by Paul Kane
"Looks like ash. What is this?"
"You must take it back to your forest. Release it there and the spirits, your gods, will be freed." When they both frowned, he continued: "It must mix with the essence of your spiritual home. Now, hand me back what you have taken."
"How do we know this will wor-" Robert didn't finish the sentence because gunfire filled the corridor. Russian soldiers were approaching. Everyone ducked, and Robert tossed the stone over to the man in black to free his hands, then shoved the pouch of ashes in his pocket. Mark shifted his aim to fire on the Russians, which left their enemy free to nock his own bow, after tucking away his prize.
At first, Robert thought the man might actually fire at them. Instead, he let off a couple of accurately aimed arrows towards the guards. Robert nodded to him and the Native American nodded back. But then he was off, running towards the Russians and leaping over the tops of several. Mark was about to fire an arrow after him when Robert placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let him go. We have other problems."
They certainly did, as a succession of bullets raked the walls. Rounding the corner, Mark pressed himself up against the pock-marked plaster and let off some arrows in the direction of the men. Robert had already grabbed the shield to protect himself from the barrage and joined him. "Now what?" asked Mark.
"Fall back," Robert told him. They backed up the corridor until they reached one of the rooms Robert had checked on his way. "Inside. Cover us."
Hiding behind the doorframe, Mark continued to pull arrow after arrow from his quiver. Robert called for Mark, pointing to the window. His son loosed a few more arrows to buy them some time, then followed Robert as he ran at the window, using the shield to break the glass and then plummeting towards the ground.
Robert hit the concrete below badly, but it would have been much worse were it not for the shield and the thick snow covering the street. Tiny shards of glass followed, sprinkling Robert as he watched Mark bend and take the strain on his much younger knees, dropping perfectly beside him. They were somewhere round the side of the warehouse, in a deserted alley. Deserted, that was, apart from what looked like frozen statues lying on the ground. The slowly decomposing dead, who thawed in warmer weather, then refroze when the snow returned.
"Come on," Mark said, helping him up and looking above him to where the Russian soldiers were now taking up firing positions at the window. "Time we weren't here."
Robert couldn't agree more, but as they rounded the corner of the building they were stopped dead in their tracks. Assembled at the front of the warehouse was a vast collection of jeeps, tanks and other armoured vehicles; not to mention dozens of soldiers with rifles. And they were all trained in Robert and Mark's direction.
The air filled with the clack of those weapons being primed, as Robert saw the new Tsar stumble through the main doors of the warehouse. What had happened to Tanek, he had no clue.
Bohuslav grinned slyly when he saw the scene.
"What are you waiting for? Execute them!"
Chapter Twenty-Three
The fight had been a vicious one, but it had been he who'd been victorious.
He'd often wondered in the time since their last meeting - in the time since their first meeting as a matter of fact - who would be the eventual winner. Both of them were sadistic bastards, quick to kill by whatever methods were available. But also, if time allowed, keen to savour the act of extinguishing life itself.
That hadn't been an option today, but Bohuslav didn't care. He'd tried to do this the slow way, to make Tanek and Hood perform a little before their deaths. But now it was over for at least one of them, he felt good. And he felt all the better for having got it over and done with quickly.
When Hood pushed him over that ledge, he'd thought that was the end of it. Grasping onto the rail, that bastard had practically kicked him off into the lion's den. Luckily, Bohuslav knew how to fall - and who to fall on, making use of a couple of guards and civilians below. He'd walked away relatively unscathed, but that had just been the start of it.
Tanek had been rushing towards him by the time he found his feet again. Bohuslav had just about managed to dodge the first attack, stumbling over the bodies he'd fallen on. As he rose, Bohuslav wielded his hammer, aiming specifically for the big lug's fingers. Tanek had let out a cry as they opened in pain, his axe flying out of his grasp. With his good hand, Tanek grabbed the length of the hammer and tugged, pulling Bohuslav in for a head butt. It was a glancing blow which opened up a cut over his right eye, disorientating him long enough for Tanek to yank the hammer from his clutches.
