. Huntingdon laughed.

"Leave him alone John. You'll kill him!

"He's stronger than he looks." John ruffled Much's hair. "Come on lad. There's no need for you to stay over here all on your own. It's time for us to head back home now anyway."

"Good." Much scurried along after them as they headed over to the makeshift shelter where the others were waiting. It was hard to make them out, silhouetted as they all were in the light from a second fire. Marion was asleep, held in Tuck's gentle arms, and Will and Nasir were talking together in low voices. Both men looked up at the approaching figures, but neither showed great surprise at the sight of both of Herne's Sons arriving together. Tuck's whispered expression of delight made Marion awaken with a jerk. She blinked around, surprised that she had fallen asleep - before her eyes fell on Loxley, towering above her.

"Robin?" She didn't believe her eyes, that much was obvious. She thought that she was dreaming. "Robin, is that really you?"

"Yes." He crouched down beside her and Tuck willingly loosened his embrace, letting Robin replace it with his own. "It's really me."

"Both of you." She reached out a hand to Huntingdon too, but he merely smiled at her, and didn't make any attempt at contact. Her expression was gentle, and he knew that she understood why he was keeping his distance. As Robin heaved her to her feet, she turned her smile towards John, her sparkling wet eyes showing her affection for him as well.

"We thought we'd lost you." Tuck was bustling around, stoking up the fire, wishing that he had something other than water to offer the returning men. Huntingdon nodded.

"We thought that we were lost too."

"Aye. More than once." John laughed loudly, already remembering the deadly expedition with a certain amount of humour. "But it's all over now."

"For good?" Tuck didn't want to think about a man like the baron returning from the grave yet again, but he knew that neither Robin could put his fears at rest there. Loxley shrugged his shoulders.

"Who can tell? We've won the battle for now, and that's as much as anybody can ask. It's certainly all that Herne wanted. I'd just as soon go home and forget all of this. I feel that I have a lot of catching up to do."

"Home." Marion leant against him, enjoying just the feel of his presence. "That sounds wonderful. But Will and Nasir..."

"Are fine." Will couldn't even sit up straight, but apparently his injuries had not affected the volume of his voice. He grinned up at Robin. "I've been hearing a lot of things. Things that mean we all owe you an apology. We thought you were a devil or something."

"Whatever it was that you thought, it was justified." Robin didn't want to remember how he had thought those same dreadful things, and had felt so horribly lost and alone. "It's not something that we have to talk about, Will. There are no apologies that need making." He pointed a stern finger at the other man. "But Marion's right about you. You can't walk."

"I'm not bloody staying here." As though to make a point he tried forcing himself upright, but had to stop halfway. Nasir, who was sitting beside him, leaning against the stable wall, helped to ease him back down again. The Saracen seemed none the worse for his own injuries, but there wasn't a member of the gang who was fooled by that performance. Well schooled he might be, but that didn't make him invincible.

"We'll make a stretcher. It's no bother, and we can take it in turns to carry him." John was already looking for likely tools, in the midst of Will's heartfelt objections. Loxley nodded.

"How's your head, Tuck?" he asked. The friar smiled ruefully at him.

"It's been better, but then it's been a whole lot worse before as well. I can take my turn carrying one end of a stretcher, don't you worry about that. I take it that there's no need for speed?"

"None at all." Loxley was staring into the forest, wishing that it was Sherwood, and not just some nameless other place. "But it'll be good to be back, no matter how long it takes."

"Why walk at all?" Marion pointed towards the stables. "There are quite a few horses in there. Maybe even enough for one each, with the three that you've got. If we could find some kind of a wagon for Will and Nasir to travel in..." Nasir's dark look told her what he thought of that idea, but she was already beginning to organise things. Loxley kissed the top of her head.

"Sometimes I wonder why Herne didn't choose you instead of me. You always were the one with all the sense."

"I know." She smiled up at him, then slid out of his embrace and pulled open the stable door. There were four horses inside, all strong looking animals, and all looking as though they had come originally from Nottingham Castle. Huntingdon moved past her, beginning the task of saddling the creatures.

"It looks like there's some kind of a cart over there." He pointed into the darkness, and Marion went to investigate. Sure enough, partly covered by straw and a good deal of dust and cobwebs, was a small, open wagon. It was little more than a wheeled board, with rusting axles and several missing spokes, but when she climbed onto it, it seemed sturdy enough. John hauled it out into the courtyard, and set about fixing one of the horses to it. The animal objected, but he told it in no uncertain terms that it was just going to have to do as it was told. Loxley laughed.

