not worth the effort and expense of a public execution in Nottingham. If Gisborne found Will before Marian caught up to them, then Will would die.
Marian burst out onto the King’s Road and reined the gelding in sharply, eliciting a high squeal of protest from the creature. Her heart wrenched at the sound, and she paused, stroking the horse’s neck as she scanned the ground, breath slicing at her lungs. The moon was only a sliver and cast the palest of glows through the fog. It had rained only a few days before, and the ground was still wet. Though the road was pockmarked with hoofprints and wagon ruts in both directions, the sweep of five—no, six—sets of prints all leading from the road Marian had taken revealed Gisborne’s path.
North. Deeper into the forest.
She hesitated then, reins gathered in her right hand while she flexed her left wrist, testing how much her bruised shoulder would hamper her abilities.
Before she could plan her next move, a distant sound slipped through the quiet. For a breath, Marian thought it some bird, a jay or a rook, waking long enough to cry a protest against the dark. But the gelding’s ears pricked, and Marian’s breath caught. She recognized that sound: a shout.
She urged the gelding back into a run but veered off the road, under the cover of the trees. Her ears strained to listen over the sound of her own horse—from somewhere ahead, she heard the answering echoes of other hooves against the ground. Marian slowed, listening. The fog scattered the sound as utterly as it did the moonlight, but after a few heartbeats she could tell they were moving east from the road. They wouldn’t break from the road unless they had reason—some sign that Will had gone that way, or else some other outlaw hiding in these woods.
Marian paused, her mind’s eye replaying the trail that had brought her here. Six sets of tracks. Gisborne, a battle-scarred veteran who’d survived a war that had killed Robin, plus five of the Sheriff’s men—in a forest that sheltered murderers, thieves, and highwaymen.
Another shout echoed from the mist, louder this time.
Marian could cut through the forest and catch up to them. They were still on the chase—she could follow them, using the sounds of their pursuit to hide her own, until they found Will. And then . . .
But there her plan faded, vanishing as if into the mist ahead of her. She was no weakling, no fumbler with a blade, and her aim was better than Robin’s when it came to the bow. But even Robin would hesitate to take on six armed men in the dark of Sherwood Forest with a wounded arm and an unfamiliar horse.
She’d have to hope a solution would come, taking shape out of the fog ahead, in time for her to save Will.
Gisborne’s men rode mostly in silence, a sign of discipline that brought Marian no comfort. Their occasional shout served only to warn the others of some telltale sign, some track that pointed toward their quarry. Marian drew closer, a boulder-studded overhang looming out of the night and offering a place to hide. From the sounds of Gisborne’s party, they would pass close to the overhang—she’d be able to get a glimpse of them, their arms, be certain of their number. She’d never had Robin’s head for tactics—though she could often best him when it came to combat, he beat her every time when it came to war games.
Knowledge is the only ally you need against superior numbers, said Robin’s voice in her ear. And though the warmth of it was a comfort, suddenly Marian wasn’t so sure.
Eyes straining, she peered into the fog to the northeast as she edged the gelding toward the overhang. Every time she thought she saw a shape emerging, it turned out to be a billow of mist, a trick of the faint moonlight, a failure of her own eyesight. Marian’s head pounded with strain, her aching thighs throbbing from the unfamiliar saddle. She wound the reins around the pommel and reached for her bow. She’d still not regained the skill with the bow she’d had before Robin’s death, but on her worst day she was still a better shot than most. If she could pick off a few of Gisborne’s men as they approached, she might stand a chance.
She saw the ruby ring in her mind’s eye, resting in her palm like a drop of blood collected there—like an