Tanek swung it, but Bohuslav ducked; slashing at Tanek with his sickle while he was down there. Most of these attacks missed their mark, but one opened a wound on Tanek's side. The giant snarled, bringing down the hammer on Bohuslav's shoulder in a blow that almost dislocated it. Bohuslav lashed out with the sickle again, slicing open Tanek's forearm and forcing him to drop the weapon. The larger man dived on him and they rolled over and over, the floor relatively empty now that the crowds had thinned. People were racing for the exit now that the majority of guards were either dead or wounded.
When they came to a stop, in the middle of the fighting pit, Bohuslav found that he was the one on top. Before he could embed his sickle in Tanek's flesh, though, the giant had thrown him off, flinging the Tsar onto his back.
As Tanek was getting to his feet, Bohuslav was already crawling around the rear. He slashed at the tendons at the back of the big man's ankles, severing one and cutting almost all the way through the other. Tanek dropped onto his knees, but still whirled, trying to grab Bohuslav.
The Tsar was reaching for something as well: he'd discovered the axe Hood had abandoned. Getting to his feet, he ran at Tanek with the weapon. The big man grabbed it just below the blade, squeezing the wood. Bohuslav could feel the power in that hand still, even after he'd struck it with the hammer. Tanek was threatening to break the handle in his grip, or at least snatch it away from Bohuslav. It was time to finish things.
"I will kill you," Tanek said.
Bohuslav jerked sideways suddenly, causing the end to snap off, but he'd put enough weight behind the move that the wooden shaft carried on moving... into Tanek's chest, rammed through a good few inches. The big man opened his eyes wide, looking down at the wood. "Just... just like the Sheriff..." he said, a slight smile playing on his lips. Lips that were growing redder by the second. "No... I must live... the promise... the-"
Then he fell and Bohuslav stood over him, watching as he breathed his last. To make sure, he bent and cut the man's throat open from one side to the other. "Goodbye Tanek." he spat. Then he began hobbling towards the door, leaving the body of the giant behind.
Bohuslav made it to the main entrance, the last person to leave. He used his sickle like a hook to drag himself through. Imagine his surprise when he saw what was happening outside. He'd assumed Hood had already fled, that he'd have to send out a search party to bring the escapee back: one dead, one to go. But here was the man himself, in pretty bad shape by the looks of things, being helped by one of his lot; a lone man sent in to free him. Ridiculous, the arrogance of those Rangers!
What made the picture perfect, however, was the forces already summoned to tackle him - a guard must have sounded the alarm. Even Bohuslav was impressed with the speed with which his men had assembled, the sheer amount of vehicles and soldiers that had gathered.
Looking across at Hood and smiling, he gave the order to kill them.
It was only then that Bohuslav noticed the men were not wearing the grey uniforms of his own army. Yes, they were similar - very similar in fact, but there were subtle differences. For one thing the symbol worn on the shoulders of their uniform was different. A symbol from history, the same yet new and updated - overlapping squares now marking out the shape. A shape that had struck terror into millions during the 1930s and 40s. And the vehicles, they weren't of Russian origin either. Not the standard issue they'd used against Hood back in En
gland, nor those he'd been building up again since. Bohuslav had become quite an expert in scavenged military gear, and he knew which army had once used these vehicles. Which country.
The deciding factor had been when their commander had ordered for the troops to turn on him: turning their guns away from Hood and his Ranger, towards the Tsar.
"Wait," said Bohuslav, holding up his hands. "Wait a second-"
The commander shouted for them to open fire.
Bohuslav barely had time to breathe out, "God forgive me," before the soldiers pulled their triggers.
Robert and Mark's mouths fell open.
They'd thought this was it. That death had finally caught up with them. Staring down the barrels of so many guns and cannons, how could they possibly cheat death again this time? Robert felt more sorry for Mark than for himself; the boy had never really had time to become a man, to become the great Ranger Robert knew he would someday. Now all that was about to end.
