Nasir rejoined Marion and May just as the light was beginning to fail. It had been less than bright all day, so it was not easy to know if the night would soon be upon them, or whether the sun's already pale glow had merely ceased to be visible. The evening might still have been young, but as in winter the darkness was falling early, and it was clear that it would soon be hard to see the way ahead. Certainly the two women did not see the black-clad man approaching, and even though he made no particular effort to be quiet, above the rain his passage was inaudible. Marion almost jumped when he loomed up out of the shadows, and then smiled with relief when she saw who he was.

"Nasir! I was beginning to think that you'd left us."

"I was looking ahead." He fell into step beside her, looking about. "John?"

"He's gone to look for shelter." Mindful of May's presence, Marion did not try to tell him the truth. "I think the rain got a bit too much for him." Nasir didn't answer, but from the way that his dark eyes lingered on May, Marion was sure that he had guessed the truth. "Did you see anything?" He shook his head. "No sign of Robin and Leofric?" He nodded then, and she saw the change of expression on his face, albeit only dimly. Fighting the urge to press him for further details, she kept silent.

"They went quickly. No waiting. No talking." He had come to his answer in his own time, as she had hoped that he would. "Not hurrying, but... determined."

"Anxious to get to London I suppose." She kept her eyes on May, eager to relay to Nasir the nature of her feelings about the young woman. The Saracen's bright eyes followed hers, and she saw the frown that passed across his face.

"London is a long way away," he observed in the end, at the same time slowing his pace just a little. Marion did likewise, and soon, almost imperceptibly at first, May was pulling ahead. Marion laid a hand on Nasir's arm.

"You think that there's something wrong, don't you. With Robin and Leofric."

"As do you." He hesitated for a moment, and bent to the ground as though helping Marion to free her foot from the mud. She played along, and when May glanced back to see where they were, she showed no sign of suspicion. She didn't even slow her pace. "John has gone back to the others?"

"To warn them of what we think, yes. Something isn't right. We think that we're being lured away; specifically Robin and myself, since she didn't seem to mind you and John disappearing. Did you see any sign that Robin is in danger?" His answer was hesitant, and came with a darkened frown.

"I saw tracks, marks on the ground. Then nothing. There was no sign of fighting, of others on the road, but something happened. I heard... something. Saw something." He hesitated, uncertain of what exactly it was that he had seen and heard. His ears still rang with the sound of a woman's laughter, but the words that had seemed to be lost in the rain still had no meaning to him. "There were strange things."

"Such as?" She wished that they didn't have to keep up the masquerade of him freeing her foot, for she wanted to be able to hold this conversation properly, eye to eye. Too much of Nasir's conversational skill was based on expression, rather than on words. "What happened?"

"Faces. Voices." He paused again, but she was used to his erratic speech patterns by now. It couldn't have been easy, she thought, to have to translate everything, before you could put it into words. Rather like her, struggling as a child with her French lessons.

"What voices?"

"Women, in the storm. Not lost. Not shouting for help, but... mocking." His eyes snapped up to hers very suddenly. "A strange language. I did not recognise the words."

"You're sure? It couldn't have been a group of Normans perhaps?"

"No. The language... it was not French, or Greek or Latin. It was not Hebrew, or Arabic, or English. These languages I know. It was something else."

"Did it remind you of anything?" Mentally she ran through the languages she had heard spoken during the course of her life; French, German, Latin... All of the usual ones and more, that had been used by the many people who had visited Leaford Grange. There had been tradesmen, knights and wandering scholars, and they had opened her mind to the world beyond England and France; but her formal education in such things had been limited, for girls weren't expected to learn much. Besides, climbing trees had always had much more appeal. Nasir shook his head, at a loss.

"Perhaps--"

"Are you two alright?" May had come upon them without warning, no more than a blurred shadow in the maelstrom. "Do you need a hand?"

"No." Managing a smile, Marion took a step away from Nasir. "I'm free now. Sorry about that."

"The mud is pretty thick." May smiled her dazzling smile, looking sweetly shy as always, and as innocent as it was possible to be. "Try walking more to the middle of the road; the rain is washing most of the mud towards the sides."

"Good idea." Glancing back to Nasir, Marion saw that he had already risen to his feet. She wanted to carry on their conversation, but he was as silent as ever, waiting for the women to make the next move. "But perhaps we can rest soon? It seems silly to continue once it's dark."

"I don't know." May was looking around as though searching for some familiar landmark, but her expression soon changed when she remembered that the others were still watching her. She smiled. "I'm tired as well of course, but I doubt that there's anywhere near here where we could make a suitable camp."

"Did you see anywhere, Nasir?" As they started to move onwards down the road, Marion asked the question pointedly. She wanted to keep the Saracen in the conversation, anxious that he might disappear again. Whatever might be coming, she didn't want to risk facing it alone. Nasir shook his head.

"Nowhere is dry," he commented, apparently without concern. "Better to keep moving."

"We won't be able to see where we're going for much longer." Surely, though, it would be better to stumble onwards through the dark than to try to spend the night perched up some tree, just to avoid being swept away by the floods? Part of her thought so, but the rest of her just wanted to curl up somewhere and rest. Surely there had to be somewhere where the rain was not so heavy? Somewhere where the wind didn't blow so hard, and the noise of the thunder would at least be diminished?

"It'll be alright. There's always more or less enough light to see by." May seemed brighter all the time, her shyness receding in a wave of confidence. "If we stay on the road we could keep going for a while yet." She seemed eager, but with her wide eyes and innocent smile it was easy to believe that she merely wanted to keep struggling onwards to help her father fulfill his mssion in London. Marion shook her head.

"We don't want to risk anybody getting hurt. Besides, do you really think that the others will be trying to travel all night? We might risk overtaking them."

"Yes, of course." It seemed for a moment as though May's eyes flashed in ill-controlled fury, but the sudden dazzling display of lightening that the storm had hurled their way effectively blinded all three travellers. By the time the resultant sparks had finally faded, and left her vision clear, all that Marion could see was the placid face of a harmless girl. She managed to smile.

"Perhaps a place where the trees are thicker? We can't get out of the rain, but with luck we can minimise its effects. If only there was a chance of lighting a fire."

"There may be, later." May turned her delightful eyes to Nasir. "Nasir... could you lead the way? Everything is starting to look a little threatening."

Not that it bothered you before, thought Marion, uncharitably. She smiled though, ignoring the feeling that, whatever May thought of the darkness, it certainly wasn't that it was threatening. Despite her demure front, and still charming smile, she was beginning to give the impression that she was perfectly at home with the night. In response to the request Nasir quirked an eyebrow, apparently asking Marion's permission before agreeing to go on ahead; and coming back to herself with a jolt, she nodded stiffly, unwillingly.

"Yes. Go on Nasir. Just don't go too far." He gave a deep nod that was almost a bow, then vanished smoothly into the storm. May watched him go.

"He's from the desert, I assume?" she asked. Her voice did not seem as friendly as it perhaps once had, although Marion put that down to her own imagination. Since she had convinced herself that May was an enemy she had been imagining all sorts of nuances in her tone, and dangers in her eyes.

"I don't know." It was a surprising admission to make, but when she stopped to consider it she realised that she had never actually thought to find out. What was the name of Nasir's country? What was it like? The Saracen Empire stretched for some distance, and in all honesty he might be from any part of it, at least as far as she knew. May frowned.

"You should ask," she said quietly, as she began to move onwards again. "If you don't ask the right questions, you don't know the right answers. That's the way that friends are lost."

"Not necessarily." She felt annoyed now. "Anyway, it's not like that with Nasir. You never know if he's going to answer, for one thing. He doesn't really like conversation."

"But if there are questions that he'd like you to ask, and somebody else asks them first..." There was such sweetness in May's voice that the implicit threat was beautifully disguised. Marion wondered if perhaps the time had come for her companion to reveal her hand, but no further threats came, and the smile did not waver. Composure a little unsteady, Marion stared after the friend that she hardly knew.

"He wouldn't turn against me just for somebody who thought to ask him about himself. That would be stupid."

"I'm glad that you think so. After all, you'd be alone without him." The innocent eyes were sparkling like a child's, bright and filled with fun. "It's important to have friends when you're lost in a storm."

"I thought you were my friend." She could have kicked herself for sounding so sarcastic; she was supposed to be pretending that she believed in the girl's innocence, not letting on that she hadn't done so for some time. May laughed lightly.

"Look about you, Marion. Listen to the storm. Is it your friend? Because if it isn't, why should you expect me to be?"

"The storm?" For a moment the question seemed confusing, until drawn by a strange compulsion she did stop to listen. To listen to the storm, and to look into it, to search it as though she really were searching for friendship. She couldn't see anything but the rain at first, cold and grey before her, and vanishing into invisibility further ahead. Only after a moment, when her eyes were filled with water, and her ears were ringing from the thunder, did she begin to notice something else. Something that gave the impression that it had always been there, but had only just now allowed itself to be seen.

It was a woman, although she thought at first that there were three of them. At first glance she had thought that she was looking at an old woman, twisted and bent, with a face so heavily lined it was hard to tell her facial features from the wrinkles, but as the wind blew softly, and some of the raindrops moved aside, she realised that she had been mistaken. Were there really so many lines, was the hair really so white? Instead it seemed that she was looking at a younger woman, one of middle age perhaps; less bent and twisted, less wizened and pale. Marion frowned, wondering if she should shout out to Nasir, and took a step towards the woman. Again the wind blew and the raindrops shifted, and she realised that again she had been mistaken about what she was seeing. It was not a middle-aged woman who stood before her, any more than it had been an ancient one. Instead she was young; very young and very beautiful, with hair so bright and red and wonderful that even Marion's fine red hair was put to shame. She saw bright green eyes that blazed strong even against the wet mists and spray, and the most alluring, captivating smile that had ever been imagined by a mortal mind. She froze.

"Marion." The woman spoke with a lilting voice, although when she opened her mouth again the words were not ones that Marion recognised. It was a language that she could not name.

"Who are you?" Casting a worried look back at May, Marion tried to take a step forward. She found that she was incapable of moving a muscle. The redheaded woman before her laughed lightly, and turned her powerful eyes towards May.

"She's alone." May spoke as though in a dream, all the sparkle and warmth gone from her. Marion would have turned to look at her in surprise, if she had thought that she could. "One of the men turned back, and the other has gone on ahead."

"Really." The green eyes hardened, and Marion's pulse quickened. She didn't know why. Instead her mind turned to other challenges, confusing itself with the realisation that the woman had switched languages, whilst wondering if she was just imagining the change. Maybe she had been speaking English all along, but Marion's rain deadened ears had been unable to catch the words. There was an accent though, thick and musical, that troubled her understanding still further. "She doesn't feel alone."

"What do you want?" A little angry, Marion struggled to put force into her voice. Her throat muscles didn't want to work, and the words had to fight to raise themselves above the storm. The redheaded woman didn't seem to have any problem hearing, however, and smiled a dazzling smile that might have made the sun come out, had it been day instead of night.

"I want you." She came closer then, almost appearing to glide over the wet, muddy ground. The rain moved aside for her, like a curtain, and Marion saw then that she was dry. "You and your husband, the so called King of Sherwood. Herne's people, for the taking, ready to lead me to Herne himself."

"Who are you?" This time Marion's voice shook slightly. This was all about Herne? She and Robin, fooled by a nice tale from an old man and his innocent-eyed daughter, had helped to spin a web that might capture the Lord of the Trees? No wonder there had been no message from him, no word about Leofric and May. He must have been blocked from them, and by a magic that would have to have been powerful indeed.

"Who am I?" The question was a mockery that frightened Marion as well as angering her. "Who are we?" She moved aside, and immediately Marion saw two other women, although where they had come from she could not have said. It was almost as if they had come from inside the redhead herself. One was old and bent, with snow white hair and wrinkles, and the other was middle-aged and dark. Marion recognised them, from the images she had seen before.

"We are three," cackled the old woman, straightening her bent back for a moment, in order to look at Marion with startlingly bright eyes.

"We are one," whispered the dark woman, in a voice that was throaty and deep.

"We are the Mòrrìgna," finished the redhead, and turned her beautiful smile towards the confused Queen of Sherwood. "And together, we are the Mòrrìgan." Marion, finding that she could move again, rubbed the rain from her eyes in the hope that things would make more sense, if only her vision could be a little clearer.

"The what?" Where was Nasir? In all of this talking and weirdness, the only question that made any sense to her was about the Saracen. How far ahead could he have gone? Was there any chance that he would hear her above the storm, if she called for his assistance now? "I don't understand."

"You will." The redhead moved closer, her astoundingly beautiful face composed into an expression of kindness and gentility. It reminded Marion of the mother she barely remembered. "We are the most powerful force that ever wandered the shores of Ireland; we wield the strongest, the mightiest, of magicks. And now we have come to England."

"To take what has been Herne's," added the oldest of the women.

"To take it for our own," clarified the dark-haired one.

"We take, and we shape, and we corrupt," completed the redhead, and she smiled her most captivating smile yet. "Soon England will be ours, and with Herne gone, there will be much for the taking."

"You can't possibly defeat Herne." She said it defiantly, even if she wasn't entirely sure that it was true. Herne was just a man, after all, or at the very least, a magical spirit that inhabited the body of a mere man. Kill the man, and what would happen to the powers of Herne? She didn't like to think. Panicked somewhat, and beginning to wonder what might have happened to Robin, she drew her sword.

"A fight!" The white-haired old woman sounded excited, and her wrinkled hands clenched into jubilant fists. "Can I fight her?"

"No one fights." The redhead held out her hand, and as another bolt of lightening lit up the dark, wet place, Marion saw her sword appear suddenly in the hand of her enemy. She blinked, shaking her head. She hadn't felt the weapon leave her. She hadn't felt her own fingers losing their grip.

"Nasir!" The name disappeared into the wind and the thunder, and even she could not hear it. She shouted again, but again the weather conspired against her. The peals of thunder were closer together now; louder and more furious; and it seemed that the rain itself was coming down harder. It hurt now, each drop striking home like a little knife. Marion felt her senses whirl.

