Arrowland

by Paul Kane

She paused, studying his eyes, trying to work out whether or not her words had sunk in. She'd had this selfsame conversation with Ceallach when he'd returned from the raid, when he'd demanded to know why she hadn't seen the trap Hood had sprung. The Widow could understand how angry he'd been at seeing their men captured, at losing those weapons and vehicles, but it was all for the greater good. Ceallach, had seen that after some gentle persuasion, and a night or two in the Castle Vaults. Tanek would see it as well. He had to, because she needed the weapons those he worked for supplied. Plus she had no wish to anger them, even if she did know what would happen to that nation in the long term.

  "Now, I want you tae deliver a message back for me. Tell them they have tae trust what I'm doing. They will get what they want, and so will you. Hood will come here and when he does, we - I - will be ready for him. It has all been foreseen, Tanek."

  The Widow removed the knife from Tanek's cheek.

  "So, yer have a choice. Leave now, do this for me, and I swear yer'll get what yer want. Hood out of the way and De Falaise's offspring. I think yer know what will happen if you choose otherwise. Do we have an agreement?" The Widow continued to scrutinise his face; she saw the twitch again and smiled. "Good!" She backed off, and when she was far enough away said, "Oh, aye, yer can move now."

  Tanek stumbled forwards, shaking his head.

  "Take it easy for a minute, the magic's strong."

  "Fuck magic. You mean poison."

  The Widow sighed. "Believe what yer want."

  Some people just didn't have the capacity to think beyond the everyday. Tanek believed in what he could see, in what he could feel - and fight. She couldn't really blame him, but at the same time it soured the idea of taking his power. There were other strengths than the purely physical, and she understood he would never be one of her conquests. That didn't mean she couldn't still use him, of course.

  Tanek stooped to pick up his crossbow, raising it again. The Widow didn't even flinch. He was just testing her, to see if she knew his intentions. She did. "Time yer were goin', isn't it," she said. It wasn't a question. "After all, there are others to see."

  The larger man's eyes narrowed, then he nodded. "Very well. But we shall see each other again, soon."

  "Somehow, I doubt that," the Widow said after him, but she was talking only to his lengthening shadow. She returned to the table, shoving aside a tarot card showing The Hermit. She reached instead for the one she'd been seeing time and again throughout her life.

  The Widow examined it, and tapped it against her lips. Then she placed it back down.

  On it was a picture of a man sat on a throne.

  Chapter Six

  The man known as Shadow sat crossed-legged on the ground, gazing ahead and waiting.

  This place had tried to repel him from the moment he'd entered. He could feel it. The whole forest was somehow against him. Not only that, but its inhabitants as well. The creatures that called this their home. Birds flapping up in the trees, their song shrill and piercing instead of beautiful. Things scuttling about in the undergrowth: insects, small animals. And the trees themselves had done their best to get him lost, even when light broke, making one part of this place look like another.

  Then came the open attack. He'd only just managed to dodge the vicious charge - and as it was he'd been whipped sideways, a sudden pain in his side causing him to wince. He'd glanced down to see blood seeping from a tear in his clothes caused by the animal's antlers.

  Rising slowly, he'd found himself facing a large male stag. Shadow stared at it, losing himself momentarily in those black eyes. When he hadn't listened to what the forest was telling him, this creature had been sent to encourage him to leave.

  He wasn't about to.

  The stag charged again. Shadow dove out of its way, but crouched on his knee this time, ready with his bow - nocking an arrow in seconds. But his aim was off - impossible, his aim was never off! - and the arrow flew wide. Thankfully, when the stag came by for another pass, Shadow was able to draw his hawk axe and deliver a blow to the back of the animal's neck with the blunt side. Crouching next to the felled beast, he placed a hand on its side and felt the rhythm, the pumping of its heart.

  He is you and you are him, Shadow said to himself.

  His true quarry was linked to this animal somehow in a way he couldn't explain.

  Show me, he said to the creature. Show me this place's true heart.