To make matters worse, Bohuslav had somehow got away from Tanek and had come to watch. Had ordered their deaths, in fact; obviously too tired and pissed off to want to do it slowly anymore.
Robert held his breath as Bohuslav told his men to execute them. Then let it out, amazed, as all the guns were trained in the Tsar's direction.
It was only now, with the luxury of not having those guns facing them, that Robert took in what was really happening. Who those forces actually belonged to. Both he and Mark looked on as another order was given to kill Bohuslav.
Robert couldn't watch beyond the first salvo of bullets, keeping Bohuslav upright long after he should have dropped to the ground. The gunfire seemed to go on forever, until finally the last bang sounded. Mark touched his arm and Robert jumped, the loud cracks still ringing in his ears. He looked but couldn't see Bohuslav - just a red smear against the whiteness of the snow: all that was left after the automatic weapons had done their worst. Robert shivered again, but it had nothing to do with the snow all around.
The German soldiers turned back in their direction. What had happened with Bohuslav had been merely a stay of execution, it seemed. There was no bargaining with the Germans, either. Actually, it made things worse, because he and Mark had just been given a preview of what would happen to them.
As Robert steeled himself, he felt something touch his arm. He assumed it was Mark again, but when he turned his head he saw it was a rope dangling from above, which must have just dropped. "What..." began Robert, looking up, but there was no time for questions. Mark grabbed him, then shoved his foot into a loop at the bottom before winding his hand around the rope already lifting them. Robert grabbed on himself so Mark didn't have to carry him. He followed the line of the rope up towards a shape above - something dark in the sky; something huge. A helicopter.
The Germans were about to fire, and probably still would have blown them to pieces - had the Russian forces not turned up at that point. Too late to save their Tsar, they nevertheless engaged the Germans on the ground level, their own jeeps and tanks approaching through the streets, soldiers with more AK-47s opening fire. Now the Germans had more on their plate than a couple of escaping men on a rope. One vehicle exploded as Robert and Mark were pulled up and away from the scene - they had no idea whose side it had belonged to. While the rope was being wound back into the helicopter, the battle below raged on, and looked like it was going to for some time.
Next thing they knew, the pair of them were at the back door of the chopper, being helped in by familiar faces. Jack was there, taking his hand off the winch lever to grab Robert's own hand, while Sophie clapped her arms around Mark, planting a huge kiss on his lips.
And there, in front of Robert, was Mary. She smiled and ran to him. The helicopter lurched and he and Mary fell against one side. Robert grabbed onto some netting. He heard a garbled apology called from the front of the craft. "Hold on, I'm tryin' to pull 'er out of range of those bigger guns below, before they drag us into their fun and games."
"Bill?" shouted Robert. "Where in Heaven's name did you find this?"
He heard a chuckle, then the reply: "Like it? Thought I'd upscale a little. Amazing what those locals up North had kickin' round at their flyin' museum. They let me borrow their Chinook for a while. Whoops. "
They lurched again, this time to the other side, but Robert held Mary close. "And how did you know where to find me?"
"That was Mark," she told him. "Said he thought he remembered overhearing something about Moscow and the Tsar when he was kidnapped. Wouldn't tell us the rest. Insisted on going in alone, that he was the only one who could find you." Robert studied Mark's face, and knew full well that nothing had been overheard. For one thing the Native American wouldn't have been that careless. But Robert fully intended to get the truth out of Mark later on.
For a third time the helicopter lurched, but now they heard a noise from the open back, a whooshing sound as a missile flew past. Bill had lost it. Robert thanked God it wasn't a heat-seeker.
Next came machine-gun fire, but it was too close to be coming from the ground.
"Look!" Sophie was pointing at two aircraft, jet fighters with crosses on the side: formerly of the Luftwaffe. They were flying in as low as the chopper, on their trail while the rest of the Germans were otherwise engaged.
"Tornadoes," Jack called across to Robert, frowning.