"Robin." She could hear herself then, although she hadn't shouted. It hadn't been a plea for help, or even a cry of warning. She didn't know what had made her say her husband's name, but somehow the frantic storm seemed to sympathise with her, for just that one moment. Where was Robin? Had the three women already captured him? Marion feared so - but now that she could no longer see or hear a thing, she knew of no way that she could even save herself, let alone the King of Sherwood.

**********

Little John was not a man built for running, or at least he did not appear to be. After leaving Marion he had taken up a brisk walk, heading back to the caves where he had left the others without any more than a sense of faint anxiety. There was no proof of danger, although his instincts were telling him differently, but even if there had been the need for a swift return to the others, he wasn't sure that he could manage it. In the treacherous conditions it was hard to keep his footing at any speed above a normal walk, and the constant assault of rain and wind, coupled with the ear-shattering thunder and confusing flashes of lightening left him disorientated and uncertain of his bearings. It had seemed a simple task at first, to follow back the path that they had taken on the way; but now he found that, not only had their tracks been obliterated, but the path itself seemed to have vanished as well. Wherever it had been, it now lay beneath thick mud and racing water; many speeding streams that in places were several inches deep. His feet slipped and skidded, much more than they had done on the way out. The thunder seemed louder now as well, although he was sure that the storm had been overhead for hours. It could not be getting closer, and his mind told him that the only other option was that it was growing increasingly angry. He might have laughed at such a thought at any other time; told himself off for sounding like Much; but now, trapped in the raging storm, he could have believed anything. Time and again he dashed the water from his eyes, hoping that by doing so he could improve his vision, but nothing that he tried seemed to do any good. He might just as well have kept his eyes closed. He stumbled onwards of course, but as the light dimmed and the storm became progressively worse, he came to realise that he was going to need luck, in no small measure, to help him find his way home.

"John..." The word echoed, but so lost was it in the depths of the storm that he assumed he had imagined it. He stumbled on.

"John..." Again the voice came, again he heard it. This time, however, it didn't sound quite so much like a trick of the wind. He slowed his stride, but did not stop.

"John..." Louder now; more certain. Now he knew that he had heard it. He turned about, looking for the source of the call, but could see nobody. In point of fact he could see nothing, for whichever way he turned it seemed that the rain was hitting him in the face, blinding him even when he tried to shelter his eyes with his hands.

"Who's there?" The words were whipped away by the wind, but he shouted them again nonetheless. If somebody out there could make themselves audible to him, surely he sould be able to make them, in turn, hear him? He could barely hear his own voice though, and it seemed unlikely that anybody else would be able to catch it.

"Marion?" He knew that the voice he had heard had not been hers, but he thought that it had been female. Who then? Somebody from one of the local villages, who might have seen him as he passed? He was no longer sure where he was in relation to the villages. Had he travelled past the places he was familiar with? Had he gone too far to make it likely that somebody here would know him? He had thought that he knew the land; that he could find his way around much of the county blindfolded, just as he could find his way around Sherwood itself. Now, though, he knew that that was not true.

"John..." The voice was clearer now, and came from close behind him. He turned. Nobody was there. Again he shouted, but there was no answer. He took a step away from whoever was there - only for the voice to come again. And even though he was now facing in the opposite direction, still the voice came from just behind him. He whirled around, but still it seemed that there was nobody there.

"Who are you?" He was angry, which seemed to him to be a sensible alternative to fear. A low laugh answered him, and for a second it seemed that the rain lessened; that the thunder crashed about him with a little less intensity. He took a few steps forward, and saw, looming out of the darkness, the face of a bent old woman.

"You shouldn't be out here in this weather!" Not caring that he didn't recognise her, John leapt immediately to the woman's aid. She seemed so old that it was a wonder she was out at all. Nobody should be out in this weather, he thought to himself, least of all a woman too old to stand properly. The woman laughed at him, and as he caught hold of her, intending to sweep her into his protecting embrace, he felt sharp, taloned fingers digging into his arm. He looked down. The wrinkled face was changing; smoothly at first, then with ripples that might just have been the rain that still filled his eyes, the old woman turned into a younger one. John let out an oath and stumbled backwards, watching with open-mouthed shock as the wrinkles fell away, and the back straightened out. Dark, dark eyes stared at him now, and the voice that spoke his name was deep and throaty, and horribly unsettling.

"What are you?" He was hit by a strange desire to make the sign of a cross, but he quelled it. He was not given to acts of superstition. He was Little John, lieutenant to Robin of Sherwood. He did not let his enemies know that he was unsettled. A laugh echoed in his ears, a noise that once again came from behind him. He turned. For a second he thought that he saw a beautiful face, peering at him from amidst the trees; then caution took over and he knew that it was time to go. It made no sense to stay, when he had something that needed to be done. Whatever was going on here seemed to be an attempt to hold him up, and he knew that he could not allow that to happen. He spun away; away from the dark eyes and the middle-aged face that had once been old; away from the pretty face hidden in the trees; away from the disembodied laughing, and the mad voices that called his name. He had to get back to the cave.

"John..." The name was echoing all around him, coming from all directions at once; three female voices whirling into one, ragged shout. He tried to ignore it, but somehow no matter how loud the thunder became, still he could hear the voices. Head down, telling himself that he could ignore whatever he chose to ignore, he broke into a run. His feet skidded and slipped, but he managed to stay upright. He had to stay upright. Ahead of him the raindrops swirled and whirled, forming faces that mocked him with their laughing. An old woman, a middle-aged woman, a beautiful young woman with hair like flame. He saw each of them distinctly, just as he heard each of their voices.

"There's nowhere to run." The accent that coloured the words made him think of music. It was strong and lilting, and might have been attractive at any other time; but screeching at him out of the unnatural storm it had no beauty to it. He flinched away, trying to find a direction that he could take where the voices were not behind him, and in front of him; were not echoing all around his head. It was impossible. Whichever way he turned there was no escape.

"John..." The voice called his name one last time, and infuriated by its persistence he slowed to a halt. His feet slipped and he almost fell, staying upright only by pure chance. He threw his head back, yelling his anger into the descending rain. For some reason it made him feel better - until he felt the rushing of the wind behind him. He turned. For a moment, standing in the rain, he could see three women; the same ones that he had seen before. One was old, one middle-aged, one young. He frowned, wondering what to expect, and was just considering the possibility of confronting them when he felt his vision beginning to blur. He put up his hands to rub his eyes, feeling the stinging of the salt in the raindrops, and as his vision cleared once again he thought he saw the three women ripple and blur. He took a step towards them, and watched in open-mouthed amazement as the three women blended and whirled into one. John's eyes widened, the strength to which he had become so accustomed momentarily deserting him, for standing before him was the most hideous figure that he had ever seen. A grossly misshapen face, the skin like creased leather; a mass of warts and stiff hairs; small, beady green eyes that mocked him from beneath a tumble of coarse grey hair. Rotting teeth gaped in a crooked smile, and a flickering, hissing tongue darted about, dribbling down the jutting, pointed chin. For the first time that he could remember, a real, cold fear flooded John's mind. He stumbled backwards.

"There is no escape, John Little." The woman, if she could still be called that, was coming towards him. John stumbled backwards, sinking past his ankles in cold, black mud. Once again he almost fell as he tried to turn quickly, trying to tear his feet loose. Behind him a sucking noise marked the progress of the hag as she came towards him, her own feet sinking and rising through the muck. Briefly John closed his eyes, concentrating, forcing himself to ignore the woman as he struggled to free himself. He fancied that he could almost feel her fingers reaching out for him by the time that his feet were finally clear of the mud, but it was only his imagination. He broke into a run, listening to the horrible sound of the hag shrieking his name. Bushes ripped at his clothing, and the tumult of the storm blinded and deafened him, stealing the last of his bearings. He didn't care. All that he wanted to do was to put as much distance between himself and the horrific vision he had just seen. He forced his way through thickly growing trees, through brambles and gorse bushes and swathes of mud that clung like quicksand. He no longer had the slightest clue where he was, nor in which direction the cave lay. He no longer cared. All that he wanted was to run; and to keep on running until the horrible vision of the hag had faded from his mind. At that moment he didn't care if that meant he would be running forever.

**********

Nasir was unwilling to go far ahead, even though Marion had told him that it would be alright. He trusted her judgement almost as much as he trusted Robin's, but the disappearance of their leader bothered him. He could still find no sensible reason for the sudden ending of the tracks he had followed, and the idea that Marion might likewise be spirited away, perhaps by magic, was enough to prevent him from going too far. With limited vision and hearing thanks to the storm, he wasn't sure that he could be of swift assistance to Marion, but he was determined not to leave her entirely unprotected.

Given his unease, in the midst of his storm-racked solitude, it was with no great surprise that he heard again the echoing voices of before. There still seemed to be three of them, all female and quite distinct from each other, all chanting unintelligible words in the language that he couldn't identify. He knew the mockery, for the tone of voice was clear even if the words weren't; but still he had no idea what was being said. Head cocked on one side, listening intently to the sing-song insults that so easily out-voiced the storm, he tried to gauge distance and direction. He couldn't. The voices, it seemed, were coming from all around him; from above and below as well as round about. They were right beside him, and they were some distance away; three voices rushing all around, defying the laws of nature in their determination to unsettle him.

He wasn't sure how long he had been listening, half-heartedly, before he realised that the voices were speaking Arabic. It had been some time since he had heard any voice save his own speaking the language; so long since he had had any opportunity to conduct a conversation in it. It had become the language of nothing more than his thoughts and his prayers, and so it was that the change in the voices at first went unnoticed. He thought that perhaps he was hearing his own consciousness speaking to him, until the words became clearer, and with them his mind.

"Why are you here?" The first of the voices asked him. He didn't answer, and had no intention of doing so.

"Why are you still here?" came the second voice. "Why didn't you go back home?"

"Why did you stay with these people?" shouted the third voice. "You have your own battles to fight elsewhere."

"We can send you home." The first voice had changed its tone, and sounded quieter now, and more gentle. "We can take you there."

"Just close your eyes," muttered the second. "Trust us, for just a moment."

"Just one moment," rejoined the first.

"And we'll send you home," added the second. Nasir turned away, even though the voices were not coming from any one particular direction.

"Not that way." The second voice seemed to be closer to him now, but still he couldn't see where it was coming from. "Look at us. Look at us and we'll take you home."

"Back to where you belong," came the first voice.

"Back to where you should always have been," came the second.

"Back home." The third voice came from so close behind him that, despite himself, he spun around. A woman stood there, dressed in grey, and dry in the midst of the rain. She was smiling at him, her bright green eyes shining with the warmth of friendship, her flaming red hair moving gently, as though in a soft warm breeze. It should have been soaking wet and lashed by the rain, but somehow such detail didn't seem immediately important.

"You should never have come here," she told him, her lips not seeming to move. He heard her words clearly inside his mind, still in his own language, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You didn't want to come here. Why not go back?" She pointed, and he turned his head without thinking about it, looking into the trees. The green of the leaves and the brown of the slick mud seemed faint somehow; distant and vague. He was seeing other things instead... hot sun... dry sand... billowing white tents, and men carrying curved swords. Horses galloped past, and he heard their hooves pounding in his ears; the unmistakable sound of hooves on the sand, bringing with them the familiar smell of heat and warmth. He smiled, though faintly.

"Home," The woman told him, and the word sounded wonderful.

"Home." There was another woman there too now, older and darker.

"Home." Yet another woman, older than any he knew. He frowned.

"Who are you?" His voice sounded strange, for unlike theirs it could not rise so easily over the storm. As one, the women shook their heads.

"Just go." The youngest of the women tried to take his hand, and for a moment he almost took it. His mind felt lulled from its usual sharpness, seduced by the combination of his own language and the visions of that warm and sandy place waiting nearby. He wondered if this was how Robin's tracks had ended so suddenly; if he too had been shown some place that he had wanted to go to, and had stepped towards it. Except that Robin didn't get fooled.

"No." It took an effort to say the word in English, after using his own language again, but somehow it seemed a symbolic move to make. Turning his head he shut out the sight of that alluring warmth, closing his ears to the jumble of comradely voices and horses' hooves. Three heads whipped around to stare at him, and he felt the chill in their eyes.

"Go home." The bent old woman spoke with a voice that sang of hatred. Nasir's hands flashed to his swords.

"Where's Robin?" His soft voice had acquired its own means by which to rise above the storm; by sheer force and power, despite its characteristic lack of volume. The redhead laughed.

"Gone." She snapped her fingers, and when the next flash of lightening lit up the space around them, it showed all three women now dressed in black leather, holding swords that matched Nasir's own. "Your choice is whether to join him, or not to join him."

"Bring him back." It felt like a futile threat, especially against three women who obviously possessed remarkable magical powers, but Nasir was not the type to admit defeat under any circumstances. The redhead laughed again, the sound sharp and ugly, in contrast to her outward beauty.

"There is no 'back'. Not for him. There's only us. Our use for him. Our power. The end we bring for Herne."

"The others will be here soon. You can't fight all of us." Actually they probably could, and he was well aware of it, but there was no sense in showing that now. The cruel cackle of the little old woman made his fists tighten around the hilts of his swords.

"Your friends aren't coming. Not in time. We sent your big friend running in circles that he'll take a while to find his way out of. He'll find your friends in the end, and bring them straight back here, and it'll be just in time for our trap to snap shut - but they'll be too late to help you. Too late for Herne, too late for Robin and Marion, too late for anything." Nasir's eyes flashed in rage, and she laughed again. "We feed on anger, little warrior. We feed on fighting and battles and hatred. We always have."

"For hundreds and hundreds of years," added her dark-haired companion. "Whenever men fight, we're there. In our own country, and now here too. With Herne gone the battles will rage across the country. Fight us now and begin it all."

"Or go home." The redhead gestured once again to the vista of sand and sunshine still waiting amidst the rain-sodden trees. Nasir shook his head.

"Tricks," he said darkly, hissing the word with all of the anger of the world behind it. The redhead smiled at him, her smile as alluring as any he had ever seen. The green eyes glittered and shone, charming and cold in equal measure.

"Yes," she said simply, and he knew then that, whatever he would find if he walked into that illusion, it would not be his desert home. It would be the place where Robin had been taken; the danger that he had been taken into.

