Broken Arrow

CHAPTER ELEVEN

At first he thought one of the sparks from the fire must have caused it.

Set this whole portion of the forest alight. Robert felt dreadful; how could he have done this to his beloved home? The bark was on fire, the branches and twigs. It was a good thing there were no leaves because they would only have added to the conflagration. He looked around, frantically trying to find something to douse the flames with. If they'd been closer to the lake at Rufford then-

But they weren't. Robert had chosen this spot intentionally to be away from the locations he'd lived in alone, when he'd first come here. The locations he'd been drawn to so he could while away the rest of his time and die; be with his late wife and child. To run away from…

From the blaze.

But he was wasting time now, thinking about all that. He should be waking Mark, getting him to help put out this fire. Robert couldn't see the boy's lean-to anywhere — couldn't see his own for that matter. Perhaps they'd both been burnt away? If that was the case was Mark all right?

A sudden wave of heat forced Robert to shield his face. He tottered backwards. Then, through the shimmering air, he saw a figure caught in the midst of the licking flames. Blinking, he tried to make out the features, but they were unclear. Once, he would have held back no matter what — not even attempted to go into the heart of this inferno. Now Robert braced himself and, head down, rushed in to get closer to the figure. It was about Mark's height, could easily be him. Robert hoped not, because even now the person was catching light, going up like the forest around them.

"Hold on," Robert shouted. "I'm coming." He was aware that he must be cooking as well, but had to push through, had to save this person. He'd lost too much to the fire already, he wasn't about to lose the closest thing he had to a son as well.

Robert broke through into a clearing, the flames raging around him but not touching this section of the forest. In fact the only thing on fire was the figure directly ahead of him. Robert sucked in air, coughing, then refocused. He soon realised his mistake. This wasn't Mark at all; nothing like him. There, not ten feet away from him, was his old enemy: De Falaise.

Yes, he was on fire — the yellow and red rippling over him but apparently not eating him up. Robert was shocked. The last time he'd seen this man he'd killed him, and a blaze had played around them that day too. There was evidence of Robert's attack, because De Falaise no longer had eyes — and even though he was opening and closing his mouth, the Frenchman couldn't speak (a consequence of Robert having shoved an arrow as far down his throat as he could ram it). The arrow that had penetrated his heart — like a stake finishing off a vampire — was missing, but the hole was plainly there. De Falaise was saying something, but it was so faint Robert couldn't make it out.

It sounded like one word over and over.

Vengeance.

De Falaise smiled, those broken teeth even more yellow in the flames. The Frenchman opened his arms wide and let the full force of the fire take him, and this time it did crisp his skin, blackening his face and exposed hands. His dress suit — the one he'd worn for the executions at the castle — melted onto him, then that too turned black. Robert stood there watching, knowing he couldn't do a thing. Not really wanting to. This was a replay of past events — slightly different, but still a replay. What he wanted to know about was the future, about his new enemies.

As if to answer him directly, the figure burnt brighter… and redder. It took a step towards him, and when it did some of the black crust fell away. What was beneath was red, and it merged with the fire: creating a figure that was crimson from the feet upwards. Robert's mouth dropped open as he witnessed this transformation. That's the only way he could describe it, a fiery Phoenix rising from the ashes. Dressed head to toe in red leather.

The build of the two men was similar, but Robert could see they were very different. This person was stockier, looked like he could really handle himself. Looked like he had seen some action in the past, not just ordered people to their deaths. And he looked… somehow regal. Like the campfire from the night before, the flames died down and when they did, the man pulled on his greatcoat. Then he placed the peaked cap on his head.

He smirked at Robert. There was no denying the intent was the same. He was here to destroy The Hooded Man, just as The Sheriff had set out to do. Was this the distant future, some kind of reincarnation perhaps? Robert had no idea, and no more time to ponder, because the fire surrounding them was also changing.

Robert looked to his left and right. There were faces there; faces painted white and black like skulls, with tattoos on their foreheads. Yes, them! I came here to learn about them, Robert told the dreamscape, told the forest. I need to know how to defeat them. If I can defeat them!

Except behind the figures were more people, faces without make-up. The faces of soldiers, who were carrying automatic weapons. The ground was shaking — Robert felt the vibrations up through his legs, into his guts. To his left, breaking through the ground and knocking charred trees aside, a huge tank shot upwards and then righted itself with a metallic clang. To Robert's left, an armoured vehicle did the same, followed by a couple of jeeps. In the centre of this burning scene there was suddenly an army made up of two factions. Impossible to fight alone.

