III: The Uneasy Alliance
Halward moved through the woods like a man bearing a weight too long on his shoulders. Each step fell heavy on the soft earth, his breath drawn sharp against the night air. He kept one hand near the hilt at his side—not for show, but out of habit. The forest no longer offered peace. Not after blood had been spilled in its name.
The moon hung low above the ash branches, filtering silver light through the leafless canopy. Mist coiled around the roots, brushing his boots like curious fingers. Somewhere in the dark, an owl called and was answered. He reached the clearing at the edge of the old path—the one he had marked with a stone years ago, when he still believed the woods might hold only silence.
Hal stood still and waited. He did not call out. If Robin Hood had meant for him to come, then Robin Hood would be watching.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded scrap of parchment—Robin’s note, the arrow’s message, the summons to this place. Beneath it, his fingers brushed the indentation in the cloth where the fox token had rested days before. He had left it behind, a sign and a plea. A father’s barter. He remembered Wil’s face the morning he went missing—the firelight on his brow, the half-smile he gave Arrow before vanishing into the trees. Gone. Taken.
“You came,” said a voice behind him.
Hal turned.
Robin stood with the moon behind him, hood low over his brow. His silhouette was unmistakable—tall, poised, cloaked in the forest’s breath. He did not approach, nor did he reach for any weapon. Stillness was his shield.
“I came for the boy,” Hal said. His voice was tired, gravel laid over iron.
Robin nodded. “He lives.”
Hal’s jaw tightened. “Tomas?”
Robin lowered his gaze. “Dead. David blamed you—and the silence that followed. The ambush was his doing. When that failed, he took the boy.”
Hal’s eyes darkened. “The Sheriff knows of the ambush. It was reported. I came to stop a war, not ignite one.”
Robin gave a faint nod. “You came too late.”
They stood in silence. Between them, only frost and breath.
Hal finally broke it. “I won’t lose him.”
“You may not have a choice,” Robin said. “But you do have a path.”
He turned, just enough to reveal the road ahead. From his belt, Robin drew out a bundle—rough wool and coarse leather, shaped and stitched with care. A hood.
"You’ll wear this," he said. "Not for disguise. For debt. This meeting has cost more than coin."
Hal raised an eyebrow. "And this is the price I pay?"
Robin met his gaze. "No. This is the sign that you’ve paid it. That you understand what it means to walk blind into judgment."
Hal didn’t move.
Robin’s voice softened. “I thank you—for burying the dead. Rafe told me. They rest now, by the chapel. That peace matters.”
Hal's voice was low. “It cost us all. Alan was a good man.”
Robin looked away for a moment. “Whatever else you believe, know this—I will stand beside you when the time comes.”
Hal studied him. “You serve your own ends.”
“I do,” Robin said. “But not always. Not tonight.”
They stood a moment longer in quiet accord, neither fully trusting, but no longer strangers in grief.
“Come,” Robin said again. “They’re waiting.”
Hal took a breath, steadying himself. “Am I to walk in as their butcher?”
Robin shook his head. “You will not walk in at all—not as Halward. Not as Warden. You’ll be blindfolded. It is the only way.”
Hal stiffened. “You think I’d strike down a child?”
“They don’t know you,” Robin said. “They only know the man who killed Tomas. The gathering is rare—dangerous even. The forest does not come together unless it must. Not for years. But now, with the Sheriff’s men circling and the boy taken, they’ve come. Some out of duty. Some for blood.”
He stepped closer. “You’ll be brought in as a stranger. Let them judge what they see—not what they fear.”
Hal nodded, jaw tight.
Robin reached into his cloak and drew a strip of dark cloth. “You’ll be watched by many tonight. Rafe will speak for you. Maybe others.”
Hal eyed him. “And who are they?”
Robin’s voice was low. “Much. And Little John—the largest man you’ll ever see.”
