Paul Kane: Broken Arrow

As she watched, he pushed one of the robed men back, headbutting a second — dropping the man like a stone. A roundhouse kick sent a third into the wall, and she heard a definite crunch of bone. But he couldn't be everywhere at once, in spite of how it seemed. A couple broke through, machetes high, ready to be planted in her.

The hooded man punched one attacker in front and elbowed another, before swinging around and chasing after the ones making for her. He leapt and landed on them, taking them both down just inches away. She fell backwards, landing on the snow, bag falling from her grasp.

The three men struggled to their feet, each one determined to get up first and have the advantage. The hooded figure narrowly avoided a machete swipe to the stomach, arcing his body then bringing his sword down to meet the challenge. No sooner had he thrown off that man than he had to meet the other's blow. This he did but the force knocked him back, hard, into the wall. A flash of gritted teeth, and he slid the hilt up to the man's hand as they struggled to force the weapons out of each other's grip. The stalemate was ended when the first assailant, now recovered, swung again; but the hooded man dragged the figure he was locked onto around, creating a human shield, and the sword buried itself in him instead. The injured man fell to the ground, but her hero wasn't quick enough to avoid a punch that caught him a glancing blow on the chin. Shaking his head, he brought his sword up and into that first attacker, the point emerging from his back.

Breathing heavily, each puff turning to steam in the night air, he looked across at the woman and she caught just a glimpse of the intense eyes under the cowl; searching her face. Then she saw one last glint of metal just behind him, a machete whipping through the air. She didn't have time to scream or point, but he heard the sound anyway… just not in time to do anything about it.

The machete halted in mid-air and the blade quivered. As she lifted her head she saw what had stopped it. A large wooden staff, being held by an equally large man. He was wearing a cap and sported a goatee beard.

"Whoa there, fella," said the big man, with a trace of an American accent. "That's enough of that." Taking one hand off the staff, he punched the robed man in the face, knocking him clean out. The machete clanged to the floor.

Beyond the giant she saw others: his men. The Hooded Man's. They were armed as he was, with bows and arrows, with swords. They were grabbing hold of her attackers, pinning them against the wall. Two or three of her assailants who'd been taken down by Hood seized their chance to get up and barged past these newcomers, shouldering them out of the way.

"Don't just stand there," the large man barked, "get after 'em!" Then he held out his hand, helping her saviour to his feet. "Don't worry, they won't get far."

"They'd better not," said the man in the hood — a hood she realised was not attached to some robed outfit, but part of a winter huntsman's jacket (sliced across the front where the machete blade had almost cut him).

"If you'd waited for the rest of us, we'd probably have got them all," replied the man in the cap.

"This woman was in serious trouble."

"Yeah, and so were you Robbie."

"What's that supposed to mean, Jack?"

"You've… Well, you've been out of the game for a little while, boss. You're rusty. That psycho almost had you."

Robbie grunted, ignoring his friend. Then he turned to her, pulling down his hood as he did so. She saw him for the first time, in the glow of the moon — a glow that gave his features a strange kind of warmth. He was clean-shaven and handsome, just like folk said. Oh, she'd heard the stories all right. Who hadn't? It was why she figured it might be safe to come into York tonight. The Hooded Man and his forces were cleaning up the area, or so went the rumour.

Finally, she found her voice. "Y-You… You're him, aren't you? The Hooded Man?"

"What gave it away?" Jack answered before the man could say a thing.

Though it was hard to tell in this light, she could swear Hood's cheeks were flushing. He nodded shyly, like he was embarrassed to admit the fact.

"Are you going to help the lady up then, Robbie, or should I offer my services? Which, I might add, I'd be happy to do…"

The Hooded Man held out his hand and she took it, feeling its strength. Her heart was pounding, not because of the skirmish, not because she'd been seconds away from dying, but because she was this close to him . Could he feel it too? Their connection?

As she rose, she stumbled slightly, unsteady on her feet. She fell into him and he held her there for a second… before the embarrassment crept back and he righted her, letting go. She felt somehow bereft, but still managed: "Thank you… Robbie."

"It's Robert," he corrected, stooping to pick up her bag and handing it to her, "or Rob."

"Or sometimes even Robin," added Jack, grinning.

Robert sighed. "Only this big lug calls me Robbie, I suspect because he knows how much I hate it."

The big man feigned a look of mock offence, then grinned again, resting his staff on his shoulder. "And I'm Jack. Always a pleasure to help out a damsel in distress… 'specially one as pretty as you are, ma'am." Once he'd got a smile from her, Jack turned to address his superior. "Looks like all those hours of stake-out actually paid off. We got most of 'em."

"I wanted all of them," said Robert.

"Who are they?" she asked as they walked towards the men having their hands bound behind their backs.

"We're not entirely sure; some kind of cult," Robert informed her. "We've had reports of them cropping up in various locations. It never ends well for their victims."

She remembered what one of the 'dead' men had said to her during the chase: Sacrifice…

She could see now, though, that they were merely wearing make-up. Their faces and shaved heads had been painted white, with the area around their eyes black in contrast. They'd done this on purpose, of course; imitating the deceased to intimidate the living. She peered closer at one of them, trying to make out the tattoo on his forehead. The robed figure bared his teeth, snapping like an animal before the young man holding him could pull him away.

"You might want to get back a bit, miss," he told her.

Jack clapped him on the shoulder. "You did good work tonight, Dale. I'm proud of you."

The youth beamed, clearly delighted by the praise. "Are we taking these back to Nottingham?"

"I believe that's the plan."

"You're going back to the castle? To Nottingham Castle?" The woman asked Robert.

He nodded.

"Then please… take me with you." Robert was silent and she looked at him pleadingly. "I'm begging you. I have nowhere else to go. I've got no-one… not since my mum… my family…" She didn't need to finish that sentence; they'd all been there, it was reflected in their eyes. His especially. The hurt, the pain he'd tried to bury but which still lurked there, slumbering in his mind — and only took a prod like this to wake.

"Come on, Robbie," said Jack. "The lady's been through a lot tonight; what harm can it do?"

"All right, all right," said Robert. "You can come along."

She flung herself at him, giving him a big hug. "Oh thank you, thank you." Jack coughed and she felt Robert tensing up. This was obviously too public a display of affection. Pulling back, she then gave Jack a hug as well. "Thank you. Thank you both."

"Er… Jack, when the others get back ready the horses."

"Sure thing," said a happy Jack, walking away, out of the alley, and taking the men and prisoners with him.

"So," Robert continued, turning to her; he'd looked more comfortable facing death than he did right now. "What's your name?"