by Paul Kane
He’d told them he was a fair man, and some might say this game was anything but. However, it was his stadium, his game, his rules. The Dragon didn’t like to lose.
But it looked like that was about to happen. The small Ranger had his head down, the finishing line in sight. Those Rangers left were sprinting too, catching him up, leaving the Dragon’s guards behind.
No: the guards were retreating. They were actually pulling back. Running in the other direction! A couple of the harem women were looking at the Dragon, wondering what was going on – but not his new favourite, she was leaning forward, one hand on the glass. Even the young slave who’d brought his food had moved forward to get a better view.
The Dragon chuckled. Yes, watch and learn.
The smaller Ranger dived with the ball and planted it on the grass, scoring the try that he thought would save them all. His team-mates joined him, still not having put two and two together. They jumped in the air, celebrating. They’d beaten the Dragon’s men, they’d –
The explosion wasn’t a big one – no mushroom cloud or mortar – but large enough to make sure anyone within a twenty metre radius was caught in it. The harem girls screamed; the servant boy stepped forward again, sucking in a sharp breath. The blonde girl had both hands on the glass, then she turned. The Dragon was holding a radio transmitter in his right hand, thumb still on the trigger that had detonated the device inside the rugby ball. The girl was definitely looking at him now, intently – in fact, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Was it fear that he saw? Was it repulsion, like the first one, the pasty-faced girl? No, it was something else. Could it be pity; if so, who for? The Rangers or him? There were definitely tears in her eyes. He saw them just before she looked away again.
Why? He’d offered those men their freedom, hadn’t he? And he’d delivered. They were free – they couldn’t be more free. The Dragon looked down on the smouldering crater in the pitch – that would have to be fixed before he played the game again – at the various body parts, and one full torso. He spoke into the microphone, telling the guards to pick one of the two Rangers still alive: a choice between the guy with no kneecap and the one who’d been elbowed in the face. “We need one survivor to send back, to tell Hood about what happened here. Kill the other one.”
There, that look again. His latest odalisque was staring at him, her eyes still moist. Now that the match had reached its conclusion, it was time for other distractions. He’d teach her now to look at him in another way. Or Heaven help her.
The Dragon gave the order to be wheeled away, and for the guards to bring the woman. “Just her?” they asked, as often he asked for several at a time. The Dragon nodded and she was grabbed by the arm. At first he thought she might resist; there was just a flash of ‘fuck you’ in those tearful eyes. But she thought better of it, thankfully.
As he was taken away, the Dragon glimpsed the Ranger who’d been knocked to the ground get shot in the head; they’d chosen the man who could barely walk to release. He approved. The Ranger’s wound alone would serve as a warning.
Today had been a good day, he thought to himself. And it was about to get even better.
In his head, he heard those crowds again back when there used to be real matches here. But instead of chorusing with them, he changed his own contribution to:
I am a Dragon! I am the Dragon!
HE COULD DO nothing but watch.
Stand and stare as those innocent men were slaughtered by that slug. Gazing down at the devastation. One last act of cruelty: a Ranger shot in the head, while his colleague with the shattered kneecap was set free. It was doubtful whether he’d ever walk properly again, let alone run as he had been doing when the bullet struck him.
What kind of sadist was this?
He was half tempted to make a move right then and there, but he’d have ended up just as dead as the Rangers in that explosion. Might have been worth it, just to take this so-called Dragon with him.
Dale turned away from the window in time to see one of the women in the slug’s private collection get dragged to her feet. She was crying, had been since the killings. But he saw a strength there also, a determination and resolve. And... something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Briefly, he caught her eye and the look lingered – far longer than any glances between her and the Dragon. Again, he almost sprang into action, fully aware of what would happen to the girl when those doors shut behind her. When the Dragon got her back to his lair. For some reason the thought of that happening to this one girl in particular turned his stomach.