He adjusted the edge of the dark cloth in his hand. “First, we go to Tuck’s. Then the Gathering Tree. My friends await us at the spring.”
He stepped forward. “You will listen. And I will lead.”
***
The cave lay low in the hillside, veiled beneath hanging ivy and twisted roots, warm with the breath of earth and steam. A spring-fed pool glistened near the back wall, feeding the hollow with its steady trickle. It was the kind of place the world forgot—and Tuck preferred it that way. The air brimmed with the scent of malt and bark, dried elderflower and bitter yarrow. Barrels and jugs lined the walls, each marked with a thumbprint in ash. This was no tavern. It was a shrine to the brewer’s art.
Brother Tuck sat slouched in a carved stump chair, his tunic stained, his jug half-full. Edric, his young apprentice, stirred something thick and aromatic in a clay pot over the fire. Neither greeted Halward. This was not their council—but their cave, there home.
Robin led Halward inward. Around a rough-hewn table stood three men, each a stranger and yet somehow known.
Rafe was slender and tall, with streaks of grey at his temples and a lined brow that spoke of long nights under stars and longer days among ghosts. His eyes were pale green, reflective, as if they saw more than the present. He nodded respectfully but said nothing at first.
Much stood beside him, shorter and wiry, arms crossed over a chest wrapped in a patched leather jerkin. His dark hair was shaggy, his face sharp, and his mouth never quite still—chewing the inside of his cheek or working up the next retort. Suspicion danced in his gaze, but it hadn’t yet settled into hate.
Then there was Little John, towering and broad, with shoulders like stacked beams and hands that might crush skulls or cradle sparrows. He wore a long woolen cloak over roughspun, and a simple wooden bead hung from his neck. He did not smile, but there was no malice in his gaze. His presence filled the cave more than the firelight.
Robin motioned to a stool. “Sit. Speak plainly. Time’s against us.”
Halward sat. The weight of his armor creaked against the wood, but he made no move to remove it. He looked to the men gathered, measuring them even as he felt himself weighed.
Robin poured five cups of gruit, the scent sharp with rosemary and iron. Each man lifted his drink. No toasts were made.
“I did not come to beg,” Halward began. “The boy was taken from me. I have come to speak for him—not to excuse myself. I paid my toll with the fox token. I wore the blindfold. I came in peace.”
Much scoffed. “A Warden preaching peace?” He tilted his cup. “Strange times.”
“You killed our friends,” said Rafe—not Hal’s friend now, but Rafe o’ the Hollow, keeper of the old ways, his eyes unreadable in the flicker of firelight. “Three of them. One barely a man. You and I stood over their graves, but here, I speak not as the one who helped you dig them. I speak for the balance. Some here wonder if you didn’t come to finish what the king’s law began.”
Halward’s jaw tightened. “They died in battle. Defending themselves. So did Alan. So nearly did Hob. But I returned with them all. Even the ones I didn’t call comrades.”
“Alan was your man,” Much said. “The others were ours.”
“I buried them by the chapel,” Halward replied. “Rafe knows. The graves are marked. And I carry the names.”
The silence thickened. Even Edric had stopped stirring.
Robin leaned forward. “He’s not wrong to speak of peace. Nor is he owed trust. But he stands between two worlds. He enforces the king’s law, yes—but he has also fed the poor, taken no bribes, and turned his eyes from fugitives with children clinging to their legs. You call him Warden. The folk beyond the gate call him Halward the Just. And neither name is quite true.”
Rafe nodded slowly. “Balance, not peace. Forest law weighs what’s lost. Alan died. Tomas died. The others fell in battle. That should’ve been enough.”
“But it wasn’t,” Halward said. “David took the boy.”
“Which tipped the scale,” Rafe agreed. “What was restored has now been broken.”
“Forest law does not pardon,” said Much. “It remembers. But it listens.”
Little John stepped forward, his deep voice smooth as stone worn by river. “The trial is not a court. It is a weighing. The five elders—Voices of the Wind—they will sit beneath the Gathering Tree. They speak not their names, only their place: East, West, North, South, and the Last.”
