Arrowland

by Paul Kane

  He dug out a map that showed him his destination was within walking distance. So, quiver on his back, along with a handmade rucksack - knife and hawk axe already at his hip - he set off for the place where his 'mark' had once made his home. Nowadays, of course, the man spent most of his time in the city.

  Shadow knew a great many things about him, simply from communing with higher forces, listening to his spirit guides. Even before he had set off, visions had revealed much about the Hooded Man and his forest. Prepared him for the task ahead.

  Shadow contemplated the events that had led him here, the bargain he had struck. It had been necessary, like most things in his life. Part of him respected the hunter this Hood was. In another time, another world, they might even have been blood brothers. But, here and now, fate had forced them to cross paths as opposite numbers: Hood the person he must 'deal with' - isn't that how they'd put it? - in order to receive his reward.

  Did he feel any guilt? Some, perhaps. Though they looked alike, it was not Hood's people who had murdered his brethren, taken their land and left them a minority in their country. Or was it? Hadn't it been that man's own ancestors who'd crossed the ocean and begun to colonise, begun the war that had lasted so long? His blood was their blood, wasn't it? So how could they ever be brothers? Though the natives of this country were worlds apart from those across the Atlantic, they were still cousins. They still had the same ways.

  Shadow knew that many of his kind had banded together, forming a United Tribal Nation in order to take back what was theirs from the white man. They judged these post-virus times to be the perfect catalyst; thought the Great Spirit had granted them this opportunity. Shadow had always gone his own way, though, and used his own methods. He felt certain that they would achieve better results than the entire UTN affair.

  It was why he was on his way to Sherwood, running at a pace that would see him reach the outskirts within the hour. Even though Hood appeared to have turned his back on it for now, in favour of building his army to police this land, the forest was still his seat of power - and it had waited so long for the rightful heir to come along.

  Now Shadow intended to take that power away from the Hooded Man.

  It was the only way to defeat him.

  It was the only way to win.

  He couldn't sleep.

  The aching in what had once been his hand was keeping him awake again. Not that he slept soundly anyway; the nightmares of the battlefield saw to that. Bohuslav understood it wasn't possible for the hand itself to be aching, because it wasn't there anymore. He understood it was just the nerve endings from the stump of a wrist, extending out into nothingness - perhaps even missing the lost appendage? Was that it; was the wrist, like him, still in mourning? None of which stopped it feeling real. He felt the pain, just as surely as he felt hatred for those who had done this to him.

  He was grateful for the fact that the weather was starting to turn slightly warmer. Slightly, as you could never truly call it warm during these months. The 'hand' ached more than ever in wintertime, and the winters in Russia were invariably brutal.

  Bohuslav pushed himself up on the enormous bed. One of the benefits of his position was occupancy of the Presidential Suite of the Marriott Grand; the only occupied room in the whole hotel. Back before the virus, he would have had the full five star experience. Even today there was a team of staff dedicated to giving him everything he could possibly desire. That included bringing him certain luxuries he craved. Certain 'items': living items. Male or female, it didn't matter which. Not for sex, or anything like that. Bohuslav's desires ran much deeper. It was a way of taking him back to the days before all this, when he would hunt his prey on the streets.

  At first they'd just brought them to him, knocking on the door and leaving the meat standing there quivering. Where was the sport in that? He'd soon grown bored when there was no chase, no excitement. Then he'd struck upon the notion of letting them loose in the hotel. If they could escape him, they went free. If not...

  None had ever escaped.

  He closed his eyes and could imagine the weight of his sickle - once handheld but which now had to be attached to his stump - as it slashed and gutted. A smile played across his face. The memories of all that bloodshed, before - when he had been one of the most wanted serial killers in this country - and after the virus, came back to him all at once. It made him want to grab the sickle right now and slide it in place. Go out hunting and-

  Bohuslav sighed. He should really try and rest, because he had responsibilities beyond the ending of individual lives at his... hand. Inherited responsibilities from the man who had once been Tsar, who now rotted away in a distant land - killed by Hood.

