Hooded Man (63 page)

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.

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

He stood, all Hell breaking loose around him. Then he raised his head, still under the hood. 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 advanced, nose down, all its weapons trained on Robert.

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 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 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 hitting nothing. Robert watched from under the brow of his hood, as it drifted across the sky, then piled into a bunch of trees at the edge of the field, becoming tangled 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, connected with the ground and 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.

B
OHUSLAV 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 more modern missiles, 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. 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 the rag-tag team that had held fast against their might.

T
HROUGH WATERY EYES
attempting to close, Robert saw him.

It was 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. 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, wounding the prey. This monster liked his meat to be softened up before coming in for the kill. And he’d killed before, enjoyed it.

“Wake up,
mudak
!” shouted the man. He was using one of the sickle points to push 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 from 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, knocking the Russian back. The sickle blade slid out of Robert’s thigh as the stranger 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 inching down. “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. The sickles were millimetres from his chest. 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 in Robert’s shoulder, the stranger raised the other sickle 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. 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 man who’d dismembered him. 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.

The man scrabbled back and held his stomach, his face 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 to drag himself back into the passenger seat. Hands pulled him in, 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 nodded. “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, and 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.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
HE FIRST SIGN
that something was wrong came when they lost contact with the sentries on the outskirts of the city.

“Could just be a fault in the radio equipment,” Jack said to Mary when he visited her room, but the look on his face told her he didn’t believe that for a second. When Robert’s teams had originally infiltrated Nottingham, they’d kept up the pretence that the guards were still on duty, to retain the element of surprise. If the lookouts really were gone, then whoever was on their way didn’t care whether they knew or not. “But I’ve already begun spreading the word among the men, just in case,” Jack continued.

“We’d better gather people together,” Mary told him. “Just give me a second.” She grabbed a coat and fish out her father’s precious old Peacekeeper revolvers, along with the bullets she had left. Robert hadn’t even bothered asking her to give them up; he’d known what the answer would be. “Okay,” she said, and they walked out together along the corridor.