Broken Arrow

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In the heat of the battle, even above the noise of gunfire and explosions, another sound could be heard. The distinctive sound of rotor blades in the distance.

Robert looked over the horizon to see four dark shapes advancing, like flying Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Helicopters unlike anything he was familiar with — certainly nothing like the Sioux he'd used to chase De Falaise through the streets of Nottingham. These had double rotors that afforded them a manoeuvrability most pilots could only dream of.

The two helicopters on the edges broke off, heading for the tree-line. Robert could see what was about to happen, but had no way of preventing it — apart from anything else, he was being attacked by two of The Tsar's men who he'd relieved of their machine guns with well-placed kicks.

Missiles were away seconds later, streaming into the trees. The height these monstrosities were flying at gave them a unique view of where the catapults lay. Not only that, they seemed to home in on the targets like a sniffer dog locating drugs. Robert dispatched the soldiers he was dealing with, then closed his eyes as the missiles hit home, killing the men he'd posted there.

Those Rangers closer by had — like him — paused very briefly to witness the lethal onslaught of these newcomers. However, as they did so they also saw more heavy rocks being launched at the chopper closest to the trees. It may not have been quite as accurate as whatever those pilots were using, but it was good enough to give the thing a bloody nose — a heavy projectile glancing across the bridge of the lowered craft knocking it momentarily sideways and off balance. Two more hit it in quick succession before another chopper came to its aid, firing off two missiles which put paid to that particular catapult. But it had already done enough damage to the first helicopter to make it beat a hasty retreat.

"That'll show 'em!" called out one of Robert's lads, a man called Harris who immediately drew back his bow and shot a Russian soldier in the thigh.

But there were still three helicopters left, more than enough to take out the rest of the catapults. Calling on anyone who was free to do so, Robert began to make his way forward, up the field, past the corpses of vehicles — firing arrows as he went.

One of the helicopters had bowed its front, sweeping forwards. Robert ordered his men to duck, shouting that anyone who still had their shield should crouch behind it. He himself dived behind the cover of an upended jeep, dragging a couple of his men with him — just as the chopper's machinegun began spraying the area. It seemed not to care whether its own troops were in the way, so long as it got Robert's men. Several were thrown back by the blast, losing their shields. Then, vulnerable, they were torn to shreds by the second sweep — vests no protection from this kind of intense firepower.

"Damn it all!" growled Robert. Then to his men: "Stay under cover!"

Before they could say anything, Robert had run out from behind the jeep, sprinting towards a tank that was still on fire. Bullets peppered the earth behind him, but he flung himself forward and, taking cover behind the metal hulk, he primed his bow, igniting one of the special payload arrows from his quiver.

Stepping out he took a second to aim, but it was all he needed.

The arrow was flying even as he took cover behind the tank again. The helicopter had no time to get out of its way, the pilot so overconfident that the arrow could do no damage to his craft that he stayed there and waited for the thing to hit. Then it struck its target, glancing off one of its remaining missiles, but in the process smearing the cocktail of heated chemicals across the casing. Seconds later the missile exploded, taking the entire helicopter with it.

Robert strode out from behind the tank in time to see the blazing ball go down, striking the earth nose first. He heard cheering from behind him, his actions prompting others to break cover, attacking the two helicopters as they had done the tanks, jeeps and motorcycles.

One of them was hit with a paint bomb across the windshield, obscuring the pilot's vision, forcing him to pull back. A tree trunk fired from what was probably the one remaining catapult then struck the side of that chopper. The pilot seemed to be trying to land, then attempted to rise up again. A couple of petrol bombs to the undercarriage were enough to persuade him to set down, and Robert saw him leap from the cockpit. Two arrows from Dale's bow — the lad still riding his horse into the action — were waiting for him, pinning him to the ground.

That left one last attack helicopter.

Robert broke cover again, hunting the thing before it got a chance to hunt him. He hadn't gone far through this nightmare of war — explosions going off everywhere; armoured vehicles still ahead; not to mention a good number of Russian troops — when the black beast spotted him. It hovered close into view before him. On the side of this one somebody had painted a shark. Not a bad description for that thing in the right hands, thought Robert. But where the shark was a thing of nature, this wasn't. It had no instinct, no cunning or guile: that was left to whoever was in control. There was nothing organic about its methods of killing at all, hiding behind all those guns and rockets and metal.

But The Hooded Man: he was another story entirely. He was living on instinct and adrenalin. A true force of nature.

He stood there, all Hell breaking loose around him. Then he raised his head, not revealing too much of his countenance. Bow slung over his shoulder, he coaxed the chopper to come closer with a crook of his finger.

The pilot was hesitating, probably because of what had just happened to the other chopper. Then suddenly the helicopter moved forward, nose down. Robert knew all its weapons must be trained on him.