  It was no use. Bohuslav flicked on his bedside light, powered - like so many things these days - by generator. He padded across the room, yawning. When he reached the door that would take him into the spacious living area, he paused, remembering a meeting here more than a year ago.

  Remembering that large, olive-skinned bastard who'd got them into all this, persuading The Tsar to mount an offensive against Robert Stokes. Tanek. The name brought bile to his throat. If De Falaise's former Second had never come here, things would have continued as they were. They would still be at full capacity with their troops and armament - instead of building forces back up again - and would now be thinking about a strategy of moving against other, more important enemies. It was what other countries were now doing, Germany included, from what Bohuslav was hearing.

  Hood may have dealt the blow, but Tanek brought them all together. And, while it was true being the new Tsar of Russia did have its benefits, Bohuslav would still prefer to have been more behind the scenes.

  Pulling on a robe, he walked over to the bar and poured himself a generous measure of Smirnoff; he preferred this to drugs when his stump was aching. By the second glass, the pain had dulled considerably.

  Even after the alcohol, he heard, and felt, the person outside his room before they knocked. The sickle attachment was back in the bedroom, but Bohuslav never answered a door unarmed, even if there were guards out in the hall. He settled for a nearby ice-pick, concealing this behind his back as he looked through the spyhole.

  It was a member of his staff called Klopov, but still Bohuslav kept the pick hidden as he opened the door.

  Klopov smiled inanely as the new Tsar bid him enter. It was obviously good news, thought Bohuslav. If it wasn't, the man might have been more reticent. Bad news ran the risk of enraging him. And very bad news meant the same for the messenger. It was how any military dictator would act.

  "Sorry to call at such a late hour," Klopov said.

  "Yes, yes," said Bohuslav. "What is it?"

  For a second an image of stalking Klopov through the corridors of this hotel flashed through Bohuslav's mind, the pulse at the man's neck exciting him. No, concentrate. Listen to what he has to say.

  "I thought you'd like to know that he's there."

  "Who is where, exactly?"

  "The arrow," replied Klopov, then added for good measure. "The arrow has landed, sir."

  Now it was Bohuslav's turn to smile. The first part of his plan had been put into effect. The Native American was on British shores. "Excellent!" If all went well, he would soon be celebrating his revenge, or at least part of it. There would be more to come eventually.

  It would be so perfect. Bohuslav looked down at his stump for the millionth time since he lost that hand fighting Hood and his men. "Would you care for a drink, Klopov?" He nodded towards the bar.

  Klopov smiled again, then nodded.

  Bohuslav was happy now, and ordinarily that meant he would leave the messenger be. It had indeed been good news; the best news in fact. But as Klopov moved towards the bar, once again the new Tsar's mind was filled with things he'd like to do to him. The way he might wish to celebrate.

  The blood. The flesh. The ineffectual pleading of the victim.

  Bohuslav smiled and followed him, pick still behind his back, havi
ng yet to decide whether the messenger would leave this room alive.

  Chapter Three

  From the outside, it was a spectacular sight.

  From the inside, it was even more impressive. Opened in 1999, this stadium marked the end of one millennium and the beginning of another. A fresh new start for everyone, but nobody could have guessed just how radical that new beginning would be.

  He'd come here often once upon a time to watch the matches; brought by his Dad - though only after his eldest son, Gareth, had died from leukaemia. It was home to their national rugby union team, after all. He remembered their matches in the Six Nations, mainly their victories - the crowd going wild, that tribal thing of territory against territory. Mimicking his father, he'd cheer on their team. "It's all about that," his Dad repeatedly told him, pointing to the national flags some supporters were waving. Then he'd chorus with the crowd nearest to him: "We are dragons! We are dragons!" He was a poor substitute for Gareth, however, who'd always been Dad's favourite. Still was, to this day.

