Hooded Man (74 page)

Robert prodded his sword through the gap in the tyres, feeling the now familiar resistance of flesh. There was a grunt. The gun went off, but it was already falling from the man’s hands. He fell to the ground, clutching at his wound.

Robert scrambled back out, catching sight of a shadow disappearing into the mist off to his left.

He got up and immediately gave chase.

T
HE BLAST FROM
the shell caught them all off guard.

Tanek let Bill go as they were both blown over, black smoke from the flames covering them. Judging from the far-off hint of yellow and red, the forest was on fire, or at least part of it. Tanek coughed, then surveyed the area. Hood’s people were already stirring, as was Mary. Adele was laying motionless a little way from Hood’s woman.

It was time to retreat.

The whole thing had gone to shit, and he needed to get De Falaise’s daughter to safety. He’d promised. Tanek got up, kicking the farmer across the face and grabbing his crossbow as he made his way to Adele.

“Time to leave,” he told her, taking her by the arm and lifting her to her feet. She didn’t complain, a ripe bruise flowering on her chin and eye. It seemed that Hood’s woman still had some fight in her after all.

Tanek pulled Adele towards a jeep with one working headlight. Just as they were about to climb in, the sound of gunfire came from somewhere across the way – from the direction the shell had originated. Somebody was being shot at; Tanek hoped it was Hood.

Adele slumped forward, hanging heavily in his arms. She was staring up at him, as if shocked. When Tanek shifted his position to help her into the vehicle, he felt the wetness at her back.

More shots – closer, in tandem with the others. Tanek traced them back to Mary, who was sitting upright, holding one arm with her other hand and shooting the Peacekeeper. Once the gun was empty, she slumped, spent.

Adele was bleeding heavily from her back wound. Tanek lifted her into the vehicle and ran round to the driver’s side, gunning the engine, he pulled the jeep round and retreated, urging Adele to stay awake, telling her he’d get her back to the castle, get her fixed up.

“Hold on,” he kept repeating as he drove past the stuck AFV and back onto the main road, cutting a swathe through the fog. He knew once he got far enough away from Sherwood, the mist would clear.

“Everything will be okay. Just hold on!”

A
S HE STUMBLED
through the undergrowth, the mist thickening, the Tsar couldn’t help thinking that this was just like one of the old folktales, something parents tell their children to stop them running off.
Don’t go into the forest, especially after sunset, because something might just come for you. Something might just be hunting you.

Well, something was definitely hunting him.

The Hooded Man, on his own turf. He knew every single one of these trees, where the Tsar was completely and utterly lost. They might be within spitting distance of the road, but he couldn’t see a thing. He ventured on, stumbling through the fog, his great coat flapping behind him, waving his blade ahead of him.

The Tsar tripped and crashed into a fence, breaking through the wood. He rose, tumbling forwards, the ground less grassy here. He smacked into another fence and when he looked up, he gasped. The figure of the Hooded Man was towering above him. He was about to swing his sword when he realised it was just a statue, that the representation was holding a staff and was fighting with another, much larger figure. That the hood was thrown back.

Must be in the old tourist section of Sherwood,
he thought,
the place where they honoured the first of his kind.

The original, not this...
copycat
who’d come along centuries later.

Even so, that mimic had managed to cripple his forces. Now had him on the run. The Tsar was searching for the warrior within himself, the man who’d fought so valiantly in the ’eighties, who’d beaten people up for protection money, taken assassination jobs.

You have grown soft, so used to luxury in your hotel back in Moscow, shielded from everything. Now you must fend for yourself because there is no-one else.

No-one else here to face him, Andrei, but you.

It was the first time in years he’d heard that name, his true name. Not Lord, or Sire, or the Tsar. The name he’d had as a child, an orphan. The name he’d used in the Russian army.

He remembered all those battles now, the bloodlust that had been in him, and the way he’d deal with those enemies of the mafia during peacetime. Actually doing the damage himself instead of just watching others in a ring beating the hell out of each other.

The Tsar gnashed his teeth and trudged on, feeling his way along the sides of buildings, then up along an overgrown path. Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw the fire.
His
fire. The one he’d created with the explosion. He’d got turned around somehow and gone in a circle.

The fire was spreading through the trees, from branch to branch.

“I’m coming for you, Tsar!” shouted a voice that echoed all around, full of fury. He’d invaded Hood’s country, his city, killed his men and taken his women hostage. Now this: the Tsar had set fire to his beloved Sherwood.

But an angry man makes mistakes.
If I can just keep calm, keep my cool.
The Tsar let out a small laugh at the ridiculousness of that, while all around the fire raged.

Find the warrior inside, find that same fire in your own belly!

He stood up straighter, then called back: “Then come. I am read –”

The shape leaped out of nowhere, out of the flames. It dove headlong into the Tsar, shoving him sideways into a tree. His shoulder stung as it connected with the wood and he let out a cry. Swearing, he shrugged off his greatcoat.

“What’s the matter? Too warm for you? I used to be afraid of the fire,” said a gruff voice from under the hood. “Afraid of the memories.”

The Tsar stood again, swiping sideways with his curved sword and hitting thin air. “You should be afraid of me!”

“I don’t think so.” Hood lashed out now with his weapon, and the Tsar met the thrust. They exchanged blows against a background of mist, smoke and crackling flames. Then Hood rammed him up against a tree, crossing their blades so that they were either side of the Tsar’s neck. Even as the man was doing this, the Tsar couldn’t help noticing a wince of pain when Hood raised his arm. Some wound at his shoulder? A weakness?

