by Paul Kane
As Robert continued to fall, down and down, his only compensation was that he was leaving the Tornado as a burning wreck to fall from the sky. He continued to fall, letting his bow go as he closed his eyes. There was no way back to the helicopter, the rope well out of reach.
He resigned himself to the fact that this really was his final act, but he'd kept all those he loved safe from the missiles and guns. He'd done the task that he set out to when he first left the forest. The Rangers would be in good hands with Mark, who'd shown his leadership qualities on this mission.
The one regret he did have was that he could never tell Mary again how much he loved her, how much finding her had meant. Would never feel her in his arms again. And would never get to see his child be born, or grow.
Robert felt himself still falling - there couldn't be more sky left, surely, he was going so fast.
Then he hit something. Not the ground, which he was rapidly hurtling towards. But something soft. Someone.
He opened his eyes again to see Jack swinging on the rope, his cap long gone. The length of it was still dropping, so the wrestler had hitched a ride and gone down with it. Now the larger man was matching Robert's descent, and had closed in on him thanks to Bill's skilful flying. As he swung again, this time Jack reached out and grabbed Robert by the hood of his top. He heard the big man yell as he took the strain; Robert doubted there was another person alive who was strong enough to do that.
Robert turned and again took hold of the rope, gripping it tightly as the winch lever was pulled by someone up in the chopper. They stopped in mid-descent, then were suddenly being winched back up towards the helicopter.
He'd been given yet another chance. His life extended, watched over by whatever spirits the Native American had been talking about.
But he also knew that his luck really would run out one day.
And as Robert was pulled back up to the Chinook, looking forward to holding Mary again - something he hoped to do so many more times - he couldn't help dwelling on that thought.
Wondering if when that day came, he might not be wishing that Jack had simply let him fall.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Loewe was fuming.
It hadn't been a good week. Usually, he couldn't care less about what happened out there in the real world; he was safe and sound in the Army of the New Order's headquarters. But the setbacks his organisation had suffered this week had a knock-on effect, threatened what he had established in Germany. As a leader of these men - even if he was only a fake leader - it was his responsibility to take action, to punish those responsible for losing all those vehicles and equipment in Scotland and Wales to Hood's men. As a person whose lifestyle was in jeopardy, he was frightened. And when Loewe was frightened, he got mad.
"On top of all that," he bellowed at young Schaefer, "you okay'd a mission to Russia, which has practically sparked a war."
"I thought it necessary to retrieve the man responsible."
"Tanek. A man you hired, let us not forget. Did you succeed?"
Schaefer was silent.
"We lost tanks, jeeps, countless men - and two aircraft in the process!"
"Hood was-"
Loewe skirted the edge of his desk, fists clenching and unclenching. The Alsatians rose as well, snarling. "Hood! Fucking Hood! I'm sick to death of hearing about him! This whole thing has been a catalogue of disasters from start to finish." He wagged a finger at Schaefer. "And I'm holding you responsible." This time he had to, Loewe had no choice. It had been Schaefer's idea to supply both the Widow and the Dragon with arms, his idea to have it overseen by that olive-skinned idiot.
"The Russians are in disarray themselves, sir, now that the Tsar is dead."
That was something at least, but it also meant they might be after revenge; might want to carry on this war until both their sides had nothing left. And besides, it didn't make up for the humiliation. Someone still had to pay. Loewe's reputation as a ball breaker was at stake. As much as he relied on the bespectacled man in front of him, it was going to have to be his head that Loewe took.
"I'm sorry it has come to this," he told Schaefer. "Guards!" Two members of the New Order were inside the room immediately, and Schaefer looked worriedly over his shoulder at them. He knew what was coming next, knew that the men were here not only to stop him from getting away but to witness what came next. He'd seen it happen with Mayer not that long ago. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, dripping onto the left lens of his glasses. Any moment now Schaefer would be on his knees, begging Loewe not to set the dogs on him. Any moment he would-
Schaefer began to laugh.
Loewe's brow furrowed; that was not the reaction he'd expected. He'd seen men cry, whine, shit themselves in this position. Never laugh. His mind must be gone, thought Loewe. All the more reason to put this sorry excuse for a human being out of his misery.
