Paul Kane - Arrowhead

Rudakas wondered what exactly had been stored in that garage. Explosives? Hardly likely. And it was too strong for just a vehicle's petrol tank. Then what? Reserves of fuel?

There was no more time to think about it, as the wave of heat came their way. The Hooded Man stood planted to the spot, mouth open, as if he'd seen the Devil himself in those flames. Rudakas, saved from certain death by the arrow, wasn't about to waste the gift of life. He dived back into the house, into the hallway, just as the shockwave hit. The house, as he was to discover not long afterwards, wasn't that much safer because it was connected to the garage, but it would provide temporary shelter. While his enemy out there was still gawping at the mini-Armageddon.

Rudakas covered his head and laughed.

Robert couldn't move.

He was back again outside his house so long ago, as the men in the yellow suits burnt everything he ever cared about. He screwed up his eyes, waiting for the blast to hit him…

NO!

Maybe before, when he was on his own, hiding away from the rest of the human race. Hiding away from his destiny. But not now. There were people relying on him, just as they had when he was in the police. Whereas before he'd hated his survival instincts for keeping him alive when all he wanted to do was curl up and join Joanne and Stevie, now Robert willed them to kick in – to save him from the explosion that was about to tear through him.

He opened his eyes, turning to run at the same time. It was too late. The blast scooped him up, then slammed him down on the hood of the armoured truck. He rolled over onto the ground at the other side, hitting it hard. If the petrol tank hadn't been shielded, that would have gone up as well, but as it was it at least provided some cover from the explosion.

Robert ached everywhere, drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind replaying the events that had led him here…

The noise of gunfire had attracted them initially, forcing them to break off from the delivery of more stolen goods back to the people.

"Sounds like trouble," Jack Finlayson had said.

"And where there's trouble these days, you can probably count on the Frenchman's involvement," Robert had answered.

They'd ditched the truck and spread out, approaching the farmhouse via the fields: Jack taking a few men round the back, Robert leading the rest in an assault on the soldiers scattered about the yard. There was no way they'd even have known the house was here if they hadn't been attracted by the noise. It was completely cut off, a place where he himself would gladly have lived out his remaining years up until recently.

Robert had been proud of the way his men had fought, doing just as he'd taught them in the short time they'd been with him – using their environment to conceal themselves, never showing their hand too quickly. Some he'd even begun to train with the bow and bolas. For his part, he'd picked off choice targets, hoping to draw a more worthy prize out of its own hiding place.

Then he'd seen him: the man wearing the peaked cap emerging from the farmhouse. Robert delighted in letting him know just who was behind it all.

The first arrow was a message, the next few intended only to slow the man down. Though Robert hadn't had time to study them closely, he saw that the man's firearms were quite unusual: old-fashioned, but still in perfect working order. Enough to wing him and throw his aim, anyway.

Then, when his enemy had run out of bullets and Robert had just one arrow left, he knew it was his lucky day. Except for the fact that out of the corner of his eye he saw the soldier with the grenade. It had been pure instinct to fire at him instead, a case of dealing with the most severe crisis first. That was when his luck had run out.

He tried to raise himself, failed, and slumped back down. Robert could see more of the soldiers – he couldn't tell whether they were De Falaise's or his – lying face down not far away from him. With a shaky hand he reached out and grabbed the dirt, attempting to pull himself along and back round the front of the armoured truck.

He made slow progress, desperate to get a better view of the scene – to find out who was still standing, who had fallen. Who had won the battle.

"Going somewhere?" The voice had a nasal quality, instantly dislikeable, and Robert wasn't at all surprised to see De Falaise's minion standing over him. "You do not look like a legend now, my hooded friend. You look like the worm you are," the man continued. He had his hands behind his back and Robert assumed he was holding the pistols, reloaded and ready to fill him full of holes.

However, when the man brought his hands back round, Robert saw he was hiding a broadsword instead. Different era, different weapon, but no less deadly. Where was he getting this stuff from?

"After all I had been told, I was expecting some kind of indestructible super-being. You are nothing of the kind. It will be my pleasure to put you out of your misery. There's a saying in my country, a curse: Let the earth swallow you!"

The man hefted the sword, preparing to bring it down, to embed it in Robert's cranium.

I can't fight it anymore. Finally I'm going to join them.

The man juddered, then stopped, like a robot that had rusted stiff.

Come on, if you're going to do it just get on with it!

Slowly the man looked down at his chest, where a crimson stain was blooming on the material of his uniform. Then the fabric split as something very sharp, and very long, was pushed through his torso.

That sword fell out of his hands and dropped with a clatter to the ground. Robert flinched as it landed just inches away. The impaled Colonel dropped his weapon, managing only a thick wheeze as his eyes rolled back and he collapsed sideways – the foreign object pulled wetly from him as he dropped.

A woman with dark hair, her cheek bruised but with a determined look on her face, stood looking down at the corpse, a dripping sword in her own hand. She looked at Robert and gave him a brief nod as if to say: 'That's another job done.'

"Are… are you all right?" he managed, then groaned loudly.

"I think I should probably be asking you that question. You look terrible."

With shaky fingers, Robert reached for the sword the man had dropped, wrapping his fingers around the handle, struggling to get it beneath him.

"Here," said the woman coming over to him. "Let me help."

She steadied him as he used the sword as a crutch, and he almost fell again. "This…this is your place?" he asked, every word hurting him.

"It is…" She looked back at the remains of the garage, the fire spreading to the farmhouse, spreading through it, smoke billowing out of shattered windows. The alarm had given up the ghost long ago. "It was," she said sadly.

"I'm sorry." His breathing was uneven, his chest hurt when he spoke. "I know what it's like to lose your home."

She looked at him, and gave the faintest of smiles. "I made a promise a long time ago that I'd stay here, alone, run the place while it was still standing. Something tells me it won't be for much longer."

Behind them Robert's men were coming closer, including Jack Finlayson.

"You came here to help me, didn't you?" she asked, looking at the men clearing up.

Robert could barely nod, all his strength leaving him.

"That's what you do, isn't it, help people? Hey, easy, take it easy," said the woman, bearing more of his weight. "So I guess you know all about this Sheriff? And that would make you-"

"It's all pretty much over," Jack interrupted. "De Falaise's remaining men have been rounded up… Robert?"

"Give me a hand, would you."

"Who're you, little lady?" asked Jack.

She nodded towards the dead man. "I'm the 'little lady' who did that. Now stop asking stupid questions and help me – he's been pretty badly injured."