"Blast," Robert said. "Just when I thought we might be out of the woods." That phrase, that sentence, connected with him and he suddenly had an idea. He took out the ash the Native American had given him, and then he shouted for Mark to hand him the pouch on his own belt. The pouch, like Robert's, which contained foliage and twigs from Sherwood. Well, if he couldn't get to the forest... Mark handed it to him and Robert quickly mixed the contents.
"What are you doing?" asked Mary, but he didn't reply. He was too busy willing this to work, praying that, although they weren't in Sherwood, this mobile link might be enough.
"What kind of weapons have you got back there?" asked Robert.
Jack looked at him sideways. "Nothing that can stop those, chief." But he went to fetch Robert's usual selection: bolas, arrows - some chemically tipped, Robert was pleased to see - a bow and his sword.
"Robert," Mary began, starting to look worried. "What are you going to do?"
"What I have to," he said, strangely starting to feel better as he hooked Mark's pouch onto his belt.
"Whatever it is you might need this." Jack tossed across his hooded top. "Your uniform."
Robert put it on, then found Mary clutching at the material on his arm. "Robert, listen to me. There's something you need to know before you do anything stupid. The Widow was right, Robert." She touched her stomach as she whispered the words. "Do you hear me? The Widow was right."
Robert paused, smiled, then kissed her on the top of the head. That was all the more reason to do this, to keep them safe. "I'll be back," he assured her, strapping on his weapons. He was feeling more invigorated by the second, the aches and wounds of the past few days fading - might have been the adrenalin of what he was about to do; might have been something else. Robert wasn't about to analyse it.
"Let me come with you," Mark said, but Robert held up his hand.
"You've already risked enough today. I've got this," he told his son, glad that Sophie was pulling him back, and that Mary was not trying to do the same to him. Robert took hold of the line from the winch, opening up the loop and slipping it around his waist. Then he pulled up his hood.
And he was gone, racing towards the open end of the Chinook. He heard the cries as he jumped, the length of rope slackening as he dropped.
Robert swung out, falling towards the first of the nearing fighters. When he was close enough, just metres away, he reached for his bow. Before he could do anything, there was another smattering of machine-gun fire. And suddenly he was dropping much faster than before.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw the line had been shot through. He was no longer attached to the chopper. Gritting hi
s teeth, Robert threw back his shoulders and angled himself towards the first jet.
Robert slammed into the plane, just behind the cockpit, rolling over onto the join between the right wing and the trunk of the craft. He'd had just moments to register the shocked look of the pilot as he tumbled past. Robert hadn't been prepared for just how fast the wind would be coming at him, though, and he gripped the edge of the wing as the pilot attempted to shake him.
When the plane righted itself, Robert slid across and onto the main body of the craft again, so that the pilot couldn't see him. The man could only turn his head so far and as he didn't try to bank again, he probably assumed he'd shaken the hooded lunatic. The pilot began firing at the Chinook once more. Robert had to act. He began crawling along the spine of the plane inch by inch, until he reached the cockpit. Then he drew his broadsword and, pulling it back as far as he could - the wind almost taking it from his hand - he rammed it through the glass and into the pilot. The plane took an immediate dive, and Robert found himself sliding over the edge - hanging on only by the sword's handle, embedded in both the cockpit and slumping pilot.
He looked down to see the other Tornado below, rising swiftly. Robert waited until he could judge the angle, then dropped. As he fell, the first plane dipped suddenly, then banked. Robert barely looked; he was too busy pulling the bow from his shoulder, nocking one of the arrows with the chemical payload and preparing to fire at the second Tornado. He had a split second to do this, so his aim had to be dead on. Ignoring everything around him, he targeted one of the missiles the plane was carrying.
The wind suddenly took him sideways, and his aim was spoilt - the arrow going wide. Robert continued to fall, passing the Tornado now on his way down. He could see the pilot smirking, then opening fire himself, but Robert pitched himself forward, torpedoing downwards and underneath the jet.
Flipping himself around and onto his back, coasting on the breeze, he drew another arrow and fired upwards. This time it struck its target, the chemicals heating up the missile in seconds, igniting this, and the plane carrying it, seconds later.