  It defied him, of course, but the sudden flash Shadow saw in his mind was enough. He'd recognise the location even if it took weeks to find it. Luckily, it didn't. He stumbled upon it by accident, a clearing he doubted whether he'd find if he'd been actively looking for it. And sincerely doubted he would ever leave again if this didn't work.

  After stitching up his wound, Shadow set to work, knowing time was growing short. This forest was attempting to expel him, like a body fighting a disease. But he wasn't going to be defeated.

  First he built his fire pit. Then he placed wood - logs he chopped with his axe - in the bottom of the hole. By the time he'd completed the pit, it was a good five foot by seven, the sides forming a kind of semi-circle and strengthened by rocks.

  Next he chopped more fire wood, ignoring what sounded like screams in his head. Lies, tricks. Telling him this wasn't his to cut, to burn. It belonged to Hood. Only he could use it, granted permission by those who watched over him. Those Shadow was trying to evict, or at the very least subdue, as he had done with the stag. It wasn't theirs at all; it belonged to the universe, to the Great Spirit. He would show them that.

  He kept on ignoring the screams as he chopped wood for the framework of the small lodge: facing the fire pit, with an opening at the front. This he covered with hides he'd brought with him, stitched together in the traditional way and weighted down with rocks. Tied inside the lodge were little pouches filled with tobacco as offerings. Using some of the longest logs he'd cut, Shadow built a kind of box about three feet square, which he then built up, filling it with kindling, before building up a dome of rocks - then more wood until the pile was quite high. He had another problem getting the fire to light, the wood refusing to respond to the spark of rock, the kindling unwilling to burn, but finally nature took its course as he knew it would. Soon a roaring fire was going.

  It took some time for the rocks in the pit to grow hot enough for his purpose. Shadow removed anything metal from his person. He also made sure he had the bottles of water he'd brought with him, for drinking and for wetting the rocks he'd be using - which would be carried into the lodge using a fork-like tool he'd affixed to the end of a long branch.

  He also set up an altar made from dirt found in the hole. On this he placed several items personal to him as offerings, including ashes from previous sweats - through which his mission had been imparted.

  Shadow stripped to the waist and began his Spirit Calling ceremony. He started by chanting words known only to him, the lodge preparing him for his journey to another plane of existence. Once there, he would call forth those who watched over him, to do battle with the ancients of this place. The prize would be the forest, for he needed to sever the link with Hood before he could defeat the man. Sherwood's favourite son fought with old gods on his side, but then so did Shadow. It was just a question of which were the strongest this day.

  To help him on his way, Shadow smoked the pipe he had prepared. While it was in his hands, it represented a conduit through which the universe and the creator's power could flow. It would help him to commune with those he sought.

  Shadow felt it flowing through him, felt the rhythms of this place just as surely as he had the stag's heartbeat. He begged the spirits he worshipped to come: to cleanse not only him, but the forest.

  They appeared in a miasma of colourful scenes, taking on shapes like the wolf, the bear and the buffalo. The creatures of this forest were pitted against them: led by a representation of the stag, no longer felled - because that was only its physical presence. Here it was strong and majestic, a sym
bol of the old god's power and dominance. For now. It was a battlefield unlike any other, way beyond anything ordinary humans had ever witnessed. Beyond guns, tanks and helicopters.

  Mighty hawks swooped and fought with owls, spinning over and over in the technicoloured clouds. The stag rammed its antlers into the bear, just as it had done with Shadow, only for the wolf to leap on its back and begin tearing chunks out of it. Even the smaller animals, like badgers and foxes, fought - pitting themselves against the creatures of the desert, like the rattlesnake.

  Shadow marvelled at the complexity of it, then at the simplicity: a glorious contradiction. The fight seemed to rage for hours but there was no telling the passage of time. The only way Shadow realised it was over was when the bear picked up the stag and held it aloft, delivering it to him.

  Shadow gave thanks to the Great Spirit, just before the connection was severed. He managed to crawl out of the lodge - staggering a few yards with a bottle of water he'd hastily grabbed - before collapsing.