"You're sorry. You're sorry?" Schaefer was shaking his head, the laughter still pouring out. The Alsatians' growls were getting louder; Loewe would let them off the leash in a moment. The young man wouldn't be laughing then. "You complete and utter moron," said Schaefer. "You haven't got a clue what's going on, have you?"
"How dare you talk to me that way!" Loewe said. Now he was livid. "Oh, you've asked for this." Loewe clicked his fingers for the dogs to attack.
Nothing happened.
Loewe clicked his fingers again. The dogs continued to growl but remained where they were, flanking the desk. "Get him! What are you waiting for?"
Schaefer laughed harder now, so hard he had to take off his glasses and rub his eyes because they were watering. "You haven't got a clue because you can't see further than your office, than all this." Loewe was clicking his fingers frantically, but the dogs were still ignoring him. Schaefer whistled sharply, and at last they sprang into action; not leaping to attack, but coming to heel. The young man replaced his glasses. "Who do you think oversaw their training, Loewe? Who has overseen everything around here?" He touched a hand to his chest. "Because you're good at the talking, but not so great at the strategies, are you?"
Loewe licked his lips, realising he was on thin ice but knowing there were still two guards in the room who could shoot the dogs if necessary. Schaefer's little back up plan hadn't succeeded quite yet. "Like the strategies you fucked up this week?"
"I'll give you that one. Things haven't gone exactly to plan. But there's always the future, hopefully. One, sadly, that you will never witness."
"Men!" Loewe roared. "Shoot him, right now!" The guards, like the dogs, did nothing. Now Loewe began to worry, to grow even more frightened.
"You see, I know who you really are, General. I have done for a while. And now the men know as well; I've told them. Your loyalty is not to the cause. It is to yourself, pretender."
Loewe opened his mouth, the mouth that he could rely on nine times out of ten to talk him out of a scrape. This must have been the tenth time, though, because nothing emerged.
"The New Order was never meant to be yours." Schaefer took a step forward and the dogs followed. "My choice of liaison wasn't an accident, either. Poor Tanek once knew my cousin, Henrik. He was part of De Falaise's army. Hood killed him."
Loewe found his voice again, sensing an opportunity to turn this against the young upstart. "So, this was about revenge?"
Schaefer shook his head again. "No. Family is important to me, but so is my country. Hood represented... still represents a threat. But enough of this chit chat. Let's get on with things, shall we?"
Loewe backed up against the desk, holding a hand in front of him. "Listen, please... Guards! Men!" he called beyond his office, to the control room, into the HQ itself, but nobody came. Schaefer was in charge here. The real conman. "Please, we can talk about this. Work it out and-"
Schaefer gave two sharp whistles and the dogs leaped forward, one springing up to go for Loewe's throat while the other sank its teeth into his privates. He felt pain like he'd never experienced before. As he lay back on the des
k, the Alsatians' teeth were everywhere, ripping chunks out of his arms, legs, hands and feet in a feeding frenzy. He tried to reach up for help, but the dogs were weighing him down. All those times he'd given the order for them to attack, he'd never once considered what it might be like on the receiving end... until now.
"What is it they say?" he vaguely heard Schaefer comment, through ears that were being ripped to shreds, but realised now quite how insane he was. "Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, General!" There was laughter again, before his young Second concluded with: "Well, I would love to stay and watch these final moments, but I have places to be. I would like to say it has been a pleasure, but that wouldn't be true at all. So instead I will simply say, auf wiedersehen."
Loewe didn't hear any more, only felt a few more seconds of torture before passing out. His last thoughts were of his very first lie, about the dog he'd blamed for trailing mud into the house.
"Was that you who trailed that mud into the house, Achim?"
"No Mütti, I swear."
Remembered its whine as his mother had thrashed it.
And he thought about how, in the end, that dog - through its brethren - had finally got its own revenge.
Finally had its day.
First a wedding, now a funeral.
