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Spectators who were daring enough to brave the forest, and willing to take on the risk of getting shot by an errant arrow, were allowed to follow the competitors through the woods.
The forest did not go too far into Sherwood Forest, because there was always the risk of running across a bandit camp the deeper into the trees you went. Then again, I was certain the Sheriff had cleared the area of encampments before the tournament.
A few other middling spectators braved the woods—bettors, undoubtedly, who had high stakes on the turnout of the competition—but no one was near me.
I had no money on anyone, but my heart on Robin. She was admirable, incredibly proficient with a bow. I was so proud of her. I made a mental note to tell her how proud of her I was after this was done, winner or not.
The lengths she went to help the Merry Men was not lost on me. Of course I disagreed with this entire endeavor, but that was only because I worried for her.
Robin herself made me realize I couldn’t hold her back. No one could. She was a spitfire renegade who would do whatever she wanted. The thought of her taking on these hardened men who had twice her archery experience in war, hunting, and other tournaments, quickened my blood. She was fierce and resilient.
She fit perfectly with the Merry Men.
And she even had a shot at winning this damn thing!
Though it shouldn’t have, it shocked me. Based on the points from the first three matches, she was in the top five of competitors, perhaps even top three.
If she could convincingly beat out Oliver of Mickley in this final stage, she would win the fucking silver.
You amaze me, lass.
Spectators had to keep a fair distance from the archers as they roved through the course. I respected the distance I needed to keep, managing to catch sight of her through the branches, brambles, and foliage. Whenever Robin moved, I moved . . . though not nearly as swiftly.
By the time the course neared its completion, I was panting. I wiped a sweaty brow, resting my forearm on a tree trunk, and leaned over to catch my breath. The whispers and voices of other watchers had faded. We were quite deep into Sherwood now, and only a smattering of spectators had gone this far to watch the conclusion of the tournament.
I was on the east side of the route, while Will Scarlet was on the west side somewhere. We couldn’t see each other, but I knew he’d be there. Alan-a-Dale would be north, at the end of the track. He’d be the first to congratulate Robin on her victory or defeat, given his depth in the forest. Friar Tuck was south of us, near the tree line, making sure no undesirables stalked in after the competitors.
This was the perfect place for an ambush, after all. Given the high-stakes nature of this tournament, I didn’t put it past marauders, bandits, or even the Sheriff of Nottingham from trying to silence one of the competitors to keep them from winning.
Luckily, no one suspected a thing so far, from what I’d seen. Robin’s disguise was intact. We were this close to making it out of this tournament, perhaps much wealthier than when we arrived.
A loud voice echoed through the trees ahead, as the runner yelled “Time!”
I heard rustling, caught a glimpse of Robin hopping over an overturned log in full sprint as she moved to the next targeted area, and I groaned and pushed off from the tree, jogging after her.
She froze in a glade, eyes scanning trees and rocks left to right, up and down. My eyes landed on the hidden target ahead, and I gritted my teeth, my pulse pounding.
Of course it was illegal to cry out help to the competitors, and was the quickest way to get them disqualified. It pained me knowing she wasted valuable seconds while I knew the location of the target.
It was just over a small hill, past her line of sight. Grunting, “Come on, girl,” I took a step forward, my legs compelling me toward her.
Her feet shuffled. She twisted, body jerking with recognition, and her bow lifted.
A second later, a thunk rang out as her arrow slammed into the target and sent it rattling on its perch.
“Yes,” I hissed, pumping my fist next to my body.
Only two areas left. Two targets to win the tournament. The last target was the most important. It allowed each participant a chance to strike the target at the same time. Depending how swiftly and efficiently an archer had run through the course, they would have extra time or less time to find the final target, strike it, and win the round.
She took off running toward the penultimate staging area.
Sighing, I moved to follow her.
Pain lanced through my right side, so sudden and excruciating I couldn’t let out more than a sharp gasp.
Sucking my breath, eyes bulging, I glanced down—
And saw a dagger stuck in my side, held by a gloved hand.
