by Paul Kane
"We also need to be safe, Reverend. I don't want to be reliant on Stokes and his people."
"You'd rather create a mini army of your own, is that it?"
She shook her head. "We'll leave the outside world alone, if they'll do the same with us."
While Tate conceded that she had a point about defending themselves, he still wasn't mad on the idea of these ordinary men and women being on a state of constant alert, trained in using firearms and hand-to-hand combat. "How is it any different to what you did for Robert?" Gwen had said after she'd asked Tate to teach his self defence tactics.
"That was a war," Tate replied. "Desperate times…"
"These are still desperate times, in case you hadn't noticed. What happens if another threat comes, if another De Falaise decides to try and take over?"
He didn't have an answer. But nor would he willingly teach these people how to fight in what he saw as a time of peace. While it was true he'd taught classes before The Cull, Tate was only trying to keep people safe. So what was the difference here? He couldn't explain it; he just knew that it was wrong and it wasn't what he'd come here to do. These people needed spiritual guidance, not advice on how to disable a person using the flat of your hand. Gwen might not have any faith in Robert to police the area, but Tate at least had that.
"Suit yourself," Gwen said in the end, realising she wasn't going to talk him round.
Thankfully, the task of revitalising Hope had kept a lot of them busy, including Gwen. The first order of business had been to clean up the streets, the cottages — to make it look as good as, if not better than it had been before. Darryl was put in charge of that operation, while Graham and Andy headed up the task of planting crops in time for the coming harvest (and it had been a good one, Tate had to admit). Meanwhile some of the newer people had been sent out to look for more skilled workers who might want to boost their numbers. Gwen had gone on a number of these missions, just as Clive had done before her. Tate found out later that she'd even poached people from other villages: like their doctor Ken Jeffreys, who they'd discovered in a community near Worksop. Somehow Gwen had managed to persuade Ken to join them, leaving behind the people he'd tended to up there. "I told him we needed him more," was all Gwen would tell Tate. "It was his choice." But something told Tate that the woman hadn't taken no for an answer.
When she went away on these 'head-hunting' trips (which invariably were getting shorter and shorter), Gwen would leave Clive Jr with Tate. It showed how much she trusted the holy man, as she wouldn't let anyone else within a mile of the little one, but for Tate it always proved a difficult undertaking. Many a time he'd look down on the boy and those dark eyes would stare back. He'd shiver then, but couldn't explain why. This was only a child, after all.
But hadn't their very own Jesus Christ once been a baby just like this one, and look how he'd changed the world.
Tate shook his head; these were ridiculous thoughts. The whole next generation of infants had the capacity to change the world: for better or for worse. What made Clive Jr so special?
Yet he couldn't help thinking…
When she returned, Gwen would always go to the child and make a fuss of him. As she'd rest him on her shoulder, whispering to him, the baby would look over and find Tate again. The Reverend would smile when he saw Gwen looking, but it was pasted on. Was that one of the reasons why he'd stayed so close to New Hope? So he could keep an eye not only on the welfare of this community but also so he could watch Clive Jr?
Before they knew it, Spring and Summer were a distant memory, Autumn had come and gone, and Winter had set in. They'd celebrated Christmas, this burgeoning group of people, and Tate had led them all in carols in the renovated chapel. All except Gwen and her son.
"I won't be coming," she'd told Tate long before the celebration. "I don't feel it would be right. I don't… I'm just not that religious, especially after…" Gwen's sentence tailed off and he didn't push it.
But her actions, her attitude, troubled Tate more and more as the months crawled by.
That morning, Tate had called round to see Gwen, only to be told she was visiting Clive's grave again; a burial Tate himself had presided over, in the small graveyard behind the chapel, after Gwen had been taken to the castle. Now he returned to see Gwen and her baby, wrapped up warm against the icy chill which also bit into his leg. Clive Jr was in a pushchair, a bobble hat covering his head and thick woollen blankets tucking him in.