The Tsar pressed the man back, then twisted the crossed swords so he could angle them sideways. He gave another push and the hilts smacked into Hood’s wounded shoulder. He let out a howl, fell back, and dropped his sword. Then he dropped to his hands and knees, gasping.

That
is where you should be!

The Tsar kicked him in the side, rolling him over. As Hood clutched at the shoulder wound, the Tsar spotted blood staining the leg of his trousers. He trod on the second wound, and again Hood let out a wail.

“So, you can be hurt. Not as invincible as you would have people believe, eh?” Hood lay on the ground, with the Tsar above – sword at his throat. “All this will have been worth it just to kill you, comrade. Tanek was right; one day it would have come to this. Better that it should be settled here and now.”

Hood didn’t move, apparently helpless, the Tsar victorious over him. He finally felt like that warrior again. He, who had defeated Hood after the Frenchman failed; when tanks, guns and men had failed.

Then Hood grabbed the blade with his good hand. He levered it back, though it cost him – the sharp edges cutting into his skin, slipping and causing even the Tsar to cringe.

“I agree,” said the man, wrenching his head to the side and letting go of the sword. It dug into the soil behind, holding it there fast. Hood slid from beneath the Tsar, kicking the legs out from under him at the same time.

There was nothing he could do. He was falling, knowing what was going to happen but powerless to prevent it. The spiked hilt of the sword, as smooth as it was, went into him – helped by his own bodyweight and forward impetus. The Tsar grunted as he dropped down over the hilt, and onto the blade itself. Impaled.

He was still alive, just, when Hood picked up his own sword and walked round to his head.

“You should have stayed where you were, comrade,” he told the Tsar, spitting out the final word.

Then there was a final swish and the Tsar had to concede, in the end, that the Hooded Man had a point.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

H
EAT.
F
IRE.
P
AIN.

It was all he could remember of the torture session. Naturally, Tanek had left Jack a few reminders: scalding burns, and several nails still digging into his body that hurt whenever he twitched. Though not even they hurt as much as the thought he’d let down Mark, Tate and the others. Not to mention Robbie. He’d given them up – granted, because they were threatening Mary’s life, but she would have been the first to tell Tanek and Adele to take a hike. Even Mark probably lasted longer. And Jack had fallen for Adele; just how stupid was he? The daughter of their greatest enemy. Greatest till now, anyway. Not even De Falaise could have pulled off the stunts this Tsar character was responsible for.

Jack had passed out again a couple of times since the pair left, and night had fallen in the meantime. He’d also been left unguarded. They probably thought he didn’t warrant watching any more. That he’d be going nowhere considering what Tanek had put him through.

They obviously didn’t know Jack very well. He’d screwed up, big time, and he aimed to put things right. How, he didn’t know, but he’d start with getting free of this fucking chair! Easier said than done, when you were tied to the arms and legs.

He should have been freezing, stripped to his underwear. But they’d also been making use of Faraday’s furnace. Jack recalled seeing the body of their blacksmith in the corner. How many more would be counted amongst his number by the time the day was out?

During the torture, the furnace had been an instrument of terror; now, though it had died down, it was probably keeping him alive. And might just be the answer to freeing him.

Mustering what little energy he could, Jack stretched his toes – the rope tying his ankles to the chair legs prevented him from placing his feet properly on the floor. As he strained, the cords in his neck tightened, and the nails that had been banged so methodically into his torso, arms and legs sent more ripples of torment through him. Never, not even after all those rounds in the wrestling ring, had his body felt so battered and abused.

His toes brushed the cold floor, but he was going to have to do better than that. He stretched again, and this time they connected. He pushed down, enough to raise the chair slightly. Breathing heavily, Jack did it again, only this time he tried his best to lean to the side as well, angling towards the furnace. Just when he thought it wasn’t going to go, the chair tipped, pitching him on his side. It knocked the square furnace over, sending a slew of coals and ash across the floor. The nail in his shoulder was driven even further in by the fall, and he bit back a cry of anguish.

Ignore the pain. You’re not done yet, and someone might have heard all the racket you’ve just made!

Jack looked down and found a handful of coals had rolled near to his bound wrists. They were no longer as hot as they had been when Tanek made use of them, but they might be hot enough for his purposes. If he could just inch a little closer...

Jack wrenched his body sideways, lifting the chair off the floor, then threw his weight in the other direction. The chair moved a fraction across the floor. Dismissing the pain as best he could, Jack lifted the chair again, bringing it down closer to the coals. He was centimetres away, so he did it again. This time he landed virtually on the coals, and he yelped, but kept still – the rope was also on them. Slowly, they were burning through it. It took a few minutes, but he at last began to smell smoke. Jack held on a little longer, but eventually lost patience. The ropes were now loose enough for him to break free.

Making a fist, he tugged on the bonds, and was surprised when they gave first time. Quickly, he reached over, untying his other hand – then did the same with his ankles. Jack collapsed on the floor, and crawled away from the sea of coals and ash.

Before he had a chance to pull out the nails still sticking in him, a Russian soldier appeared at the arched entranceway, barking something in his native tongue. He raised his machinegun. Part of Jack just wanted to lay there, let him shoot and get it over with. But people were relying on him. “T-take it easy, buddy,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We can work this out.”

Just when Jack thought he was going to open fire, the soldier shouted something else, motioning with his rifle for Jack to come out. Jack held up a hand, rising slowly and wincing. “All right, all right. I’m coming.” The man shouted again, and it was now that Jack revealed his other hand – flinging coals at the soldier, hitting him in the centre of his forehead. Before the soldier could fire, Jack had reached him and followed through with a punch in the face, knocking him spark out.