by Paul Kane
There was a brief pause in the proceedings, during which Glazkov took a seat on the stool in his corner of the ring — sipping from a water bottle — and the body of the tramp was gathered up. This respite didn't last long, however, because by his yawns it was clear The Tsar was eager for more action. He saw very little himself these days, instead getting his fill of killing vicariously. But he missed it, oh God how he missed it. Maybe if Glazkov kept looking at his bodyguards that way he would find himself facing The Tsar in the ring? The thought both excited and troubled him.
But that wouldn't be tonight. Because the next participant was already being forced to the ring, the crowds parting so that he could be brought through. The man wore what looked to be sacking or a large blanket and appeared to be in even worse condition than the previous fighter. Obviously picked up off the streets, like the majority of them, his long, greasy hair was straggly and he was having trouble standing, limping into the centre of the ring.
In fact, it looked like this newcomer was about to collapse.
Glazkov rose from his stool, spitting out a mouthful of water. He wandered over to the man, looking down on him in disdain. Rubbing his hands together, Glazkov got started, much to the audience's satisfaction. He threw a punch that landed squarely in the man's kidneys. Then Glazkov clasped his hands together, leaping up and bringing them down hard on the man's back. The figure toppled onto the floor.
The Tsar yawned again. This fight was barely going to be worth watching; it would be over in seconds at this rate.
The people's champion kicked this beggar creature in the side, rolling him over once, twice, so that again he faced the floor. Then Glazkov raised his booted foot to bring it stomping down on the man's head.
Only it stopped in mid-trample. Glazkov looked down the length of his leg, realising that this man, this frail example of street scum, had actually caught his foot and was holding it fast.
Pushing, the man toppled Glazkov over. He landed on his back, an explosion of air being forced out of him. The spiky-haired gladiator scrambled about, clambering to get up quickly; he wasn't used to being the one on the floor. And it wasn't good for the crowd to see him that way.
As he was rising, so too was his new foe. Only this one kept rising, and rising… and rising. Letting go of the sacks and blankets he'd wrapped around him, Glazkov's opposite number revealed his true size for the first time.
He stood a good few feet above the champion, and his muscles, visible beneath the khaki T-shirt he wore, were easily bigger than Glazkov's — as impressive as those were. The crowd, who'd been cheering, though not quite as loudly as they had in the previous match, suddenly took notice of what had happened. There was deathly silence.
The Tsar frowned and inched forward in his seat. Bohuslav placed both hands on the rail and peered down while the twins looked on. It was like they were all watching the miracle of birth, and in a sense they were. A transformation akin to a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. Only this insect was olive-skinned and, as he swept back his greasy black hair, he sneered first at the people in the 'royal box', then at Glazkov.
The champion swallowed. The roles had suddenly been reversed, and Glazkov now found himself being towered over.
It was small comfort, but he was tossed a mace as spiky as his hair, while his opponent had to make do with receiving a length of chain. As Glazkov hunched down, circling the larger man and trying to weigh up his options, the olive-skinned colossus moved to follow him, obviously still having trouble with one leg… or was it his foot? Yes, The Tsar noted that he wasn't putting as much weight on one side, as if an old injury was bothering him.
Glazkov struck and the blow glanced off the bigger man's forearm, cutting him, but not badly. At the same time, the bigger man unfurled his chain, throwing it out like a whip and snaking it around Glazkov's neck. Tugging, he yanked the champion towards him, then punched him hard in the face.
Glazkov unfurled along the chain, spinning away. His legs gave out. He ended up on the floor again with a thud, shaking his head.
The giant, seemingly in no rush at all, gave Glazkov time to recover and get to his feet as he wrapped the chain around his fist. This time when Glazkov took a swing with the mace, the newcomer batted it out of his hand, then punched the champion again, using the chain as a knuckle duster. Teeth and blood flew from Glazkov's mouth, as his head rocked to one side. Regardless of the fact it was their hero who was getting thrashed out there, the crowd responded well, cheering louder than ever.