Gwen didn't notice Tate's approach until he was almost at the grave — not a stone one, like most of those here, or even marble, but a simple cross made by Darryl. It was all anyone had been able to manage in these times, and it was more than some poor people had been granted. He heard Gwen talking to her baby, then to the grave, before waiting — as if expecting an answer from the man buried there. It was only when she heard the crunch of snow under Tate's feet that she stopped.
"You shouldn't be out here, Reverend," she told him when she did finally look round. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that statement. Was she telling him he wasn't welcome? "It's treacherous underfoot." Gwen nodded at his stick.
"I'm not an invalid," he pointed out. Far from it; even with his disability Tate could put an able-bodied person through their paces. "I'll be all right. I'm more concerned about your welfare."
"Me?" She looked mystified. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Tate let out a sigh. "This isn't healthy, Gwen. It never has been."
"What, visiting the man I loved? Clive Jr's father?"
"That's not what I'm saying and you know it. You're not facing… certain facts."
Again, she gave him a confused look.
"Facts like-" Tate was interrupted by someone shouting from the gate. It was Andy. He was holding a different rifle to the one he'd brandished when they first arrived, one of the automatics Gwen had taken from the castle.
"Someone's coming," he yelled.
Tate and Gwen exchanged glances, then set off down the path. The holy man had nearly stumbled, but only in his haste to reach the street. He saw Gwen take out her pistol, ready to protect her child, and it didn't even seem strange this time — that's how much she'd altered. Gwen with a gun seemed like a natural thing.
They joined Andy out on New Hope's main road and he pointed. "There."
Tate squinted. There was a lone figure heading up the street on horseback. The Hood pulled down over the figure's face betrayed his identity. As if that wasn't enough, the bow and quiver on his back provided more evidence. And though you couldn't tell for sure just by that — look how Mary had fooled everybody on the day of the attack — something told Tate that this was indeed the man he'd first encountered in Sherwood Forest some time ago.
"You can put those weapons away," he told Andy and Gwen, then he hobbled up the street towards the horse.
The rider brought his steed to a halt, then climbed down. As Tate drew near, the man pulled down his hood and the Reverend saw he'd been right. It was Robert Stokes, but he looked older, more tired than he had the last time he'd seen him.
"Hello, my son. What brings you to New Hope?"
"Trouble."
"Yes, I can see that by the bruise on your face."
"Could someone fetch my horse water and hay?"
"Andy," Tate said, waving his hand for the man to approach.
Robert handed over the reins. "Much appreciated."
"I'm surprised to see you travelling alone," Gwen said by way of greeting. As she pushed the buggy towards Robert, she tucked the gun back in her jeans. "Someone of your importance, I'd have thought you'd have two or three men with you."
"I don't need any protection. I never have." There was something in his tone which said she'd hit a nerve.
"You say there's trouble, Robert," Tate said. "What kind?"
"Can we talk inside, Reverend? Somewhere a bit more private?"
"This isn't the castle," Gwen informed him. Tate balked at her rudeness. "It's my village. You can talk in my hous
e if you're talking anywhere."
Robert nodded. "Understood. So lead the way, we've got a lot to discuss."
Robert sat down at the kitchen table while Tate put a kettle on the range.
Their visitor had taken off his bow and quiver but kept them close — and he kept the sword he always wore now at his hip, even though it stuck out behind his chair. Looking at the scene, Tate mused what a curious blend of ancient and modern it was, perhaps that was the way of the future after all?
Gwen, having placed Clive Jr in his playpen, leaned against the edge of the work surface, her arms folded. The silence was deafening, and in the end it was Gwen that broke it. "So, how are things back up at the castle?"
"Ticking over," Robert replied.
"You managing to keep on top of everything, keeping the area safe?"
"I'm working on it."
"Quite a task you've set yourself, though. And quite an ego to think you can right the wrongs of the whole world."
"Gwen, that's not fair," Tate said.
"Let her speak, Reverend. She's obviously got something on her mind."
Gwen's smile was tight. "I'm just making idle conversation."