"Marion?" he asked, not needing to place the word into a proper question. The three woman shook their heads all at once.

"That would be telling," answered the dark-haired one.

"Telling too much," said the oldest one.

"And besides," completed the redhead, "in the end, it doesn't really make any difference. Does it?"

"You can't fight us," prompted the old one.

"That is, if you do, you can't win," clarified the middle-aged one. She pointed with her swords towards the desert vista. "So choose."

And so Nasir chose, and putting away his swords with all the dignity that came so naturally to him, he headed towards the magical image of his homeland. The sound of distant voices, speaking his mother tongue, faded the closer he came to them, and the warmth and brightness that shone from the image faded as well. He kept on walking. Logic told him that Robin had been spirited away somewhere, and this was his best bet for finding him. Whatever might be waiting through the door, that alone made it a risk he was willing to take.

**********

The world had changed. Marion rubbed her eyes, feeling the shock of silence after so long in a world ravaged by thunder, wind and rain. The ground underfoot was solid, not slippery with mud, and although it was night time the darkness was not as complete as it had been before. There was no impenetrable blackness punctuated by eye-searingly bright lightening; no furious black clouds sealing out the moon. Instead there was merely a purple-grey sky lit by thousands of tiny, white stars. It was cool, but not nearly so cold as it had been in that other place. She shivered, the fact that she was soaking wet suddenly becoming more apparent to her than it had been before. She had ceased to notice it, when there had been no hope of getting dry; but now that she was in this place, the gentle breeze blew at her wet clothing, and made her remember. She wondered where she was; whether she had been transported to some other part of England, or to somewhere else entirely. Certainly she was no longer in a forest. The trees grew only sparsely, and the rest of the ground was covered with grass and intermittent bushes. There was no sign of the three mysterious women, or of May.

"Robin?" She knew that he was here somewhere. He had to be. She had been sent here as part of some plan to attack Herne, and that meant that it was certain Robin would be needed as well. Nasir had said that it appeared as if their leader had disappeared, and the possibility that he had been brought here solved that problem perfectly. Now she was faced with the task of finding him, and of finding a way to get them both home.

"Robin?" Again she shouted, louder than the first time. The silence that greeted her call seemed horribly intense, for her ears were still adjusting to the idea of such quietude. "Robin!" Again the silence lingered, and unnerved she pulled out her bow and fitted an arrow to the string. There was no target to shoot at, at least as yet, but she felt better knowing that she was ready for anything that might turn up.

She didn't bother calling again as she walked onwards. The oppressive silence discouraged her, making it hard to believe that there would ever be an answering shout to break the unasked for peace. Instead she simply walked, looking about her with confused eyes. She wished that she knew where she was, but she couldn't even begin to guess. Clearly there was magic involved, which could only complicate matters. Her eyes returned to the star-filled sky, searching for anything that might help her to guess where she was. Robin had been teaching her how to use such things as guides, and she was a competent enough pupil, but the new skill was of no use now. The stars were familiar enough, but all that they could do was give her a rough approximation of how far the night had progressed, and in which direction she was currently facing. Any more than that could be nothing but guesswork. Giving up on the stars, she turned her attention instead to the ground. Perhaps there would be tracks that she could follow, or clues of some kind at least. She thought that she saw a footprint, but it was too indistinct to be sure that it truly was a mark left by a foot, let alone work out which way it might be pointing.

"Oh Robin." She spoke the words softly, so as to disturb the quiet world as little as possible. Where was he, and why had they ever agreed to separate? It seemed so foolish now, but Leofric had been convincing from the start, and there was no point in lamenting that fact. Not now. Her energies would be better spent on working out what had happened.

She had been talking to the three women, that much she remembered well. They had spoken of her father, and claimed that he was still alive; that they could take her to him, if she would trust them, and do as they said. They had shown her images, floating in the trees, like paintings that she felt she could walk into, and had told her that all she had to do was step forward, and she could be with her father again. She had closed her eyes and refused to move; refused to look at the pictures. The three women, the Mòrrìgna, had circled her, calling to her, shrieking, singing - but she had kept her eyes closed until they were silent; until she had known that they had gone, and that the floating images of her dead father would no longer be hanging before her. Only then had she looked again, and found herself in this place. If the same trick had been tried on Robin, she reasoned - if perhaps he had stepped into some inviting dream - then she might have the answer to her question of his whereabouts. He had been taken somewhere; somewhere where the Mòrrìgna had intended for her also to go. Somewhere where some evil magic was perhaps to be performed.

And yet she had been taken somewhere, even though she had not given in. Was it possible that she was close to Robin now? That by refusing the temptation she had escaped being placed under some spell? It didn't make any sense to her, but her theories were helping to keep her mind from wandering down far less pleasant routes, and that at least seemed reason enough to keep thinking. To carry on walking, in the direction she had been facing when first she had opened her eyes. Wherever she was, that had to mean that she would find something eventually; arrive somewhere perhaps. It seemed too much to hope that she might eventually meet with Robin, but the further she walked, and the more that she thought, the more convinced she became that that was exactly what would happen. Robin was here somewhere, she knew it. He had been brought here, by much the same magic as herself. She didn't know how she knew it, but she knew it nonetheless.

She tried calling Herne as she walked along, although she doubted that he would answer her. He so rarely spoke to anyone besides Robin anyway, but he had not even done that much since the arrival of Leofric and May. He had not made an appearance to warn of the threat posed by the two newcomers, which was unusual. Usually he would have told Robin something, no matter how vague or cryptic. Now here were these three women, claiming that they planned to destroy Herne, and yet Herne himself did not seem prepared to do anything about it. Either that or he couldn't. She remembered the storm, and its stunning ferocity, and then knew for certain that it had had the force of magic behind it. She stopped calling him in the end, certain that he was not going to answer. Calling Tuck, and Little John, and the others brought a similar lack of response, and she wondered what had happened to them. Had John got through yet with his message? Were the four of them coming to help out? She wondered if they would be able to find her, or whether they would meet merely with the Mòrrìgna. It would be easy enough for the three magical women to lure the men in, with promises of taking them to Marion; and then they would be ensnared just as Robin had been. The thought was discouraging to the extreme, but she knew that there was no point in hiding from it. She could be certain of help from no one, and knew that it was best to accept that. Better than always hoping for something that was never going to come.

Through the darkness she walked onwards, tripping sometimes on bushes and roots, at other times able to see clearly as the moon shone down on a landscape almost empty of vegetation. A dusty path came and went beneath her feet, so that sometimes it was as though she was following a road, whilst at others she might almost have been the first to travel there. The cool wind blew, gently drying her rain-soaked hair and clothing, lulling ears that still ached from the ferocious noise of the storm she had left behind. She could almost have forgotten it now, it seemed so long ago. That terrible other place, with its sheets of water and its bitter slashes of lightening. An ugly place, not like here. Here was peaceful and calm, and she felt herself relaxing little by little. It didn't matter so much that she didn't know where she was, or how she had got here; much less did she know of where she was heading. All that mattered was the silence, and the chance to at last get dry.

It was the hooting of an owl that drew her up, some time later, when the moon had ceased to rise and had begun once again to sink. She slowed, listening to the creature making its eerie sounds close by. For a moment she envied it for its night vision, and strained her own eyes to see ahead. The bushes had returned to lie strewn on the ground at her feet, and she could see that the undergrowth was coming together, forming a little grove that seemed intended to shut the rest of the world out. It was a dark place, forbidding and oppressive, and she knew at once that it was the place she had been heading for. It looked like a place where magicks might be performed. She wondered how she could get closer without giving herself away, and smiled at the thought that she might spend hours sneaking up to an empty place. She had no proof that this was the goal for which she had been searching, after all. It might just as easily be nothing more than an atmospheric piece of undergrowth; a jumble of trees and bushes that happened to grow crookedly and with an air of menace. She didn't hesitate though, whatever the grove might truly have been. Instinct had drawn her here, and Robin had always shown her that instincts were to be trusted and embraced.

She went softly, bow still at the ready, arrow loose enough to prevent the bowstring from becoming a burden, yet not so loose that she couldn't fire immediately if the need arose. She wanted to be ready for anything, even though she didn't feel as though she would ever be that. Her movements were quiet and smooth, much more so than they would once have been. Had the circumstances been different; had this been merely one of Robin's training games in Sherwood, she might have smiled to think of the way she had been first; how clumsy she had been in her early days as an outlaw. There was no time for such thoughts now though, and she was merely glad of how much had changed. Her feet found the way even when she could not see the ground, searching out the least noisy path. Her shoulders twisted and turned, avoiding branches and rustling bushes, helping her to move onwards as the going grew harder, and the bushes became thicker. Soon she was deep inside the thicket, and the world seemed a quiet place indeed.

The owl had gone, or perhaps had merely ceased to call. Perhaps it was watching her, perched on some nearby branch. The thought nearly drew her up short, but she smiled to herself, and carried on pressing forward. It was foolish to think frightened thoughts such as that; so what if the owl was watching her - what was it going to do? Still she couldn't entirely shake the feeling of unease though, and the sensation of being watched lingered unpleasantly. She told herself not to be a fool. There was nothing to be afraid of here; just bushes, and trees that pressed in close...

And smoke. She realised that just as she was beginning to believe that she had wasted her time in coming here. The faint odour of smoke, bitter and caustic, floated through the trees towards her on the gentlest breeze. She slowed, listening carefully, but could hear nothing. Could it be a natural fire, burning in the midst of the grove? It was dry here, but she wasn't sure that it was dry enough. Fires did not often start themselves unless the ground had been hot and dry for weeks, and here the cool air was bringing signs of moisture to the hanging greenery. Somebody must be nearby, she decided; somebody with a campfire - and in a place like that, so dark and tense, where her instincts remained so resolutely on edge, she was sure that the somebody could have only one purpose. Perhaps they had intended her to find them in this place, or perhaps they had been hoping that she would not, but she was sure that she had found the Mòrrìgna - and perhaps she had found Robin as well.

The smoke became thicker as she pressed onwards. Crouching down, she made herself smaller, hoping to become less visible as she came nearer and nearer to the place where the fire must have been lit. Other scents were noticeable too now; a smell of spices and herbs; of different kinds of wood, and of incense. Edging forwards slowly she caught her first glimpse of the smoke; gentle white tendrils rising upwards, travelling in straight lines despite the breeze. A moment later and she could see the glow of the flames, burning in several different colours, illuminating the centre point of the grove. Sparks spat their way into the sky, and moths danced in jubilation around the light source. It might almost have been any welcoming campfire, just like the one that Marion had sat beside every night since joining Robin in the forest. Except that it wasn't. She saw that as she moved closer still, and peered out into the clearing, seeing the dark shapes that populated the smoky tableau.

They were all there; Leofric and May, standing motionless on either side of the unearthly fire, their eyes closed and their skin pale; the three women, the Mòrrìgna, shoulder to shoulder with the beautiful young redhead in their centre, her green eyes catching all the light from the flames. She was smiling, her blood red lips moving gently as she whispered words that Marion could barely hear, and certainly could not understand. She looked past them, even though her eyes felt torn towards them, and saw what she had expected to see; what she had wanted to see and yet hoped not to, all the time that she had been weaving through the tangled thicket. Robin stood on the far side of the fire, tied to the centre most of a row of seven white posts. They were curious creations, carved from pure white wood tinged with silver, the designs that had been cut into them with skilled hands depicting scenes of the most terrible battle and strife. She could see such detail even from a distance, the torn, screaming faces of wooden men and women crying out to her from across the clearing. Robin had been struggling, and she could see his blood trickling down his post, running from where his wrists had been cut by the ropes that bound him. His dark hair had fallen over his face, and he looked tired and worn. Marion was delighted to see him even though it was in such terrible circumstances. At least now she knew where he was; at least now she knew that he was alive. Not safe perhaps, but alive. She peered closer, seeing another figure tied to another of the posts, further away and barely visible in his dark clothing, away from the greater part of the firelight. Nasir had also been struggling, and appeared still to be doing so. Clearly his attempts were getting him nowhere, but Marion knew that he would not give up. It surprised her that Robin had, until she saw the slight furrow in his brow, and guessed that he was searching his mind for Herne.

"This has been so easy." As the redheaded one of the three ceased her silent whispering, the three women moved away from each other, spreading out across the clearing. Marion shrank back into the shadows, but was still able to see all three women in rather more detail than was entirely pleasant. It was the middle-aged one who had spoken, her deep voice as distinctive as a voice could be.

"As we knew it would be." The old woman was circling close to Robin, peering up at his closed eyes and superficially calm expression. "They were easy to take. Split them up, lead them out of Sherwood, then snare them in traps of their own making. What could be easier?"

"We lost the girl." The redhead glared at the other two, angry that they should think their task so easy when part of it had gone wrong. "She didn't take the bait, and now we don't know where she is."

"She'll come. She'll be led here, by whatever links her to Robin i' in the Hood." The middle-aged woman was circling Nasir, her expression predatory and cold. "Just like the others, she'll come."

"If we don't have her before the others come, we risk her finding them first. Then none of them will take the bait, and we'll never have them." The redhead was furious. "My plans. My carefully created plans. All in peril. We isolated her to ensure our success, and look where it's got us!"

"She'll come." The old woman's bright eyes scanned the trees, almost as if she knew that Marion was there, crouching and watching. The girl pressed herself back into the undergrowth, horrified. "We'll have them all."

"Maybe we should have kept them all together. Taken them all at once." The middle-aged woman turned away from Nasir, looking back towards her fellows. The redhead glared at her.

"How would that have worked? They would never have listened to us; never fallen into the snares. We made Herne's Son see his wife in peril to bring him here - how could we have done that if she had been with him? We needed all manner of other trickery to take the Saracen, and the best of those tricks didn't work on the girl. If they'd all been together we wouldn't have got one of them. No, we were right to split them up. We just have to make sure that we get that girl!"

