Arrowland

by Paul Kane

  The guard then foolishly attempted to grab Jack around the neck; foolish not only because of the sheer size of the man, but also because of his former profession. Jack bent and threw the guard over his head, then gave the man an almighty kick, which not only knocked him into the door, it knocked it down.

  Jack was inside first, but his reward for being so eager was a smack in the face from a waiting guard. Dale stepped in and felt the barrel of a pistol against his temple. "Drop it," he was told, so he let the machine-gun fall to the ground. These were two of the Dragon's most trusted guards; they had to be considering the secrets he kept in that room.

  As Jack was rising, a machine pistol trained on him, he was relieved of his staff. And now he saw what Dale was looking at, too.

  The room was laid out almost like a bedsit; a living room area with chairs and a bed. There were people sitting in the chairs and one lying in the bed, Dale could see, but there was something wrong with them. They were much thinner than they should have been, in spite of all the food Meghan must have delivered. In fact they were malnourished, these people: with stick-like arms that hung down - although one was attempting to knit. The Dragon's grandmother, Dale supposed. The figure in bed was sitting up, leaning back against the pillows. Not because he'd just woken, Dale reasoned, but because he must have been injured at some point.

  His mind wouldn't let him see it at first, couldn't let him see what in front of him. Because the truth was too hideous to contemplate. That someone could do this, even after everything else he'd witnessed at the Dragon's hands, was too much. It threatened to bend Dale's mind, just as something must surely have bent the Dragon's long ago.

  "Dale... they're..." This was Jack, obviously having as much trouble processing the information as him. "They're all-"

  "Dead," finished Dale. Because they were. All three of them. Oh, they'd been dressed up to look as though they were still alive, positioned as if they were. Not only was the gran knitting, but the mother had a magazine on her lap open at some celebrity gossip that had long since failed to have any meaning. The father was just staring out in an accusatory way at anything that happened to be in front of him, including Jack and Dale. That is, he would have been staring if he'd still had eyes. All of the corpses were in a distinct state of decay, the flesh rotted from their bones, eyes long since gone to jelly, leaving empty black sockets behind. Dale wondered how they all still had hair, but then noticed the artificiality of it, especially the tight curls of the mother and gran. Wigs taken from some kind of hairdressers or fancy dress shop.

  Thankfully, there wasn't the usual stench associated with death - and Dale knew this all too well, from his time walking the streets post-Cull. Instead the air smelt quite sweet, the result of large amounts of air-freshener being pumped into the atmosphere, no doubt.

  Dale turned as much and as slowly as he could and saw Meghan being ushered in by one of the recovering guards from the doorway. "You brought them food?" he asked.

  She nodded. "I had to, and change their clothes. I did everything for them." Tears were in her eyes again and Dale shuddered at what she must have gone through as their personal slave.

  "And don't think we didn't appreciate it, dear," came a voice from the back of the room. It was female, and appeared to be coming from the mother.

  "That's right," said another feminine voice, this time sounding much frailer: the grandmother. "We don't know what we would have done without you."

  Dale frowned, searching for the source. He didn't have to look far. There, at the back of the room, now stepping out from behind a partition was the Dragon. He was half dragging, half holding up Sian, the girl's head drooping as it had been on the screen back in the other room. Probably drugged, Dale suspected, or just worn down by her interrogation.

  Dale took a step forwards when he saw her, forgetting about the gun until it was cocked. "Let her go!" he shouted.

  "He really should, shouldn't he," said the mother, and now Dale could see the Dragon's lips moving, throwing his voice across the room so that it appeared to be coming from the corpse. Christ, how long had he been having conversations with his dead relatives? "But she's such a sweet young thing. The only girlfriend he's ever brought back to meet us."

  "I wonder why." This voice was gruffer, a thick Welsh accent. The Dragon's father.

  "Now, don't you two start again," said the mother.

  All the voices sounded real. Genuine imitations of the voices of his family Dale was willing to bet; honed after years of hearing them.

  "I really like this one," the Dragon said in his own voice, and for a second Dale didn't even recognise it. This was the first time he'd spoken since they'd discovered his little secret.