“The Denizen,” Robin added. “He who speaks last, and whose word holds sway when none agree. The oldest voice. The only one all fear to lie before.”
“You will remain blindfolded,” said John. “The forest will not see you. Only hear. You speak for the boy. Rafe will speak as witness. And David will speak against you.”
Halward looked between them. “He’ll be there?”
“He honors the old ways,” said Rafe. “Though his heart is poisoned.”
“He blames me for Tomas,” Halward said quietly.
“He blames me,” Robin said. “But it’s easier to attack a man of the sheriff.”
Much leaned on the table. “This forest doesn’t forget. Don’t expect forgiveness.”
“I ask none,” Halward said.
“Then you may yet be heard,” said John.
Tuck stood at last and approached with a clay cup, steam curling from its rim. “You’ll want your wits,” he said again, offering it with two hands.
Halward drank deeply. The drink bitter and dark.
Robin placed a strip of linen on the table. “Come morning, you’ll wear this. Until then, rest what you can.”
“No torches,” Rafe added. “Many eyes watch.”
They rose together. Robin met Halward’s eyes one last time. “They fear the Sheriff’s reach. They fear betrayal. But they agreed to this. That’s not nothing.”
Edric banked the fire. Outside, the wind stirred low among the leaves.
***
The forest folk gathered in silence beneath the great oak known only as the Gathering Tree. Its limbs sprawled above like a cathedral roof, its roots deep as the memory of blood. Around it, torches hissed in iron sconces driven into the earth, their flames tossing shadows across cloaked figures. No names were spoken here. No steel was drawn. Forest law did not answer to crown or coin.
Halward was led blindfolded into the circle. The blindfold was linen, folded twice. He could see nothing, only feel the cold press of loam beneath his boots and the shiver of anticipation in the crowd.
Robin’s voice came low beside him. "Stand tall."
A silence fell.
“O Great Spirit of Root and Hollow,
Guardian of branch, flame, and frost,
We gather beneath your ancient limbs,
Seeking not vengeance, but truth.
By breath of beast and cry of crow,
By shadowed path and sacred bough,
We ask your witness on this night.
Let the scales be held in steadied hands.
Let the heart speak what the tongue withholds.
Let justice bloom where blood was spilled.
Guide us, O spirit, where our eyes may fail,
And let no lie pass unseen beneath your tree.”
These words were spoken not by the crowd, but by a single, grave voice—the Denizen, last of the Voices of the Wind, and the unofficial lord of the council. His voice trembled like the boughs of the great tree above them, ancient and firm. Robin leaned close to Halward’s ear and whispered, "That is the Denizen." Halward, blindfolded and still, could feel the weight of the elder’s presence even without sight. The prayer was no mere tradition—it was a petition to the forest itself, a sacred rite seldom heard aloud. As the last word echoed into the hush, the fire cracked louder, as if the forest had heard and answered.
When the last syllable faded, Halward heard the crunch of footsteps around him. The council had entered the clearing.
Then—a whisper of wings.
Arrow dropped from the branches. With a flutter, the raven landed on Halward’s shoulder. His talons pricked through cloak and leather. Hal held still.
“Wil,” the raven croaked. “Wil… Wil…”
The sound struck through Halward’s chest like an arrow of its own. He dared not turn, dared not speak, but something in his breath steadied. The boy was alive. He was here.
A new voice entered the ring. Measured, bitter, familiar.
David.
He paced the circle slowly, boots brushing ash.
“You all know me,” he began. “You know what was taken. Tomas. A boy. A son of the forest. No sword. No shield. Only hunger and hope. He was beaten. Maimed. Left to rot by the king’s law. And who enforced that law?”
He stopped before Halward.
“This man.”
Murmurs rippled outward.