"We'll get her." The gentle confidence of the old woman was beginning to tug at Marion's nerves. It was as though there were some horrible inevitability; as though the women believed that she could not help but be caught. As though her battle was already lost. She thought about firing her readied arrow, and showing the three women just how wrong they could be about her, but she held off for the time being. She wasn't sure that she could shoot all three quickly enough, and it was beginning to press upon her mind that perhaps her arrow would do her no good anyway. These women might well not even be human; and what then? She envisaged her arrows having no effect, and wondered what would befall her should than happen. There seemed few other options though. Beside the fire Leofric and May stiffened suddenly, and she became, if it were possible, even more tense herself.

"Voices." May was rocking backwards and forwards now, eyes still closed, lips barely moving. "I hear voices."

"Voices?" The redhead turned sharply, staring at the swaying girl. "Whose voices?"

"Herne's followers. Looking for their friends." The closed eyes seemed to be seeing things that were not apparent to anybody else. The wizened little old woman turned eager eyes onto the girl and her motionless father.

"Are they leaving Sherwood?" she asked excitedly. May stared on into her secret world.

"Soon," was all that she seemed able to say. The three women shared a meaningful smile, then gathered back together into a group and took hands. Even as Marion was watching them their individual outlines blurred, until soon they had become one. The hideousness of the joint creation was even more apparent in the fire lit dark than it had been to John in the storm-lashed madness of the thunderstorm, and it was all that Marion could do not to gasp in shock. She watched the misshapen head turn and turn about, the bulging eyes seeming almost to be searching for her. Then with a great flash from the fire the loathsome creature was gone, and a gust of white smoke floated upwards in imitation of the moon.

**********

"John?" The voice was gentle and very welcome, but it seemed to come from a long, long way away. John wasn't altogether sure that it was worth opening his eyes for somebody who was obviously on the other side of the forest. He flickered his eyelids though, just so that they would know that he had heard. The voice persisted, growing in volume a little, and he imagined that the speaker was coming closer, rushing towards him through the trees. He groaned.

"Go away." His own voice sounded faint as well, which was confusing. He couldn't be half the forest away as well could he?

"John..." A different voice this time, and considerably less gentle than the first. In fact it was decidedly belligerent. He groaned.

"Go away Will. It's not my turn to go on watch tonight. Wake Tuck." The words tumbled over one another, and even as he was saying them he realised that he was not being woken up to go on watch. The taste of salt water filled his mouth as the rain rushed in, and he became aware once again of the storm. So that was why his voice had seemed so faint. With that noise to contend with the whole of the Sheriff's amassed household of soldiers would have sounded quiet. He opened his eyes.

"Well hello." Will was grinning down at him, in the lop-sided way of his that was half amiability and half ferocity. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I don't know." He blinked, looking around. It was not especially easy to see in the heavy rain, but he seemed to be lying in a muddy puddle, half beneath a fallen tree. Weighed down by the mud, his beard felt twice as heavy as normal, and his thick hair was just as bad. He ran his hands through it, and a thick muddy spray splattered itself all over his companions. Will swore, and earned himself a reproachful glare from Tuck. Much grinned.

"You looked like half the forest fell on your head," he piped up. John smiled at him.

"I feel like that's what happened. The last thing I remember..." It came to him in a flash, and he had to fight not to shiver. "There were these three women, except there turned out to only be one of them. The most horrific creature... She'd been so beautiful too. Well, one of them was." He shook his shaggy head, and wondered if he sounded as confused as he felt. "We thought that Leofric and May were up to something, so Marion sent me back to warn you lot, get you moving a little more quickly." He stretched, rubbing his eyes and trying to work some life back into his unwilling muscles. "I was heading back, and then suddenly there were these women. I had to get away from them." He looked embarrassed, for Little John was not a man to run away from anything, ordinarily. "I haven't felt that way since I was first taken before the Baron de Belleme."

"Dark magic." Tuck crossed himself. "Three women, you said, or just one? Did they introduce themselves?"

"Both... I mean, there were three women, but there was a rushing noise, and wind, and then they all came together into one new one. The ugliest thing I've ever seen walk the earth. And no, they didn't introduce themselves. It wasn't exactly a formal meeting, Tuck." John tried to remember, but despite the levity of his answer he was disturbed, and the encounter was confused in his mind. "But when they spoke... they had accents. I've heard them before, when I was a shepherd. Sometimes I'd go to markets on the coast, and I'd hear those accents then." His shaggy head shook again. "I always thought it was rather a pretty way of talking, musical like, but there was nothing attractive about the way those three women spoke. I think they were Irish."

"Mad women turning themselves in hideous hags. Just our bloody luck." Will made a few practice swings with his sword, looking as though he could think of nothing more entertaining than a chase through the forest and the chance to decapitate a few mad witches. "I suppose whoever they are they've got Robin and the others by now?"

"Not necessarily. We were on to them at least, so there's a chance Marion and Nasir are still free. I don't know about Robin." John frowned. "Actually I don't know about Nasir. He disappeared off somewhere - looking ahead probably. He might be anywhere by now."

"Well you could hardly have helped having to come back for us." Tuck, as usual, sounded eminently sensible. "We were fools ever to allow ourselves to be split up in the first place. All that talk of quests for Herne, and travelling to London. It all sounds so foolish now that I can't believe we ever agreed to it."

"Some of us didn't," Will reminded him. Tuck nodded.

"Aye, but then some of us are twisted and suspicious, aren't we Will." He smiled. "There's no sense in standing here worrying, or in talking about what might have happened if we'd listened to you, anyway. We should be getting a move on. Getting after Marion."

"Aye, you're right." Wondering how easy that was going to be given the disorientation from which he was still suffering, John clapped Much on the shoulder. "Come on, lad. We shouldn't waste any more time standing around here."

"And there's no need to look so pale. We'll deal with these three, just like we've dealt with everybody else who's threatened us in the past." Tuck fixed John with a particularly piercing stare. "Always supposing that John knows the way. Were you on the main road to London?"

"We were going by a pretty direct route. It shouldn't be too difficult to find it again." Shouldering the bow he had dropped in the mud, John chose a direction. He was almost positive that it looked familiar, and hadn't been just a random choice. "We'll need to travel fast though. They could be a long way ahead by now. I'm not sure how long it's been since I left them."

"They could be anywhere though, couldn't they." Much's voice was a little quivery, and his eyes were even more round than usual. "If they were taken away by magic I mean."

"Maybe." John frowned at him, knowing the tremor in the boy's voice to be more than mere nervousness. "What is it? You're looking like you know something the rest of us don't."

"I don't know." The boy was starting to stammer, although he was keeping his voice as level as he could. He looked up, meeting John's eyes with a stare that showed fear, as well as a determination not to give into it. "My father used to tell me and Robin stories at night. Old stories he said. Things people had been telling each other for centuries. One of them was about three women who could become one. They were Irish. It's not like the Baron de Belleme, John. This is really old stuff. Really powerful, like Herne."

"You know about these women?" Gripping the boy's arms, John stared down at him. His expression was very earnest, and Much reacted accordingly, chasing away the shakes and trying to stand a little straighter.

"They're called... called the Mòrrìgna. Or something like that. It's not easy to say it properly. There are three of them, and one's very beautiful, and there's one of them... or all of them when they're joined together maybe..." He shook his head, angry with himself for not remembering the childhood tales. "Anyway, she's called the Mòrrìgan, and she's like a god of war. Goddess I mean. She flies over battlefields, and eats the dead. Turns herself into a raven, and brings shadows and things. Bad things. Some people worship her, and say she's not so bad, but I think it's a horrible story. It's not true, is it John? This isn't really the Mòrrìgan who's come here? She could be as strong as Herne."

"Which would explain why he didn't send Robin any messages of warning about Leofric." Tuck shook his head sadly. "They might be too strong even for him."

"And that'd be why they'd come to a place like this, isn't it. To do battle with Herne. One god against another." Will groaned, leaning against a tree trunk and looking unimpressed. "They've come here, and they're going to use Robin to get to Herne, and they're going to... to do what?"

"There's a lot of fighting going on, isn't there. In England I mean." Much spoke nervously, as though embarrassed by his own thoughts, and assuming that his theories were probably wrong. "If they like wars, this is a good place to be."

"That's true. With the way things are here right now, any goddess of war would love to be in England." Staring over the top of Much's curly head, John's eyes met with those of Tuck and Will. "In fact it's probably only Herne that's standing in their way."

"Not just Herne." Will's words were sharp and cold. "There's us. Now come on."

"Come on where?" John shook his head, angry at their uselessness. "Much is right. They could be anywhere."

"True." Never one to admit defeat, no matter who or what the enemy, Will was brandishing his sword with every word. "But if we go after them, and make enough of a noise about it, maybe they'll come to us. It's a possibility, right?"

"Right." Tuck didn't look as though he had much faith in the plan, but he was determined enough for anything. John rolled his eyes.

"You're crazy. It'll never work."

"Might." Will shrugged, apparently careless. "And it's better than doing nothing. We don't know how much longer we've got, before things start happening. Herne couldn't contact Robin - or didn't try to. Maybe these women are already beating him."

"Yeah." John reached out to absent-mindedly ruffle Much's curls. "Come on then. I'll take you to the last place I saw Marion."

"We're going after the Mòrrìgan?" Much's voice trembled a little, despite his best efforts to stop it. "She'll kill us and peck out our eyes, just like in the story."

"No she won't." Tuck beamed at him, his warm smile enough to chase away some of the boy's fears. "We're not in a story, and things are never the same in real life."

"No." Will's voice was filled with bitter humour. "Usually it's worse. Now come on. It's time to go."

"Yeah." Wishing that he didn't feel quite such a sense of trepidation, John nodded his wildly hairy head, and began to lead the way. The rain had washed clean what tracks might have remained, and he had no idea how far he had run before collapsing, but he trusted himself to find the way. He had to find it. Whether or not it did any good in the long run was simply for fate to decide.

**********

Only when the three women had departed did Leofric and May come to life. Moving away from their stations at the fireside, they stepped together to stand before Robin. The outlaw was furious, and even hidden where she was, too far away to see any detail, Marion could see his anger. She heard his voice, as cold as he could make it, telling the two impostors to release him, but neither showed any intention to comply.

"I suppose it's my fault for believing you." Shaking his head in exasperation, Robin struggled momentarily against his bonds. "All that talk about Loxley... I wanted to believe that you were who you said you were." His eyes narrowed. "Did you even know my father?" There was no answer, and he did not bother pressing the issue. Both of his former 'friends' appeared to have been enchanted, and he had learnt from experience that it was not easy to converse with somebody who was in thrall to a spell. Such people knew only the instructions they had been given. The rest of the world was no longer of importance.

"Can you get free, Nasir?" Certain that Leofric and May had no interest in anything he said, Robin decided that there was no need to be careful. "I can't loosen these knots."

"No." The sounds of the Saracen fighting against the ropes was plain even to Marion, but clearly such struggles were to no avail. Robin sighed.

"Do you have any idea what they want?"

"You." It was a typically no-nonsense answer. "And Marion."

"And Herne." It was the obvious conclusion, and it came to Robin as such moments of insight so often did. "They want to... kill him? They must be planning to get to him through me." He twisted his head around, finding it hard to see his companion. "What happened to Marion?"

"She was with May." Nasir was watching the girl, busy with Leofric in arranging a collection of knives before the fire.

"Not anymore." It was a form of torture, being left to wonder what might have befallen his wife, but Robin knew that there was nothing he could yet do to discover what had happened. "I've been such a fool. I didn't realise what weaknesses I had. One mention of Loxley and I believe anything." A silence greeted his bitter words, and he smiled. Nasir, of course, was not one for empty words of comfort, and the leader of the outlaws was grateful for that. There wasn't anything that could have been said to make him feel better anyway. He turned his attention back to the arrangements being made, and smiled a sorry smile.

"I wonder what they're planing to do with those knives."

"Nothing yet." Nasir's philosophy tended to mean that he showed no concern until the danger had actually arrived - and usually not even then. "They need Marion."

"Yes. They did seem to want both of us to leave Sherwood." Staring up at the star-speckled sky, Robin wondered how far away that ferocious storm was; whether it was still threatening to drown Sherwood, or had finally tired itself out. "They'll be back soon. There'll be less chance of escaping when they're here."

"You know them." It was a quiet observation, and one that made Marion tense. Robin was silent for several moments though before he answered, oblivious to any sense of tension.

"I think so. From a story though, nothing else. They're Irish, and there's an old tale... I'd have thought it was nothing more than a legend, if I hadn't once thought the same of Herne." His eyes scanned the trees. "Do you feel that we're being watched?" There was a long silence, and Marion froze, wanting to pull back further into cover, but afraid to do so without attracting further attention. She did not yet feel that the time was right to make a move; especially when she had no way of knowing what action Leofric and May might be capable of taking against her. She fingered her bow, still ready to shoot, and wondered if she could kill both guards quickly enough to prevent one of them from escaping, or attacking. Could she kill either? They, or perhaps the clearing, might be protected by spells. Their weird employers might be back at any moment, and besides... she imagined shooting them both down, dispassionately, just as she had shot down the outlaws who had once menaced them. It seemed cold, somehow. Nasir would have done it, and she would not have questioned such actions from him; wouldn't have given them a second thought. That didn't mean that it was something she could easily do herself. Shifting her position, moving as quietly as she could past rustling bushes, she made her way round behind the seven white posts. She didn't know what she could do there either, but at least she might be in a better position to see what was going on. She was hoping that Robin would continue with his explanations about the possible identity of the three women, but his attentions seemed to have been irrevocably distracted, and true to form Nasir was not pressing the issue.

"Maybe I was mistaken." Robin's voice sounded very close, now that she was hiding in a different place. The sound of it made her feel better, inexplicably perhaps, and she had to fight a sudden urge to slip closer, and try to cut him free. Leofric and May might have been bewitched, and they might appear to be paying no attention to what was going on, but that didn't mean that they would fail to notice a rescue attempt.

"I could have sworn that I'd seen something." He shook his head, and Marion saw his long dark hair moving to-and-fro, darker still against the gloom in the air.

"Marion?" It was an off-hand question, but it made both Leofric and May glance up; the first sign of interest that they had so far shown. Their eyes travelled together to her last hiding place, where Robin's own eyes were currently lingering. Marion held her breath, raising the bow in case it was about to become necessary to defend herself. The pair soon turned away though, convinced, it appeared, that there was nothing worth looking at. Robin looked away as well.

