Broken Arrow

CHAPTER EIGHT

He felt like Jonah in the belly of the beast.

Tanek sat in one of the cargo bays, working away on his secret project. He'd been labouring on this since they set off across the Baltic. It was important that he got it right. The various parts were all laid out in front of him on the table, which at the moment was vibrating slightly. Tanek reached for one of the pieces of wood and his sandpaper, running the rough side across the face with a sweeping motion. Every curve, every inch would be lovingly crafted, just like the last one.

He recalled the man who'd taught him how to build this particular piece of weaponry — a man skilled in the ancient arts of combat and defence. His name had been Liao and he'd been good to Tanek, offered him a place to stay when he'd had none, a stranger in their land. Liao had been an expert in all kinds of weapons, though the modern ones didn't interest him as much as those from the past.

"You can learn much from studying history, my friend," he'd told Tanek in one of their late night drinking sessions. They were words that another man would echo years later. Both were dead now. The Frenchman, De Falaise, who Tanek followed without question, had been killed by The Hooded Man. Tanek had not been present at his execution, but he'd felt the man's passing.

Liao, who had looked so similar to The Tsar's twins he could have been their father, had died at Tanek's hands long before that. Once he'd learnt everything he could from the man, and it had been time to move on, Tanek had simply snapped his neck, leaving Liao for his wife and children to find. He'd had no qualms about doing it, the man had been of no more use to him. And to Tanek, a quick death was a merciful one — better that than to be tortured at his hands.

Oddly enough, he'd never foreseen a time when he would have done something like that to De Falaise. He felt The Frenchman would always have something to teach him, only disclosing his nuggets of genius tantalisingly slowly. Before they met, in that Turkish tavern when De Falaise had saved his life — something that didn't always guarantee the same in return from Tanek — he thought he knew everything about warfare, about killing. Listening to De Falaise, he realised he knew nothing at all. Not really. He also knew nothing about ambition. De Falaise's plans saw him one day stretching his hand out to rule the entire world.

With Tanek by his side.

So much for that plan. But The Tsar, oh The Tsar… Now he'd done what De Falaise had only dreamed about. Become the ruler of his country with a force under his command that made their army look like the bunch of disorganised yobs they'd been. Apart from some of the more seasoned veterans, like him, they'd been kids with toy guns and tanks. When it came right down to it they were no match for Hood's sheer deviousness. While De Falaise and his men had been up front about their business in Nottingham, their enemies had chosen to sneak in and attack.

However, it had worked. And one thing Tanek knew about De Falaise was that if something worked, you adopted it yourself. It was the tactic he'd been advised to use to get to The Tsar: hide in plain sight. If you want to reach the very heart of your opponent's camp, let them think they've captured you, let them escort you into the belly of the beast.

The tipping of the floor reminded Tanek that he was inside an altogether different belly now. Of a Zubr class military hovercraft to be precise: one of a fleet The Tsar had dispatched for this trek across the sea. Tanek finished sanding and placed the part down on the table, picking up a rectangular box. He began to sand this also.

Anyway, just like Hood, he'd been delivered unto his target. The only difference was that this time he'd come to talk, not kill. Luckily, his reputation preceded him.

"The giant Tanek, De Falaise's right hand man. I heard you were both dead," The Tsar said to him after they'd retreated to a more private place, his luxury suite at the Marriott Grand. And after Tanek had been offered use of the facilities, including a working shower — something he hadn't seen since well before the virus struck.

Tanek had sat in a plush chair, eyeing up the twins that flanked The Tsar, swords resting on their arms. But, more importantly, The Tsar's second: Bohuslav. He was potentially trouble. "De Falaise is. I was," he replied, his face stern.

The Tsar's words transported him to the final moments on those gallows, fighting the man with the staff; the infuriating child Mark (oh, how he savoured the memories of torturing the boy, wishing he had the opportunity again, wishing he could go further this time… payback for ramming that knife into Tanek's foot); and finally the man with the shotgun who'd blasted him and sent him toppling backwards. In the confusion that had followed, as De Falaise had escaped in the armoured truck — driving into the platform and unwittingly giving Tanek the opportunity to crawl away once he was on the ground — he'd made good his own escape.

Tanek had staggered to his feet, stumbling towards the buckled side gates as best he could. The chest wound from the shotgun was stinging, but not instantly fatal, and with a painful summoning of strength, he'd made it out into the street. One of Hood's men spotted him and tried to take him down, but Tanek — as weak as he was — still managed to knock him to the ground and stamp on his skull.

He'd lurched from the scene, making for one of the narrow streets adjoining, flinging himself forward; onwards ever onwards — away from the castle. How he'd made it to the outlying regions of Nottingham, he still wasn't sure, exhaustion and blood loss taking their toll. Tanek had passed out by the side of a country lane, in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. The world around him started to fade. Then all he knew was darkness. He was surely dead — had been from the moment the man shot him. He was just too stubborn to lie down and let nature take its course.

