Will was jolted out of a sound sleep by what sounded like a Viking war cry right in his ear. He flew upright with a startled gasp and drew the dagger he kept tucked in the front of his trousers. Without another thought, he hurled the blade in the direction of the intruder.

There came a thud, a squawk, and feathers suddenly exploded all over the interior of the hut.

Blinking himself awake, Will stared at the bright morning light streaming through the open doorway of the little dwelling. All was peaceful. The birds were singing in the trees, friendly voices of villagers called to one another outside, and there were certainly no Vikings invading the camp. There was, however, a very dead rooster lying on the dirt floor of the hut, a dagger sticking out of its very dead body. Feathers floated down through the air and settled on the ground.

Will crawled from his pallet on his hands and knees and stared at the skewered fowl with wide eyes. "Fuck me," he uttered, "I killed it."

He gave the rooster a cautious poke. Yes, it was definitely dead. Will hardly ever missed his mark, half asleep or not. The stupid bird must have wandered into the hut and woken him with a crow. Well, that was one rooster in Sherwood who would never crow again. Will raked a hand through his hair and sighed. Someone was going to be very angry about this.

Muttering under his breath, he reached out and picked up the dead rooster by its feet, dislodging his dagger from its corpse. Might as well face his crime like a man, he thought. He rose to his feet and shuffled out of the hut, blinking in the bright light.

The camp was buzzing like a hive and everyone seemed to be in good spirits. After three days of gray skies and rain, every soul in Sherwood was glad to see the sun again. Will hated to be the bearer of bad news on such a lovely day, but this rooster belonged to somebody, and he would just have to ask around until he—

"Will Scarlet!"

The sharp voice of Fanny Little cut across the clearing like a knife, and Will instinctively cringed. He turned around to see the plump, redheaded woman marching toward him with a gleaming hatchet in her hand.

Will never ran from a fight, but his mother had told him it was a mortal sin to strike a woman, and Will certainly had no intention of raising a finger against the wife of the biggest, strongest man in the shire, be it self defense or not. For a few seconds he was torn between running for his life and trying to explain himself, but by the time he decided to flee, Fanny was already upon him.

"Bless you, lad, I've been lookin' all over for this blasted bird!" she cried, shouldering the hatchet. "Saved me the trouble of killin' the bugger, too. I'll certainly enjoy plucking this one!"

Will numbly handed the dead rooster back to its owner, too relieved to even think of an intelligent reply. "My pleasure," he said dazedly. "Er, have you seen Azeem this morning?"

"Off with the rest of the menfolk at the crack o' dawn. No doubt gettin' an head start on an honest day's work . . . You all right, Will? You look as if you're still asleep."

"I feel like I am," he muttered, rubbing his face tiredly.

Fanny cocked her hip and reached into her pocket. "Here, since you was kind enough to take care of this ol' rotter for me, have yourself some eggs. And for heaven's sakes, lad, go jump in the river and wake up! It's a right beautiful day—shouldn't nobody miss it!"

Will smiled his thanks and accepted the eggs from Fanny, then watched the woman stride away with the rooster swinging in her hand. He shook his head, unable to believe that his fortune had turned around so quickly. A small miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.

He took a deep breath, savoring the fresh, clean scent of the forest. He gazed up into the trees, bursting with bright green leaves and dazzling spots of sunlight, and at the blue sky beyond. Fanny was right—it wasa beautiful day. Maybe he would take her advice about jumping in the river. It had been a while since his last bath, and he could stand to wash some of the dried mud off his clothes.

After breakfast, of course, Will thought, tucking the eggs safely into his waistcoat. It wasn't every day that he got to eat a meal he hadn't stolen, or wake up to fair, sunny weather after a full night's rest in a comfortable bed. Perhaps his luck was finally beginning to improve.

A pair of small children—two brothers—ran past Will, laughing and squealing as they chased each other across the camp. It was impossible not to be amused by their happy faces and carefree voices. Perhaps everyone's luck was changing for the better, Will realized, his smile slowly fading. Perhaps Locksley had been right about fighting back . . . Perhaps the spoiled little rich boy of yesteryear had also changed for the better.

