Paul Kane - Arrowhead

Rory risked one last glance over his shoulder at the man, who was now bending over some of the fallen soldiers. A single guy, but he'd managed to take out most of their group in no time. He had never seen anything like it… and never wanted to again.

Head down, he half-carried the injured man out of the woods.

Henrik tapped his seat, keeping his eyes on the panorama ahead of him.

He had never been very good at waiting. Everything had to come to him yesterday. It was one of the reasons he'd thrown in with De Falaise. It was a quick route to the top: to power, to influence over this new world. The man had made such an impassioned speech about his plans that Henrik would have been a fool not to listen. Yes, he could have tried to build up an army of his own, he supposed, but that would have taken longer. De Falaise already had Tanek, Savero, and a handful of other loyal followers – this would be the easier route to success. Then later maybe…

Things had been going well. They'd been spreading out from Nottingham, tracking down small communities that had set themselves up and obliterating any thoughts of resistance. The local people would serve them or they would die. Which was why these markets had to be stopped; free trade meant independence, and De Falaise could not allow that. The villagers would work for him and him alone, and he would take whatever they had to offer without recompense.

That was why they'd been dispatched to this area. It was why they'd come down on these people so hard: fear equalled respect.

But it had only taken this one 'spoke' in the wheel to cast doubt on their mission. One survivalist who thought he was pretty handy with a bow and arrow. Henrik grunted. Amateur.

He sat up when he saw movement in the woods. Two figures emerged, one dragging the other. His team had done it; they'd killed the primitive and were bringing back the body. No, wait, the body was still moving – not only that but he was dressed in their unique uniform, a combination of colours and styles that De Falaise had chosen himself. He was certainly not hooded. A couple more of his 'men' staggered out behind them. The useless dickheads had failed, and now they were returning with their tails between their legs.

Henrik almost chomped through the cigar he was smoking. He climbed up through the hatch, cursing them in German.

"Incompetents! Where is he?"

"I'm here," came a voice from the woods, strong and loud. In spite of himself, Henrik flinched. But if the man had wanted him dead, then wouldn't he be already – an arrow between the eyes?

"Then show yourself, coward. Come out of your hiding place and we will discuss this."

There was a pause before the reply came. "You come out of yours."

Henrik thought about this. Seriously considered hopping down from the Challenger, going to meet this man at the edge of the woods and pounding him into the ground. No weapons other than their fists. They would see who won then.

But why give up the advantage? Pride was something for romantics, not mercenaries. "I give you thirty seconds to come out, or I will come in after you… personally."

"Go back to your Frenchman and tell him this is over," came the reply. It was not the voice of someone easily intimidated.

This man was more infuriating than all of his ex-wives put together! Henrik didn't even give him the thirty seconds. He just slipped back inside and fired off a high explosive shell into the woods, hoping to obliterate the insolent fool, but also clearing some space for them to enter. "Forward!" he shouted to the driver, who reluctantly obeyed.

The hulking thing trundled into the woods.

I will teach this man a lesson!

Henrik would knock down or blow up every single tree in this place to get to him if he had to. He swung the 120 mm gun around and was just about to load up another shell when…

Suddenly there he was, the fellow with the hood, standing ahead of him, bow over his shoulder. He was holding something in his hand, something small and round, like a ball. Henrik watched as the man drew back his arm and tossed it at the tank. It hit the front and bounced off, rolling underneath the Challenger. He felt the explosion, though it didn't rupture the shell of the tank. Damn him, he must have taken grenades from my troops! "Forward!" Henrik yelled to the driver, but the tank was going nowhere. The explosion had clearly disabled the treads.

When he peered through the smoke all he could see were trees.

The bastard had left him little choice but to come out now, to kill him the old fashioned way. But Henrik didn't intend on using his fists. Picking up his machine gun, he opened the hatch and stuck his head out, mindful again of the fact that the man could very easily fire off an arrow. He scanned the area. If the hooded man so much as moved anywhere within sight, he would be dead.

Henrik was aware of something above him in the treetops, something big. A figure. He ducked back down into the hatch, gun poised and ready to fire upwards. An object dropped into the tank, hard and round. He was still about to fire when his mind registered what had just happened. Henrik's eyes grew wide and he let go of the rifle, scrabbling around for the grenade that had just been tossed inside.

"Fetch!" he heard the man shout as he dropped. The hatch slammed shut. Henrik could hear the driver's voice shouting something, but he wasn't listening – he was still looking for the grenade, not caring that he didn't have the pin, nor that he couldn't toss it out of the top anymore…

There it was!

Henrik was actually reaching for the thing when he realised it was too late; he'd taken too long, there was no way he would survive. Just before the explosion came, a phosphorus blast that would set off all the ammo and cook the entire inside of the tank, the cigar fell from Henrik's open mouth, one of the few times he'd ever been without one in his adult life.

And, it was safe to say now, the last.

Bill and Mark finally made it down the field.

Even from a distance they could see the smoke from inside the woods, curling up into the air. On the outskirts the bikes were left abandoned, one jeep limping off at a snail's pace with maybe three or so people inside it. Of the tank there was no sign, but they could both see where it had pushed its way into the green.

"Judas Priest!" whispered Bill as they drew even closer. "Better wait out here, lad." Mark was having none of this, and Bill had to admit he'd earned the right to see how this thing had played out. They both had.

So, following the trail of the Challenger's tracks, they made their way into the wood. It wasn't long before they came upon the remains of the metal beast. Bill made the mistake of opening the hatch at the top and looking inside.

"Trust me, ye don't want to see in there," he warned Mark before the boy got any ideas.

"It's over," said a voice from behind them, "there's nothing to see here."

Bill and Mark spun around, and spotted Robert.

"Sound like a copper," commented Bill.

"Go home. It's over."

Mark was still looking from the tank to Robert, but the man was trying desperately to avoid his gaze.

"They'll be back," Bill told him. "If this De Falaise thinks he's lord of the manor. And there'll be a lot more folk needin' help, an'all."

"Go home," Robert repeated and began to walk away, into the trees. Something Mark said made him stop.

"What home?"

The man in the hood, with his back to them, hesitated only briefly. Then he blended in with the green.

De Falaise stood on the balcony, hands on the rail, and surveyed the city below him. There was a glass information plinth – cracked, but still quite readable – which told him exactly what he was looking at, or the major landmarks at least: The view from Castle Rock, south to west, from what had once been the Inland Revenue building, disused now, to Wollaton Hall. Built for Sir Francis Willoughby in 1588 (the year of the Spanish Armada's defeat), that was almost as saturated with history as the site on which he stood.