Where were his people? Where were his troops?

There were shadows behind the man in red, stepping out. Two Asian women, Robert saw, and a man in a sharp suit. Each was holding a body by the scruff of its neck, which they threw to the ground in front of Robert. The first belonged to Tate, lifeless and limp. Then came Sophie, piled on top. Followed by Mary. Robert's entire body stiffened when he saw her tossed there, like a Guy on a funeral pyre. Her beautiful eyes looked up at him in death.

"Noooo!" he screamed. "You can't do this!"

A larger shadow emerged, carrying two bodies — one in each hand. But he could manage them well enough, the size that he was. Robert's jaw dropped again when he saw Tanek, the Frenchman's second, assumed dead but very much alive here (though hadn't De Falaise been standing there only moments before… living or deceased, it didn't mean a thing in this place).

The two last bodies were thrown over towards Robert, Tanek grunting — more with satisfaction than effort. Robert recognised who they were as they landed: Jack, defeated and deflated… and Mark. Finally Mark. Beaten to a pulp and with more than his finger missing.

Robert sank to his knees, tears flowing freely. He knew it wasn't a good idea to show weakness in front of his enemies, but couldn't help it. When he reached up to wipe the salt-water away, he found his face altered. There were antlers on the side of his head. He had a snout too. As he looked up again, Tanek was approaching with that crossbow of his raised, a bolt in the chamber pointing at him. The shot was fired and, though it entered Robert's temple, he could somehow still hear and see everything around him: the flames, the assembled war machine. Tanek crouching, letting go of the crossbow and taking out a knife with a serrated edge.

Robert's vision went black for a second then red, like a filter had been placed over a camera lens. Tanek finished his cutting, sawing, standing again with something in his free hand. Robert's… the stag's head.

He handed the gory thing to the man in leather, who took off his peaked cap and replaced it with the antlers. They looked for all the world like a pair of horns.

In spite of the fire's warmth, Robert felt cold. It spread quickly throughout his body. If this was a vision of the future, as he'd wanted, then he was sorry he'd asked for it. Better to be ignorant than live with the knowledge that they would all soon die.

"Vengeance," said a voice close to his ear, a figure he couldn't see whispering to him. It sounded… familiar. De Falaise, but not him; the voice softer.

Then he felt hands on him, moving him.

Moving his corpse.

It was a revelation when he found he could move — grabbing the hands that were shaking him. "N-Not dead," Robert mumbled. "Not dead!"

"Sshh. Keep it down," another voice, a different voice, whispered. "We're not alone."

Robert shook his head, clearing it. It had been a while since he'd slept so heavily, had a dream as intense. He'd forgotten how disorientating it could be. Mark was the person by his side — not the dead Mark with bits cut off, but the living Mark who he could still do something to save if he got his act together. Mark who had been trying to wake him for some time.

"People, circling the camp," he told Robert. "I caught a glimpse when I got up to pee. I managed to crawl across to your lean-to without them seeing, I think."

"How many?" asked Robert in hushed tones.

Mark shrugged. "A couple, maybe."

"That's the next lesson, then. Counting." Mark scowled, then Robert tapped him on his arm. "Come on, let's see what we're dealing with."

Grabbing his bow, arrows and sword, Robert emerged from the back of the lean-to with Mark beside him, using it to shield them both. Robert slipped the quiver and bow around his torso. It wasn't quite light, but the sun had started to come up over the horizon, giving everything a strange sepia look. There was also an early morning mist covering the ground, thin enough to see through close up, but out in the distance it could hide anything. Robert trusted the boy's instincts, because after years of living on his wits the lad had developed a sense about these things. He'd been the first to warn Bill about the attack on the market, and told Robert when Jack first entered Sherwood. Now he was telling him there was a potential threat in the woods and Robert took that very seriously.

This was real hunting.

Mark nudged him and gestured towards a nearby tree at 3 o'clock. He saw an elbow sticking out from behind the trunk. Robert nodded, then pointed across at another tree. He could tell Mark couldn't see it, but there was bark missing from one side, indicating that someone had scraped by it. Robert turned when he heard a noise behind him. Mark may well have dismissed it as a woodland animal, but he knew better. Even though it had been a while since he'd lived here, Robert still felt the rhythms of this place — could tell when there was something out of sync. So, he was surrounded, as in his dream. Robert just hoped the tanks and jeeps weren't about to shoot up from out of the ground.