  But he knew that no harm would come to him now. He was protected by the new keepers of Sherwood. And Hood was soon to find out exactly what it was like to be the prey instead of the predator.

  A trap would be set before long, and as Shadow drifted off into unconsciousness, he realised exactly where he would find the bait.

  Chapter Seven

  Something was very wrong.

  It had started with the dreams. It sounded crazy, but he'd accepted that the forest was giving them to him. They hadn't begun until he'd moved to Sherwood. Then he'd moved out of the forest and into the castle to run the Rangers, and the dreams had deserted him for a spell - which had almost cost all their lives. The forest had also - and this sounded even crazier when he thought about it - healed him at least a couple of times, even brought him back from the brink of death.

  He'd come to realise that he needed to return there every now and again, to recharge. His excuse was the trips he took young Mark on to teach him hunting skills, but wasn't the lad starting to feel the forest, as well? He'd certainly spoken to Robert about strange dreams he'd had while he'd been there.

  More and more, though, over the last year especially, Robert had come to understand that he always carried a part of that special place with him wherever he went.

  In fact, that was literally true these days, because he'd struck upon the idea of making himself a little reminder of home. His true, spiritual home. In the pouch he wore on his belt were twigs, earth, stones, grass, bark and leaves he'd gathered from Sherwood - and copying him in all things, Mark had insisted on making one as well. When travelling or on a mission, and in times of great stress, he'd find himself clutching the bag unconsciously. It eased his mind. And while he'd been carrying it, the dreams had never deserted him again.

  Until now.

  It had happened last night while he slept, out under the stars with Mary beside him. He'd refused the offer of staying at a hotel Bill had commandeered for himself and the rest of the Rangers. Instead, Robert and Mary had found a local park and bedded down there; she was more used to sleeping outdoors now since the Christmas surprise he'd given her of a night out in Sherwood. So, falling asleep with the pouch in his hand, it hadn't taken long for the dreams to visit Robert.

  His eyes opened and at first he'd thought he was still in the park. But the sheer mass of trees and greenery soon told him otherwise. It had to be the dreamscape, and it had to be Sherwood. He was walking through familiar surroundings, enjoying being back once again, when there was a disturbance in the trees up ahead. At first he thought it was some kind of animal, but when the trees themselves began falling he realised it was something much bigger. Flashes of red appeared between the trunks, then the trees directly in front of him parted.

  And he saw a monster.

  It looked like a dinosaur, but was nothing so mundane. Robert recognised it from the tales of swords and sorcery he'd read as a kid. It was a dragon, its scaly crimson hide tough and impenetrable. And it was huge: as tall as the trees in Sherwood.

  It breathed out fire, cooking the trees, burning the leaves off branches.

  But this wasn't the only monster in Sherwood. Another parting of the trees and on Robert's right was a giant black spider, its multitude of eyes bulbous and glassy, regarding him with both hatred and longing. The dragon saw the spider and roared; the arachnid, for its part, made a series of clicking noises and weird shrills. Somehow Robert instinctively knew it was female, and although he was no expert he would have bet his life on the fact that the species was a Black Widow.

  These were the opponents he and his men were facing at the moment, or at least that's what they represented. Gaining power, becoming bigger and stronger, they would take over soon unless something was done to stop them. No sooner had he thought this than Robert's Rangers flooded the scene, firing arrows at the two behemoths and swinging their swords. Robert looked on as the Dragon crushed a couple of his Rangers underfoot, while the Widow stopped others in their tracks by spinning a web around them they couldn't break. She then turned on one poor soul and began to eat him, starting with the head. Robert winced at the sight, but didn't - couldn't - move.

  Faces he recognised now were tackling the threat, such as Dale and Jack on his left, leading the attack against the Dragon; Bill, Azhar and Mary on his right, trying to avoid those webs and deadly mandibles. Mary turned, urging him to join the fight; they couldn't do this without him. Robert tried to move again, but still couldn't.

