Arrowland

by Paul Kane

  What attracted her the most was not the fantasy life of living here, but the fact these surroundings fitted her persona perfectly. A medieval backdrop to match her outlook. Yet she was also a dichotomy, because however much she loved the old fashioned nature of where she now resided, she was still connected to the modern world. The castle had power, it had running water; all right, people who would run and fetch her water. It was protected by the weapons of the 20th and 21st century: tanks, jeeps, machine-guns and mounted rocket launchers. Her men might well carry the swords of their ancestors, had changed their names according to the old Celtic ways, but they were also armed to the gills with guns.

  It made her laugh to think that if she had been around back in the days when this place had been built - the rock itself had been occupied as far back as the mid-second century - she would have been burned at the stake. Not just because of the modern weaponry - just how would you explain a Weasel 2 light anti-aircraft defence system to a primitive? - but because she studied the ancient arts.

  Ancient and modern, it was a curious mix. But one which she found most appealing.

  She pondered this again as she sat before her cards. Looking around the faded red walls, then up at the original hammerbeam roof, her gaze settled on the suits of armour flanking the fireplace. Each now held Heckler & Koch MG4 - 5.56 mm light machine-guns at her insistence. There was just something so right about the combination.

  But that was her all over, as many had commented in the past.

  The past. It wasn't very often she looked back there - preferring instead to look into the future. Now it had crossed her mind, spurred on, no doubt, by the reading she'd just done, and she thought back to how her life had taken this turn.

  Maybe she hadn't dreamed about castles and crowns when she was little, because the reality of her situation meant there was no point believing in fairy tales. How could she when she was forced to survive on whatever food her mother could afford, gristly scrag-ends begged from the butchers. And she wouldn't believe in fairy tales ever again after seeing her mother stab her violent and abusive father right in front of her eyes. Her dad had come home stinking of beer and her mother had asked if he had the rent because the landlord had been round again.

  "Dinnae bother me, woman," he'd shouted in her face, then turned away. When her maw tried to get him to listen, he'd brought his fist round in an arc and caught her with a back-hander which sent the woman sprawling across the floor. He didn't seem to care that his five year old daughter was in the room, watching. She remembered seeing her mother spit out blood, getting to her hands and knees as her father turned his attentions to the screaming child in the corner. "Shut yer fuckin' trap, or so help me I'll..."

  She'd run when she saw her dad approach, scooting past and making for the kitchen. She'd been looking for a cupboard to climb into, when her father grabbed her by the scruff of the neck. "I'll teach yer to run from me, lass!"

  "Git away from her," came her mother's voice from behind.

  The large man dropped his terrified child and turned. It was then that she saw what her mother had in her right hand. A kitchen knife; meant only to scare him perhaps, to warn him off - stop him from beating them both to a pulp. And if he hadn't tried to wrestle the thing from her grasp, perhaps it wouldn't have slid into his stomach like that. But it was what happened afterwards that really shattered her illusions about fantasies. Her father staggering backwards, clutching his stomach, holding up his red hands and calling her maw a 'fuckin' houk'. Her mother's face contorting, then the knife plunging into him again and again, even when he was on the floor; the years of cruelty at his hands all coming out in those thrusts.

  If it hadn't been for that, her mother might have got away with self defence, or at least shown that she was only protecting her baby. As it was, the judge said what she'd done, the amount of wounds inflicted, indicated it was a conscious, perhaps even premeditated, act. Lawyers tried to argue mental instability because of the abuse at the hands of a psychotic drunkard, but the courts hadn't bought it. Her mother died in prison long before the virus came along, managing to hang herself with some bedsheets.

  If only I'd been able to see it coming.