"My foster father used to tell stories, when I was a child." He spoke clearly and loudly, almost as though he were raising his voice for the benefit of a distant listener. "They were for Much really, but I used to stay and listen because he was afraid to listen on his own. The story is about an ancient witch, or goddess, of war and strife, or possibly a more basic form of darkness. She has an opposite figure, a character named Angus Òg, who's sort of like Herne is to us, I suppose. She's called the Mòrrìgan, but she has three other forms, the sisters. Different facets of herself, perhaps. The miller probably didn't know the whole tale. It could have been passed down through his family, and changed in every generation. You know how these things do."

"No." Nevertheless Nasir sounded understanding. "In my country, often when a word is changed, the story no longer makes sense."

"Well that's not the way it works with folk tales in this part of the world, that's for sure." Robin thought back to the dark nights listening to the old stories, with Much's mother shaking her head in exasperation as her husband terrified their timid young son. "Anyway, the Mòrrìgan - if that's what she is - will hang like a carrion crow over the country, if she manages to defeat Herne. She'll bring despair and death to every family in England, and perhaps even beyond. Life under the Normans will seem happy in comparison." He closed his eyes, leaning back so that his head hit the white post. "And it'll all be my fault. I wish I knew what to do next."

"Fight." If Nasir was discouraged by the fact of his close imprisonment, certainly there was no evidence of it. His eyes were fixed on the two servants of the Mòrrìgan, now returned to their arranging of the ceremonial knives. They had laid them out in order of size, and were painting them delicately with aromatic oil. Marion could smell it from her hiding place, and it surprised her with its potency.

"Oh we'll fight." Robin's head turned, looking out into the night as though expecting the Mòrrìgan to reappear at any moment. "But it's all up to Marion now. I just hope that she chooses her moment well. She won't get a second chance."

"The great queen is returning." Stopping his preparations for a moment, Leofric looked up, apparently reacting to a call only he could hear. "We must be ready."

"We are." May held up the largest of the knives, and the starlight shone irregularly on the glistening, oiled blade. "Do they have Marion?"

"I don't know." Leofric lifted up the second largest of the knives, and used its point to carve a symbol into the wood of Robin's pole, just above the outlaw's head. Robin felt the oil dripping onto him, and smelt its strong and sickly scent as its ran down his face. It was a relaxing smell in a way, despite its unpleasantness; a smell that spoke of heavy, enchanted sleep, and dreams that had no place in the minds of men. "But we'll be ready if they do."

"Good." May was playing with her own large knife as though captivated by its very existence. "It'll be light soon. We'll start then."

"Start what?" It was in vain hope that Robin asked the question, for he did not in the least expect an answer. Leofric's sharp gaze drifted towards him for a second, lingering on his determined face.

"Your death," May broke in, answering where Leofric had not. "The collection of your power, and the depletion of Herne. By noon the wings of the great queen will block out the sun all over the country, and Herne will be nothing but a memory." She ran her fingers over the knife blade, smiling at Robin all the while. "But you won't know it. You'll be dead."

"Not until you have Marion." Robin's voice was calm, almost mocking May with its firmness and gentility. She glowered at him.

"We'll have her. She's close, and there's nowhere she can hide when the Mòrrìgan searches. When she spreads her wings across the sky, and hangs above us, she uses the eyes of birds of prey. She'll see your wife, and she'll bring her. Soon enough." Shutting Robin from her consciousness she turned back to preparing the knives, but nearby Marion was not nearly so cool. Robin knew that she was here; he had seen her - surely the Mòrrìgan could do the same, especially if she had such magical powers as Leofric and May were suggesting? Surely she really would be captured, and brought to assist in Herne's murder? Shivering, she pressed herself back into the shadows, and wondered how she was supposed to guess when the time was right. Robin had said that she would get only one chance, but how was she to know when that chance had come? Time was short, that much was clear, but just as clear was the risk in making a move now. Leofric and May were dangerous, and with the oiled knives ready before them they were more dangerous still.

"I wish I knew where Herne was." Robin sounded strangely reflective. He was not generally given to moments of introspection or of sombreness, and Marion recognised the concern he must be feeling. She felt for him, and again resisted the urge to creep closer, and try to free him from the post. She knew that she would not manage it without being discovered, but still it was a strong temptation. "I don't like not being able to feel him. He's usually not this far away."

"He's gone into hiding." Leofric clearly enjoyed insulting the mythical man's honour. "He fears the Mòrrìgan."

"He's not hiding." Marion could tell just by the hard edge in her husband's voice that his eyes were narrowed and his gaze cold. "Something has come between us, but he's still there. He was trying to talk to me all along, but I didn't manage to understand his messages." His voice raised again, just as though he were trying to pass on some important point to a listener who might not be able to hear him clearly. "The storm was his doing. His message. I should have listened, but it might not be too late for somebody else."

"There is nobody else." May returned her attention to the knives, effectively cutting Robin out of her consciousness. Leofric nodded.

"Soon there will be nobody but the Mòrrìgan," he observed, although without any sense of triumph or regret. "The great raven, with a world of misery to gorge herself on." Robin turned his head, so that his bright gaze stared steadily at the man who had claimed to be his kin.

"You'll answer to Herne for this. Both of you. Not even Herne's Son will be able to speak up in your defence." His voice showed sadness, perhaps, for the past was too recent for him to forget the fondness he had once felt for Leofric. The older man was unconcerned, however, and his mocking smile was a glittering testimony to ill-will.

"Herne is dead, Wolfshead; or as near as makes no difference. Your death will precede his, and then everything changes. There's no stopping it. No defeating the Mòrrìgan."

"There may be." Robin did not bother struggling against his bonds, even as a display of defiance, for he knew how useless it would be. Instead he merely turned his angry thoughts inward. "The battle isn't over yet."

"It was over as soon as the great queen chose to come here from Ireland." Leofric spoke like a man puffed with pride, yet also strangely devoid of any real emotion, and Robin knew that there was no point arguing the point with him. The man was a vessel, and little else; a victim probably, or a weak fool taken by the three women when they had first arrived in England. He was a nothing.

"It's never over." It was all that he was prepared to say now; all the breath that he was prepared to waste on a man who could no longer argue meaningfully. Instead Robin's thoughts were on the one person present who might still be able to do something decisive. Marion was here somewhere, he knew, and he hoped that the help he had given her had been enough. It seemed pitifully little, but closely watched and listened to, there was nothing else that he could have done for her. Now he could do nothing else at all. Hiding nearby Marion knew that as well, but she couldn't think what to do next. All that she could think of was her solitude, and the scraps of advice she had been given that she barely understood. And from this was to come Herne's salvation? Herne's and Robin's, she corrected herself, not to mention the rest of the outlaw band. She didn't need to believe in luck to know that she was going to need every last bit of it that remained in Sherwood if she was going to succeed. Every last bit of it - and more besides.

**********

The Mòrrìgna, ecstatic with their own power, found the remaining followers of Robin just as they left Sherwood behind them. As the three witches had planned all along, the outlaw band was weaker when divided; weakened not so much in strength of force, but in spirit. The powers of light and darkness were divided amongst them, and once they were beyond Sherwood, and Herne's link with them was no longer so immediate, they were an easier target. Herne was still too strong for any one of the Mòrrìgna to enter Sherwood, and even the powers that the Mòrrìgan herself possessed were not enough to let her pass the forest's magical threshold, but once the four men had left its thick green borders, they were easy targets for the conniving, powerful women. Joyous, and shrieking their triumph like the raven that was the Mòrrìgan's grim symbol, they spun out of nothingness into the path of the outlaws, and all the birds for a mile or more flew skywards in a maddened cloud.

"By heaven!" Crossing himself quickly, Tuck stared at the three figures, all miraculously dry despite the frantic rain. "Or perhaps not. Not by heaven, I think. Not you three ladies."

"Wise reckoning, priest." The threesome had spread out, forming a line that blocked the path ahead. Standing in the centre, her red hair billowing like a cloak about her head, the beautiful one of the three smiled coldly. Even the most unpleasant expression could do little to mar the beauty of her face, but not one of the outlaws was charmed by her presence. Will drew his sword.

"Who are you?" As always he was unimpressed by power and splendour, and the magical appearance of the three women did not seem to have impressed him. The redhead laughed.

"We are your defeat, my angry friend." She frowned, eyeing the trembling Much. "But you already know who we are. The little one has told you." She reached out a hand to the boy, crooking a finger to indicate that he should come to her. "Come here my little one. Play your wooden flute for the Mòrrìgna."

"Leave him alone." Putting his large bulk between the three sisters and the boy, John brandished his large stave. "We know who you are, perhaps, but we'd rather know what's happened to our friends."

"Your friends?" A cruel smile played about on the lips of the impossibly beautiful face. "Ah yes. Your friends." She held out her hands - and the four outlaws saw that she was holding Marion's sword. Beside her, her middle-aged compatriot was suddenly holding two very familiar short, curved blades, and the ancient third leant on the proud shape of Albion. The runes engraved on the clean, smooth blade blazed white for a moment, but if the sword was trying to free itself from her grip, it was not able to do so. Will let out an oath.

"Where are they?" Stepping past John, he pointed with his sword at the redhead, the easiest and most obvious target in her central position. She smiled back at him, seductive in her pose and her mannerisms.

"Alive. Safe. For now. We can take you to them, if that's what you want."

"What do you want with them?" Letting his hand fall to the wooden cross he wore around his neck, Tuck moved out into the front of the little group. There was barely a stave's length between him and the foremost of the Mòrrìgna now, but he kept his head up and his eyes determined. The women unsettled him, but he was not a weak man by any means. "What evil acts do you have planned?"

"Evil?" The beautiful young woman looked affronted. "We are not evil. We are the Mòrrìgna."

"You feed on misery and death." John's tone of voice showed how he felt about that. "Doesn't sound very friendly to me."

"We all have our place in the world." She turned her shining green eyes towards him. "There are folk tales that paint your beloved Herne in very unflattering colours. They tell of his cruelty, of his involvement with the darker powers. They say he steals the souls of young children."

"Rubbish put about by the Church, to discourage old beliefs." John could see her point though, even if his heart told him not to trust the threesome. "He's no more cruel than nature."

"We are all the sum total of our place in the world." She moved closer, eyes moving about from one to the other of the three outlaws still visible to her. Much was still cowering in the back, muttering prayers to himself, and wishing that Robin was with them. That the three women were dry in the middle of the storm; that the soft voice of the redhead rose so effortlessly above the howling wind and crashing thunder; that their very presence recalled to his mind nights being terrified by his father's well told tales - all had conspired to leave the boy wishing that all of this was a nightmare, and that he would soon be waking up.

"We didn't ask for you to explain yourselves. Just to know what's happened to our friends." Tuck kept his voice level, although it was hard to do so whilst having to shout above the storm. The water swirled about his feet, but he ignored it, determined to stand firm even though the ground was too soft, and the wind too hard. The redhead smiled at him.

"You're right. And if you want to see your friends you need only look for them." She stepped aside, indicating the trees behind her. A patch of clear moonlight shone there,from a sky empty of rain clouds, and the ground showed no sign of flooding. A fire stood on the grass, dry and burning well, illuminating a gleaming white post to which Robin was tied. John let out an oath and started forward.

"Don't go over there." Putting out a hand to stop the bigger man, Tuck scrutinised the three women with his bright and beady eyes. It was clear that what they wanted was for the outlaws to head towards their leader, but Tuck was not quite ready to give in just yet.

"But it's Robin." Peering around John's large arm, Much gazed longingly at the figure tied to the post. He called, but his foster brother showed no sign of having heard him. Perhaps it was the storm that drowned his voice - or perhaps what he was seeing was not Robin at all, but merely a trick. He blinked uncertainly. Above them another searing burst of lightening rendered the world temporarily bright, but the small patch of dry, fire-lit earth where Robin was standing remained dark. The only illumination there was from the fire, and the accompanying burst of thunder did not make him flinch as it did his four watching friends. John glanced back at Tuck.

"He could be anywhere. We've no way of finding him without going there."

"But that's exactly what they want." Gesturing at the three grinning women, Tuck searched for a better argument. They didn't know what would happen if they walked forward, but he was as anxious to go there as were the others. Marion might be there somewhere - almost certainly was. He hated not knowing where she was, or how she was, or what might be threatening her.

"We've got no choice though, have we." Having remained uncharacteristically silent for some moments, Will now glared challengingly at Tuck. "They want us to go through, and we want to find Robin. If we go over there we're getting what we want."

"And so are they," muttered John, although not in a tone of voice that suggested he was completely opposed to the plan. He rubbed at his soaking beard, trying to think. "It looks safe enough. Leofric and May might be lying in wait, but there are four of us, and we're expecting trouble."

"And if one of them is waiting with a knife at Marion's throat?" Tuck played helplessly with the cross around his neck. "We just don't know, do we."

"We can't know. Not unless we go there." Will squared his shoulders. "I say we try it. If we stay here we might lose any chance we have to save Robin."

"I doubt we'll have that chance if we go over there. Why would they show us the way if we had any chance of spoiling their plans?" Tuck's shoulders slumped. "But you're right. I can't see any other options. Perhaps if one or two of us were to stay here..."

"And split our forces any more than they have been already?" John shook his head in a firm negative answer, showering them with added rainwater as he did so. "No. We go together or not at all. We were fools to split up in the first place, and we won't make that mistake again today." He glanced back at Much. "You have a say too, lad. What do you think?"

"Me?" His mind running over all the things that his father had once told him about these three terrifying women, Much remembered the missing Marion and Nasir, and let his eyes rest on Robin, bound and apparently helpless. He couldn't keep the quiver from his voice, but he knew that he could keep the fear from controlling his actions too much. He took a deep breath. "I think we should go. It's probably a trap, but... but it's what Robin would do for us, isn't it. He came to save me from the Templars that time, didn't he, even though he knew he didn't have much of a chance of not being caught himself." He drew in a second, less shaky breath, and wished that he could look as resolute and strong as his friends. "We've got to go. And - and I'm going."