"You always did have a way with animals, John."

"This one's got a way with me." John finally secured the animal, then gestured towards the cart. "It won't be very comfortable, but it'll be better for both of you than walking or riding."

"Great." Will had another go at sitting up, but again had to abandon the attempt. His ribs felt as if they were on fire. "Ow. Damn. Somebody tell me that I got my own back on Gisburne for this."

"You will, one day." Loxley helped him up, and with John's help got him into the wagon. He edged himself into a half sitting, half lying position against the side, and smiled to pretend that he was comfortable. Nasir was already on his feet, and although he looked pale, nobody suggested helping him. He sat down beside Will.

"You look like death warmed up, Naz." Will would have laughed in other circumstances, but rather suspected that to do so would be too painful now. "If I look half as bad as you do, no wonder Marion keeps fussing around."

"I do not 'fuss'." Swinging up onto one of the horses, the young woman glared at him as fiercely as she could. Struggling to get his own horse to point in the right direction, Much managed in the end to bring it alongside the wagon.

"And he only looks as bad as he does because he got stabbed," he piped up brightly. Now astride his own mount once again, John deliberately swung it around so that he almost knocked Much from his saddle. The boy objected indignantly, until he saw John's meaningful glare and fell silent. Will's expression darkened.

"Bloody Gisburne."

"Yeah." John's grin was matched by those of the others. "He's a right one alright. Needs something very painful doing to him I reckon."

"Oh that's nice." Inspired by his usual sense of misplaced family loyalty, Huntingdon felt obliged to stand up for the infuriating - if, in this case, actually innocent - young knight. "I thought you were grateful to him for not letting de Rainault skewer you back at the church."

"I've decided to forget about that." Taking up the reins of the horse harnessed to the cart, John began to lead it along. The big man was clearly in high spirits, and as usual it was extremely infectious. "Besides, there's nothing that isn't worth doing to Guy of Gisburne - whatever he might have done."

"Good point." Loxley had had reason enough many a time to hate the vicious steward. "I'd suggest drowning, but we already nearly did that once."

"There's always roasting him alive," suggested Tuck, sounding uncharacteristically vindictive. Much began to giggle.

"You're getting too complicated," put in Will, voice gruff. "Just give him a taste of his own medicine. I reckon I could do as good a job on him as his guards did on me. Just as soon as I can stand up without falling over, anyway."

"That won't be for a while yet." Her tone suggesting that she thought he might be thinking of going after Gisburne right away, Marion brought her horse alongside the cart. Will opened his mouth to make a rude reply, but the cart jolted over a rough piece of ground, and he yelped instead.

"Ow." Flopping back down, he stared up at the grey and wintry sky. "Bloody Gisburne. I vote we do something to him, anyway. Something painful."

"The rack," answered John immediately. Loxley shook his head.

"Thumbscrews. More satisfying. Or there's always hot oil."

"And flaying," added Will.

"Tooth pulling."

"Branding irons."

"Limb removal."

"Stoning."

And as their suggestions grew increasingly gory, and their spirits rose accordingly high, so it carried on throughout the night.

**********

Loxley awoke in darkness, which surprised him momentarily. They had arrived back in Sherwood in the late afternoon, having taken the journey slowly, and after the most cursory of meals had all fallen asleep around a hastily built fire. Loxley wondered how long he had slept, realising as he looked around him that it was now early on a dark and wintry morning. The only sound was that of the first and earliest of the birds, and the only light that from the fire. He sat up, staring around at the featureless silhouettes of his friends, and wondered why his left side felt so cold. It came to him in a rush - Marion was gone. Slowly he stood and looked around him. All was quiet in the camp, all was still. Everybody else was apparently asleep.

"Marion?" He called her name quietly, not wanting to disturb the others. "Marion?"

"That way." He almost jumped at the sound of Nasir's voice, then smiled. Trust him to be awake, when everyone else was asleep.

"She's gone?" He was surprised by the news that she had left the camp, although there was no reason why she should not have done so. "How long ago?"

"Not long."

"Did she say anything to you?" Robin wondered where she had gone, and how long she would be. It had disturbed him more than he would have thought likely, to have awakened and found her gone from his side. Nasir nodded.

"What?"

"Lie down. Rest." The Saracen pronounced these wise words with such distaste that Robin had to smile. He clapped his old friend on the shoulder, trying to be gentle without letting it show.

"You should listen to her. You were stabbed."

