The Two Torcs Read Free Page A

between them.
    The silence of the forest closed around them, circling them in an eerie, unnatural hush.
    “You’re welcome,” Will said as he sheathed his rapier with a quick movement, and then shrugged his cloak back around him.
    The man in the hood relaxed, letting go the arrow and slouching back.
    “I was wondering if you were going to help, or just watch me do all the work.” He reached up. Calloused fingertips flipped the leather cowl back, revealing a face nearly as dark as Will’s. The features were harsher, cut from heavier, swarthier stock than his own, but the similarity was there.
    “Oh, please, the day Robin Longstride can’t handle four Locksley thugs by himself is the day you should come out of these woods and take up cross-stitch with the nuns at the convent.” He shook out the ruffles at his cuffs, letting them fall down to cover his hands. His fingers were nearly frozen. “Besides, I would be of no help seeing that I am… what was the word? Oh, yes, ‘foppish’.”
    Robin smiled, a small pulling at the cheeks, unrecognizable if Will hadn’t known what it was.
    “Did that hurt your feelings?” the bowman asked. “Do you stand there offended, in your mighty fine hat and your fancy padded cloak?”
    “I can’t help being handsomer than you, outlaw.” Will sniffed. “And it
is
a very fine, very
warm
hat.”
    “I find myself very jealous of it.”
    Will waved away the statement with the flutter of a ruffled cuff.
    “Don’t be. It would look all wrong on you. Your ears stick out too far. Best continue with the hooded reaver look you’re perfecting.”
    Robin knelt next to the giant soldier, who still lay unconscious. His hand closed on the handle of the Viking sword, retrieving it from the mud. Wiping it clean on the end of the giant’s tunic he hefted it, looking down the blade. Hammered into the steel, along the blood-groove, were letters cut from darker iron.
    Will leaned in. “What does it read?”
    “
Ulfberht
.”
    “Who is Ulfberht?”
    “No one knows.” Robin twirled the sword, swinging it easily through the air. “Whoever Ulfberht was, however, he made the finest swords ever seen. They are rare and near unbreakable. This blade alone is worth a hundred English swords.” His voice dropped as he lifted the blade again, eyes glittering as they ran along the sword’s clean lines and razor-sharp edges. “It’s amazing that a raw, pagan barbarian could create something so wonderful.”
    “I know it’s lonely here in Sherwood, but do I need to leave you and that sword alone for a turn?”
    “Very funny.” Robin thrust the blade out toward Will. “Take it and sell it. It will feed many families.”
    “I think you should keep it.”
    Robin’s eyes darkened. “Take it. You know I want nothing from Locksley—not for myself.”
    “Keep it.” Will picked up the other three swords and slid them under a lashing strap on his saddle. “Locksley has just proven that he’s willing to trap and kill you. The other merchants will soon follow his lead.” He threw his hand up to stop a protest. “If there had been even one more soldier, you would have been in real trouble, Robin. Don’t be reckless. You need a sword, and it might as well be the best one.”
    Robin pinned him with a glare.
    He stared back, knowing he couldn’t blink or he would lose the argument. Then the outlaw’s brow furrowed, settling in for the contest.
    Will’s right eye began clawing under its lid, scrabbling in its socket, wanting desperately to twitch, to blink, to wink. It felt wet, the strain of not blinking, of not looking away, wringing tears from it. He was about to break when Robin let out a sigh, and looked down at the sword in his hand.
    “You’re right, my friend. I’ll keep it.”
    Will smiled at his victory. Such things didn’t happen often, so he savored them when they did.
    Robin slipped the sword into his belt and clapped Will on the shoulder.
    “That cart is too big for only four