He looked around at the others on display, all wearing skimpy outfits to tantalise the fat pig. How is it any different from what you’ve done in the past? he asked himself. The way he sometimes thought of women, as disposable, as objects. As meat? Dale shook his head. He might not be the settling down kind, but he was nothing like this. The Dragon forced them to dress this way, to do... things with him. He’d never forced anyone to do anything in his life. So what if he’d never been in love, never had a relationship that wasn’t based on sex? It didn’t make him the kind of monster he was dealing with here.
It did make him lonely, though, and sad that while people like Robert and Mary were getting hitched, while Mark and Sophie were getting it together, he still had nobody apart from the occasional girl in a village or town he was patrolling, or at a fête like the one they held last Christmas at the castle.
If he wasn’t careful, he really would end up like his father: not able to commit to Dale’s mum, chasing women left, right and centre.
What was the difference between the women sitting around him, and those he’d looked at in lad’s mags? In those strip clubs he’d frequented? You could tell yourself that they were getting paid, that nobody was holding a gun to their head – like they were, literally, here – but what if that was the only work they could get? Do you honestly think that they enjoyed it?
Now really wasn’t the time or the place to be thinking about that, but he couldn’t get the blonde woman out of his mind. Couldn’t stand thinking about the Dragon pawing at her. It wasn’t right. Just wasn’t –
Rangers have died here today, he reminded himself. Some of them he knew, albeit briefly. Even though he’d taken the name from their flag, that man wasn’t representative of this country, any more than the Tsar was representative of Russia’s population. Those men down there, who’d been trying to bring peace and stability to the region – they were the real heroes of Wales. And it was about time this sick son of a bitch who thought he was in charge was driven out.
That’s what Dale was doing here, that was the mission – or part of it – given to him by Jack. The Welsh contingent of the Rangers were well aware of what the Dragon could become, so they’d asked for help. Dale had been sent in undercover to gather information, to find something they could use to take down the Dragon’s organisation. He’d only been around a couple of days when they’d attacked the Ranger HQ; he’d heard about it from some of the other servants, but never thought he’d see the survivors of that massacre exterminated in such a sick mockery of what this place was built for.
Again he couldn’t help thinking about the girl with blonde hair.
Dale squeezed his eyes shut. Stop the Dragon, you stop the killing, and stop what was happening to these women. It was up to Dale. Jack was relying on him. Wouldn’t do anything about the attack on the Rangers until he’d heard back from his mole. He wondered if they could even muster a force to take on all the Dragon’s people in one go. There were more than they’d imagined, or the Welsh Rangers had suggested. And with Robert’s troops spread out now more than ever, the man himself having answered a distress call from Bill up near Scotland, perhaps it really was down to Dale to do something.
This certainly wasn’t as cool as Jack had made it sound. “It’ll be just like Mission: Impossible, kid,” the large American had promised.
Mission: Impossible? Mission bloody unbelievable more like – as in how unbelievably
bad his luck was. What exactly would Tom Cruise do now in his position? Off the bad guy, blow up his base and get the girl.
He sighed; that really did only happen in the movies. This was real life and sometimes that stank.
“Hey, you,” said one of the guards. He touched his chest. “Yes, you. What you still doing here? Clear off back to the kitchens, this isn’t a peep show.”
Dale nodded. No, it was more like a flesh farm. No doubt these men wanted to be left alone with the harem women for a reason. Only look but don’t touch, because they belonged to the Dragon.
No woman – no man, either, for that matter – should belong to someone else. If Robert had taught them anything, it was that. He’d taught the lesson to De Falaise, the Tsar and countless other thugs who didn’t seem to know it already. His men followed him not because they had to, but because they wanted to. Because they believed in what he did, in liberty and the right to a peaceful existence.
Impossible or not, Dale would find a way to bring that to these people again. He had to.
Reluctantly, he left the women behind with the guards.
But still couldn’t shake the picture of the one girl who’d gone off with the Dragon from his mind.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WAS AMAZING to think how, over the last year especially, this place had become like a home to him.