Not just for one person, but many. The Reverend Tate had presided over the internment of all those dead at New Hope, even the Germans, who were buried out in the woodland. The villagers who'd been killed during their brave offensive had found their ultimate resting place in the graveyard, with Tate leading the prayers for them. It had been a touching and poignant day, the service attended by those still left alive, as well as many from Nottingham Castle - including Mary and, yes, Robert had even shown his face, though he seemed embarrassed and ashamed to be there.
Probably because of what he'd said to Karen Shipley, even though he'd relented and sent Rangers to assist. She'd been there on the day also, pushing a recovering Darryl in a wheelchair to pay their respects. Doctor Jeffreys' assistant Sat had been able to stem the bleeding from his wounds after the battle, until they could get him back to the castle for proper medical care - along with Graham Leicester - but could do nothing for Andy. Nor for Gwen, ultimately.
It was her grave Tate was standing over today, mourning the loss of this courageous woman who'd died after Tanek had shot her. She'd died cradling her beloved son, Clive Jr, who Tate had saved from a Morningstar Servitor himself. The cult had gone to ground again after being defeated here by the Rangers - those taken captive during the fight having already committed suicide, as was their way. He had to admit, it had been a shock to see them there as well as the Germans, and Tate had reported the fact to Robert immediately upon his return from Russia; while the rest of the surviving German prisoners - including a very battered captive they'd discovered in the Red Lion - were being locked up in Nottingham's hotel jails. The Reverend doubted they'd see the evil cultists or Germans again anytime soon, but just in case Robert had allowed a contingent of Rangers to remain in New Hope to make sure.
"I'd like to stay as well," the Reverend had informed him. "These people need my guidance, Robert. They've lost their way a little."
Robert had agreed, but was sad to see Tate leaving again, especially when he was so settled now at the castle. However, he also recognised the fact that the holy man had been there at the village's birth, that he'd been best friends with the man who founded it. Perhaps it was time to take the place back to that original vision, under the Rangers' protection. Tate also owed Gwen - buried beside that man, the person she'd loved with all her heart - because he'd been too late once more. And this time it had cost her dearly.
As for Clive Jr, Darryl and Karen had offered to bring up the child. "It's what Gwen would have wanted," Darryl told him. Tate had a feeling Karen was only helping out to get closer to the man she quite clearly adored, but then maybe that wasn't a bad thing. In time, perhaps they'd become the family that Clive, Gwen and Clive Jr should have been. And while Tate was on the scene, he'd make sure that not only were the villagers brought back into the flock, but also that Gwen's son was taught right from wrong according to The Good Book.
Tate wiped a tear from his eye, saying the words he'd said every day for a month now. "I'm sorry, Gwen. So sorry."
As he turned away and began his walk down the path of the graveyard, Tate paused and looked back over his shoulder. Was it his imagination, or had he felt a presence? Just for a second seen a glimpse of a figure. Someone on the periphery of the graveyard itself? Someone who might also have come to pay their respects, but hadn't ventured inside for whatever reason?
Tate shook his head. Just his imagination, he told himself.
That was all.
The trees hid him from view as he sped through the forest.
He was alone today, but then he needed to be. He would spend time with Mark here soon enough, spend time with Mary elsewhere, but first Robert needed to reconnect with Sherwood. Needed to feel the grass beneath his feet, hear the birdsong; needed to fly.
All was well back at the castle, and reports were coming in that the establishment of both the Welsh and Scottish arms of the Rangers was going very well. Dale had asked to remain as liaison in Cardiff, ostensibly to help with that regional chapter's growth, but reading between the lines he'd fallen for this girl Jack had told them about. It also appeared to be catching, because the big man himself had talked quite a bit about the girl's aunty, Meghan. Robert hadn't met her yet, but there was talk of the woman coming to visit Nottingham. Hopefully she would help Jack get over the heartache he'd experienced with Adele.
Tate was the only one sad at the moment, because of the way things had gone at New Hope - about not being able to save Gwen. But, helping to piece that community back together was at least taking his mind off things.
And their enemies, including the Morningstars, Germans and the Russians seemed to be out of the picture for now, thankfully ; either lying low or fighting each other. What would happen in the long term, though, was anyone's guess.