But somehow he wasn't in that ditch anymore. He was in a forest. All the colour had bleached out of the scene. Greens and browns replaced by greys and blacks. Tanek approached one of the trees — apparently able to move quite freely now, his wounds gone. He touched the bark, and where it came away the wood was bleeding, red and moist. In the clearing beyond he saw an indistinct figure — the more he concentrated the more it came into focus. It was his superior, the Sheriff, except he had no eyes and didn't appear to be able to speak, though his mouth was opening and closing. Tanek walked towards him, and as he did so the forest caught on fire. The blind De Falaise held out a hand as if pleading for help. Tanek's pace picked up, running through the flames towards him. The injured Frenchman was mouthing the words, "Help me." Tanek ran and ran, towards the figure, fighting back the fire until-

He woke up panting. For long seconds he blinked, looking up at the ceiling. How? he wondered. How could he be awake when he'd died back there in the ditch? It didn't make any sense. And how could he be here? Tanek was in bed, covers pulled over him. When he moved, the pain in his chest and foot returned, proving that this was no longer the dreamscape. That he actually was still alive. Lifting the covers, he was suddenly aware of his nakedness — save for the bandages around his chest. And, yes, when he wiggled his foot there was one around that too.

All became clear when an overweight, middle-aged woman with a tight home perm — wearing a hideous floral dress — came into the room to check on him. "Ah, you're awake at last," she said, "that's a good sign. I thought you were going to sleep away the rest of the year."

Tanek sat up slowly, looking at the woman sideways.

"Don't try moving just yet, your body's still recovering," she told him, sitting down on the end of the bed. "It's just lucky that William found you when he did. If we hadn't got you back to the cottage, Heaven knows what might have happened."

William? A husband? A son, or maybe a brother? More than that, a threat!

"How…?" Tanek asked, then realised that talking hurt.

"Brought the car back for you. Only an old Morris, but… It was too far to drag you, and you're very, well, very big." The woman smiled coyly, looking down. "I'm sorry, where are my manners? It's just been so long since we've had company." She rose and went to the door. "I'll fix you something to eat, you must be starved."

She disappeared, leaving a puzzled Tanek to take in his surroundings: the hideous floral wallpaper; the wooden dresser and wardrobe. From the window sill leered down photos from the woman's life. Her with several children, then at the seaside with a tall man much older than her, who had grey hair.

The woman returned about fifteen minutes later with a tray of scrambled eggs. "From the chickens," she explained, kicking the bedroom door shut. "They've been a Godsend." Tanek devoured the meal in minutes. "My…" said the woman, touching her hand to her throat, "you were hungry, weren't you?"

Tanek gave a single, curt nod.

The woman sat down on the edge of the bed again. "I'm Cynthia. Cynthia Reynolds." She looked like she was waiting for his name, but he didn't oblige. "It… It doesn't matter to me, you know."

Tanek cocked his head

"Your wounds. I don't care where you got them. I just wanted you to know that." She was playing with her obviously fake pearl necklace. "You don't have to tell me anything. I know what it's like, out there." It was painfully obvious she didn't have the first clue what it was like. She reached out to touch his arm. "And don't feel you have to repay me or anything."

He didn't. Tanek pulled away sharply.

"I'm… I'm sorry." Cynthia looked like she was about to cry. "It's just that, like I said, I haven't had much company these past few years. Only William. But, well, you know, a woman has certain needs that he can't fulfil."

Tanek looked again at the man with grey hair in the photo.

"Others have come, but they've never stayed. Then, when we came across you while we were out walking…"

"I need clothes," he snapped suddenly. "And your car."

"You're not going?" It was phrased like a question, but it was also a statement. "You're not well yet."

Tanek was well enough. Better than he had been when he'd staggered away from the castle… how long ago? Days? Surely not weeks? He got up, letting the covers drop and not caring about Cynthia seeing his body. It must have been her who'd undressed him, anyway. But she seemed coy again, as if she hadn't just been suggesting he stay for more than his health.

Ignoring Cynthia, he checked the wardrobe first — finding a mixture of men's and women's clothes. The trousers, shirt and jumper obviously belonged to the man in the picture; large enough to fit him, but tight where Tanek was broader across the chest, shoulders and legs.

"Please," said Cynthia as he was getting dressed, "stay with me. I've looked after you, haven't I?"

Tanek grunted, tugging on a pair of shoes he'd found in the bottom of the wardrobe. He made his way over to the door, once again disregarding Cynthia's pleas. Then she grabbed him by the arm. That was it, he'd had enough. The woman should have known when to leave well enough alone. Tanek took hold of Cynthia by the shoulders and pushed her up against the wall.

It was then that he heard the growling.