  It was a dangerous thought that had plagued her throughout her childhood in care, then into her adolescence. One which finally became an obsession. She'd consulted the libraries, though didn't have much joy finding a way to achieve this - and back then there hadn't been an accessible 'net. So she'd turned to someone who might be able to teach her. There was an old fortune teller called Evelyn who operated not too far away from the home they'd stuck her in, making a meagre living from consultations. Whenever she had any spare time she'd visit Evelyn, who welcomed the company because she lived on her own. The old lady taught her much about the different methods of seeing into the future, like the crystal ball, runes and, of course, the cards. But she also told her something else.

  "You have a gift, dear," Evelyn would often say. "A real gift. It's only just starting to emerge, as often they do at this time of life, but it's there. And it's strong."

  She became the closest thing to a daughter the woman had, though was technically more like a granddaughter. On Evelyn's shelves, in her back room, were row upon row of books on magic and the occult which she'd borrow and read, often without permission or Evelyn's knowledge. When Evelyn passed away at the age of eighty - she'd found her one Sunday, after letting herself in: eyes closed in her favourite armchair - she'd taken some of these books before calling the authorities. For safe keeping, she told herself. Well, Evelyn had no family, so what would happen to them otherwise?

  The cow who ran the home eventually discovered them, however, in spite of the fact they'd been hidden away in the back of her wardrobe. She'd thrown out such 'filth' and given her charge a lecture on morals. Angry, and remembering enough to perform one spell in particular, she'd put a curse on the bitch. Who crashed her car about a week later. It might have been coincidence, but she doubted that very much, and it scared her. She'd never in a million years thought the magic would work. It taught her to have a newfound respect for the forces she was dabbling with.

  "You have a gift."

  She used to look at those girls at school, into the Goth scene, or kids involved in roleplaying games, and think: You really don't know a thing, do you?

  When she was old enough to leave care and school, she got a job in a local fish and chip shop. For a while she tried to live an ordinary life, mainly because she fell in love with the owner's son. She'd always sworn she'd never get involved with anyone, never let her heart rule her head - never let herself get into the same mess as her mother. But the emotions she felt whenever she saw Alex were impossible to ignore. There was such a connection, such a pull, and they had so much in common. He was strong, but gentle with it, and said that he loved her too. She believed him. He was so different to her father: for one thing he never touched a drop of alcohol, and there wasn't a violent bone in his body. It was rare to find someone like that, she knew. So rare, that she'd said yes when Alex proposed.

  In spite of everything she'd once said, all she'd once learnt, she didn't even try and look into the future this time. She didn't need to, because Evelyn had told her about Alex. Told her that one day that special, perfect man would come along and she'd have everything she ever dreamed of. Someone with whom she'd share a special bond. "Where love's involved, it's difficult to see your own future; it... clouds things, makes them unclear," the old woman had warned, then held up one card in particular. A man sat on a throne, holding a sword: 'The Emperor'. "But I see it. I see it all. He'll come along, your king. You just wait and see, sweetheart. You'll almost be as one, the same. Then it'll be happy ever after."

  She should have known better than to believe it, though. Happy ever afters only happened in make-believe. She'd been gutted when she found out Alex was cheating on her after only a year as her husband. Not just with one woman, either, but with several.

  "I got bored," was his only defenc
e when she confronted him. It was that night she discovered there were more ways to hurt someone than simply hitting them. "Look, it was a mistake to get hitched. We rushed into it."

  "Please, Alex, darlin'." She was tugging at his shirtsleeve - Christ, she could hardly believe that now.

  "Lemme go. I-I just don't love yer or fancy yer anymore, all right?"

  It was far from all right. About as far as you could get.

  "I'm leaving now - and tomorro' I'm getting a divorce."

  It was at that point she realised just how similar she was to her mother - and her father, too, ironically. She still had hold of his shirtsleeve, his arm. If she couldn't have Alex, then nobody else would; certainly not those whores he'd been sleeping with. Pulling him round, she dragged him over and shoved his face into the vat of boiling fat. His scream was piercing and she almost stopped what she was doing. But she glimpsed the ring on his finger, felt it brush against hers on the hand she was bending back. He'd worn that every time he'd fucked one of those tarts, the promises meaning nothing.