He made a fanning out gesture to Mark, who nodded. He hated having to split them up — especially when he could still picture the boy's dead face — but he knew Mark needed to do this as much as he did. Robert pulled up his hood and began to stalk his prey, vanishing into the undergrowth.

Keeping low to the ground, he backtracked round to where he'd heard the noise. Robert closed his eyes and breathed deeply, attempting to sense where the intruder was. Where the disturbance in his forest was rooted. It didn't prove difficult, not when the attacker suddenly showed himself and charged at Robert. He opened his eyes in time to see a flash of machete blade, a painted face leering down at him. A Servitor!

Robert took hold of the rushing figure, at the same time dodging the man's weapon, then used his own momentum against him, flinging the Servitor into a nearby birch. "Damned Halloween freak," he snarled. The tree was slightly at an angle, so the robed man fell over it, landing on the other side. Robert was round it in seconds, bringing up a swift knee and clipping the cultist under the chin.

He was suddenly aware of two more attackers on either side of him. They appeared from behind trees and lunged at Robert, machete blades cutting through the morning air. He dodged one, then had to turn swiftly and duck another. But as he came up again, he brought his clenched fist with him, practically lifting the Servitor off his feet with the punch. The next swing, Robert met with his own sword: metal striking metal. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the robed man backwards until he hit a tree, winding him. Robert turned his back on the man, turned his sword around and thrust it backwards so that it slid into his attacker's side and out again very quickly, incapacitating him.

By this time the first attacker had recovered and was getting to his feet. Robert had time to quickly glance over and see how Mark was doing now their cover was well and truly blown. He saw the boy facing at least three of the freaks himself, and he'd already been relieved of his sword.

Holding the sword by the flat of the blade, Robert brought the hilt down heavily on the approaching cultist's head. It struck him dead centre and he fell to his knees. Then Robert swung the sword like a baseball bat and hit the man in the face, sending his head rocking back and a few of his teeth flying.

Unslinging his bow as he went, Robert pulled out an arrow and aimed across to where Mark was fighting, kicking the first Servitor who'd attacked to keep him down. Just as he was about to fire, though, a half dozen more of the men rose up from the mist or stepped out from behind trees.

"Crap," said Robert under his breath. Mark was on his own, at least for now. He turned the bow on the nearest of the approaching cult members.

What had been his first mistake?

Mark was asking himself this even as he realised it was probably the worst time to be doing so. It was only what Jack would ask him later, if there was a later, but the time for analysis definitely wasn't now. He'd blundered in, hadn't he? Gone for the guy with his elbow sticking out, thinking he was an easy target. But then he'd realised, when the figure stepped out and confronted him, that the Servitor had been expecting this strike all along. What the hell was the matter with him? Mark had been so quiet and nimble as a boy, slipping in and out of cities and towns for supplies, scavenging them and stuffing them into his knapsack. But creeping up on people? Not so great at that.

The noise had brought another one out of the trees, and now Mark understood what Robert had been pointing at. Another hiding behind an oak, the bark worn off. He should have taken one out at a distance with a rock then-

Swish!

Mark was suddenly stumbling backwards. This wasn't a training sword anymore, but the real thing, held by someone who really did want to do him some harm. He reached for his own blade, but had only got it part of the way free before he felt it being lifted out by a third cultist who had appeared seemingly from nowhere. The sword was snatched away and thrown into the snowy grassland beyond the trees.

Swish!

Again Mark only just had time to dodge the blow, as it whistled past his right ear. Stepping back did, however, have the added benefit of knocking the man behind him off balance, so that Mark could topple him fully over.

Now there were only two to deal with. And where was Robert? Mark saw that he was having fun with his own playmates; more and more rising up out of the ground itself, it seemed.

"You think you're always going to have a weapon to hand? Uh-uh. Nope. But your opponent might."

That's what Jack had said, and he'd been so right. Mark didn't have his sword but they each had one. Well, really big knives that you could probably call swords, but that was splitting hairs. Think, Mark, think… how had Azhar done it again?

Mark recalled the way that man had ducked and slid sideways to take the weapon from him. He had just seconds to react, to copy the move he'd witnessed. Now it wasn't a game, Mark found his body co-operating, his movements less clumsy. Mark grabbed his opponent's wrist and yanked, but the weapon wouldn't tug free. The cultist pulled back and readied himself for another thrust. Thinking fast, Mark let his backpack — only hanging over one shoulder — slide down his arm; then, as the blade came into range, he wrapped the thing in the material, yanking down until the machete fell out of the man's hands. As Mark bent forward to retrieve it, the first attacker fell over him and he instinctively followed through: standing and flipping him, letting the momentum of the move do all the work.