"Aye lad. You're not half as timid as the world thinks, are you." Beaming fondly at the boy, John reached out to ruffle his hair, then stopped and clapped him on the shoulder instead. It seemed only fair, after all, to acknowledge his courage with a less patronising gesture. "Then we're decided?"

"Decided, no. Resolute, yes." Tuck drew himself up to his full height, and smiled ruefully. "I hope Robin appreciates this."

"More likely he'll tell us off for not staying back here." John grinned at Will, remembering the time when, at the beginning off their friendship, Robin had shown just that kind of anger when they had followed him into danger at Castle Belleme. "Come on."

"You'll not regret it." The self-satisfaction in the redhead's voice was enough to turn all their stomachs, but not one of the foursome looked back at her. Whatever fate she might be leading them towards she was no longer of any importance, for all that mattered now was joining Robin. Finding Marion. Bringing them home. Striding four abreast in the torrential rain, they headed onwards, and as one they stepped into the image of the distant clearing. The last they heard of the place they were leaving behind was the echoing laughter of the witches - and then there was nothing but silence.

**********

For a moment it seemed as if the world had blurred. Marion, crouched in her hiding place, saw Leofric and May glance up, then saw the three sisters reappear before the fire. They were laughing, clearly in a celebratory mood, and as the blur caused by their reappearance faded, Marion saw why. There were now six figures tied to the white posts, and only one post left empty. She heard Will's bellow of rage, and flattened herself down into the dark bushes. Things would start to happen now, surely.

"Nearly." Grinning madly through her wrinkled lips, the oldest of the women was rubbing her hands together. It seemed as though sparks flew from her fingers all the while, like friction caused by rubbing flints. "Nearly, nearly, nearly."

"Nearly?" Her middle-aged companion sounded disbelieving. "What's nearly about it? We still don't have the girl."

"But we have the others," pointed out the older one. The redhead came between them.

"The others are a welcome extra," she said coldly, "but no replacement for the girl. We need her."

"Then we'll get her." The old woman glared up at her through bright and beady eyes. "She can't be far."

"She could be anywhere," snapped the middle-aged one. The elder glared harder still.

"Can't have left England, can she." She looked haughty. "Can't have gone far at all. Sent her somewhere, didn't we."

"Not us." The redhead was toying with the sword in her hands, listening with one ear to the struggles and angry yells of Robin's captive gang. With her head cocked on one side she had a wild look about her, like an animal listening for some sound of its prey. "She didn't walk into the image, so she didn't come here, but something made her disappear."

"Herne." The oldest of the women spat the word with disgust. "He's supposed to be powerless against us."

"Herne could never be powerless." The redhead had narrowed her eyes to inhuman slits, that glittered with frenzied malice. "He's just not supposed to know where we are. His power stops us from entering Sherwood, but that doesn't mean that we're immune to his influence elsewhere." She muttered to herself in some language that might have been Irish, or might have been something more ancient. "But I don't think that he can be hiding her. He can't have that kind of influence here."

"She must still be back in the storm then, mustn't she." The middle-aged woman sounded argumentative. "We should go back and look for her. Properly this time. Sniff out the scent. It's worked before, with other prey."

"Perhaps." Her younger companion was looking about, apparently listening to the silence of the night beyond them. "But perhaps we don't have to go so far to catch wind of her scent." She cocked her head on one side. "Perhaps..." Sniffing the air cautiously, clearly scenting something beyond the obvious smells of trees and fire, the redhead ran a tongue, flickeringly, across her lips. "Perhaps she's not that far away at all." A cruel smile took over her face, turning the devastating beauty into something unspeakable. Marion's breath froze in her lungs.

"Do you think so?" Excited, the old woman also sniffed the air. "I smell... fear."

"Fear and roses." The middle-aged woman laughed softly, harshly, and turned her head this way and that. "What do we do?"

"We hunt." The redhead flashed her eyes around the clearing once last time, then centred them finally, heart-stoppingly, upon Marion. The girl stifled a gasp. She couldn't be seen - could she? The darkness was too complete, the bushes too thick and tall. It couldn't be possible for anybody to see her. But then, the darkness told her, this woman was not just anybody. As slowly and as quietly as she could, she began to back away.

"We have to get her." The middle-aged woman moved forwards, almost to the edge of the clearing. "We have to get her quickly."

"Then come with me." Reaching out her hands to her sisters, the redhead grasped them tightly, pulling them close to her. Marion and the rest of the outlaws watched, horror-struck, as the three woman began to change. Their faces rippled and blurred, their bodies lengthened and bent. For a moment they seemed almost invisible - darker even than the night - and then they were gone altogether. In their places, breathing heavily, were three giant hunting dogs. One was grey, one was black, and one russet; and all three were on a scent. Marion began to shake.

"Run!" Yelling the word with all of his might, Robin threw back his head to shout at the moon. His skull connected heavily with the post to which he was tied, but he seemed not to notice. One of the hunting dogs regarded him momentarily, then began to paw at the ground. Marion stared from one to another of them, then throwing caution to the wind she turned and fled.

With a howl from one and an excited barking from another, the three dogs came after her. She heard them crashing through the undergrowth, snuffling and growling, and doubled her pace. It did no good. How could she hope to keep ahead? It seemed impossible to outrun a dog, and there was nothing else to try. She could shoot perhaps one of them, before the others were upon her - but what good would it do to try even that? She doubted that she could kill them, for the Mòrrìgna were magical creatures, ancient and powerful, and were undoubtedly immune to the effects of any ordinary weaponry. There didn't appear to be anything that she could do.

Her pace faltered, confounded by the uneven ground. Almost falling, she heard the dogs behind her coming closer, hearing the sound of their clawed feet scratching inevitably nearer. Her readied arrow fell from her hand. She almost stopped; almost tried to recover it; then realised the foolishness of such a move and carried on running. Desperate as she was, the trees and bushes tearing at her mercilessly, it was all that she could do to keep hold of her bow. Behind the growling sounded more triumphant, louder and happier, until suddenly it was the fully fledged barking that she remembered from hunting trips in her youth. She knew the cry of a hound close to its prey; terrible, she thought now, although she had never done so before. But then she had never been hunted by dogs before. She tried to run faster, but she knew that she was already going as fast as she would ever be capable. Her heart felt as though it might stop.

And then suddenly she was breaking free of the copse, and was back out in open territory, and knew that she was lost. There were no more bushes to slow pursuit; no more trees to take a last chance and hide in. No more shadows to provide a desperate refuge. Instead she was alone and exposed in a cruelly empty place, picked out by the cold, pale moonlight. Behind her the dogs no longer needed to bark, for they were close enough to be able to see her easily, their breathing as loud and as terrifying as the barking had been before. Marion fumbled for an arrow, fitting it to her bow, slowing to a halt and turning to face her pursuers. They were spreading out, staring at her through wild eyes flecked with red. Saliva dribbled from three sets of open jaws, and the hackles on all three necks rose stiffly. Marion turned her single arrow to point at one dog after another, and wondered what she could possibly do next. The dogs came closer, and she was almost certain that the long face of the russet-coloured beast was twisted into an unspeakable grin.

"I won't come back with you." It was probably a pointless thing to say, but it made her feel better, albeit only a little. Helpless she might be, but a small measure of defiance helped to stop her from being just a victim. "I won't help you to kill Herne." The dogs came closer, and their hoarse breathing became a vicious, lingering growl.

That stopped abruptly. Almost as though the creatures had been real hunting dogs, called to a halt by their master, they fell silent and took a step back. Marion brandished the bow, seeing nothing else that could have caused the change in their attitude. Were they scared of her after all? Could her arrows harm them? All three dogs took another step back, and a quiver ran through the grey one and the black one. Only the russet animal managed not to shake, but even it had lost the immediacy of its earlier ferocity.

"Keep back." She took a step towards them, but they didn't retreat. The russet dog growled quietly, and Marion stopped. It wasn't her that they had been afraid of? Then what? Cautiously she looked about her, conscious of the possibility of a trick. She saw grass; a broad sweep of grass, with a tiny silver stream running nearby; a sprinkling of clover leaves and thyme; daisies and patches of mud showing through. No religious icons, or any of the things usually presumed capable of scaring off dark powers. The three dogs were backing away though, that much couldn't be denied. With a shiver and a shake the hounds were gone, and in their place were the three mismatched women. Marion frowned uncomprehendingly.

"We will get you." Her voice sibilant, horrible, the redhead who was so clearly the leader pointed a long-nailed finger at Marion. "You can't stay here forever."

"I don't plan to." She was still wondering what the women could possibly be so afraid of. "Now leave."

"We will." The three women joined hands. "But you'll come after us. You'll have to, unless you plan to leave your husband behind. Well have you yet, Marion of Sherwood."

"Maybe." She watched as their individual shapes blurred and merged, until once again she saw the dreadful, ghastly hag that she had seen once before. She was closer to it this time, and could better see the hooked chin, the long nose, the skin like the bark of an old tree. Ghastly eyes bore into her like knives, and she felt her stomach churn. She couldn't recall ever having seen anything so terrible, save perhaps for the smile of the Baron de Belleme.

"Oh it's not 'maybe'. We all know that." The hag's voice was as terrible as her face. "Soon, Marion of Sherwood. Soon you'll be mine - and then nothing in the world will save you or Herne." With that the creature threw back its head and its arms, and with a crack like that of a whip, became a huge, black raven. It flew upwards, climbing high into the air, crying its chilling cry - then disappeared into the dark sky. Marion stared after it, then sank, trembling, to the ground. She was no coward, and she knew it - but something about the Mòrrìgan scared her badly. The arrow fell from her numb fingers, and suddenly panicked that she might need it again, she fumbled to pick it up. Her hands brushed the soft petals of the daisies that carpeted the ground, and for a second she appreciated the sensation. It was strangely comforting. Then, struck by a thought, she pulled her hand away and looked down.

Daisies. They were everywhere - a carpet of white and yellow that stretched out all around her. That was nothing unusual - daisies grew everywhere in Britain, covering every piece of available earth. They were the first flower that every child learnt to identify; one of the most familiar sights to be seen. But now, in the darkness, when the only illumination was the ghostly white light of the moon, that carpet of simple little flowers should have been closed up. The petals should have been curled, the flowers asleep, but instead they were staring up at the sky just as they did in the full glare of the day. All those flowers, all awake, all aglow with life. That, at least, could be no coincidence - but could something as simple and as tiny as a daisy possibly have made the Mòrrìgan take flight? It seemed so ridiculous. But then of course, even the tiniest thing had its strength, its purposes, its powers. Gently she picked one of the flowers, and held it up. Now was the time for Herne to emerge from the shadows - to say his cryptic proverbs, or to send images into her mind. He had done it once before, when Robin and the others had been in danger. He could come forwards, into the moonlight, the massive head-dress casting its eerie shadows - but she knew that he would not come. He couldn't. Whatever powers the Mòrrìgna were using, they were enough to keep Herne at bay, and had been all along. She sat alone; alone to work out the significance of the daisies, alone to decide how best to use this strangest of weapons. Afraid of what might be happening to the others, certain for now only of the safety of Robin, she knew that she had to work swiftly. Quickly she emptied her arrows onto the ground. There were only seven, but if her aim was good she should not need even that many - and she knew that, usually, her aim was amongst the best. On a good day only Robin and Nasir could out-shoot her.

"I have no idea if this is going to work, Robin." She spoke to him as if he were with her, for it helped her to feel not quite so alone. "But I think perhaps it might." It was certainly the most positive sign since she had first begun to suspect that Leofric and May might not be all that they had claimed - since she had said goodbye to John, just outside Sherwood Forest - and had heard Nasir's tale of a vanished Robin. She felt her heart begin to lift as she began to wind the daisies around her arrows, tying them into the flights, fixing them close around the tips, tying long chains of them around the long wooden shafts. It was like a childhood game, and for a second she was back in Leaford Grange, making daisy chains to make her father smile, and hanging them around the stable of her favourite horse. It made her relax a little, and she wondered how powerful the magic of the flowers might be. Strong enough not only to drive the Mòrrìgan back, but also to stave off the feelings of despair that the horrible creature so loved. And all her life she had seen them as one of the least significant of all flowers.

It took some time to finish her task, and when it was completed she returned the arrows carefully to the quiver on her back. Fixing one last daisy, for luck, to her bow, she took a final look around at the carpet of flowers. They were starting to close now, their job clearly done. Only the ones that she had fixed to the arrows and to her bow remained open, staring boldly on with their little yellow eyes. She whispered a brief word of thanks to Herne, certain that he was responsible for this somehow. Perhaps he could not be here himself, could not contact her directly, but he had still been able to help. Heartened, though still afraid, she turned her head back towards the distant thicket where Robin and the others still waited. The Mòrrìgna would be ready for her, she knew - but if she was ever going to be able to defeat them, the chance was likely to come now. When else would she be better prepared? Wondering if the sky would ever lighten - if the daylight would ever return to replace the night - she started off on her journey. It wasn't until the thick clump of trees was before her once again that she realised she was no longer afraid.

**********

The Mòrrìgna were angry. They had descended from the sky in their joint, raven shape, splitting apart even before they had landed, three women landing on all fours like the hounds they had so recently been. They had snarled and growled and spat, screeching and whining in their native tongue, then turned in a fury towards the fire. Robin and the others had watched Leofric and May back away in fright as the threesome had converged upon the flames. There had been a crackling and fizzing that was almost as loud as the thunder that had so deafened them all in the other place, before they had been brought here. The flames spat green and white, blue and orange, then died back to a dull red.

"We've waited long enough. Eyes hard, the redheaded leader of the three swung around to face the six captive outlaws. "Perhaps we can't be rid of Herne until we have the girl, but there are other things we can be doing."

"Other magicks." The other two crowded round, and, reassured, Leofric and May began to stoke up the fire once again. "Other powers."

"Bring two of them." The redhead gestured vaguely at the white posts, clearly not caring which two prisoners were to be the first. Her two sisters scurried forwards, and using Nasir's confiscated swords, they cut Will and Much free from the posts. Will struggled furiously, but no matter his strength he found that he could not break free from the woman holding his arms. A power greater than he could imagine held him helpless, and he felt the despair that was the Mòrrìgan's lifeblood tugging at his heart. He shook it off as best he could, but it burned at him nonetheless. Nearby Much was whimpering, the sorry sounds almost drowned out by John's furious bellows.