"Not deep." Nasir pointed past him, indicating once again which way Marion had gone, and Robin took the hint. He smiled again.

"Thankyou." The answer was a faint incline of the dark, curly head, a gesture that brought back so many memories. It felt better than he could ever have imagined to be back, a part of all of this once again. Nasir melted away, and Robin followed suit, though in a different direction. The forest was dark, but he was certain enough that he could find Marion, if she was still in Sherwood to be found.

He found her down river, standing beside a large bush, where she had apparently come with the intention of collecting what berries the birds had consented to leave. She wasn't picking anything though, and was merely standing still, twisting several grass stalks around her fingers, apparently thinking about something that was troubling her. Robin smiled, struck, as ever, by how beautiful she was. She glanced up at him, and her face softened at his approach.

"Here you are." He realised that he had been afraid she had gone; headed back to Kirklees Abbey without any attempt at a goodbye. He should have known, of course, that even Marion wasn't strong enough for that.

"Here I am." She sounded troubled, and he knew that she was facing a difficult decision. Against every wish and every instinct, she had chosen once to enter Kirklees, and turn her back on the life she had loved. Now she was thinking of going back there.

"Are you alright?" He wanted to go to her, but felt that he would be disturbing her too much if he did that now. She smiled at him, and nodded.

"I'm alright. I feel like I was asleep too long, that's all. I needed to walk for a bit."

"I know what you mean. We must have been pretty tired when we got back to the camp. We've slept for hours."

"No wonder I feel so stiff." She smiled at him, but there was a distance in her eyes. "Will slept well, anyway. He was very peaceful when I left."

"Oh Will's alright. He always is, you know him. Tough as good boot leather."

"I know." She thought about some of the other times when she had seen him injured, although never before as badly as this. He always bounced back, sooner rather than later. "Nasir will be fine too, although he'd be better if he'd let me look after him properly."

"Nasir knows his limits. He's been fighting battles since he was younger than Much was, when we all first got together. Don't worry about him."

"I suppose you're right." She smiled suddenly, and stopped toying with the grasses wound around her fingers. "So why did you come looking for me, Robin? What was it that you wanted to say?"

"You know what I want." He moved closer to her, closer than he had allowed himself to do since finding her here. "I wanted to know what you're planning to do now. Are you going to stay here in the forest?"

"I don't know." She hung her head. "I left before because I couldn't stand to lose another man that I'd loved. Having you back doesn't change anything, Robin. If anything it makes it harder for me to stay. How can I ever cope with losing you again?"

"Because if you go to Kirklees then you already have lost me, that's how. Because if you stay here with me, losing me is a possibility. If you leave and go back to the abbey, you'll be losing me for sure." He took her arms and held her tightly, although he didn't draw her close. "I can't promise never to leave you, Marion. I can't promise still to be here tomorrow. But I am here now."

"And when next summer comes, and ends? Herne took you at the end of one summer, and at the end of another he tried to take the other Robin. What happens next time? There can't always be a clever resolution, or a miracle."

"Marion, next summer is next summer. It's a lifetime away. How can any of us worry about that, when even the winter hasn't even begun? How can you worry about next year, when we've still to survive this one? Life isn't supposed to be about worrying over what might happen. It's supposed to be about living with what is happening now."

"I can't lose you again, Robin." She pulled him against her, and he wrapped his arms around her waist instinctively. Her head rested on his shoulder, and he closed his eyes.

"And I could never live without you again, either. But that's not for us to decide, Marion. Don't say anything now. Don't make your decision yet. Live today."

"Live today and worry tomorrow." It was so like him. He was always so carefree, and that, of course, was one of the reasons why she loved him so much. "I don't know. I made my decision once, and it seemed so simple. So perfect."

"But that was then." He pushed her away from him, very gently, so that he could look into her eyes. "Tell me now that it's simple. Tell me that it's easy for you to walk away from me, and not look back. Tell me that you want to spend the rest of your life in Kirklees, instead of spending it with me."

"I can't." She was weakening, even though she had, before his arrival, been about to make the decision to go back to her life at the abbey. It had seemed right; the only way. Now nothing seemed that simple anymore. "Oh Robin. Why did you always make things so complicated for me?"

"Because life is never simple, and love certainly isn't." He stroked her hair. "You're my wife, Marion."

"I know." She smiled up at him. "And that's why it's so very hard. I can't--"

"Then don't." Whatever she had been about to say didn't matter. "Come back to the camp with me. Spend today with me, and tomorrow and the day after, and everything will be alright. I'll never try to stop you, if you decide that Kirklees is your future, but in the meantime... just be with me, Marion. I love you."