Shaking the thought from his mind, Will started walking back toward Azeem's hut. It was too early and far too lovely a day to burden himself with such heavy concerns. Right now, breakfast was the only thing he wanted to think about. Everything else, including Saint Robin of Locksley, could just wait.

Torrents of cold, fresh water thundered over the falls, the river swollen from days of rain. It would have been too cold if the sun hadn't been shining, but the pool at the bottom of the waterfall was pleasantly refreshing without being frigid. The rocks that lined the shore were warm and sunlit; a pair of trousers and a shirt lay drying on them, as well as a few other recently-washed garments.

Will surfaced in the center of the pool with a sputter, water streaming down his bare chest. He gave his head a shake and slicked back his hair with his hands, feeling a bit more human now that he'd scrubbed the accumulation of dirt and grime from his skin.

Though his mother had been dead for four and a half years, Will's memories of her seemed as vivid and clear as if she'd never passed. He smiled to himself, recalling how much emphasis she placed upon tidiness and personal cleanliness, teaching Will to wash and mend his own clothes so that he would have more appreciation for them, and making sure he had a clean neck at every meal and bedtime. After all, dirty little boys would grow up to become dirty old men someday, she told him.

For a woman not even twenty years old—and an unwed mother at that—Avalina Scarrington had had more wisdom and skill and grace than most ladies of the royal court. She was tidy, well-spoken, and had an excellent singing voice. She could also read Latin, write with a quill, and sew better than any woman who could sew faster. Her talents for embroidery and weaving earned her recognition across the shire, and this was ultimately how she came to meet Thomas Locksley—and fall in love with the sad, lonely widower—at the tender age of sixteen. Who would have thought that within a year's time she would be turned out on the streets, her name sullied and her belly growing large with the child Locksley loved less than his own son . . .

Will felt his anger rising and quickly pushed the memories from his mind. He would not let the Locksley family haunt him for the rest of his life. Thomas was dead and his fool of a son would surely be joining him soon. One couldn't keep taunting the Sheriff of Nottingham and expect to live a full, happy life. Robin's days were numbered, and when they finally came to an end . . .

An odd feeling took hold of Will as he stood waist-deep in the cool green water, staring down at his own reflection.

I'll be all alone. The last of my family. No other kin or blood relation . . . The last son of Locksley.

Will held his breath and plunged under the water, down into the quiet, placid darkness, as if trying to get away from his own tumultuous thoughts.

No. I am the son of Scarrington. I am Scarlet the Outlaw. Thomas Locksley was never a father to me. He never wanted me, never loved me, never embraced me or held me or comforted me . . .

Reflected light danced over Will's pale face as he tread the water, his hair floating weightlessly around his head. It was true that Lord Locksley had never acknowledged him as his son, but that hadn't stopped Will from shedding tears when he learned of the man's execution four months ago. He had been a terrible father, yes; a devil-worshiper, maybe; but that didn't change the fact that he was still Will's sire, the man who had given him life, one half of the union that had created him out of love, whose blood ran in Will's veins, whose features Will had inherited and recognized in Robin of Locksley, his brother, his only kin. The last family he had left in this cold, corrupted world.

Will broke the surface with a splash and sucked in a breath. Away from the darkness—back to light. Back to life.

Hoping he had drowned his dismal thoughts, he waded to the shore and shook himself off, then sat on the warm rocks and allowed the sun to finish drying his skin, comfortable and unbothered by his nakedness. He reached to his trousers and produced a needle and thread from the special inner pocket he had sewn into them. Threading the needle with the ease of an experienced tailor, he set to work repairing the various small rips and loose seams in his clothing, casting each stitch as straight and evenly as any seamstress worth her salt.

Unexpectedly, the motion of sewing was causing the scab on the back of Will's hand to begin to detach, already being soft and leathery from the water. With a faint look of disgust, he paused in the middle of mending his shirtsleeve and began to pick at the shell of hard, dead skin. Azeem had warned him to leave it alone, but he couldn't have this revolting thing hanging off of his hand all day—it would drive him mad. He decided to take care of it now, regardless of what the Moor had told him.