"Those heavy duty guns you and your friend were waving around, they looked awfully familiar."
"How's Mary?" Gwen said quickly, changing the subject. "I liked Mary. She was good to me when I had Clive Jr."
"Ah yes," said Robert, glancing over at the baby. "Clive Jr."
The whistling of the kettle broke in, and moments later Tate was announcing that tea was ready.
"No cucumber sandwiches for our guest?" Gwen tutted. "I'm surprised at you."
"Look, what exactly is your problem?" Robert said.
"What's my problem? I'll tell you what my problem is-" Gwen was about to say more when Tate called for her to fetch the tea, his voice firm. When she placed the tray down on the table, the china rattled.
"You two knock yourself out," said Gwen, then she picked up Clive Jr and left the room.
Tate eased himself down on the chair opposite Robert, rubbing his temple where he felt the beginnings of a headache. "I'm sorry about that. She's been through a lot."
"We all have. It's no excuse."
"I know. I know. But, well, seeing the man you love get shot right in front of you and then… Well, I don't need to refresh your memory about what that creature did to her."
Robert shook his head. "She blames me for not coming sooner, doesn't she?"
"I think that's part of it, yes."
Tate suddenly recalled the moment Mary told them Gwen might still be alive.
"Are we finally going to do something about this Sheriff now, once and for all? Are we finally going to go in there and get those people out?"
"Like your Gwen, you mean?"
Yes, like Gwen, who he'd failed so spectacularly. Who Robert had failed, too.
"So," said Tate, drinking his tea and feeling the headache waning slightly, "are you going to tell me what this is about?"
Robert explained that they'd been tracking members of a cult, how they painted their faces like skulls and were growing in numbers. How he and his men had caught a few of them. "They're incredibly dangerous, intent on killing whoever they come across. I really need you to come back with me and-"
"Robert, I'm afraid my fighting days are over. I never really wanted them to begin in the first place. If circumstances hadn't forced me to…" Tate didn't feel like he could continue with that line of argument.
But Robert was shaking his head. "You misunderstand me, Reverend. I need your help figuring out the religious side of all this, maybe to sit in while I question the prisoners. I'm afraid I'm in over my head where all that stuff is concerned."
Tate could feel the headache building again, this time with a vengeance.
"Take this…" Robert reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I got Mary to draw it, based on our descriptions of the tattoos the men have on their foreheads. I didn't want her getting too close to any of those lunatics."
Tate put down his cup and took the paper, casting his eyes over the symbol. It was an inverted pentangle within a circle. There were markings around the outside of the ring, and at the tips of the cross: some kind of lettering. Inside the pentangle was an inverted cross. "These people are Satanists, Robert."
"Yeah, I kind of got that."
Tate tapped the paper. "This is a variation on The Sigil of Baphomet, which used to be used by the Official Church of Satan back before The Cull. The symbol of Baphomet was also used by the Knights Templar to represent Satan. It was known as The Black Goat, The Goat of Mendes, The Judas Goat, The Goat of a Thousand Young and The Scapegoat. That particular sign had a picture of a horned goat in the middle of the pentangle, whereas this has an inverted cross — which is actually the Cross of St Peter, a common mistake made by those practising this kind of thing. St Peter was crucified upside down, you see…"
"I see I've come to the right person."
"They've done something else to the symbol, though," Tate continued. "Usually there are two circles around the pentangle, and between those, at the edge of each point, there's a letter in Hebrew which, when brought together, spell LVTHN anticlockwise."
"I don't follow," said Robert, his brow furrowing.
"Leviathan, my son. The Horned One. The Devil. Here, though, the letters are reversed Latin."
"What do they spell?"
"Well, the outer five spell MRNIG."
"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Probably exactly that. Because if you look at it in conjunction with the letters around the cross as well…"
"Go on."
"Those spell STAR."
Robert shrugged. "Still not getting it."
"Morningstar? Lucifer. The Fallen Angel."