He'd been thinking about that a lot recently: the future. Thinking about what Mark would become. The young man had told Robert when they were alone that he'd seen the Tsar in a dream, back when they'd been camping out in Sherwood, before the Native American did his thing. "I just knew where I'd find you," Mark said. "Don't ask me to explain, because I can't. And definitely not to anyone but you. That's one of the reasons I couldn't tell the others. Plus I wanted to return the favour by saving you this time."
Robert also wondered what his new daughter or son might be like, whether they'd have the same kind of insights eventually. He supposed he'd find out in time.
Robert's legs pumped harder. With his hood up he was like a green blur streaking through the forest. It was as if he was getting to know it again, everything fresh and new - and that was re-energising him. He should have felt old, worn out, but instead right now he felt so young.
He'd found evidence of the man in black's presence in Sherwood, primarily the sweat lodge he'd constructed and used to tame the forest somehow. Robert had released the contents of the pouch here, a formality but one which he knew he had to go through for things to get back to normal. For the magic - the dreams - to return. They hadn't so far, but he figured that was only because they were granting him a desperately needed respite. He'd been through so much over the past few weeks and he was far from ready for any more emergencies.
It was strange, but he still felt the Native American here today as he was running. Felt like he might be behind the next tree about to spring out, or watching from a distance. Robert scrutinised every single patch of blackness as the day was waning, in case it might be him. No, the Native American had his own agenda. Something to do with what the Tsar had given him.
Just a stone, Robert told himself, but he didn't believe that for a minute - and he also wondered whether there were more where it had come from.
As if to prove him wrong, the shadows ahead lengthened an
d he saw movement behind one of the oaks. Robert stopped, his bow primed in seconds, ready for another duel if necessary.
But it hadn't been the Shadow. Robert eased back on the tension when he saw his old friend. The creature he'd left alive all that time ago, now walking through the forest towards him. Not scared at all, not worried Robert was going to hunt or kill it. Because the stag was him. He'd seen that so many times in those dreams.
It was wounded, or had been - red stains on the back of its neck. Robert was only guessing, but perhaps the animal had been trying to defend Sherwood against its intruder, in lieu of him being around.
They regarded each other, just as they'd done that first time - an understanding passing between them. They were guardians of worlds: both real and imagined. They were the stuff of legend, just like this place.
The stuff of song, of words and of deeds. They had always been here and always would be.
And really, their story was only just beginning.
THE END
Paul Kane has been writing professionally for almost fifteen years. His genre journalism has appeared in such magazines as The Dark Side, Death Ray, Fangoria, SFX, Dreamwatch and Rue Morgue, and his first non-fiction book was the critically acclaimed The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy. His award-winning short fiction has appeared in magazines and anthologies on both sides of the Atlantic, and has been collected in Alone (In the Dark), Touching the Flame, FunnyBones and Peripheral Visions. His novella Signs of Life reached the shortlist of the British Fantasy Awards 2006, The Lazarus Condition was introduced by Mick Garris, creator of Masters of Horror, and RED featured artwork from Dave (The Graveyard Book) McKean. As Special Publications Editor of the British Fantasy Society he worked with authors like Brian Aldiss, Ramsey Campbell, Muriel Gray, Robert Silverberg and many more, plus he is the co-editor of Hellbound Hearts for Pocket Books (Simon and Schuster), an anthology of original stories inspired by Clive Barker's novella. In 2008 his zombie story 'Dead Time' was turned into an episode of the Lionsgate/NBC TV series Fear Itself, adapted by Steve Niles (30 Days of Night) and directed by Darren Lynn Bousman (SAW II-IV). He also scripted the short film The Opportunity which premiered at Cannes in 2009. Paul's previous books for Abaddon's Afterblight Chronicles - Arrowhead and Broken Arrow - detail the adventures of a post apocalyptic version of Robin Hood, and his other novels include Of Darkness and Light (with cover art from the award-winning Vincent Chong) and The Gemini Factor (with an introduction from Peter Atkins, screenwriter of Hellraiser II-IV and Wishmaster). His website, which has featured guest writers such as Stephen King, James Herbert and Neil Gaiman, can be found at www.shadow-writer.co.uk He currently lives in Derbyshire, UK, with his wife - the author Marie O'Regan - his family, and a black cat called Mina.