Faith, he thought to himself. If I just have enough faith.

They seemed to stand frozen like that, an iconic scene from one of Jack's old action movies, everything happening in slow motion around them. Like two gunslingers from a western, each one waiting for the other to draw.

Robert reached around the back of his belt first, but as he did he could've sworn he heard the clicking of the machine gun, saw it moving and training on him. He waited for a blast that never came — whether the guns jammed or the pilot hesitated again, he had no way of knowing — but he took advantage of the seconds it gave him. Pulling out a bolas (the same design as the one he'd used for hunting in Sherwood, only now made from a length of metal chain) he tossed it at the base of the helicopter's lowest rotor. It got tangled up quickly, the small spiked balls — taken from two maces — sparking as they whipped up into the blades.

The helicopter pulled its nose up and veered to one side, firing its gun now but spraying the bullets into the air and hitting nothing. Robert watched from under the brow of his hood, as it drifted across the skyline sideways Then as it piled into a bunch of trees at the edge of the field, getting tangled up in the branches.

May not have been a slingshot, Reverend, thought Robert, but it did the trick.

He didn't have much more time to think about it, because something hit him. Something big and hard that came out of nowhere, sending him spinning.

Robert felt the pain in his side as he flipped around. Connecting with the ground, he continued to roll, his sword flattening against his side. He felt his vest catch on something and rip apart at the front, the metal plate slipping out; heard something round the back of him crack and hoped it was only his bow.

When he came to a halt, he was looking up at the blue sky, the clouds passing overhead. Then it was going dark… He was beginning to black out. Not now, Robert. Fight it!

He held on to the image of that blue sky, and for a few moments it felt like an ordinary day in the English countryside.

Then whatever had hit him drew up not far away.

And he heard someone climb out, approaching his battered and bruised body.

Bohuslav had watched the defeat of the helicopters and had to pinch himself in case he was dreaming. Not that he ever had dreams like this, his were much darker affairs. More personal.

It had all started off so well. The destruction of whatever was flinging those crude missiles was countered with the more modern-day variety, guided in on target and blowing them to bits. It was when the Black Sharks had got closer to the fighting that the problems started.

And him! Govno! That irritating little man with his Hood and his arrows and his sword. He'd actually taken down two — count them, two! — of the craft himself. Small wonder his reputation had spread. His men would blindly, and bravely it had to be said, follow him into the very depths of Hades itself if he asked them to. Perhaps Tanek had been right to broach his concerns that Hood might come for them one day. Definitely better to take him out of the equation now. Except they weren't doing such a great job, were they?

Bohuslav's fingers itched. He could see that the only way they were still going to pull this around would be for him to put The Hooded Man down personally. Cut off the head and the rest of the body withers — he had learned that at a very early age in his experimentations with animals.

Bohuslav ordered his driver to double back, come at the battlefield from the side. "Ram him," he commanded, pointing ahead to the lone figure who had just defeated one of the most sophisticated pieces of military hardware known to man, as if he was teaching a school bully a lesson. It would definitely be a challenge to fight this individual one-on-one, but there was no harm in stacking the odds in his favour. Bohuslav had no qualms about this, he preferred to pounce on his victims when they least expected it, so the fight would be brief.

This one would be too, he'd make sure. As the jeep slammed into Hood, sending him reeling, Bohuslav smirked. Then he got out of the vehicle, producing his handheld sickles as he strode over towards the leader of this rag-tag team that had held fast against their might.

Through watery eyes attempting to close, Robert saw him.

A blur at first, he blinked and, as the form took on more shape, Robert made out the man's attire. He looked so out of place here, in that sharp black suit, white shirt and black tie. But, looking beyond that, looking into the hawk-like eyes, Robert recognised what he really was: another hunter, a predator even. Not the main man himself, but one of the minions he'd seen in his dream.

The predator was holding in his hands two sharp weapons, like the Grim Reaper's scythe, only smaller and more curved. More deadly. It had been his vehicle that had run Robert over, intentionally wounding the prey. This monster liked his meat to be softened up before coming in for the kill. And Robert could tell he'd killed before, that he enjoyed it.

"Wake up, mudak!" shouted the man. He was using one of the sickle points to pull Robert's Hood back, exposing his face and head. "Yes, rouse yourself. It is time for you to die."

Robert tried to move, but every inch of him was protesting.

"Your performance was impressive, I will give you that," continued the suited man looming over him, "but ultimately you must have known you'd fail."

"F-Fail?" Robert half coughed, half laughed. "You… You must have been at a different battle to me."

"Ah, but this war is being fought on two fronts, my friend." There was a searing pain in his thigh as the man buried one of the sickle points into Robert's leg. "That's it, shout out. Let your men know all about it."