The Reverend Tate even had a place where he would go to pray, a quiet place he’d blessed himself down in the Lower Bailey. He was there now, talking to God; thanking Him for the new day, for keeping his friends safe, and asking Him to keep a watchful eye on them. Especially Robert, who never seemed to take a bit of notice when Tate told him to be careful. And asking the Lord to look after His humble servant, trying to bring His word to those who were building this new world.
As Tate got up, relying more heavily these days than ever on his stick, he began his slow, steady walk back up towards the castle, and considered the rebuilding they’d done here after the Tsar’s attack. That had been a horrible time.
While Robert and his men had been going through Hell on the battlefield, Tate, Jack, Mark and Sophie had been trying to keep invading forces out of the castle grounds – and failing miserably. If it hadn’t been for Dale arriving with more Rangers, this place would look very different. Russian troops would be guarding the walls and the gate instead of Rangers, and they’d probably all have been hunted down and killed. Tate liked to think it was the power of prayer that had helped Robert recover enough to finally defeat the Tsar.
Whichever way you cut it, they owed the Almighty a big one... two, actually, if you counted that other battle for the castle when they’d put an end to the Sheriff’s reign.
But it seemed as though no sooner had they tackled one insane dictator than another cropped up. The Widow in Scotland, for example, or the potential threat of this Dragon character across to the west. In this post-virus world, everyone was staking a claim on their own territories – and other people’s. The only thing standing in their way was people like Robert and his Rangers.
As Tate hobbled further up, joining the path, he remembered what the castle had looked like the previous year. The gardens torn up, the castle pock-marked – even a hole in the wall where Adele, De Falaise’s traitorous daughter, had left her mark.
The attack had left the castle and its grounds devastated, and their souls as well. Left them questioning if they were actually doing any good, or just fooling themselves. Luckily, God had shown them the way. Drawn more people to their cause, who wanted to join Robert’s police force. Brought folk with even more useful skills, or given them the ability to learn them, to repair the damage done.
The physical damage, that was. Spiritually, it was another matter.
Yet some of his friends and, yes, family – since that’s how Tate thought of them now – had thrived in the months after the attack. Mark and Sophie, for example, had finally acted on their feelings for each other. As if on cue, he saw the boy, walking with his new girlfriend.
Boy. You couldn’t really describe him as that these days, he’d grown so tall. Tate could remember the first time he’d met Mark, back when Bill had been running the floating markets. He’d only come up to the holy man’s chest then, and he wasn’t exactly tall himself. Mark had also filled out somewhat since he’d started his Ranger training, working out whenever he wasn’t spending time with Sophie or practising archery and the sword. By all accounts, the youngster was turning into a pretty decent Ranger, modelling himself on Robert, of course – still going with him on those private trips to the forest.
Tate raised a hand and both of the young people waved back. They looked so happy. For Mark and Sophie, things had actually improved since the Tsar’s attack.
The same was also probably true of their older counterparts, Robert and Mary, who were closer than ever. Tate cast his mind back to their wedding the previous summer, a small affair but attended by all those who mattered. Tate had presided over the ceremony, where the old bandstand was, and everyone had clapped when he’d finally said: “I now pronounce you man and wife. Robert, you may kiss the bride.” There had been little time for a honeymoon, as a spot of trouble with a new wannabe gang in Chesterfield had required their attention, but both had gone off to tackle the problem together. Tate firmly believed that now they were fighting side by side, they couldn’t be happier.
Most residents had been left gloomy and miserable by the events, though – Jack, for one, who even now stewed about Adele and how he’d fallen for her. How he’d betrayed their whereabouts because he thought Adele would harm Mary.