Tanek turned to see the door had been nosed open by a large Doberman pinscher.

"William," he said.

Cynthia nodded. "I had hoped you might be different, William really liked you. I hoped you'd join us here, stay and be our guest for much longer. But, well, as you insist on being so rude."

Tanek never saw the command if there was one, but the dog leaped straight for him, teeth bared. His reactions were dulled from being flat on his back for so long, but the sight of that mutt coming for him soon sharpened them. Tanek let go of Cynthia, whirled around, and punched the dog in the side of the head. It fell across the bed.

Little wonder no one had stayed for very long when this was Cynthia's protector. Leaving the woman, Tanek ran across to the bedroom door, slipping through and slamming it shut just as the hound had recovered sufficiently to leap again. He held onto the door handle for a few moments, grimacing at the snarling and clawing on the other side, and taking in what was around him: a small landing, a steep staircase that led to the front door.

Tanek let go of the handle and pelted down the stairs, almost tripping on the final few. He scrambled to open the front door, only to find it locked. Meanwhile, Cynthia had flung open the bedroom door and was ordering William to attack. Bracing himself, Tanek rammed the door, causing it to loosen at its hinges. There was a growling from behind, very close behind, and he slammed into the door again — this time knocking it flat.

Ahead of him, parked next to the cottage, was the Morris car Cynthia had mentioned. Tanek lumbered towards it, aware the dog was only seconds behind. The car was locked as well, so he elbowed in a window, pulled up the knob and climbed into the driver's seat, barely fitting.

William jumped at the side of the car, desperate to climb inside and bite Tanek. He leaned over just enough to stay out of the reach of those vicious teeth, as he broke open the ignition housing and hot-wired the engine. Shoving the gear stick into first, Tanek drove off, and William lost his grip. Through the rear-view mirror he saw the dog chasing after him, Cynthia at the front door watching the pursuit. Tanek sped up and pretty soon he'd left the woman, the animal, and the cottage behind.

With no real strategy in mind, except to get out of the region because he knew Hood's men might be searching for him, Tanek headed east. There was nothing for him on this island anymore and his best bet was to retrace his steps, head back over to Europe. Maybe even head back towards Turkey.

The Morris had an almost full tank of petrol — Tanek doubted whether Cynthia had driven more than a few miles since the time of The Cull — and it was enough to get him to the coast. In a small seaside village, Tanek appropriated a sailing boat and made his way back across the ocean. It wasn't as easy as their bike ride through the Channel Tunnel, but he'd finally made it to the Netherlands.

On nights when he'd let the boat drift and slept down below, Tanek had been surprised to find himself dreaming. He hadn't been able to remember his dreams before. Now they were so vivid, always set in the burning forest and always featuring De Falaise. Somehow he knew, without it having to be explained, that the link his leader shared with The Hooded Man now extended to him. In each dream Tanek had got closer and closer to the man, and in one a stag had trotted up beside De Falaise, seemingly oblivious to the flames licking around it. The Frenchman had pointed to the animal.

"I do not understand," Tanek had told him.

The flames turned to snow, falling on cold, bare branches. De Falaise looked at him with those black, empty eye sockets. "Help me," he mouthed again.

"How?"

The dreams always ended at that point, leaving him none the wiser. That is until a few months ago. He'd been sleeping rough on the streets of Warsaw when he'd had his most vivid dream yet. This time it all fell into place: what De Falaise was telling him to do, where he was telling him to go. The stag, the snow… He wanted Tanek to avenge him, kill The Hooded Man — something that had crossed the big man's mind on more than one occasion, but he'd had no idea how to go about it. Now he knew. The trail was taking him to a person they'd often talked about — someone De Falaise had both hated and admired, because he'd succeeded where the Frenchman had failed.

It was how he'd ended up fighting in The Tsar's arena, then sitting in his hotel room. His fighting skills, built up slowly again after suffering his injuries, had impressed. And his statement about having a proposition had intrigued Russia's new monarch.

"So, what is it that brings you to our country?" The Tsar asked eventually, pouring a measure of vodka for himself and another for his guest.

"You obviously know what happened in Nottingham," Tanek said to him, at the same time accepting the drink with a nod.

"I've always kept my ear to the ground."

"Then you know the threat Hood poses."

The Tsar started laughing, almost choking on his alcohol. "Threat? Threat? What possible threat could that woodsman and his followers pose to me?"

Tanek scowled. "That is exactly what De Falaise thought."

"But your dead master was a lot nearer, wasn't he? The world's a much bigger place these days, my friend."

"Hood is already expanding." Tanek knocked back the vodka. "He has appointed himself protector of the region. Next it will be his country. Then he will look to Europe." It was the most Tanek had said in years, probably ever. But he felt he wasn't just speaking on his own behalf anymore.