"And I love you." She held his hands, and stared at each of them in turn. The hands that had taught her to shoot, and to skin rabbits, and to mend the broken flights of an arrow. She knew them as well as she knew her own, and felt that she could hold them forever.

"Then come with me back to the camp." He pulled gently, and at first she resisted. It felt as though she was taking a huge step, and it was one that she wasn't quite sure she was ready to take. He pulled harder, and she felt herself caving in. He was right. How could she turn her back and go to Kirklees, and leave him behind? She really would be losing him then, even if they both lived to be a hundred. With the faintest of smiles, that soon became the broadest of grins, she let him lead her away. There was plenty of time for decisions tomorrow. Kirklees would still be there then.

The camp was different to before, although perhaps it was only Robin's view of it that had changed. It didn't feel like somebody else's home now; it was his. The warmth and camaraderie that he remembered had come flooding back, and all was as it had always been. The others were awake, moving around, and he heard the beginnings of the mock arguments that he had always enjoyed so much. Will was of course still badly injured, and although he wasn't supposed to be sitting up was still managing to play a full part in everything that was going on. Marion had forbidden him to drink any alcohol, which was rather like telling Tuck not to pray, or Nasir not to be so quiet, and he had contrived to get a drink from somewhere. Much and Little John were fighting an ill-matched wrestling bout in the centre of the clearing, and Will cheered them on with gusto. Tuck, now fully recovered from his blow on the head, dodged around the battling pair, tripping them both up with the end of his quarter-staff every time their feet came too close. Close by Nasir was sharpening his swords, just as he had always done in the days that Robin remembered, sparing a smile every now and again for the clownish antics going on around him.

"Home." Marion leant her head against Robin's shoulder, unable to stop the smile from stealing across her face. "It really does feel like coming home."

"Of course it does." He gave her hand a squeeze, and led her over to the fire. "What else is it going to feel like?"

"I don't know. I thought I'd left it all behind me. I thought..." She shook her head. "It doesn't matter, does it. However long it's for, and whatever happens tomorrow, this is home now. And I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be."

"I'm glad to hear it." Will toasted her with a flagon of ale, and she glared at him.

"I thought I'd put that out of your reach."

"You did, but I told Much to bring some to me." He grinned at her, and tipped a long draught down his throat. "It's better medicine than all your herbs, Marion. That sage and fennel and whatever, they don't taste like this stuff does."

"You're incorrigible." She smiled at him anyway, and moved to check his bandages. The ribs would have to heal in their own time, but everything else seemed to be doing alright. The many small cuts had escaped poisoning, and the battering his head had received had apparently not caused any lasting damage. Why that surprised her she couldn't imagine. Will was as tough as a cart horse.

"I keep telling you I'm alright." He didn't try to get up though, which was proof enough that he was not yet as strong as he would be. "You let Nasir walk around like nothing happened to him, but he got himself stabbed."

"True." They still hadn't told Will what he had done, and he had showed no signs of remembering. Nasir certainly bore him no ill will, although there was a scar on his back that would probably be with him for months. "It might even have been fatal if he wasn't wearing all that leather."

"Careless of you Naz." Will saluted him with his ale. "I thought you were supposed to have eyes in the back of your head?"

"I was distracted." Nasir set aside his swords and stood up, stretching slightly as though to prove that he was fully healed. He wasn't, but only he and Marion knew that, and she was discreet enough to allow him his pride. They would all be glad of the chance for a rest before their next skirmish, but some of them definitely needed it more than others.

"Where's Robin?" Finally deciding that he had played with Much long enough, John lifted the squirming boy up into the air, and dumped him in the nearest bush. The bush wriggled furiously for some time before Much was able to crawl out.

"He left camp in the night." Brushing leaves and twigs from his hair, the boy climbed to his feet. "Said something about thinking. He's not going to leave us, is he Little John?"

"I don't think so." John couldn't imagine Huntingdon doing anything else with his life. Whatever he had once been, he was a part of them now. He belonged with them just as much as Loxley did. "Did he say anything to anyone?"

"He was talking to Nasir when I woke up." Much grabbed Will's ale, and took a long drink, rather too fast. Fighting off a fit of coughing that caused Little John to bang him gleefully on the back, he sat down on the ground beside the fire. Nasir raised an eyebrow.

"He will be back," was all that he would say on the matter, largely because it was all that he knew. Huntingdon had spoken to him because, as always, he had been the first one awake, and had been sitting up when the former noble had decided to set off. Marion nodded.