  She'd pushed him even further into the fat, until he went limp and stopped screaming altogether.

  It was only afterwards she realised the severity of what she'd done. But there'd been no witnesses. The blinds at the front of the shop had been drawn and it was too late for anyone to be in the clothes store or electrics shop on either side.

  That left the question of what to do with the evidence. Then she recalled reading something in one of those occult books about an ancient ritual; about how to take the hurt and pain away, and empower yourself with the spirit of the one who'd done you wrong in the first place. Something to do with ancient tribes. She'd turned her nose up at it when she'd first read it, found it disgusting, but-

  The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. A way to dispose of both the evidence, and for a part of Alex to be with her forever. To make her stronger.

  And she hadn't eaten all day.

  It had taken some building up to, even more determination to continue - to finish as much as she could. But before she knew it she was stripping him, putting the rest of Alex into the fat and turning up the heat. Cooking him until the meat practically slid off. And do you know what, it tasted much better than the gristly scrag-ends she'd survived on as a child.

  What little remained she'd disposed of in a secluded spot miles away. But before leaving, she'd packed both lots of clothes and left a note for Alex's father saying that they needed some time away together, to remember what was important in the marriage.

  She hadn't returned until after everything went crazy in the world.

  The next few years after Alex, she'd spent travelling - Romania, Haiti, China, New Orleans - reconnecting with more than just her dead husband. She'd sought out other people who could help her hone the skills she'd abandoned, and gotten herself into trouble more times than she cared to mention. Not all of her tutors had been as nice as Evelyn, not all of the places they operated in quite so reputable. At one particular underground club, she'd had to fight off three guys who insisted on more than just cash as payment for their knowledge. One would never walk again, another would never see again, and the third would never have children.

  The ones she found the most useful, the most adept at the black arts, she beguiled. Sometimes simply with her body, other times helped along with a spell of attraction. She'd marry them, often not legally, then take their power, too. She literally ate men alive, in the end revelling in the nickname some gave her: the Widow. To most that simply meant she'd lost husbands in the past and had a penchant for black, but she couldn't help thinking just how appropriate it was when compared with a certain arachnid.

  Had she ever loved any of the men she'd wed, then killed? She'd been fond of some, it had to be said. But loved? She hadn't felt that particular emotion since Alex, hadn't let herself because it made you weak. She'd just needed their energy, their abilities, that's all; fashioning herself into something that could survive the coming storm.

  She'd known it was on the horizon, even before the first person died of the virus. The Widow had seen it, was prepared for it, knew that she would live through it. Even knew she'd end up here, returning to her homeland and leading an army of men. Knew she'd take the castle once she had enough of them to fight for her, to wipe out those few remaining members of the 52 Infantry Brigade and Royal Regiment of Scotland still protecting Edinburgh Castle. Knew she'd choose her own colours for them to wear, giving them traditional names to further emphasize the marriage of ancient and modern. And knew that she'd be crowned queen of all she surveyed by way of the appropriately-named Stone of Destiny.

  She laughed, running a hand through her wild hair.

  "Something amusing?"

  The voice came from the shadowy archway over to her right, but didn't startle her. She'd been expecting his return, knew her men wouldn't stop him from gaining entrance. Nor should they, because the pair of them had business to discuss.

  "Just thinking about destiny," she told him. "Fate. The future."

  "You will not have a future if you continue to make such mistakes."

  "Why don't you come outta there, man? Come out where I can see yer."

  There was a second or two's hesitation, but the tall figure did just that, walking cautiously into the hall. His looked wary, as though expecting an attack. This was not a trusting person, but then she'd always known that as well, hadn't she? Even before they'd met.

  "Now, what were you sayin' about mistakes?" she asked.