Tate, too, had found it a struggle at times – having lost the place he had once called his home, and finding himself estranged from the person he’d failed so miserably to protect not once, but twice. Gwen, who’d been the Sheriff’s plaything once upon a time, snatched from the village of Hope after her partner Clive had been brutally murdered. Who’d returned to the village after the birth of her son at the castle – Clive Jr, who she still maintained was fathered by his namesake, but as he grew bore more and more of a resemblance to the Frenchman. Gwen, who’d said she never wanted anything more to do with Tate again. His own fault: assuming he knew what was best for her, sending for her because he’d thought she’d be safer at the castle, then putting her in even more danger. When he’d found out that she’d almost been assaulted by Jace, one of De Falaise’s former soldiers, Tate could scarcely forgive himself. So why should Gwen? The castle held many terrifying memories for her, and they all must have come rushing back when that thug –
The man was dead now, killed by Gwen or someone else, they hadn’t been able to determine which. The woman was certainly capable. She’d gone after the Mexican, Major Javier, the man who’d shot Clive, finishing him off during the very first fight for Nottingham Castle. But Tate had a feeling she’d had help this time. Gwen had become even harder, if that was the right word, in the time since all this happened. For the most part she’d hidden herself away in New Hope – turning the place into a veritable fortress, its inhabitants into soldiers.
Tate had only seen her once since the Tsar’s men had invaded, a few months ago when they’d held the Winter Festival at the castle – an attempt to put a smile back on the faces, not only of the people who lived here, but also those in the outlying regions. Gwen had come only because some of her own villagers had heard about it. The Festival itself – with live music from Dale – had been a roaring success. But it had been the inroads Tate had made with Gwen that proved the most successful from his point of view.
At first she still hadn’t wanted to know. In fact Tate thought, when he approached, she might just walk off, turn her back like she had when he’d tried to visit New Hope. But something about that time of year, about peace to all men and forgiveness, must have touched her heart. It was the Lord working His magic again, he suspected. No, more than suspected, believed. For the fact that she’d spoken to him at all must surely have been some kind of miracle.
They’d left it open, with the possibility of talking again at some point; the friendship thawing a little. She no longer sounded like she wanted to rip out his throat, anyway. Tate had planned to visit New Hope again soon after and see how the land lay, but up till now things had been so busy at the castle. He’d resolved to definitely go there within the next couple of weeks, though, as spring took hold, because there wouldn’t ever be a perfect time. He didn’t want to waste the opportunity he’d been given back in December. They’d rebuilt the castle, and he had to now rebuild a few bridges.
He’d talk to Robert when he returned, ask for an escort. Once he’d resolved to do it, he found he was actually looking forward to seeing Gwen again. To talking with her, and maybe, just maybe, persuading her to abandon the path of hatred and anger she was currently on.
To return her to the fold of Christ, where she might actually find tranquillity again.
"JESUS H. FUCKING Christ!”
Gwen ducked back down as the bullet ricocheted off the wall she was hiding behind. The wall she and the other people of New Hope had built for just such a reason – to keep out intruders.
Like the men who’d shown up here today and were attacking her village. She’d sensed there was something wrong, to be honest. Every now and then spotting unusual movement in the woods flanking New Hope whenever she was on watch; fleeting glimpses of... she couldn’t tell what. Gwen had the feeling that someone was watching their little community, but it wasn’t like before. Like last year. Back then she’d felt safe, as if they were being watched over, protected. This time she just felt threatened.
These were only feelings, suspicions, so she hadn’t mentioned them to the rest of the villagers. She couldn’t be sure of anything, couldn’t prove anything. But still she had skipped out on the last couple of foraging missions for new weapons, relying instead on Graham Leicester. Once an ordinary, gentle guy who’d worked in a garden centre, Graham had, like her, been changed forever by what happened when the Sheriff’s men came to call. Now he was more soldier than agriculturalist. Gwen had seen him strip clean a Colt AR-15 machine-gun in minutes, putting the pieces back together like he was doing a jigsaw puzzle. He knew what he was looking for out there, knew what they needed to defend themselves. The weapons she’d stolen from Robert’s castle had given them a head start, but they were always searching for more.