"I'm sure he will. He's not the type to walk out on us."

"I should think not." Striding out of the trees wearing his familiar smile, Huntingdon had a look about him of relaxation and contentment. He had clearly been swimming, and his hair was only just beginning to dry. "I just wanted to think for a bit, that's all."

"What about?" Will looked serious, for the first time since he had woken up that morning. Huntingdon headed for the fire, standing before it to let it warm his damp clothes. For the first time it felt like true winter, and even though the morning was now advancing, it was still quite dark. Tuck handed him a mug, and he nodded his thanks.

"Oh, you know. Life." He took a drink of warmed wine, and let it do its work before continuing. The swim had not been the best of ideas given the chill of the morning, but it had helped him to clear his head more than anything else he had been able to think of. "About what happens now."

"I'll leave the forest myself before I let you do the same." Loxley's voice was quiet, but it was filled with meaning. I won't be the usurper, it said, and Huntingdon nodded.

"I don't plan to leave. I don't think that either of us needs to. Nobody ever said that Herne couldn't have two sons, and he seems quite happy with the situation himself. He spoke to me..." He was silent for a second, and his gaze rested on Marion. "In any family it's the eldest son that has seniority, and I'll stand back and let you be the leader. But don't expect me to be an uncritical second-in-command."

"I would never ask that." Robin stepped forward, his movements slow and smooth. "But Albion--"

"Albion is yours." Huntingdon looked away, to where the sword was lying in its sheath just beside the fire, basking in the reflected glow of the adjacent Silver Arrow. How that ancient silver token had been returned to them none of the gang could say, but there it lay nonetheless, as beautiful and as flawless as ever. "In as much as it ever belongs to anybody other than Herne, it's yours. You were the first born son. I heard him quite clearly when I was walking through the forest, and it's his choice. His guidance. I have the guardianship of the Arrow."

"And you don't mind?" It felt awkward, like when Robin had first been settling in to the Miller's home, when it had become clear that his father wasn't coming back to fetch him. Like he had to try to find the right things to say, and couldn't quite be relaxed. Huntingdon nodded.

"I don't mind. It's a compliment, Robin. To guard the Arrow is the greatest honour I can think of - and besides, I have a perfectly good sword. Don't try to find problems before we even begin."

"I'm not looking for problems." He saw them, but he wasn't looking for them. Problems like Marion, for instance. Huntingdon was smiling, although his eyes showed that all was not quite as well as it could have been.

"You're worried." He stepped forward, holding out his hand for Marion to take. She did so, and he pulled her gently to her feet. "You're worried about Marion. Well you needn't be. I realised long ago that I could never have her, and that... that I wasn't the person she would always want." His voice changed, as his words addressed themselves to Marion instead of to Loxley; a voice that hid most of the pain he couldn't help feeling. "I shall always love you, Marion. Always. But from now onwards I shall be your friend, and your comrade, and your loyal companion. No more."

"No more." She smiled, then leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Thankyou Robin."

"Robert." It was a gentle correction. "I think we can do without the extra confusion, don't you?"

"Robert." It felt strange to call him that, and yet oddly familiar. It recalled the early days, of his insecurity at taking up Robin's mantle. So much had changed since then. So very, very much.

"So now Herne has two sons." Seeing that the moment needed lightening, Tuck picked up the wooden bowl that they had always used for their shared blessing, in the evenings around the fire. "Sounds like a good thing if you ask me. The taxes go up every year, and we're going to need the extra manpower if we're to stay one step ahead of the Sheriff's men."

"Aye. And once he's got over being bewitched by the baron, he's going to be hopping mad." John's loud laughter dispelled any concerns they might have had about that state of affairs. "We'll have to keep our wits about us if we're going to carry on fighting him."

"Oh he's always angry about something." Will didn't give a damn whether the Sheriff was angry or not; he was the enemy whatever his mood was. Marion nodded.

"He's been angry about something for as long as I've known him. Always ranting at Gisburne or at Hugo, or some unfortunate serving girl. He'll be livid when he finds out that there are two Robin Hoods to be fought now."

"Maybe he'll resign," suggested Much. John laughed.

"Somehow I doubt it."

"So do I." Pouring water into the bowl, Tuck held it out to Loxley. "The Sheriff of Nottingham may be a fool at times, but he's still a very tenacious man. We haven't seen the last of him, and I doubt we ever shall."