  Then he saw it. Something, someone striding out between the two creatures, ignoring them as if they didn't matter. A man, but not quite a man - indistinct and shadowy, his body like fog. He was carrying something above his head. Something with antlers.

  The stag. The thing Robert had often become himself in this dreamland. Was that meant to be him there, defeated? Dead even? There was definitely blood dripping from the body, he could see that now. As the man came closer, his features grew clearer. He looked Native American, but Robert didn't have long to take in the sight of him.

  Everything happened so quickly. First, the Dragon and the Widow shrank back, reducing in size as something else was revealed behind them - an unclear shape, pushing, or manipulating, them. Next, the shadow man started to increase in size, becoming stronger, more significant. As he did so, the stag he was holding caught fire - perhaps from one of the Dragon's blasts, Robert couldn't tell. The stag burnt fiercely for a second or two before becoming ash which rained down onto the ground.

  Robert thought something terrible might happen then. Often the dreams had shown him his own death, in an effort to try and prevent it. But what actually occurred was that everything went black. It was like a TV being put on standby, the picture telescoping away into nothing. At any second Robert thought he might wake up, but he didn't. Nothing happened. He'd lost the connection somehow, the information it was feeding him out of reach.

  He awoke not long after, Mary stirring when she heard him.

  "What is it?" she asked, half mumbling.

  "Nothing," he lied.

  She rolled towards him, snuggling up. "Good. Go back to sleep, love."

  It was good advice, and he tried. For a long time. He'd finally nodded off before dawn, long enough usually to bring back the dreams. But again there was nothing but darkness.

  Over breakfast, back at the hotel provided by the marketeers, Robert was agitated, but refused to discuss it with Mary. She'd come to understand that Sherwood was a special place for him, but still didn't really get how special. Nor how much of a role it played in keeping them one step ahead of their enemies. When she looked hurt, Robert had given her hand a squeeze and told her not to worry; he didn't want her thinking he was shutting her out again. But at the same time he wasn't in the mood to talk about what was going on with his dreams.

  "So," Bill had asked, "any idea what we're going t'do about this situation?"

  They'd questioned the captured raiders and found out more about the Widow. The conclusion they'd drawn was that her
men were devoted to the woman, fanatically so in fact. She was power hungry and she was, not to put too fine a point on it, completely insane. The raiders didn't mind telling them about her, in fact they quite relished it, fuelling the rumour that she ate human flesh, that she was into black magic and that she could never die. They were less forthcoming about her defensive capabilities. Loyal, even under pressure, and that didn't include the kind of pressure De Falaise and his goon Tanek put their prisoners under, Robert and Bill had gained nothing from the interrogation sessions, apart from the location of their base: Edinburgh Castle.

  That had been when Mary stepped in with the sodium pentothal. Picked up during routine searches of medical facilities for supplies that her and the trainee nurses back home could use, Mary was the only one allowed to administer this drug, and even then only in extreme circumstances. It was surprising how much looser their tongues were then, spilling information about lookout positions dotted around the city, guard changes, patrol patterns.

  "This German connection wi' the jeeps, bikes an' guns still bothers me," Bill concluded.

  Robert nodded. "This whole thing goes beyond simple raiding parties. We're going to have to stamp on the Widow before she gets out of control."

  "What exactly did you have in mind?" said Mary.

  What he had in mind was getting inside the castle for a closer look at their operation, perhaps even trying to trace back where the Widow's support came from. If they were facing another invasion then forewarned was forearmed. Essentially a covert and hand-picked strike force, led by himself, would ascertain the level of threat, and eradicate it if necessary. He thought Mary might argue about him going, but she didn't. All she said was that if he went, then she was going too, which was fair enough. As much as he still felt that twinge of dread whenever she wanted to accompany him on a mission, knowing that she could well be killed, maimed or captured, he knew she'd be feeling exactly the same about him. If one of them was going, then both should. Plus which, as he'd observed on many occasions, Mary was one hell of a fighter. She'd saved his skin at least as many times as he'd saved hers - more so probably. If anyone was going to watch his back, Robert wanted - needed - Mary.