  Dale tried to look to the side, at the guard, but the barrel of the gun was pressed harder into his temple. "Look, can't you see what's happening here? The kind of man you're protecting?"

  "Your boss is a Grade A fruitcake," Jack added.

  "I am not a-" the Dragon began, then smiled. "You're only jealous, all of you."

  "Of what?" Dale spluttered.

  "My family survived. I'm guessing most of yours didn't."

  "They're not exactly looking too healthy for people who are supposed to be alive," Dale argued.

  "What's he talking about, sweetheart?" asked the mother.

  "I feel as fit as a fiddle," the Dragon now said in the grandmother's voice. "Never felt better."

  "Don't know what he needs a girlfriend for anyway," the father piped up. "It's not like he'd be able to do anything with her."

  "Ryn!" snapped the mother.

  "Well, look at him. Even if he wasn't such a pansy, he's the size of a bloody house."

  "This is crackers," said Dale, stating the obvious. "Let her go right now, you sick fuck or-"

  "Hey, boy, don't you talk to our Owain like that! Little prick."

  The Dragon looked sideways, at the dead body that had once been his father. "Dad?"

  "Well... You're still my son. Might not be anything like Gareth, but you're still my flesh and..." The Dragon paused in his imitation, some small part of his brain realising the significance of what he was saying.

  If they had exactly the same blood, then his father would still be alive. Or had the man died after whatever had befallen him post-virus? Dale wondered. Whatever the case, the Dragon had stopped; had realised this fact. It was probably also the most touching moment he'd ever shared with his father, and it wasn't even real. Dale might have felt sorry for him, if he hadn't caused so much death and destruction. If he didn't still have Sian in a vice-like grip.

  "It's time to end this," Jack said. "Right now!"

  Dale moved quickly, ignoring the pain he was feeling, ducking and elbowing the guard who had the gun on him in one, swift movement. The pistol went off, deafening him, but he couldn't allow that to stop him, too much was at stake. Dale grabbed the guard's gun arm, pulling it down and forcing the man to depress the trigger again, to shoot himself in his foot. Dale barely heard the muffled howl of agony. He looked over to see Jack wrestling with his own guard, having already disarmed him - now all it took was a head butt which saw the man sinking to his knees. "The girl," Dale just about made out from Jack's lips, while the larger man concentrated on the guard holding Meghan. The guard pushed her to the floor, readying himself for Jack's second attack of the day.

  As Dale moved forwards, though, the Dragon pulled Sian into a headlock, threatening to twist it off if he came any closer. "Let her go," Dale repeated.

  "No! She's mine."

  There were two gunshots in quick succession, and Dale - wrongly - assumed they were the result of Jack's tussle with the final guard. But then he noticed the two bullet holes in the Dragon's chest. Dale traced the bullets' trajectory back and was surprised to see Meghan holding the first guard's pistol, the one that had been pressed against his own temple. She was on her knees, her wounded hand hanging by her side, but the other was outstretched, still holding the smoking gun.

  Dale ofte
n thought back to that day, and wondered if Meghan had just been really lucky not to hit Sian, or if the size of the Dragon had helped with her aim; after all, there was so much more of him than her niece. Meghan didn't know either, and she'd never fired a gun in her life before, as she'd explained afterwards. But something had just made her pick it up and shoot. Something that was guiding her hand. An instinct that had tried to keep Sian safe long before the Dragon came along.

  Sian dropped from the Dragon's grasp as he tottered backwards. Dale went across to her, keeping his eye on the big man as he went. The Dragon was looking down at the holes, the blood. His eyes were wide as he dipped his fingers inside, not daring to believe he'd been hit.

  "I can't," he said. "I'm..."

  "Oh Owain, let us have a look at that. I'm sure it'll be all right if we put some antiseptic on it and a plaster," he managed in his mother's voice - though Dale noticed the tremble of fear.

  Then Owain said one thing in his father's tones: "Prat."