The Tsar had leaned back, the leather of his suit competing with the squeak of the chair. "Let him come. He will have to deal with others before he reaches me." He was referring to the warlords who had taken over places like France, Germany and Italy. Those who drove De Falaise to England in the first place.

Tanek held up the glass, ready for another drink. "But your goal is to rule the whole of Europe eventually, is it not?" The Tsar was silent, so he took the answer as a yes. "Then sooner or later you will meet in battle. Why not now, when his forces are small and yours are great?"

"I've heard enough," snapped Bohuslav. "He just wants revenge, sire."

"True," Tanek agreed, before The Tsar could say anything. "But as I understand it, we could be of some use to each other."

The talks had continued, well into the night, fuelled by liquor. Tanek could feel Bohuslav's eyes boring into him as he appealed to The Tsar's ego, assuring him that it wouldn't take much to stamp out Hood, thereby also gaining a foothold in the UK from which to mount attacks on his enemies in Europe, coming at them from both sides.

"I have to admit," The Tsar slurred, well into his second bottle of Smirnoff, "that the thought of conquering America's biggest ally does appeal."

Tanek nodded. "Once you have control of England and Europe, what is to stop you going after them, too?" The picture he'd painted was one of global sovereignty, with The Tsar well and truly on the throne. The man had lapped it up, as Tanek knew he would.

Placing Bohuslav in charge, The Tsar had ordered preparations for this fleet of Zubrs to set sail, with a pit-stop at Denmark before the final leg across the North Sea. It was then that Tanek truly saw the scale of The Tsar's power, the size of his army compared with the one that had been commanded by De Falaise. He also saw that the old-fashioned weaponry he'd used to fight Glaskov was thankfully limited to the gladiatorial arena.

Each craft carried either three T-90 MTB battle tanks or a mixture of APCs, BTR 60 or 90 Armoured Fighting Vehicles, IMZ-Ural motorbikes and UAZ-3159 jeeps, plus around 50 troops (Tanek was told that pre-virus this number would have been at least double). The men were equipped with the standard AK-47s, but also Saiga-12 semi-automatics, 9A-91 shortened assault rifles, PP-19 Bizon submachine guns, compact SR-3 Vikhrs and, for real stopping power, NSV-12.7 large calibre machine guns, RGS-50M modernized special grenade launchers and AGS-17 automatic mounted grenade launchers. The list went on and on, virtually making Tanek salivate.

As he glanced up from his labours, Tanek saw the impressive array of military vehicles and equipment in this particular Zubr's bay. But in spite of being given full use of a selection of rifles and pistols, there was still something comforting about fashioning his own distinctive weapon. The sight of a crossbow bolt entering someone was so much more satisfying than a messy bullet hole.

He was alone at present, the troops having gone off to eat, so Tanek had taken full advantage of the silence. Just the thrum of the engines and creaking of the hull as the hovercraft made its way across the water, taking him back again to the place he'd departed just over a year ago, where he hoped to use his new repeater crossbow on the people who'd cost him the old one.

There was a noise off to his left, at the back of the bay — someone behind one of the T-90s. Tanek licked his lips and began to assemble his chu-ko-nu, hands flying over the wood, pieces slotting together around the stock, sliding the fully loaded magazine on top last, and pointing it in the direction of the intruder.

"Impressive," said a voice. Somehow the man had appeared at Tanek's back, and there was a cold sensation at his throat. Tanek risked a look downwards and saw the curving blade of a hand sickle.

Bohuslav.

"Now that we're alone, I thought we could have a little chat. I don't know exactly what you're up to, but you're hiding something. And you should know this: If you cross me, or if your actions in any way interfere with The Tsar's designs, I will kill you. And I will enjoy it."

Tanek snorted. As he'd thought: trouble.

"You may have been able to talk him around, but I am altogether a different animal."

"Look down," said Tanek.

He couldn't see the man cast his eyes downward, but he heard the sharp intake of breath when Bohuslav saw that the knife Tanek held in his other hand was hovering inches away from his side.

"Now let me go."

Bohuslav reluctantly eased the pressure on Tanek's throat. The larger man stood, turning to face the serial killer. They each held their respective weapons high: Bohuslav's two sickles; Tanek's knife and crossbow.

"This isn't finished," Bohuslav told him.

"I know."

Then Bohuslav lowered the blades, exiting stage right, moving soundlessly — which confirmed to Tanek that he'd made the noise up front purely as a distraction.

Tanek sat back down and let out a long sigh. He looked up again at the machines of war, at the hull around him. He was in the belly of a much greater beast than this one when it came right down to it. So much had happened to him since the castle, and there was still so much at stake. More than Bohuslav or even The Tsar realised. Especially them.

He cast his mind back to the last of his dreams before entering Moscow. The last thing De Falaise — or the dream version of him — had said. "Help me…" the blind ex-Sheriff had attempted to say again. Then:

"Help me and help my child."