"Who is this?" Bohuslav muttered to himself, but loudly enough for The Tsar to hear.
Glazkov was crawling around, spitting out more blood and teeth. When he looked up, his jaw was a mess. But he wasn't defeated just yet. Someone, probably one of The Tsar's guards, threw him a metal fighting pike.
He used this to help himself up, then turned it on his enemy, running at him — trying to skewer him on the end. In spite of his bad foot, the large man evaded the ungainly attack, whipping out the chain and lashing Glazkov across the back of the neck.
"Mudak!" growled the spiky-haired Russian. Livid, he tried again, but the giant used his chain to snag the pike, spoiling Glazkov's aim. Try as he might, the champion just wasn't strong enough to bring the weapon back towards his target. Then suddenly it was snatched from his grasp.
Before Glazkov could do anything, the pike had been turned on him and thrust through the Russian's shoulder until it came out the other side. Then, holding onto the pike, the man brought up a boot and kicked Glazkov off. He staggered, not quite grasping what had just happened. Then the pain registered and he howled.
The giant didn't give him long for self pity. Hefting the pike like a staff, the man struck Glazkov first in the stomach, then under his chin; with such force that Glazkov was lifted into the air, before landing heavily on the floor.
Glazkov didn't have a clue what was coming next — and that was probably for the best. The stranger bent and aimed the pike at Glazkov's head, forcing it in just behind the right temple. With his considerable bulk behind the strike, the man was able to push the sharpened end right through Glazkov's skull. Like the last time, the giant kicked Glazkov off the spear and the former champion's now lifeless body hit the ground.
The audience was speechless. They'd seen Glazkov in some challenging fights but never known him get more than a few cuts or bruises. What were they supposed to do now? They couldn't chant this new champion's name, because they didn't know it. Besides, he didn't look like the kind of man you applauded. More like trembled before.
The Tsar was equally shocked, not least when the bear of a man holding the pike and chain looked up and pointed at him. Bohuslav immediately nodded to the guards at the ring, who entered, raising their AK-47's and demanding that he put down his weapons.
"Call them off!" shouted the stranger in perfect Russian. His voice was deep, his words to the point. When the men remained where they were, and then actually moved closer, the man cocked his head as if to say, That was a big mistake.
Seconds later, the chain was unfurled and the pike was flicked to the side. The Kalashnikovs all fired at the same time, but were quickly knocked out of the guards' hands, completely missing the man in the middle. Having disarmed them, the giant set to work on the men themselves, taking out the closest by simply charging into them like a juggernaut — or flinging the chain at their faces. The others he dispatched with a series of kicks and blows with the pike.
Then, limping towards the edge of the ring, he used that weapon like a pole-vaulter to clear the cordon. At the same time Bohuslav was ordering the guards with him to open fire into the ring. By the time they'd got their act together, the giant was already part of the crowd, crouching, moving from side to side so they couldn't easily track him.
"There!" shouted Bohuslav when he saw the tip of the pike above the mass of heads. The guards looked at each other, then at The Tsar, obviously troubled about firing into the throng. The Tsar nodded firmly and they did just that, picking of
f the people around the troublemaker, but not touching him. It only made the confusion worse. Those who remained panicked, slamming into each other, pushing each other out of the way. At one stage, when the giant saw he was close to being shot, he grabbed a woman and pulled her in front of him.
"Enough!" shouted The Tsar. This was only losing him subjects; it was obvious this had to be handled at closer range. "Xue, Ying." His bodyguards nodded, and ran to the viewing rail, leaping over it, into the crowd. Pockets of clear floor were opening up and in one to their left rose the olive-skinned man.
The twins drew their Hook Swords, circling him. He grimaced.
They attacked in a flurry of gleaming metal — and he blocked each and every swipe with the pike. The Tsar had never seen anything like it, never seen fighters move so fast; the giant's parries causing the girls to step up their game considerably. The space cleared much quicker and, were it not for the twins, The Tsar might have ordered his guards to start shooting again.