  Dale began pulling Sian away from the scene. The Dragon clutched at his wounds, and his hands came away scarlet. He rubbed his face with them, closing his eyes.

  Dale shuddered as the Dragon opened them again, looking more like his namesake than ever. "I... I am..." he said, then stumbled forwards. He held on to the back of his father's bed for support. Dale watched him reach down, lifting the pillow.

  "Do you remember, Dad? When you brought me here?" The Dragon's voice was weakening as he brought out the object he'd hidden there. "D-Do you remember those rugby games?"

  "Jesus," said Dale. "Jack, Meghan, we have to get out of here!" They looked at him, puzzled, so he thumbed back towards the Dragon - now holding a rugby ball. "It's a bomb!"

  That did the trick, and Jack helped Meghan up, pulling her out through the door. Dale followed closely behind with Sian, struggling to hold her up but knowing they only had a few moments left. His ears had finally stopped ringing and he clearly heard the last words to come from inside the room.

  "Do you remember what we said, what you taught me? Say it with me now. We are Dragons. Come on..." He sounded like he was half crying; but to Dale, right at the end, it also sounded like there was more than one voice. "We are Dragons. I. AM. A. DRAGO-"

  The blast from the doorway blew them halfway up the corridor, but the walls protected them from much of the explosion. It had to have killed the Dragon, though, even if his gunshot wounds hadn't - not to mention the other men who'd chosen to guard him. Everyone else in there had been dead a long time ago.

  As the smoke cleared, Jack and Meghan rose, and Dale picked Sian up. She was starting to stir a little, thankfully, even tried to smile when she opened her eyes and saw him. He smiled back, brushing hair out of her eyes.

  "Come on," Jack said, "that's enough of all that." But then he realised he was still holding onto Meghan, and let go. He coughed. "We'd better check what's happening in the rest of this place. It ain't over yet, kid."

  But, compared with what they'd just gone through - what he, Sian and Meghan had been going through for a while - how could the battles raging upstairs be any worse?

  Things were about to get much worse.

  Robert thought that as Mary freed him from the ropes at his wrists. Oh, his legs were scorched in places, but it could have been so much worse. And they'd had some good fortune: take the guy who'd confronted the Widow, who was now standing like a statue, quite clearly dead from the knife wound she'd inflicted on him. Robert felt sure he recognised him, had seen the man somewhere, but couldn't place him Why had he done it? They'd probably never know, but they had been lucky. That luck, though, was about to run out. Apart from the veritable army about to knock down the door, Robert still had his wife - his real wife - to face. And apologise to. "Mary, listen-"

  "Later," she told him.

  "But..."

  She placed a finger to his lips, helping to hold him up at the same time. "I know what you were doing," Mary told him. "Buying us time. Trying to fool her. You weren't the only one acting back there, you know. Oh, I didn't want to listen at first, but then someone close forced me to."

  He was about to ask what she meant when she kissed him, long and hard on the lips. It was as she was doing so that the first of the explosions went off. "Did the earth move for you?" she asked.

  "Always."

  They kissed again, the explosions and gunfire outside a million miles away. But when they broke off, Robert frowned. "Can you smell-"

  "Burning!" Mary screamed, pushing Robert away. Coming at them was a flaming figure, risen from the bonfire like some kind of phoenix. The Widow rushed at them, flailing her hands, still wielding the sacrificial dagger that meant so much to her. For a moment Robert thought that the words she'd been uttering as he dragged her back onto the flames might have worked; that instead of burning her alive, they'd somehow made her more powerful. But if it was black magic keeping her alive, it didn't last for long. She dropped to the ground after failing in her attempt to either share the fire with the couple, or stab them.

  As she fell she let go of the dagger and Mary promptly kicked it away, out of reach. The flames went out unusually quickly, leaving her body blackened and crisp. Still the Widow struggled to rise, getting up on her hands and knees. Robert thought then how much she resembled the thing he'd seen in his dream: the spider that was her namesake.

  She toppled over onto her back, her breathing shallow. Only her eyes and her teeth now shone white. Though it was clearly agony for her to do so, the Widow gestured for Robert to come closer. He remained where he was, and she whispered something inaudible.

