Paul Kane - Broken Arrow

"Of course it matters, Mary," said Mark after a few moments, speaking for Robert because it didn't look like he was going to.

"I hate to say it, but the little lady's right — we are going to have to do what's necessary," Jack said.

"We're going to have to meet the army before it gets here," Robert stated. "We have to protect the people."

Mary nodded, then left the room.

Mark looked from the open door to Robert, his eyes begging the man to go after her, to fix this somehow. But both of them knew there was nothing Robert could say. Just as he'd been willing to sacrifice himself to save the villagers De Falaise was going to hang, now he was going to have to place himself between these new invaders and those who counted on him to protect them.

"Jack, call Dale. I need to sound him out about what's happening with the troops. I can't afford for them to turn tail."

"But Robert," Mark began. "Dale is-"

"Your personal feelings about him don't come into this," Robert interrupted, and Tate and Jack both stared. "I'm sorry," Robert said more softly. "He's one of our best, and he's very popular. If they won't listen to me, they might to him."

"He's popular all right," Mark said.

As the meeting broke up, each of them left except Robert. He walked over to the far wall and banged his fist against it in frustration.

What's the matter? You got what you wanted, didn't you? To be out there again, in action, in combat.

But even he wasn't sure whether he could win this time against such odds.

And he was frightened that even if he did, he might have already lost the one thing that meant more to him than any of that.

Robert left the room and searched the corridor for any sign of Mary. He caught a flash of a female figure and got his hopes up, decided that he would go and talk to her — try and explain himself.

Except as the woman moved into view, he saw it was Adele. She smiled at him, but he didn't smile back.

Robert continued on his way to the stairs. A man with a mission.

No, more than that. As he was constantly being reminded, he was a man with a destiny . One he could no more control than he could his love life.

It had been much quicker this time.

He'd cut a swathe through this country again — with a little help, admittedly — crushing resistance where they found it, making their presence known. It was all part of the plan. Tanek wanted Hood to know he was on his way, while Bohuslav and The Tsar didn't care about stealth because they were so confident in their victory. Nobody could defeat them, they were certain about that.

It was the kind of arrogance which often led to a fall, but Tanek didn't think that would happen this time.

They'd also become aware of another faction operating in their area. Tanek had extracted information from various people since returning to these shores, taking up his old hobbies with the burning hot pokers and pressure points. It wasn't quite the same, torturing people in houses rather than caves — or dungeons, as he liked to think of the cave system below Nottingham Castle. It lacked the proper atmosphere. But, he reminded himself, he'd been torturing people most of his life and enjoyed it wherever he happened to be. He'd just been spoilt, that's all.

He remembered one man in his forties, whose belly had hung down when stripped — and Tanek had taken great delight in snipping bits of excess flesh off with a pair of scissors to make him talk.

Bohuslav had walked in during one of the sessions and it had made even his face turn green. "I thought I was a sick bastard," he'd said, observing Tanek at work with a block of glasspaper: rubbing one woman's fingers until they were almost down to the bone. The thing was, they'd probably have told him anyway, what did they have to hide? But where was the fun in that?

As to the information: it seemed that a cult had sprung up in Britain. Or, depending on who you talked to, had resurfaced. They were sacrificing people in order to call forth their Lord from Hell, it seemed. What mattered was there were quite a number of them, and they were methodical.

"They might prove an obstacle," Tanek had said to Bohuslav. He still hated dealing with the toad, but in lieu of The Tsar he had little choice.

"Doubtful," Bohuslav countered. This was one of those times when his arrogance might stand in the way of preparing against a potential enemy. Tanek had found out what he could about their activities anyway: their preferred methods of hunting, their weapons, their skill at hiding when they didn't want to be seen (this last one could certainly trip up their forces — how do you fire at something that's made itself invisible?).

A good job then that Tanek had been with the first division to make contact. They were working their way through somewhere called Thirsk, as the light faded, when they were suddenly attacked. Tanek saw several scouts fall as they were walking up just ahead of the tanks and jeeps. The soldiers were dragged off the streets by men in crimson robes, and by the time the rest of the division reached them they were already dead — their throats slit.

Gunfire opened up behind Tanek; men shooting at shadows. They'd gone down as well, killed by men who looked like the walking dead. Tanks and jeeps were useless against them at this close proximity, and they knew it.

There was movement off to the side of Tanek, and he'd aimed and fired his crossbow in seconds. He nodded when he heard a muffled yelp, knowing his bolt had struck home. Then he was aware of a swish on his other side, something sharp cutting the air — about to cut into him. The clank of metal against metal followed and Tanek looked round to see that Bohuslav's hand scythe had met the machete blow intended for him. The serial killer would later explain that, should Tanek turn out to be the traitor Bohuslav thought, he wanted the pleasure of killing the giant himself.

For now, though, Tanek was grateful Bohuslav had blocked the attack; forcing the cult member back again with a thrust of his own blade. Before the robed figure could do anything else, Tanek had put a crossbow bolt in his head.

Confusion reigned, as their men fired into alleys, at houses, almost at each other. It was exactly what the cult wanted — exactly what guerrilla fighters would do. Tanek tried to get Bohuslav to order a ceasefire, but they were having difficulty making themselves heard. Soldiers were going down one by one. Tanek noted a guy not far away who was suddenly clutching at his neck as a powerful geyser of wet redness jetted out, a machete blow slicing neatly across his jugular, almost slicing his neck in two. Bullets riddled the robed figures whenever they appeared, but it didn't seem to deter them. It was as if they weren't bothered about dying at all. That, if nothing else, made them extremely dangerous adversaries. In spite of himself, Tanek found that he had quite an admiration for these people.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the fighting stopped.

Someone had appeared in the street, lit by floodlights from the armoured vehicles behind — like a magician materializing on stage. A man, flanked by two smaller figures. The man wore a coat that flapped about in the chill breeze, and the leather of his uniform beneath creaked. He adjusted the peaked cap he was wearing, before standing with his hands behind his back and gazing around. The women, for as they adopted a defensive position it was plainly obvious they were of the female persuasion, held their swords horizontally, protecting the man in the middle of them.

Tanek traded glances with Bohuslav, who appeared just as surprised as he was that The Tsar was present.

The time for asking questions would come later. Right now, what interested Tanek was the stillness this man inspired. He had some balls to walk out there in the first place — looking beyond the man, Tanek realised he must have pulled up in his own private jeep — but what was causing the cult to stay their hand? His own men, Tanek could understand. They would rather shoot themselves than risk hitting their glorious leader with a stray bullet. But why were these strangers holding off? It was quite a thing to witness.