To Will's surprise, there was almost no resistance as he pulled off the unsightly scab, revealing the smooth pink skin of the scar between his knuckles. It didn't look bad at all—it was almost impossible to believe that two weeks ago this had been a hole that had gone all the way through his flesh. Now it was barely noticeable. Smiling, he flexed his hand and wiggled his fingers. Everything was working as it should. This day kept getting better and better!

He spent a few more minutes tending to his clothes, then tucked his sewing kit back into its pocket and got dressed. Some of his garments were still a little damp, but if the sky remained as clear as it was now, they would soon be dry again.

Feeling unusually optimistic and cheerful, Will pointed himself toward camp again, hoping that Azeem had returned from the "hunting party" by now. No doubt the Moor would be interested to see how well his hand had healed.

Whistling a tune that blended with the melodies of the singing birds of the forest, Will disappeared into the trees.

There was a great deal of commotion when he arrived back at the sylvan village. Locksley and his men had indeed returned, and they were not alone. With them was a wagon loaded with barrels of every size, and somewhere a stranger's voice was braying as loudly as a jackass. Naturally curious but even more cautious, Will slipped around the edge of the crowd to see if he could learn what had happened.

The loud voice, as he soon discovered, belonged to a fat, red-faced, sweaty-looking friar. Will examined the newcomer from a safe distance, wondering how a man of the cloth had come to be captured by the Merry Men of Sherwood.

"Oh, don't worry about him, Will," said Arthur, passing by. "Robin convinced him to come with us. You can trust him, he's one of us."

"One of us? He looks like three of us."

Arthur laughed. "Aye, and he fights like three of us, too! Don't get too close to his feet—he kicks like a mule. Just ask Robin, he knows all about it!"

Will continued to sift through the crowd, absorbing bits and pieces of information as he went. Apparently the men had managed to rob a heavily guarded caravan, making off with the friar's ale wagon and the contents of one of Nottingham's own carriages. The men were laughing and slapping each other on the back, congratulating themselves on a successful raid. As Will drew closer to the center of the group, he saw Locksley and John kneeling before a small chest, striking at the lock with an axe. With a smug smile finding its way to his lips, Will crossed his arms and watched them work, even though a crafty burglar such as himself could have easily picked it for them in half the time. It was more fun to watch Saint Robin struggle; the only thing he'd broken at this point was a sweat. Amateurs, Will scoffed.

After enough smashing, however, the lock finally snapped and the chest was opened. A collective gasp escaped the onlookers, who murmured in wonder as they watched Robin reach in and grab a fistful of gold coins. They fell through his fingers, shining and clinking richly. He looked up at Azeem, who stood frowning down at the trunk suspiciously.

Almost as if reading the Moor's mind, Robin nodded. "This treasure had a purpose," he said lowly, then shut the lid as if it held a dangerous secret. "We must find out what."

"How do we do that?" asked John.

Robin, whose clothes were curiously soaked, wiped his damp face on his sleeve. "We'll have to send someone to Nottingham, to get close to the Sheriff and learn what he can." He regarded the suddenly serious, uneasy faces around him. "Who among you is the most capable thief?"

Will should have slipped away when he had the chance, but he was too busy staring at the chest and wondering when he might be given the opportunity to liberate some of its contents. Lost in thought, he didn't realize that the crowd had parted around him, all eyes turning toward him, leaving him standing on his own. When he finally noticed that he had become the center of attention, he froze like a deer at the snapping of a twig.

"Are you truly the best thief in Sherwood, Will?" Robin asked in a surprised voice.

God, he hated being caught out in the open like this—he felt defenseless and surrounded. His heart pounding nervously, Will muttered, "I'm not your messenger boy, Locksley, and I'm not risking my neck just to satisfy your curiosity. If you want to know so badly, why don't you go?"

"Are you the best thief in Sherwood?" Robin repeated.

"Are you the deafest man in Sherwood? I said I'm not go—"

"Are you the best thief in Sherwood, Will?"

"I'll go, Robin," came another voice. Everyone turned to see Frederick Furrows, also known as Frederick Fingers for his reputation as a jewelry thief in the village of Newark, step forward. He was older than Will by about six or seven years, tall and thin like a sapling, and his ears stuck out from under his cap like a carriage with both doors open. He would have been handsome if he were a little less gangly, and if his ears didn't protrude quite so much.