  When they lost Gareth, his Mam and Nan turned all their attention on him, as if they might lose that boy too at any moment. They'd feed him up, putting massive meals in front of him, including cooked breakfasts, sausages and mash or fish and chips for dinners, and all kinds of treats in-between. All while his Dad looked on, the obvious disappointment in his one remaining offspring apparent. It wasn't even as if he had any skills, like Gareth's knack of fixing things. Gareth had been training to be a joiner when he became sick; would have made a good one, as well. Not only that, Gareth also excelled at several subjects in school, especially Maths and History. While he, the younger brother, excelled at nothing, failing all his exams and claiming dole when he left school early. "Nobody'll ever take him on, you know," he'd overheard his father say once to their mother. Straight away, she defended her little darling. "He's just a late bloomer, that's all. One day that boy will show everyone, Ryn, just you see if he doesn't."

  He'd been a lot slimmer back then. Obviously, at eighteen stone, nobody could accuse him of being svelte, but compared to now... Actually, he'd lost a bit of weight during The Cull. Thankfully, it hadn't ended like Gareth. They all pulled through. However, they'd also had to evade the men in yellow suits when they came to torch the infected houses and streets. It didn't seem to matter to those bastards whether people were alive or dead!

  His family had turned to him, because he'd shown no signs of getting ill at all. Bizarrely, he'd ended up the strongest of the lot. Sure, he was scared to go out, but his Mam and Nan had looked after him all those years, fed him and kept him safe - it was the least he could do in return. So, onto the streets, bringing back what food he could find, as well as other supplies. His Dad accepted the help with notably bad grace, grudgingly accepting the mantle of Alpha male had passed to his youngest. All his life, he'd wanted to make his father proud, wanted to be half the man he was. But now the burly ex-miner had been reduced to this, and was having to rely on him. There was a certain irony to that.

  His Mam worried, of course, and she was right to; it was dangerous out there. But he was lucky for a while, managed to get away with foraging. Until that day at the supermarket on the outskirts of the city: one he hadn't hit yet - this was back when there were actually stocks left of food and other essentials. He'd made sure there was no-one inside before entering, actually watched it for several hours before venturing into the storeroom. Halfway through his labours, he'd been interrupted by a gang of youths wielding various makeshift weapons.

  "Hey, Porko, if we let you take all that, there'll be nothing left for the rest of us," the leader - a tattooed guy who spat when he talked - had said, making a snorting noise. Whether this was just his normal breathing or he was doing an impression of a pig, there was no way of telling.

  "The rest of the country," added the pasty-faced girl by his side, sniggering.

  "Or the world," another member of the gang chipped in, carrying on the joke even though it wasn't that funny to begin with.

  He'd clutched the plastic bags to his chest, the tins inside rattling. "It's for me Mam and me Nan," he'd told them, only adding afterwards, "and me sick Dad."

  "Jesus, there are more like you?" said the leader, spittle flying from his lips. "Are they all your size?"

  He shook his head. No, he was the only one prone to putting on weight. And, especially now, the rest of the family were considerably thinner. Hardly surprising when they'd had to share what resources he could scrounge up.

  "I bet it's not," said the only other girl, this one dressed in a leather jacket which she'd attempted to do up over her ample chest. In fact she was ample all round, so wasn't really in a position to criticise. It didn't stop her, though. "I bet he's gonna eat it all himself."

  He shook his head, but the other members of the gang just laughed. "You're right," said the lad who'd originally made the joke. "He's goin' to scoff the fucking lot."

  "No he bloody well isn't," the tattooed leader announced. Then the gang members fanned out. He'd backed up a few paces, but suddenly hit a wall. The gang encircled him, trapping him. He felt like crying, but knew that would do no good. Neither would shouting out for his Mam, nor his Dad - even if they had been nearby, the man couldn't fend off a flea.

  "Come on, Porko, show us what you've got," said the boss, holding up a meat cleaver. And as they moved in, he flashed back to all the bullies at school who'd ever called him Porky, or Chubster or Wide Load. Flashed back to his Dad at those rugby matches, to what he was trying to tell his wimp of a second son.