Swish, clack! Swish, clack! The three of them fought all the way to the base of the viewing platform. The Tsar got up and walked towards the rail, ignoring Bohuslav's gestures to remain out of harm's way.
He saw Xue duck as a pike blow whipped over her head; Ying almost ended up with the sharp end in her thigh. As confident as he was in them, he could also see that this interloper was highly trained. And people this skilled always wanted something… But what? Did he want The Tsar dead?
The giant took his eyes off the twins long enough to find his mark standing at the rail. "Call… them… off," he said, still blocking attacks, then added, "I would speak with you."
The Tsar rubbed his chin, still unsure.
Snarling, the giant elbowed one of the twins out of the way, kicked back the other — and lifted his pike like a javelin, aiming at The Tsar. Bohuslav's sickle was already out and he was about to throw it when The Tsar held up his hand.
"Wait… Wait!" Both men halted, staring into each other's eyes. The twins were about to attack again, but The Tsar ordered them to stand down. "Bohuslav, put that away. You men, lower your guns."
When the attacker saw this, he lowered the pike, placing it by his side — though his body was still tense, ready for any surprises. "I came here seeking an audience," he said in those clipped tones.
"You… you came here? You were brought here."
"I let them bring me."
Bohuslav's eyes narrowed.
The Tsar nodded; it did seem unlikely that he would have been captured on the streets if he hadn't wanted to be. "Who are you?"
"I am Tanek."
That name was familiar, but the Tsar couldn't remember why. It would no doubt come to him, but in the meantime he asked: "What do you want?"
"As I said, I would speak with you."
The Tsar frowned. "What about? What is so important that you would risk your life like this?"
The olive-skinned man brushed the long, greasy hair out of his eyes and said: "I have a proposition for you."
CHAPTER FOUR
Robert missed the dreams.
He'd never mentioned it to anyone, because he doubted whether they'd understand — not even Mary. But God did he miss them. Those vivid — sometimes nightmarish — visions he'd experienced during his time in Sherwood had saved his life. He'd seen his friends in those dreams, before he'd even met them, and he'd seen what The Sheriff, De Falaise, had planned during their final confrontation — allowing him to twist as he plunged the knife into Robert, avoiding a fatal belly wound and taking the blade in his side instead. It had taken him a while to recover, but he would surely have been dead if it hadn't been for the tip-off.
Since moving into the castle, though, he hadn't been able to remember a single dream. Of course, you needed to sleep to dream — and that was something Robert had been doing very little of lately. The mattress he lay on seemed far too… luxurious. He'd slept much more soundly on a blanket of grass and moss, in his handmade lean-to or outside, looking up at the stars. All he saw these days when he looked up was the ceiling.
But it was more than simply missing the dreams. They were part and parcel of missing a way of life. Missing a place where he'd felt completely at ease.
Yeah, except when intruders were coming in after you with guns, or firing grenades off into the trees.
No, before. The time when he'd been alone in the forest, just him and nature — with only the birds, animals and foliage for company. He'd been happy-
Happy? You went there to escape, have you forgotten that? You went there because you didn't have anyone else in the world, not after… Now you have. People who love you, people who care about what happens to you.
People who counted on him, every minute of every day. Responsibilities the likes of which he never could have imagined; not even when he was after those promotions on the force. Everything seemed to have snowballed since they came here. He'd turned around and suddenly he was this mythical figure in charge of his very own policing network. How exactly had that happened?
Because you made it happen. You wanted people to be safe, for there to be some kind of law, some justice after The Sheriff's rule. You did a good thing, Robert.
But at what cost? Leaning up against the headboard, he sighed. If he'd had a dream about this when he'd been back in Sherwood, he might not have got involved. Who was he kidding? He wouldn't have done a thing differently. He'd still have saved Mark and Bill; been persuaded by Tate to fight, to build an army that could take on De Falaise; taken in Granger — rest his soul — and Jack.