"I reckon I'm just as good a thief as Scarlet," Fred claimed proudly, "and I know for a fact that I'm twice as trustworthy. Let me go to Nottingham for you, Robin. Leave a man's job to the men."

There were a few soft, scattered chuckles, but most of the crowd remained silent, especially Much, George, Bull, and anyone who had known Will Scarlet long enough to understand how he'd gotten his current surname . . . and it wasn't an affinity for the color red.

Will scowled with all the darkness and menace of a thunderstorm. He had never liked Fred Furrows, nor any man who boasted about deceiving women with his charming ways just to rob them of their trinkets. It was disgusting and ungentlemanly; Will loathed the cur, who was everything his mother had hated about men, and everything she had raised Will not to be.

"You call yourself a thief?" Will snapped. "You couldn't steal horseshit if they were giving it away."

"Piss off, Scarlet. You don't got the brains God gave a flea."

"It's still more brains than you'll ever have."

"And twice as much as your mum has . . . sorry, had."

There was a brief flicker of black, unadulterated rage that flashed in Will's eyes, but his expression remained otherwise unchanged. Without batting an eye, he calmly drew his knife from his belt and began striding toward Fred. Azeem stepped up to intercept him, but, surprisingly, it was Robin who beat him to it.

"Peace, Will," he said gently, holding his hands up as he blocked the angry outlaw's path. "Don't allow yourself to be provoked. That is exactly what he wants. Calm yourself."

Will glared over Robin's shoulder at Fred, who smiled and shrugged. He stood where he was for another moment, clenching his teeth and breathing heavily, then returned his gaze to Locksley and sheathed his knife.

Robin let out a small sigh of relief and nodded. "That's better. Now tell me, Will, are you the best thief in Sherwood?"

"I am."

"Can you prove it?"

"Aye, prove it!" exclaimed Fred. "Let's have a contest, a thieves' contest!"

There was a rumble of agreement from the crowd. Robin warily studied the sullen young man in front of him. "Would you agree to a competition?"

"Anytime," Will muttered, glowering at Fred.

"Then it's settled," said Robin, turning to his men. "We'll have a contest to prove the best thief in Sherwood! Is there anyone else who would like to compete?"

Not surprisingly, there were no volunteers—no one was foolish enough to get involved in this cockfight—but the men were nevertheless excited at the prospect of a tournament and were already placing their bets on the victor. It was simply fun and games to them, a source of much-needed entertainment. To Will Scarlet, however, it was a wholly different matter.

Azeem approached from the side and laid a hand on Will's shoulder. "Are you certain you want to do this?"

"I'm certain," said Will firmly. "This is my forest. I'll not be run out by a slithering streak of slime like Fred Furrows."

As Azeem watched Will stride away, he couldn't help but wonder if the young man shared a similar attitude toward his estranged half-brother, who had more or less arrived in "his forest" and all but run him out; no doubt this was a subtle way for Will to prove himself to Robin, of showing him that he was more than just the surly, disagreeable loner everyone took him for. Azeem pondered what sort of outcome could be expected from such a test of skills . . . and how (or if) it was possible to measure a talent such as thievery.

"What are your thoughts, Azeem?" asked Robin.

"How one might prove himself a better thief to another," he answered, stroking his mustache. "I fear you may have begun a contest for which there can be no victor."

"I wouldn't worry about that, mate," said John, stepping up with a broad smile. "I know the perfect way to test these two rascals. Follow me!"

Thanks for all your great feedback, everyone! I hope you're enjoying reading this story as much as I am writing it. Also, I need to give credit where credit is due: Will's humorous line of "One of us? He looks like three of us," comes from the 1938 version of Will Scarlet in The Adventures of Robin Hood, starring Errol Flynn. I thought it'd be a nice little tribute (and bit of trivia) to the Robin Hood universe. Furthermore, I know I told a few of you guys that I was working on an illustration of Will. Well, I finished it, and you can find the link by visiting my profile page. Your feedback is the highlight of my day, so don't forget to leave a few words before you go. Thanks, everyone! -HJB