"Leave them alone." Robin's voice, powerful and cold, made John fall silent. The redhead came close, smiling at the angry young face.

"Your time will come, Robin i' the Hood." Her eyes glittered mockingly, and he struggled briefly against his bonds. Around him the others were doing the same thing, with equal futility.

"What are you going to do with them?" He controlled his anger, knowing that an outburst would only serve to entertain the witch. She smiled.

"Magic," she told him. "Two of you might help us to defeat Herne, but the others have been touched by him too. Their blood has its own uses. She turned away from him, stroking Much's pale face. "Blood spilt by moonlight, onto stuttering flames... spells written centuries ago by mortals just like yourselves, who claimed to follow their own gods and goddesses. Some of them even honoured me with their spells. Many still do." She smiled at Much so beautifully that he almost smiled back. The spells work for us as well. Even deities can increase their powers through magic."

"You're no deity." Determined to keep the women distracted, Tuck raised his voice. "There's only one Deity, and He's not a trio of creatures living on the misery of others."

"You think so, priest?" The redhead stepped away from Much, almost as though she were considering taking matters further with Tuck - then she smiled her dazzling smile once again, and waved her impossibly long nails in the air. "You can try to distract me - try all the tricks you have between you - but none of them will save your friends, or you. You'll all stand before the fire in your turn, and your blood will all be spilt, in the end. Nobody stands against the Mòrrìgna."

"Except, perhaps, for little white flowers." Where Marion had come from, nobody knew. Robin's mouth opened in surprise; in the instinctive desire to tell her to run; to save herself. Then he merely smiled. She smiled back, though with less of his carelessness. Trust Robin to show no fear, no concern.

"You?" The redhead laughed. "You should have kept running. What do you plan to do?"

"Release my friends." She pulled one of the arrows from her quiver, and fitted it to her bow. The old woman and the middle-aged woman both flinched. Will felt some of the powers that gripped him fade away, and wondered if he might almost be able to make a move.

"You have no idea what you're doing." Spitting the words from her mouth, the redhead fixed Marion with a terrible stare. "You can't hope to defeat us alone."

"I'm not alone." For a second Marion allowed her gaze to run over all of the gang. "There are seven of us - and something else."

"Herne? Herne is powerless here. We're miles from Sherwood, in a place visited only by dark powers and wandering fell beasts. Herne is back in Sherwood, drenching his world with storms in rage over his own impotence. Why do you think the storm can't reach us here? You're alone."

"No I'm not." She levelled the arrow, not at the redhead, but at the middle-aged woman holding Will. "Now leave."

"She has the flowers." The middle-aged woman looked as though she wanted to hide behind Will. The redhead glared at her.

"Be silent." She made a gesture with one hand, and Leofric and May began to converge upon Marion. Keeping her head, her mind working fast, Marion swung the bow around.

"Stay where you are," she warned the approaching duo. It seemed almost a shame to kill them, when once she had saved their lives, but it was something that she was prepared to do. Neither Leofric nor May showed the slightest sign of having heard.

"You can't fight all of us." The redhead clicked her fingers together, and Tuck was before her, freed from the post but still bound with white ropes. Her arms were around his neck, and Marion's own sword pressed close to his throat. "Now decide, girl, and quickly. Shoot me and your two friends die. Shoot one of my sisters, and your monk dies. Do nothing and my two servants will be upon you in moments."

"Marion." Robin's voice was very calm, very steady. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"I'm choosing the right moment." It was what he had told her to do, when he had suspected that she was nearby, and listening, just a little while ago. "I only have one chance."

"You have no chance." The sword at Tuck's throat was pressing so hard against him that he seemed to be having trouble breathing. Quite how it had managed not to break the skin yet, Marion didn't know, but she knew that it could not possibly be longer before it did.

"One chance." She took a deep, steadying breath, looking from one to the other of the Mòrrìgna, and one to the other of their servants. Leofric and May were almost upon her now; so close. Her eyes travelled around them all again. To the middle-aged woman and her ancient sister, together on the far side of the fire; to the impossibly beautiful redhead, standing to the left of the fireplace; to Leofric and May, advancing steadily. Together the five almost formed a circle around the glowing, spitting flames. A circle that would soon be a circle no longer, as the mortal duo continued to bear down upon her. She wanted to wait, suddenly afraid that this would not work - after all, it was the plan of desperation and blind faith, not of careful consideration. She had no idea what might work - what might be the best way to let the daisies use the strange and unexpected magic that they seemed to possess. But she knew that if she waited any longer the circle would be lost; the moment would be lost - and the sword would cut Tuck's throat. Changing her aim to the stuttering, spitting heart of the fire, she loosed her daisy-woven arrow, and watched it pierce the glowing, gleaming centre of her target.

And it seemed as if the world had screamed. With a shriek of rage the three sisters hurled aside their hostages, staggering away from the fire as its suddenly yellow and white flames tore through them. Confused, Will pushed Much clear, and crossing himself madly, Tuck hurried away as fast as his legs could carry him. A fountain of angry sparks flew up into the air, raining down on the clearing in a hot parody of the storm back in Sherwood.

"Pain... pain..." Hands clasped over her eyes, the oldest of the women was standing beside the fire, clothes smouldering. Her hair was a mass of sparks, and she was swaying from side to side as she cried aloud. Nearby her sisters were beating the flames from their own clothing, shouting in their own language and fighting off the spiteful sparks.

"You'll pay for this!" Emerging at last from the incandescent corona, the redhead pointed a finger at Marion. Her red hair was glowing as fiercely as the flames, and her eyes were red as well. Even her teeth seemed to be glowing.

"Marion! Look out for Leofric!" Still tied to his post, Robin was struggling now. Marion turned about, looking for the man she had once held in such regard. She couldn't see him, for as soon as she turned away from the mad glare of the out of control fire, her vision became a useless patchwork of ghost flames. She rubbed at her eyes, hearing footsteps, and threw up her hands to protect herself. From nearby there was a shout - and as her vision at last cleared she saw Much, a burning brand in his hands, beating back Leofric and May. Will gave a whoop of delight, and pounding the boy heavily on the back, he caught up his own brand and joined in the torment of the vengeful pair. Marion muttered her thanks, and went to help Tuck free the others.

"You'll not get away." Arms up-thrown, the redheaded leader of the witches was trying to cast a spell. Her glowing eyes burned brightly, but the louder she shouted the more furious she became, and the more obvious it was that her spells were not working. The flames were all around the three now, binding them with magic so that they could not get away. The white light was becoming stronger, and as the multitudinous sparks rained on, it seemed as if the three women were beginning to shrink.

"You'll pay for this..." Still gasping her furious threats, the redhead was still struggling to cast her spells. Her two sisters had ceased to fight now, and were swaying sadly from side to side, muttering in their ancient tongue. Robin caught up Albion, abandoned close to the fireplace. The powerful sword still felt cold, even though the madly dancing flames had touched it more than once.

"We'll pay for nothing," he told the age-old beauty, and he pointed the sword towards her. "Now leave this place. Leave this country. And don't think of coming back."

"We're not done yet, Robin i' the Hood. Do you think a posy of daisies thrown on a fire can destroy the Mòrrìgna?" She was drawing herself up again, once more trying to cast her spells. "This isn't over as long as the three of us stand on the soil of England - as long as Herne is trapped back in Sherwood, and can't lend his strength to yours. I'll kill each of you yet."

"That's where you're wrong." Robin did not advance towards her, for he did not see the need. Around him his friends had all recovered their weapons, and stood in a protective half-circle around their leader. Leofric began to laugh.

"You can't defeat the Mòrrìgan, Robin. They've existed since before Ireland was first populated by mankind. They're as old and as powerful as Herne, and even with him standing right beside you, you're just a mortal."

"And the fire is burning itself out." May was beside her father now, her face as pale as any face had ever been, her eyes dark and deep. "You fight a good fight, but you'll lose all the same."

"And we will be triumphant." Emerging from the ebbing glow, the redhead threw her arms above her head once again and began to chant. Sparks flew from her fingertips, but unlike the ones caused by Marion's magical arrow, these were coloured a deep blood red, and crackled with a sound like thunder. Eyes as fierce as were hers, Will and Nasir leapt forward. Nasir's twin swords sliced the air, and Scarlet, his single, larger sword more like a quarter-staff in comparison, swung in a hard arc towards the middle-aged woman's dark head. She laughed, low and cold, and blocked his sword with her arm. The metal bounced off the cloth of her sleeve as though she had been wearing the finest Spanish armour. At the same moment the redhead, responding to Nasir's advance more with irritation than real anger, hurled him aside with a bolt of red fire. He rolled across the ground as if lifeless, and John's bellow of anger reverberated through the trees. Redhead laughed.

"Are you looking for revenge?" She was mocking him, and the big man started forward with an oath. Robin caught at his arm.

"Don't be a fool." His eyes were as hard as John had ever seen them, but even so the big man began to object. Robin pushed him aside.

"This isn't the time for heroics." It was clear that no argument would be tolerated, and John turned away. He was still glowering, but he made no further objections. Leofric laughed.

"At a loss, Robin Hood?"

"Shut up." Much, who was still attempting to guard the mortal duo, sounded shaky in his defiance, but his loyalty to Robin would not allow him to remain quiet when his supposed prisoner was insulting his foster brother. Leofric smiled at him, sardonic and cruel.

"You'll all be torn apart," he told the boy, and Much brandished the still smouldering branch he had used to beat Leofric away from Marion.

"I said shut up!" He sounded increasingly afraid, and the laughter of their five enemies resounded about the clearing. Robin thrust Albion into its sheath.

"Enough." He spoke harshly, his fury controlled only in part. Nearby Nasir was climbing to his feet, but Robin was not fool enough to think that any of them would recover so quickly from any further direct assaults. Their redheaded friend had lowered her arms now, but the whole of her body crackled with hot, red energy. It sparked from her teeth as she smiled widely, and the pupils at the centres of her eyes were a fizzing mass of tiny red sparks.

"Enough?" Her smile became seductive, and around her her two sisters gathered. Their smiles echoed hers, their red fires matched hers. A wind was building, and it felt as though the threesome were sucking all of the air from the world; pulling it towards them, drinking it in. "It's not enough until you're nothing but firewood, each and every one of you."

"And Herne's is dead. Yes, we know." Almost casually Robin lifted his bow, testing the ready string. "But I think perhaps you forgot that Herne trusts us to fight people like you - powers like yours. I am Herne's Son." His back seemed to straighten, even though he had never been the type to slouch. "I won't let you defeat him."

"You have no choice." She pointed at him, and tendrils of flame leapt from finger to finger. Robin stared coolly back, and at the same time, he reached for one of Marion's floral arrows.

"Those might have given you a few minute's grace before, but they'll give you no more than that now. A few minutes to do what? To think that you're winning like you did before?" Her voice as cackling and mad as it had always been, the oldest of the women grinned widely at Robin. She had no teeth, and the red fire that seemed to fill her mouth looked all the more terrible for it. Robin took a step forward, and the others fell in around him.

"The last time was a distraction," he said, almost polite in his defiance. "This time nobody is going to be aiming at the fire."

"And what makes you think we'll be letting you aim at all?" With a sudden throwing motion, the middle-aged woman hurled a red ball of fire at Robin - but almost without thinking he raised the arrow before him. The flames struck the daisies and shattered, showering the ground with tiny beads of heat that made the grass shiver and shrivel. Robin smiled.

"Getting desperate?" Slowly, easily, he slipped the arrow into its place against the bowstring. Leofric shouted in rage, and clubbing an inattentive Much out of his way, he ran for the outlaw. Robin didn't spare him a glance; didn't flinch; didn't let his gaze waver for an instant from the glowing, glowering trio before him. Leofric leapt at him, spitting curses as he came - and John raised his staff, meeting the attacking man in mid-air, driving the huge piece of wood into Leofric's stomach. The would-be attacker collapsed in a heap, and with a cry similar to her father's, May also hurled herself forward. This time it was Will who met the assault, his rock-like fist colliding with the girl's jaw, dropping her like a stone. Tuck offered her a quick blessing, and glared at the unrepentant Scarlet, who flashed him a grin and massaged his knuckles. Marion rolled her eyes, amused by his cheerful, and handy, lack of gallantry.

"You'll not succeed." Angry at the dispatch of her servants, Redhead began to glow with a fiercer light. Again she threw a bolt of fire at the outlaws, and again the arrow Robin held somehow deflected it. He began to draw back the bowstring.

"We will destroy Herne." Redhead was reaching out for her sisters, taking their hands. Firelight crackled from one to the other of the three, and Robin felt a wave of despair wash over him. Beside him Marion gasped, throwing up her hands to her eyes, and Much let out a moan of fear. Sights ran before all their eyes - of battlefields through the centuries; of ravens pecking sad, dead eyes from fallen men and boys. Widows cried as they crouched in the mud, and black clouds blocked out the sun.

"Tricks." Closing his mind to the images, Robin refocused on the three women. At his feet Leofric was stirring, but he was not a threat yet, and Robin was not going to be distracted by future opponents. Before him the three women began chanting, and a fierce wind began to blow. Beneath his feet Robin felt the ground starting to shake.

"More tricks." This time it was harder to ignore; harder to pretend that the wind lashing him was no less a hallucination than the battlefield. The arrow in the bow seemed to have been in his ready grip for hours - seemed to be becoming a part of his hand. In his mind's eyes he saw it as such; a hand and arm of wood and daisies, and a body the same. It made him queasy with the weirdness of it all.

"Robin, I can't see..." John was rubbing his eyes, still troubled by alien images. Only Will and Nasir, neither a stranger to true battles, true battlefields, seemed unaffected. Wordless, Scarlet seized a pair of arrows from the quiver on Marion's back, and threw one to the waiting Saracen. The Mòrrìgna screamed in rage, and with a sound like the crack of a whip, all three hurled forth their fire once again. The skies darkened, and a flock of ravens flew before the sun. Robin senses rather than saw them flying towards him, and knew that this time it was not just a mirage. His hand upon the bowstring still did not feel like his own; still felt as though it were made of wood; and he had to struggle to tell himself to release the string; to make the shot. He was no longer even sure of his aim.