And Mary…
He looked down at the sleeping figure, her dark hair splayed on the pillow. If anyone had told him, even a year ago, that he could fall in love again — even if he'd dreamt about it — he would have thought it madness. But then, wasn't love a kind of insanity, or so the old pop and rock songs said. Songs like Dale used to sing… still sang on some occasions when the residents of the castle needed their spirits lifting.
Robert remembered how awkward it had been at first with Mary. He'd pushed her away, the thought of being with anyone again after Joanne was just… But somehow she had broken down his defences, or rather slipped past them just as his troops had done when they took the castle. When he remembered what had almost happened to her at the hands of De Falaise, it tore him up inside.
So why was she giving him such a hard time? Why had she barely spoken to him all evening, turning her back on him when they got into bed? She had to know that there was nothing going on with him and Adele — he'd only known her five minutes! How could Mary possibly believe he was trying to replace her?
But wasn't it partly down to Mary that he was stuck in this castle when he should be out there doing more of what he'd done in York? Was it really the fact that he'd saved Adele that bothered her, that the woman was so grateful, or was it because he'd gone there regardless of Mary's wishes?
"You've been out of the game for a little while, boss. You're rusty. That psycho almost had you."
He'd dismissed Jack's words, but the man had been right. If he hadn't been there, Robert wouldn't be alive right now. Out of the game. Too much time stuck behind a desk. Now where had he heard that before?
Sitting in the dark, a face from the past floated into his mind. Now he flashed back to his very first days as a rookie, to his old station house in Nottingham, just south of this very castle in fact — before Joanne had made him move away from the city. To seasoned Constable Eric Meadows, who'd 'puppy walked' him through his first weeks, pounding the beat alongside him.
Robert watched as a mini-movie played in his head, of them chasing a thief who'd just snatched a woman's purse in broad daylight before disappearing up a side street.
"You go after him," Meadows had instructed. "I'll go this way, try and head him off." Holding onto his cap, Robert raced after the man.
The felon, checking back over his shoulder, saw that there was only one young copper chasing him — and he'd slowed down, fancying his chances. Robert skidded to a s
top only metres behind. "N-Now don't try anything funny," he said, with absolutely no confidence. "Come along quietly and it'll be better for everyone."
"I'm not going back to jail," the scruffy-looking man had warned him, then approached, balling his hands into fists.
Robert knew how he should tackle a situation like this, he'd been trained after all. But reality was completely different. Here was a real criminal, a desperate criminal, and only one thing stood between him and his freedom: Robert.
The thief ran at him, readying to punch. But before that blow could land the man was falling over sideways. A puzzled Robert lowered his gaze and saw Meadows there, rugby tackling the fellow to the ground. His plan had worked, going round the houses to take the villain by surprise while Robert distracted him. It was a good strategy; one Robert would later use on a much larger scale.
The thief tried to fight, knocking off Meadows' cap to reveal his salt and pepper hair. "Well, don't just stand there gaping," Meadows shouted, struggling to hold the scruffy man down. "Get your arse over here and help me cuff him!"
Snapping awake, Robert had gone over and assisted, listening while the veteran officer read the thief his rights. Then they'd escorted him back to the station, putting him in a cell.
"Nothing quite like it, is there?" Meadows said to Robert as they'd come away again, the job done.
"What's that, sir?"
"That adrenalin rush when it's you or them." Meadows' eyes were twinkling. "Facing your fear, lad. Did you feel it?"
Robert nodded, but all he'd really felt was scared. He suspected he wouldn't actually know what Meadows was talking about until he arrested someone himself, until it was just him and the other guy… or guys. In the years since that day, he'd felt that rush many, many times.
"Never let them put you behind one of those," Meadows told him, gesturing to the officer behind the duty desk. "You stay out there, young Stokes. Stay where you can make a difference and leave all that to the paper pushers."