"Oh God…"
"Quite the opposite." Tate let out a long, slow breath. The headache was worsening by the second. He was about to pick up his tea again, but his hand wavered as if something had suddenly struck him. "Did you say these men were killing people?"
Robert nodded, then rubbed his bruised jaw. "It's how I got this. They were after a young woman in York, and if we hadn't been there…"
"Then it's even more serious than I thought."
"Isn't it serious enough?"
Tate gripped the side of the table with one hand, and pointed at Robert with the other. "If they're killing, sacrificing, then there can only be one reason."
"They enjoy it?"
"They're attempting to raise Him."
Robert looked at Tate sideways. "Come on! Satan? You're telling me they're trying to conjure him up or something? That's ridiculous."
"No more ridiculous than our Lord Jesus Christ coming back from the dead. They want him to appear in the flesh, Robert. After all, hasn't this world been called by many a Hell on Earth? Wouldn't He be right at home here?"
"You don't seriously believe that."
Tate held up his hand. "What I believe is irrelevant, they believe it. And they will carry on executing people until He appears."
"Then what will they do?"
"Anything He tells them to. He's their master."
There was silence for a few minutes, during which Robert looked down at the table. "They have to be stopped. Regardless of what they think is going to happen, I can't just let them carry on."
"I know," replied Tate.
He studied the Reverend. "Will you come back with me to the castle? I could really use your insight."
Tate breathed out wearily before answering. "When God calls me, I must answer."
Robert thanked him and got up, leaving the cottage to fetch his horse. They would set off immediately for Nottingham. Gwen came back into the room when she heard the door slam. She was still cradling Clive Jr in her arms.
"Don't bother to explain. I heard everything."
"You were listening?" Tate was more than a little surprised.
"Of course. I can't stand to be around that man,
but I wanted to know what was going on. Seems I was right all along about another threat coming." Gwen fixed Tate with a stare. "Still think Robert and his men can protect us?"
"As I said before, my child, I know he will try."
"And you will help him?"
"I will."
"Then I wish you all the luck in the world," Gwen said, before walking out again.
"And I," whispered Tate, his eyes trailing her as she disappeared, "pray that God might deliver you from this darkness." Whether he meant the darkness of the conflicts to come, the Morningstar cult and whatever waited for him at the Castle, or the darkness inside Gwen's own soul, not even Tate knew for sure.
CHAPTER SIX
The blade swished as it whipped past his ear, narrowly missing his head.
He rolled out of the way then leapt up to avoid another stroke, beneath him this time. Landing badly, he toppled to one side — recovering just quick enough to fall backwards when he saw the blade about to run him through. He hit the ground hard, emptying his lungs. Laying there, sucking in a deep breath, he saw a shadow fall over him.
Then the blade was at his throat.
If it had been a real sword, he'd be dead by now. As it was all he'd suffered were a couple of splinters in his neck.
A hand reached down and he took it, felt himself being hauled to his feet. The man standing opposite Mark said nothing, merely gestured that he was ready to go again if the boy was. Mark nodded to the dark-skinned soldier, his sparring partner today. Mark didn't know Azhar all that well, but the man wielded a sword like he'd been born with it in his hand. Jack had left Mark to 'do battle' with him over an hour ago, and as he now watched the man spin the sword Mark wished his tutor had at least given him a weapon to fight back with.
Azhar swung again, the wood clipping Mark's left shoulder. He let out a yelp, hopping back out of its way. He didn't stay there for long though, because his opponent was already moving forward, jabbing for his ribs. "Hey, watchit!" Mark cried when the tip poked him hard in the side. He had to react fast, as the wood flashed past his face. Now that one really would have hurt!
Azhar's feet were a blur as he positioned himself in front of Mark, preparing to swing the sword again. Mark dived beneath the next sweep, running at Azhar to try and shove him off balance. The man easily side-stepped the boy's attack, causing Mark to dive head-first at the ground. He came skidding to a stop on the slushy snow of the Middle Bailey field, where a pair of size 15 boots were waiting.