  Robert took a step nearer.

  "Robert, no!"

  "She's trying to speak," he told Mary.

  "All right, just be careful. She's dangerous."

  There was a laugh from the Widow at this, which hurt her even more judging from the moan she let out afterwards. Robert leaned in, close enough to hear but not near enough to be grabbed if she decided to pull a stunt.

  "W-Won't hurt yer..." breathed the Widow. "Just wanted to tell yer, we will meet agin...Robert, ma Hooded Man. I'll see yer agin..."

  Robert shook his head. It was highly doubtful, but then hadn't he seen De Falaise and The Tsar again after their deaths? After he'd taken their lives?

  "It's... it's fitting..." she told him. "What I deserved... but it is not the end...You'll get yer magic back, Robert... This I promise... And we... we will see each other again." She reached up now, too quickly for him to pull back. She grabbed his arm, pulling him closer. Mary made a move, but he held up his other hand.

  The Widow smiled, eyes closing. "Tae bad." she whispered, It could have been... somethin' quite special." Then she collapsed back to the ground.

  Robert looked at the thing in his hand: a blackened card, but he could still make out the picture of The Emperor on its surface. He shook his head.

  Mary said nothing. She just crouched down on the other side of the Widow, wrapped her fingers in the edge of her top and pulled off the golden ring on the third finger of the woman's left hand. "Mine, I believe."

  They'd been so caught up in the Widow's final moments that they hadn't noticed the escalating gunfire and explosions outside. But the banging on the door continued nonetheless, those loyal to the Widow still trying to get in.

  Robert barely had time to stand when the door finally caved and in rushed several raiders. Mary helped him to his feet, not knowing what either of them could do. But then they saw the guards were lowering their weapons. "Robert? Mary?"

  He squinted, trying to see beyond the goggles and masks. One pulled off his headgear to reveal a face he recognised. "Saxton!" It was one of their Rangers.

  The others came inside and Robert saw there were more dressed like the Widow's men, but bringing up the rear and shouting for them to let him past was a voice he recognised all too well. "Come on, move aside. Let the dog see the..." Bill paused when he saw Robert. "Well, I didn't really want to see that much!" he exclaimed, nodding at his
friend's nakedness. Mary stood in front of her husband, at least until she could find something to cover him with.

  "Bill, you came for us," said Robert, giving him a weary smile.

  "Aye lad, in the Black Shark. Didn't ye hear me?" Bill laughed but then caught the chastising glare Robert was giving him. "Ahem, but look who I found in the Widow's dungeons," the ex-farmer said, changing the subject. He stepped back to reveal Azhar, Annie Reid and some of the other Rangers from Robert's original strike force.

  Robert's smile widened. "What's happening outside now?"

  "The battle's still going on, but we're holding our own, with the help of the traders I brought with us. Won't take long to settle now we're all back together again. It's the Widow we're really after, mind. Fix her and you fix the probl-" Bill suddenly stopped, as if only now seeing the blackened thing between them on the ground. "What's that?"

  "Consider the problem fixed," Mary told him, putting her wedding ring back on now that it had cooled.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She'd been on the move for hours. Her legs ached, her feet had blisters, but she marched on. She didn't need the torch anymore, because the sun had started to rise. Nearly there, she kept telling herself. Reach the outskirts and you'll be spotted. They'll take you to the castle and you can explain everything. You can do your bit.

  Walking through the woodland at night had been the hardest part - all those strange sounds and movements in the undergrowth. After finding the dirt track leading to the main road, it was just a matter of following the map to the city. It reminded her a little of the walks her parents would insist on taking when she was younger, out every weekend into the country, boots and backpacks on, striding out over hill and dale. If nothing else, that had prepared her for a hike like this. And she'd kept herself relatively fit during her adult years, going to the gym three nights a week, keeping her alcohol consumption down. Yeah, only because you never used to go out anywhere at the weekend; even the walks with your folks were better than the marathon weepie sessions with a chick flick and a box of Kleenex.