Snatching up the machete, Mark met the second attacker's swing; the clang made his teeth rattle. The third joined in and suddenly Mark had to block his attempt to kill him as well. That was one of the major differences between real combat and practising on your own: trees and fences didn't fight back. These people did, and by all accounts they didn't stop till one of you had stopped for good.

Mark batted away the attacks, using sheer desperation rather than finesse to carry him through. It was keeping him alive… so far. What he didn't know was how he was going to keep this going indefinitely, especially as the remaining cultist was rising from the floor. Rising, and searching around for Mark's sword.

What would Robert do in this situation? he wondered. What was he doing right now in fact?

That wasn't the right thing to ask, to get him out of this — so he asked himself quickly instead: What would Dale do?

What would Dale do if Sophie was watching?

And what would you do, Mark? What would you do to show her you can cut it?

Cut… cut… Mark grinned. He'd had an idea. Letting the pair he was dealing with get a little closer, though not too close, he pretended to trip.

"Mark!" He heard the anguished cry from across camp, Robert assuming he'd gone down because he was injured. Mark didn't have time to answer him. Instead, he lashed out at the men's legs, catching calf muscles and shins beneath the material of the robes. One spun around and Mark took the opportunity of hamstringing him, drawing the blade across where he judged the back of the heel to be.

It had the desired effect. Both men dropped, screaming.

Mark clambered to his feet, the smile spreading across his face.

"Mark!" came the cry again, and he couldn't understand why Robert was still calling. He'd taken down the two-

He remembered too late about the third, the one who'd been reaching for his sword. Mark pivoted, but at pretty much the same time the arrow flew past and into the fellow about to embed the sword in his head. The projectile's tip found the tattoo on the cultist's forehead, as if it were a bull's eye target, and he fell backwards.

When Mark looked across he saw the base camp littered with robed figures, arrows sticking out of various parts of their bodies. Robert was running over and waving something to Mark.

"…let them commit suicide…" The Hooded Man was saying. Mark didn't understand. Then he looked down at one of the men he'd crippled, saw him take his own machete with both hands, then ram it into his stomach. Mark felt his lip curling. The other one was doing a similar thing, except he was letting gravity do the work for him, lifting himself up as high as he could on his knees and just letting himself drop onto the blade.

Mark joined Robert, checking around to make sure no more were laying in wait. When he reached Mark saw he was crouching down next to one of the last cultists alive; the first proper rays of sunlight streaking through the trees onto the scene.

"And… and… He was cast… down," hissed the white-faced man with the arrow sticking out of his side, "on… onto the Earth… and His angels… were cast…. cast down also…" Then he took hold of his head and snapped it sideways, breaking his own neck.

Robert removed his hood and looked at Mark. "Are you alright, son?" Mark never tired of hearing Robert call him that. He nodded. "I didn't know there would be quite so many, otherwise I never would've suggested… But, you did well today. I'm proud of you. Jack would be, too."

"How did they find us here?" Mark asked when he'd finally got his breath back.

Robert stared down at the corpse. "I think we've made an enemy of these guys. They're keeping tabs on us now just like we've been doing with them. They're worried I'm going to stop their master from making His grand appearance."

"Master?"

"The Devil."

"Oh… What was he talking about just then, before…"

"Tate'll be able to tell us more about that. They seem to think they're fallen angels or something. Explains why they're not scared of dying. They probably believe they come right back again fighting fit."

"That's scary."

"Fanatics usually are. But that's not what scares me the most." Mark's puzzled expression drew the rest out of him. "I think there could be something else coming. Something much more frightening."

Mark didn't ask him how he knew that, because he'd heard some of the mutterings before he'd woken Robert from his sleep.

Besides, Robert hadn't been the only one who'd had dreams last night.

One more set of eyes had been watching the camp from close by that morning, had been watching most of the night.

They'd seen the Servitors make their way through the forest, taking their positions outside where Robert and the boy were spending the night. Had seen the boy get up to go to the toilet, spot something and then rush back to Robert's tent to warn him.

Had watched the fight with interest. More than interest: Excitement. A tingling that had spread through the body until the last cultist had been defeated. It had almost been as good as being in the middle of it all, back in York.

From behind the oak, Adele let out the breath she'd been holding. And smiled. She'd enjoyed this little episode, but she knew there were tastier treats to come. And she'd be right there in the middle of those, definitely. There with the man she was after.

Right there with The Hooded Man.