Free Shadows of Sherwood by Kekla Magoon Page A

They held him by the shoulders and kicked him in the back of the knees until they bent. He refused to bow his head. Robyn felt like he was looking directly at her, still.
    Robyn burst forward. “What are you doing to him?” she blurted out, much to her own surprise.
    â€œRun, girl,” Bridger cried, as the MPs tightened their grip on him.
    But Robyn could not run. The fear and resignation in his face called out to her.
    Robyn raced toward the MPs. She grabbed two of them by the arms and threw her weight against them. Startled, they released Bridger. The other two still held him, but Robyn’sdisruption proved enough to weaken their grip. Bridger seized the moment and broke free. He stumbled forward, plunging headlong into the crowd.
    Mallet spoke in that eerie, low-but-projected tone. “Stop him! The safety and security of Sherwood depends on all of us working together.”
    The people did not stop him. Instead, a low hiss rose up from somewhere in the crowd, from different corners, like an echo.
    It must have come from multiple people, because it was loud enough to hear across the park. But it wasn’t everyone. Someone somewhere was trying to rile up the crowd.
    â€œGrab the girl. Find the others,” Mallet ordered. “Break it up.” Then she marched offstage. Robyn sprinted off in the opposite direction. She bent, dodging people, trying to find her way back to Laurel.
    The MPs moved in from the edge of the crowd. As the people began to disperse, Robyn watched closely as everyone threaded out through the surrounding streets. Could they ever get out unnoticed?
    â€œRobyn,” Laurel breathed, appearing through a gap in the jostling bodies.
    In a surprising show of strength, the small girl hefted the enormous bag over her shoulders, clutching the much-too-wide straps against her chest. Laurel valiantly struggled beneath the weight of the pack, but her pace slowed with each step.
    â€œRobyn,” her small voice echoed, uncertain.
    â€œHere,” Robyn cried, racing to catch up. The huge backpack appeared to be darting along on its own. Robyn caught occasional glimpses of a bare heel, but that was it. “I’m here.”
    Robyn jammed herself up against Laurel’s shoulder and slipped her arm through the outside strap, lifting part of the weight.
    Laurel dropped her arm and locked it around Robyn’s waist so they wore the backpack as if they were one person. They hurried onward with matching stride: middle feet forward in unison, then the two outside.
    â€œThree-legged race,” Robyn muttered, having a flashback to Field Day at her school each spring.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Laurel asked. The girl seemed barely out of breath from the exertion. For not knowing what a three-legged race was, Laurel was doing a pretty perfect job of running one. The two of them had no trouble staying on rhythm together.
    Laurel took Robyn’s arm. “This way,” she said, pulling Robyn toward the stage. “No running.”
    â€œUm . . . ,” Robyn protested. The thickest cordon of MPs remained in the vicinity of the stage. Maybe Laurel was too short to see them.
    But the girls walked right past that line of MPs, who looked over their heads, searching the crowd attentively.
Hidden in plain sight
, Robyn thought, as they ducked behind the stage and took off running down a virtually empty street. Laurel was brilliant.
    Bridger’s massive pack weighed them down with each step. “Let’s rest,” Robyn said, when she didn’t think she could run anymore. “Is it safe?”
    Laurel’s skeptical expression told the truth: there was no such thing as safe. Not in Sherwood. Not today . . . or any day soon, it now seemed.
    Laurel sighed. “That was close.”
    â€œIt could just as easily have been us they dragged up there,” Robyn agreed. They unshouldered the backpack, with relief.
    Laurel studied it like an adversary; the thing