“I do not come to beg, nor to weep. I come to tell you this—if we let this stand, if we let his oath to Nottingham outweigh our own, then we betray everything we’ve built. Tomas died because no one paid his debt. Because gold matters more than grace. Because a Warden saw only a duty, not a boy.”
He turned to the council.
“You call this balance? Then the scale’s broken.”
Suddenly, a horn rang through the trees.
Not a forest horn.
A war horn.
Torches flared. Steel clanged. Then came the crash of boots on underbrush.
From beyond the circle, shadows surged forward—figures in chainmail and surcoats bearing the Sheriff’s mark. Sir Bertram’s voice cut through the panic:
“Seize them! In the name of the King!”
Screams erupted as forest folk scattered. Two of the Voices vanished into the trees. Arrows flew, some striking torches, others striking flesh. Halward ripped off the blindfold just in time to see Bertram’s men flood the glade, swords flashing in firelight.
He turned—searching, scanning—then he saw him.
Wilmot.
The boy was being pulled by one of David’s men, dragged toward the edge of the chaos.
“NO!” Halward roared.
His hand flew to his belt. Not for a sword—Robin had taken that as part of the pact. But Halward had always kept one blade hidden.
He drew the knife from his boot and ran.
David turned at the last second.
Their eyes met.
“You—”
Halward drove the blade deep into David’s chest.
Time slowed. David gasped. His hands closed around Hal’s arms, strong even in dying. His mouth opened, but no words came. Just the softest exhale, a sound like regret—or perhaps release. Blood poured down his tunic.
“I would have died for him,” David whispered, barely breath.
“You did,” Halward said.
David’s grip slackened. He crumpled to the forest floor, one hand brushing the ash as if to reach for justice he would never grasp.
Hal turned, grabbed Wil by the collar and pulled him close. The boy was stunned, wide-eyed, but alive.
Arrow screamed from above.
“This way!” Hal shouted.
With the raven leading, Hal barreled through the trees, Wil at his side. Behind them, fire lit the forest in unnatural shades. Screams and steel followed. The gathering had shattered. Balance was broken.
He did not stop until the screams faded behind them and the torches became distant flickers among the trees. Somewhere in the darkness, a small stream babbled over stones, barely visible in the moonlight. Halward paused and knelt beside it, catching his breath. The cold water steadied him.
He recognized the stream. Memory stirred. They were near a familiar path—a hunter’s track that ran near the old Roman wall. He followed it, heart pounding, the boy's hand clasped tightly in his.
Then the forest thinned. In the distance, the outline of the gatehouse emerged from shadow, its wooden beams like an outstretched hand in the pale dawn.
As they stumbled into the clearing, a figure broke from the gate.
"Hal!"
Oswin.
He rushed forward, eyes wild, voice hoarse. "What happened? Where—?"
Halward stopped him with a look. No words. Not yet.
Oswin looked from Hal to Wil, to the blood staining Hal’s tunic.
He said nothing more.
The three of them stood there, just outside the gate, beneath the lightening sky, as the first true birdsong of spring rang out across the hollow.
***
The morning sun arose softly, the fog clung low to the earth, silvering the grass and muting the world. Halward stepped from the gatehouse, wearied but alert, his thoughts still tangled in the chaos of the night before. His tunic smelled of smoke and sweat. Every joint ached, but his eyes were sharp.
And there, propped against the wooden frame of the gate, stood his sword.
Cleaned. Oiled. Returned.
For a long moment, he said nothing. No one else was in sight—no forest folk, no messenger. Only the blade leaning where it had once rested countless mornings before.
He approached slowly, as if testing whether it was truly there. A soft breeze stirred the early bloom of ash buds and carried with it a hint of wild thyme. The raven was gone.
He reached out, grasped the hilt, and felt the familiar weight in his hand.
This uneasy alliance, it seemed, still stood.
But Halward knew better than to trust quiet mornings. He would need to be careful.
The gate yawned open before him. And beyond it, the unknown waited.