  "We are dragons," he whispered. "I am a dragon."

  "What?" asked the pasty-faced girl, but it was already too late.

  Before he realised what he was doing, he'd grabbed the tattooed thug, evading the cleaver blow by inches, and swung his attacker into the wall. The youth's shoulder cracked loudly and he let out a cry. Turning to the joker, he butted him with his stomach, sending the youth backwards into a pile of boxes. The rest of the gang he took down in no time at all. It was as if a switch had been flipped. He even began to enjoy the violence, taking years of abuse out on them. A golf club struck him on the hip but he barely even felt it, pulling his enemy in, throwing him to the floor and then stamping hard on the lad's pelvis.

  Looking around, breathing hard, he found there was nobody left but the two girls. The larger one fancied her chances and, it had to be said, she was probably more of a match for him than all the men put together. She tried to kick him in the crotch, but he sidestepped her, then punched her in the face. Bits of cartilage exploded across her cheeks, blood splattering over his own face. The girl sank to her knees and he brought down his fist again, this time hitting her on the top of the head with the base of his fist. There was another crack as the weight of the blow cracked her skull, and she toppled sideways.

  The pasty-faced girl stared in disbelief, not able to move as he approached. Christ alone knew what he must have looked like with all that blood covering him. When he reached her, she suddenly decided to escape. Quickly, his hand was out, clamping around her arm.

  "Let go! Let me-"

  "Shhh," he told her, pressing a finger to her lips. If the other members of the gang had represented all the bullies who'd ever called him names, then this girl, her flesh quivering beneath his touch, represented all those who'd ever spurned him romantically . The Kaiyas and Denises and Aimees and Brennas from his class, who he'd fantasised about but looked at him like he was the scum of the earth; at the same time draping themselves over the boys with model good looks. Well, he'd show them all now, wouldn't he?

  The things he made that girl do, before snapping her neck... It was a sort of catharsis.

  He eventually picked up the bags and walked back through the streets to his family, not caring now if anyone saw him. In fact a few people did spot him, but didn't come anywhere near. Perhaps it was his appearance, perhaps it was just his demeanour. When he arrived home, his Mam and Nan looked at him funny, but didn't ask about the blood. The
y were probably afraid to.

  "Where have you been?" asked his Dad, then shut up promptly when his son glared at him. He could see it, the fact that he was a dragon. Maybe even the Dragon. And maybe his father realised that he himself was no longer one of those creatures. The older man took the food gladly this time, tucking in.

  There was even a thank you.

  From that day on, there was never any fear about going outside. Anyone stupid enough to tackle him soon regretted it. At the same time, he attracted a gang of his own: those who not only respected the way he handled himself - his size a plus rather than a drawback - but also his allegiance to the flag. Just like in those matches so long ago now. It was every nation for themselves, and they knew if they stuck with him there was a chance of making theirs great again.

  It took a lot of time, but eventually that gang became a small army, which in turn became a larger army. Just as his family had done, they all looked to him to take care of them. Which he did at first, then they became big enough and tough enough to begin looking after him again. Why go out on scavenging trips - further and further afield - when you could send bands of your own men to do it? The food was shared equally, after he and his family were taken care of. And why fight, when others would fight for you - to protect you?

  Soon they were much too big to occupy any one building, or even a set of buildings. So, about six or seven months ago he'd struck upon the idea of the Stadium. The place that had inspired him, the place where the Dragons used to meet. The place where this Dragon would rule.

  There was just one problem. While he had been gathering his forces, others had been setting up shop in the area. Recruiting the local populace with promises that they would be safeguarded. Using these lies, a regional division of something called The Rangers had been established. It only took a little digging to discover where they came from and how they'd come about. Some prick masquerading as Robin Hood had managed to convince enough people to follow his lead, to create a peacekeeping force - what could easily be seen from the outside as a personal militia hellbent on taking over Britain.