  "I think you know already." He wasn't referring to her power; it was pretty easy to guess the topic of conversation. What some might call her recent failure. "I assume you received the message from our mutual friends abroad? The ones who loaned you those little toys to play with."

  Toys? Yes, she supposed they were. Just like the men she used. But this was a game on a grander scale than most. "I did. Just didn't want tae make a meal of it."

  The man raised an eyebrow. "With your reputation, you surprise me."

  The Widow rose from her seat. "Credit me with some... taste," she said. "The man looked like he'd been half eaten already. By animals." There had been no power to gain by devouring him. He had no power to give. But this man in front of her, now he was different.

  "He had," answered her intruder matter of factly. "There's a difference?"

  The warrior in front of her didn't - couldn't - understand. She knew what he must think of her, what most folk out there thought. But they were wrong. They didn't have the first clue what she was all about. "Aye. Want to find out?"

  "I'll pass."

  The Widow grinned. "So, I presume yer here to follow up?"

  The man said nothing, just watched as she came closer. And was he... yes, she caught his eyes roaming over her body. Perhaps she could work her magic on him yet.

  "Forget your mind control tricks," he said, as if reading her mind. "They won't work on me."

  No, she doubted very much whether they would. His was not a weak mind, and he had purpose. He also had a connection to someone who'd passed over. Someone who had given him a mission to fulfil.

  "Why d'ya keep on pretending you're their lackey?" she asked. "Yer nothin' of the kind. You have other motives. Doesn't take someone with my abilities to see that."

  "Your 'abilities'?" He gave a throaty chuckle.

  She scowled. "Dinnae mock me, I'm warnin' yer."

  He laughed and she felt the rage in her rising again. She no longer wished to subdue him the fun way, now she wanted to teach him a lesson. The Widow reached behind her back and brought out a sharp, golden knife with a jewelled hilt.

  "It would be the last thing you'd do," said the big man.

  She stepped forwards, and he brought a crossbow up, firing off a couple of bolts.

  She avoided them easily, having known exactly where he would fire, then continued with her attack. Snarling, he lunged to meet her before she got anywhere near him with the knife. But as he did so, the Widow brought up her oth
er hand, which had been clenched. She opened it and blew the contents in his direction.

  Like the seeds of a dandelion, the dust drifted into her opponent's face. He coughed, dropped the crossbow - then froze. The Widow smirked. Relaxing, she walked slowly towards the large man and tutted.

  "All that pent up aggression. When was the last time yer released any of it in another way... my Hermit?" She knew the answer to that already; it had been a long time, back before the virus even. Someone no-one else knew about. Someone he'd loved and lost, who'd betrayed him. Someone he'd killed.

  She brought up the knife, tracing the tip down the olive-skinned man's cheek - not hard enough to make it bleed, but enough to make her point. Now she was this close, she looked him up and down, just as he had her. Oh, to take him - then take his power. She licked her lips, running her free hand over his chest, over his arms, feeling the bulge of the muscles there. The Widow knew he could feel it too. She'd only prevented him from moving, not feeling.

  Then lower. She looked him in the eyes, but he didn't blink. He couldn't, even if he'd wanted to. You can't do it, not yet. You need him, she told herself. "Look, I understand why you want Hood dead. I know what he did. I know what you've lost at his hands. It's common knowledge, you're going to say. But I know more than yer average bystander. I know about yer promise, Tanek."

  His eyebrow twitched, in spite of the paralysis.

  "Keep his child safe, isn't that what was asked of yer?" She smiled. "I won't tell. Yer secret's safe with me. Nothing that has happened so far has happened by chance. Everything's in a state of constant balance and flux, Tanek, do you understand? But if you know the outcome of certain events, you can... manipulate that balance. Tweak the future in yer favour. I've given yer a sample of that today. Believe me when I say the sacrifice of those toys, as you call them, was necessary. It's all part of my plan. A plan you and those you claim to serve couldn't possibly hope to understand."