"But in the meantime..." Loxley held up the bowl, looking at each of them in turn. At John, straight and tall and proud; at Much, small, bright and eager; at Will, stubborn and strong and determined; Huntingdon, loyal, steadfast and true; Tuck, stout, firm and gentle; Nasir, devoted, intense and resolute - and at Marion. Beautiful, sweet, brave Marion. His family. His friends. And his wife.

"Herne protect us." They were familiar words, and it certainly didn't feel as though it had been two years since he had last said them. Two years, cared for and protected by powers that were well beyond his understanding. He sipped the water, and tasted its coldness and purity. The stuff of life - a life that he had finally won back. He handed the bowl to Marion.

"Herne protect us." She had missed this as much as he had, and he knew that she wouldn't be leaving again. Whatever happened, she was here now to stay. They all were. He wondered if any of them would still be fighting this fight when the next winter started creeping around them. It didn't matter. You fought whilst you could, and you did the best you could, for as long as you were able to do it. That was all that counted, for Herne's sons, or for anybody else's. Marion held the bowl out to Huntingdon.

"Herne protect us." Oddly Huntingdon felt that the ceremony had never meant as much to him as it did now. It wasn't a question of passing the burden across, or of losing the responsibility. He was as much Herne's Son today as on the day when he had first accepted his destiny, believing that Loxley was dead. It was simply that he knew he had done the right thing, and that the world would be a better place for it. Albion might no longer hang at his side, but a man could fight with any sword, especially when he knew that he was fighting for the right reason. He handed the bowl on, and watched in silence as each of his friends echoed the simple phrase. John drank last, and set the bowl gently down beside the fire.

"And now..." Robin was comfortable - delightfully so - but he knew that that was not good enough. "There seems to be an awful lot of inactivity around here. Are we an army or a bunch of sick and weak convalescents?"

"Can't we be both?" Managing to actually look sick and weak for the first time since he had regained consciousness, Will did his best to sound sick and weak as well. Robin smiled at him, and aimed a playful blow at his shoulder.

"Well you're the only one who has a proper excuse. Tuck, fetch me a quarter-staff." He rose to his feet, and offered Huntingdon the wickedest smile that any of them had seen in some while. "Let's see what you're made of, brother."

"Oh I can hold my own, believe me." Grinning broadly, Robert snatched up his own staff, lying unattended nearby. Marion shook her head.

"Haven't you two had enough of fighting just lately?"

"No." The pair were making for clearer ground nearby. Not to be outdone, John had snatched up his own staff, and was challenging Tuck. Marion sighed. If she knew this lot, the fight would end in the river.

"You're mad." She turned her back on them, as though wanting nothing to do with their games; then snatched up another staff and joined in. It was a free for all before it had ever had a chance to be a proper contest, and laughing loudly Will watched it all descend into chaos. Much dodged around, trying to catch the unwary with a staff of his own, and Nasir stood watching, arms folded, smiling in his usual quiet way. There might be arguments yet, between the two sons of Herne, and there might yet be moments when both of them wished that they ruled this gang alone - but the troubles would be small, and the good days would far outweigh them. There was trouble in any family, after all.

If any of the eight felt the presence that was watching them, none of them reacted to it. Herne stood at the edge of the clearing, his massive head-dress and flowing robes helping to hide him amongst the many trees and bushes. He had come here on a whim, to see how things were. He had his answer now, and he was content.

"One comes, one goes..." They were words that had spelled the end for Loxley once, but now they heralded something new. "One comes, one goes, and one returns again. But still there is much to do." He smiled as the battle nearby reached its inevitable conclusion, and a loud splash rang out as somebody threw Much into the river. Seconds later another splash heralded somebody else's ducking. Will cheered.

"Still much to do." Herne turned to leave them then, heading back into the forest before he was seen. He didn't want to interrupt their play, and distract them when they were having a good time. It was something that they had earned, and something that they well deserved. The Lord of the Forest disappeared as soundlessly as he had come, and headed back into his realm. He knew what was coming, just as he had known it for centuries. He knew of the battles still to come, and the hardships still to be faced. Many of them had been written of when even the oldest of the trees of Sherwood had still been acorns growing on the branches of their ancestors.

"One comes, turns the sky black. Another comes, turns the sky light." It was a battle that had continued since the beginning of time, and it was no different here in Sherwood. On the surface the fight might be about liberating England, but there was more to it than that, and always had been. It was an ageless fight; a vital one.

And in Sherwood it was only just getting started.

THE END

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In memory of Terry Walsh, damn fine stuntman and all round nice bloke.