"Robin?" Will was ready, his own bow waiting, his own target chosen. He waited only for a signal from his leader, but Robin found suddenly that he could not speak. Once again he was lost on that long ago battlefield, where Irish soldiers had fought against Roman centurions. He felt the blood on his skin, and the mud beneath his feet, and heard the wailing of widows at the field's edge. But through it all, betraying itself with its mockery, he heard the laugh of his enemy, and drew himself back from the brink. Furious with himself for having waited so long; for having allowed the powers of the Mòrrìgna to hold him in check, he released his arrow. He heard Redhead scream in fury - felt the assault of her fire upon him as his shield of before left his possession - felt pain rise and burn within every inch of his body - and opened his eyes. He saw three women, their bodies wreathed in red fire. He saw three arrows, their floral decorations streaming in the breeze. As one they struck - each in a different target, even though there had been no conferring over who was to shoot at whom. Overhead the flock of ravens screeched and dove closer, attacking the seven followers of Herne in a tumultuous beating of wings. Robin struck out with his bow, driving back the birds long enough to get a view of the Mòrrìgna. Their fires had ebbed, and as he watched he saw white smoke rise up around them, pouring from their eyes, their mouths, their fingers. Daisies sprang up from the ground around their feet, growing fast, rising up to entwine themselves around the feet, the legs, the bodies, of the three women. One by one the Mòrrìgna screamed, the sound rising to a lingering note of a pitch too high to be properly heard - then the women were gone, vanished in a burst of green. For a second the ravens fought on, screeching, pecking, clawing. Then they too were gone. Robin dropped his bow. At his feet Leofric was moaning, reaching for his legs, intending to drag him down. Robin turned to meet him head on, and was just in time to see both man and daughter fade away into nothingness. Only their outlines remained pressed into the ground. A scattering of daisies rose up, turned their bright heads to look skyward, then closed up their petals and slept. Robin smiled. He was still smiling a few seconds later, when the skies opened up, and Herne's storm at last broke though into their secluded niche.

**********

Sherwood was a mess. Most of England was the same, although Robin and his friends knew little enough of that. They saw only the places that they walked through on their way home, and their home itself once they arrived back there. Seas of mud had uprooted the smaller plants, arranging piles of debris in scattered places. The streams and rivers for miles around had burst their banks and flooded the land, and the ebbing waters had turned the ground to bog. Many of the leaves had been torn from the trees, and many branches had fallen. The lightening had found more than one target, and smouldering hulks that once had been proud trees stood as sorry testimony to the power of the fire from the skies. Will whistled.

"Remind me not to get on Herne's bad side. If this is what he'll do to a place he loves..."

"He was desperate, Will." Robin remembered the power of the storm, and wondered at how Herne must have been feeling. He would have been anxious to contact his son, to give warning of the coming of the Mòrrìgan, but when he had found himself unable to do so his anger had been terrible. It was a sobering reminder of the true power and ability of the man they held as their figurehead. "I'm lucky that he did all of this to the forest, and not to me. I made such a mess of things."

"How? You didn't bring the Mòrrìgan to England. All you wanted was to know about your father, and that's no crime." Busying himself around the fire that Nasir had already lit, Tuck sent Much to fetch down some of the stores that they had secured in the trees. "We'd all likely have done the same thing as you."

"I certainly would have done." Marion thought of her own father, dead in the Holy Land, and wondered what she would do if she were offered the chance to see him again for once last time. Will nodded. He was not one for comforting words ordinarily, but he managed a smile that was almost gentle.

"If they'd come to me, Robin, and told me that they were friends of my wife, I think I'd have listened to anything they said."

"Maybe." They had walked a long way, and all of them were tired, but Robin seemed more tired than anybody. He was drained physically and mentally. "But you tried to warn me not to head for London. I didn't listen."

"We all make mistakes, lad." John clapped him on the back. "Do you think you're supposed to be infallible, just because you're the son of Herne?" You're still just a man, Robin. And men make mistakes."

"When most men make mistakes they make fools of themselves, and that's all." Robin threw down his bow. "My mistake might have got Herne killed, and brought death and destruction to the whole of the country. I'm supposed to protect England, and instead I came close to allowing the Mòrrìgan to plunge it into chaos. She lured me out of Sherwood, so that she could use me to do more damage than the Sheriff or Gisburne could ever manage."

"It was still just a mistake." Marion could see that their reassurances were having no effect, and she hated to see her husband so troubled. "You won, Robin. You sent the Mòrrìgna back to where they came from. If you made a mistake, you accounted for it."

"Only because you saved me." He smiled at her then, gently and beautifully, but with eyes that were terribly sad. "I couldn't do anything, tied to that post. They were going to kill Much and Will, and then the others, and if it hadn't been for you they'd all be dead by now. You won, Marion. You accounted for my mistake. It was you who learnt how to defeat the Mòrrìgan, and you who gave me the chance to end it. All that I did was stand and wait to be cut free."

"We're a team. We're supposed to help each other, protect each other. You've saved me before, Robin. You saved me from the Baron de Belleme, and from Gisburne. I don't tear myself to pieces about it. We all look after each other."

"Maybe." He smiled at her then, though without much true happiness. "Right now I'm not sure. I need to think things through."

"Robin..." She let her words trail away into silence as he turned and left the camp, striding away into the forest. She might have followed him, were it not for Nasir catching her arm. He shook his head at her questioning expression, before retrieving Robin's fallen bow, and returning it to its proper place near to the camp fire. Tuck smiled kindly.

"He's right, little flower. Robin is bothered by his pride, and by his thoughts. He needs to sort that out by himself."

"But he shouldn't be alone. He's hurting himself with his thoughts." She sighed, knowing that Tuck was right. "He expects to be perfect. He doesn't believe that the son of Herne should make mistakes."

"He's just embarrassed. We've all felt that way from time to time. All made mistakes that might have hurt ourselves, or others." John was thinking of the early days of his relationship with Meg of Wickham, when he had put the whole of her village in danger by meeting there with her. "Don't worry about him, lass. Only time can make him feel better. He'll realise in the end that there's nothing to feel so bad about; but it won't do him any good to have us fussing around him."

"But he'll be alright, won't he?" Lugging a bag of food down from a nearby tree, Much asked his question with a customary look of wide-eyed concern. John clapped him on the shoulder.

"He'll be fine, lad. And he'll want something to eat when he gets back, so that food better still be edible."

"I think it is." Much stared after Robin for a moment, then came back to himself as the others began to bustles around him, helping Tuck to get a simple meal ready. Soon only Marion was left watching, looking to see if Robin would soon be returning, but as Nasir brought her some wine, and the smell of warming bread reminded her of how long it had been since she had eaten, she allowed herself to relax. The others were right, and she knew that Robin would return to them in time. There was no sense in worrying herself over things that she knew were beyond her control.

**********

In a sea of rolling mist, Herne the Hunter stood before his young visitor, and lowered his head in greeting. Robin was troubled, and his mysterious father felt the young man's unrest as if it had been his own.

"You are bothered by your thoughts." He said it almost brightly, although by his very nature Herne was almost never that cheerful. Robin pulled Albion from its sheath.

"I came to offer this back to you. If you want to choose another son, I'm happy to relinquish my place."

"You would abandon the people of England so quickly?" Herne's voice had become more serious, and Robin looked up at him in surprise.

"Never." His determination was fierce. "But I was a fool. Two people came to me, and made me believe their tales. I didn't even question them."

"Robin..." Herne moved closer, and Robin felt the mist rising around them, cold but not damp like conventional fog. "If I expected my son never to make a mistake, I would never have chosen a mortal man. But a god could not do the things you do, and walk among the people of England. A god couldn't suffer alongside them, not in the same way. I chose you with all of your faults, and I never expected you to be anything other than flawed. This isn't the first mistake you've made, and it won't be the last."

"I nearly got you killed - you and all the others. If it hadn't been for Marion..."

"And there's dishonour in being saved by your wife? So she saved you this time. That's something else that wasn't happening for the first time. You didn't offer back Albion when Marion saved you from Jennet of Elsdon's poison, or after you wrongly trusted the Lionheart. Why now?

"Because..." Robin thought of his eagerness to believe Leofric's tales. "Because I have a weakness I never thought of before. Loxley is my weakness. My father is my weakness."

"And Scarlet's wife is his; Marion's father is hers. For Much it is his fears, for Nasir it is his pride. If I wanted a son without weaknesses I would spend the rest of time searching for him. Robin, if you're looking for an excuse to give up your destiny, you'll not find it here. England needs heroes, now more than ever. The people need somebody who will stand up for them, to combat crooked and unfair rule, disorder, misery, poverty, hunger. Somebody who can win their battles for them. Nobody is looking for someone without faults."

"I feel like such a fool." He stared at his father, Albion now hanging at his side. "They made a fool of me."

"Yes." Slowly Herne reached up, pulling off the heavy head-dress that made an ageing mortal man into the personification of a god. "But they won't again. A true fool doesn't learn from his mistakes. A true fool doesn't climb back to his feet and return to the fight. Are you a true fool, Robin?"

"No." Jaw set, Robin returned Albion to the sheath at his side. "Thankyou."

"Thankyou. Perhaps you needed Marion to help you achieve it, but you fought off the Mòrrìgan for me, and won me back my full strength. I doubt that she'll be returning here again for a long while."

"She? Or they? I wasn't sure." Robin saw the gentle smile, and knew that he was in for an answer that was far from satisfying.

The one is the three, my son. And the three is the one. It has always been so." The smile grew bigger. "Just as you are seven, perhaps. Seven of you, working together as one. Seven is a powerful number."

"I... see." He returned the smile then. Thankyou."

"Don't thank me yet, my son. I have more riddles for you, and you won't be happy to hear them. Danger comes, and you must be ready to face it."

"Danger?" Well that was nothing new. Herne laid his head-dress on the ground, and led Robin to the edge of the river that flowered past his lair.

"From the past comes a friend. From an enemy comes a request. Trust the friend and the enemy, and victory may be hard to reach."

"Oh." Robin stared into the still waters of the river, wishing that Herne would speak to him clearly more often. He had been lucid enough earlier, after all.

"Watch, my son." Herne waved a hand at the water, and in the depths of it Robin saw his reflection blur and fade. In its place was a man on horseback, and a line of chained figures. Somebody shouted something in a foreign language that Robin didn't know, before the picture changed again. There was a campfire now, and sleeping figures gathered around it; a vista of peace and quiet. A dark shape moved - silent feet fell as the shape moved onwards, towards one of the sleeping figures - then a knife flashed in the firelight, and Robin saw it strike home. He heard his own voice cry out in pain, and saw the stabbed figure roll over under the force of the blow. His own eyes stared sightlessly back at him - and then were gone. He was looking at his reflection again, and Herne gestured for him to move away from the water's edge.

"Watch for messages that interest you," he said quietly, and the mists rose more thickly. "Not all pleas for help are real, even when those in need of help truly are in need of help." The mist had risen high now, and Robin could no longer see Herne. The voice still came to him though, briefly.

"Return now, my son. Go back to your friends. Rest. You won't be resting for long." Then the mists were gone, and Robin was alone. He sighed, having expected nothing less. Sometimes working for a god could be annoying to say the least.

It was late before he returned to the others. They had eaten, and were sitting around the fire sharing comic tales of long ago exploits, from the days before they had known each other. Robin walked soundlessly into their midst.

"Did you save me any food?" It was with much more cheer that he spoke to them now, than when he had spoken before. Tuck handed over a bowl of dried meat and vegetables, along with a piece of bread.

"Are you feeling better now?" Coming to sit beside him, Marion leant on his shoulder as he began to eat, and he smiled at her in just the way that she liked best.

"Much better. Marion..."

"Yes?"

"Thankyou. For saving me. For being so clever, and quick, and rather wonderful."

"I do my best." She poured him some wine. "You don't mind then? I thought that you did?"

"Mind being rescued by you?" He smiled. "I don't mind. There's nobody in the world I'd rather be rescued by. There's just one thing."

"Yes?"

"If anybody ever claims to have known my father, or to be from Loxley, or to be on a mission for Herne..."

"Beat you over the head until you see sense and refuse to have anything to do with them?"

"Well I was going to say remind me of Leofric, but I suppose your way works too."

She smiled. "I promise."

"Good. And I'm sorry, all of you, for putting you all in danger."

"That's alright Robin." Little John smiled at him - a giant of formidable form, with the beaming smile of an innocent child. "We all made our own choices. We all put ourselves at risk."

"And probably will again." Will poured himself more wine. "Is it too late to find something else to do for a living?"

"I think it was too late on the day we were born." Robin raised his drink into the air. "To... mistakes, and the people who make them."

"I'll second that." Tuck raised his own mug in salute. Marion laughed.

"And to daisies," she added, with more than a touch of humour. John nodded enthusiastically.

"Aye, to daisies."

"And to winning every battle." It was typical of Will to make such an addition to the toast, and everybody laughed. Robin alone looked sober, for he remembered Herne's latest riddles. Soon there would be another battle to be fought - but that was the future, whether near or distant. Now was for laughing, and for being with his friends. And raising his mug high into the air, he echoed Will's toast. Battles, after all, were his business, and as long as he had his friends to support him, he intended to win them all.

NOTE

Pronunciation:

Mòrrìgan = 'Morr-ee-an'
Mòrrìgna = 'Morr-ee-na'
Angus Òg = 'Òg' to rhyme with 'rogue', or 'vogue'.

A lot of people will disagree with my interpretation of the Mòrrìgan, her nature and who she is. Irish legends hold her to be a being of great power, beloved of war and misfortune, but there are plenty of people who don't consider her to be unpleasant, and still honour her today. Just as many think of her as an evil character, though, and a good many old tales talk of her in such a way. It's a matter of personal taste I suppose. As for the daisies - they are allegedly the flower of Angus Òg, and can supposedly see off his foes. I like the idea of little flowers winning the day, so that's another thing that we'll put down to personal interpretation!

THE END