Robert clamped his teeth shut, hissing out the rest of his howl. The man twisted his blade and Robert had trouble keeping his agony to himself. But the man was leaning in, close.

Close enough to…

Even though he couldn't get up, Robert could still swing his fist — and he did just that. He couldn't get as much leverage behind the punch as he would have liked, but it had the desired effect of knocking the Russian back, and the sickle blade slid out of Robert's thigh as he reeled.

Robert struggled to get up onto an elbow, his torso and thigh in competition to see which could cause him more pain. With his free hand, he unsheathed his sword, just in time to hold it before him to meet a blow from the enraged Russian.

"That won't save you," promised the man, his piercing eyes flashing. "Nothing will." He struck again. Robert's blade clashed with two sickles this time, but he wasn't strong enough to hold them at bay. The man was leaning hard on the blades, the sickles getting lower and lower. "And nothing will save your friends at the castle, either."

Robert's elbow gave out, but he was quick enough to grab the other end of his sword. However, he was flat on his back, the man pressing down on top of him. The sickles were millimetres from his chest. Catching him off guard, the suited man suddenly put more weight on one side than the other, the left blade dropping — though not before Robert shifted slightly so that it entered his shoulder rather than his chest. Again, an excruciating white hot agony, and Robert let go of his grip on the sword.

Leaving the point of the sickle in Robert's shoulder, the man above him raised the other one high. He wasn't going for the chest any more. Now he was going to bring the sickle round in an arc, slit open Robert's throat, maybe even cut off his head.

There was a swish of air and Robert closed his eyes, steeling himself for the sickle to slice his flesh. Instead he felt something wet on his face and chest. Then came a cry.

When Robert opened his eyes he saw what had happened. Dale was standing off to one side, his sword covered in blood. The suited man was rising and backing off, clutching his hand… no, not his hand. Because that lay on the ground, still holding the sickle.

Blood was spurting from the suited man's stump and Dale was still on him. He lashed out with another stroke of the blade which the man had to duck to avoid. Robert heard him scream out something in his native tongue, cursing the person who'd cut off his extremity. Dale took no notice, waiting for the suited man to right himself before crouching and slashing crosswise. The man arched his body and it looked like Dale's attack had fallen short. Then more redness stained the white shirt, the bottom half of his tie falling to the ground as a slash in the fabric appeared. The man looked up at Dale, shocked, then down at this new wound.

Scrabbling back and holding his stomach, the man's face was growing paler by the second. Then he fell over, curling up in the foetal position.

Dale looked like he was about do some more damage when Robert let out a load groan, the first sickle still embedded in him.

"Hold on," said Dale. He put down his sword and took hold of the handle of the sickle. "Brace yourself, Robert, this is going to really hurt." He pulled out the blade, but it felt like the metal was still inside. Then Dale took Robert's hand and got him to apply pressure to the wound, while he saw to the leg. Robert heard, rather than saw — his vision was swimming — Dale rip a piece off his sleeve, tying a tourniquet around the wounded thigh.

"Son of a… I don't believe it," said Dale, getting up. Robert blinked and saw the blurry, suited man crawling back to the vehicle that had rammed into him. The Russian could just about move, reaching up in an effort to drag himself back into the passenger seat. Then helping hands pulled him inside, the driver setting off even before the suited man's legs were properly inside. Robert grabbed Dale with his free hand and shook his head.

"L… Leave him," he moaned.

Dale looked at Robert, as if about to disagree with him, then nodded. "He's half dead anyway," said the youth. "Let's see to you." He began ripping more material to tie around the shoulder wound.

"How… How are…" began Robert.

Dale frowned, then worked out what he was trying to ask. "It's pretty much over. The ones that are left seem to be scattering. We did it, we held them back."

Robert let out a breath, fighting to hang on to consciousness. His grip on the young man's arm tightened. "You… You have to gather the men…"

"I don't understand."

"Get… get them together… There's… there's another…" Robert forced the words out. "Another army heading for the castle… Tanek must be with them…"

"Fuck," Dale said quietly. "Okay, we can deal. Let's just get you sorted out first."

Another squeeze of Dale's arm, with all the strength Robert could muster. "Leave me."

"I… we can't do that, Robert."

"Leave me… Get to the castle… Mary… promise me… Mary…" Then his grip relaxed and Dale's features disappeared completely, fading from view. He'd been here before, when he'd been caught in an explosion, fighting De Falaise's men at Mary's farm.

Mary again.

He'd been saved by her that time. But now she was the one in trouble.

In the blackness, Robert heard Dale arguing with someone, with several voices, telling them they had to go.

Dale was following orders, just as he always did. Doing what Robert asked of him. "We'll send back help," were the last words Robert heard him say.

Then there was nothing but stillness — that and the smell of the English countryside — as he lost his grasp on consciousness completely.