End of the End

by Paul Kane, Simon Guerrier

  But the attack never came.

  The man laughed softly. “You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you.” His voice was rough, but kindly. His breathing was laboured, though, as if it was an effort for him to speak at all. “I am quite alone.”

  Still cautious, Mouse took another few steps. Out of habit, he looked the man over for anything that he might be able to steal. Wasn’t the usual way he did things, he preferred not to get his hands dirty, but when the opportunity presented itself he would grab it with both hands. The man shifted his position, took one of his owns hands off the twisted thing in front of him, and held it up.

  At first Mouse thought he was commanding him to halt, then realised he was showing that he had nothing of worth about his person. Just his clothes, by the looks of things; no belts or pouches, certainly no food or drink. Mouse’s eyes flicked sideways again to the oddly-shaped thing the man was still gripping with his other hand.

  “You like this?” the old fellow asked, laughing softly again. “I bet you’ve never seen anything like it before, have you?”

  In spite of himself, Mouse shook his head.

  “Or like this...” Now the old man tapped the thing he was sitting upon. “Most forests were completely obliterated, but, well, this one is a little bit special.” He sighed. “Only the stumps remain, however. All that’s left of the trees.”

  Mouse frowned. “Trees?” He had no idea what the word meant, nor what a stump was. Or a forest, for that matter.

  “Yes. There used to be trees here, so many of them. Huge, tall trees that reached into the sky.” He craned his head back and without even realising it, Mouse did the same. When he looked down again the man was patting the thing he was leaning upon. “These grew from the sides, they were called branches. It’s called a staff; it helps me to walk.”

  Trees, branches, staffs... It was like gibberish to Mouse’s ears.

  “So you see, I cannot give it to you—much as I’d like. And I have nothing else to offer a... collector such as yourself.” That much Mouse had figured out already. “Oh, wait. Except, perhaps...”

  Mouse held his breath, waiting for the man to continue.

  “...a story.”

  A story? Mouse let out the breath again. He needed something to eat, or maybe even items to trade for food. What did he need with a story, with words? You couldn’t—shouldn’t—trade them. He shouldn’t even be here talking to this old fool, had lingered too long in the one spot as it was.

  “A story about the old days,” the man clarified.

  That made Mouse pause. The time before? Had this man lived through those times? He was old—ancient—that was for sure, but still... And how would Mouse know if he was telling the truth or not? Might be more nonsense like the thing with the trees, the branches. Yet there were the... what had he called them? Stumps? Mouse had never seen anything like those things before, with their rings for telling ages. He shook his head again.

  “Are you sure? I would imagine someone like you would be very interested in those times. In what happened here in the past, back when this really was a forest.” The old man grinned, revealing a mouth almost devoid of teeth. “It’s a tale about good and evil and everything in-between. Heroes and villains, battles and wars.”

  Mouse edged just that little bit closer.

  “In the beginning, there was a great plague,” the storyteller told him. “It killed all but a handful of people with a certain kind of blood. And there was a man who survived, who was almost driven crazy by the death of his wife and child. He sought refuge out here in the wilderness, where he lived alone. Where he hunted with his bow and his arrows. Until he was needed, that was. Until he was called on to stand up for those who could not stand up for themselves. Who were being bullied by a lunatic who wanted to take over the world.”

  Without even realising what he was doing, Mouse had sat down opposite the storyteller on a nearby stump. He listened, head cocked, transfixed by what the old man was saying.

  “He had help, of course, this man. This hooded man. There was a gruff farmer... Oh, a farmer is someone who used to grow food in the ground.” He laughed at Mouse’s reaction to that one; nothing could possibly grow in the earth that surrounded them now. “There was a priest, a holy man—you probably don’t know what religion is, either, do you?” Mouse’s silence was answer enough. “Anyway, that man believed in an almighty power called God, who created us all. Who created the world and watched over us, guiding events. The priest always thought that Hood had been sent to them by God... Then there was a giant of a man, Hood’s trusted second-in-command. They were like brothers, those two. Fought side by side so many times. And there was a woman Hood met who taught him the true meaning of love.” When the storyteller noticed Mouse frowning again, he explained: “That feeling of connecting with someone. Of trusting someone. Of wanting to look after them. No?”

  Mouse shook his head yet again, this time much more emphatically. Maybe those people he could hardly remember had... had loved him. They’d tried to look after him, at any rate. But—whether it was through choice or not—they’d left him alone to fend for himself. Which is what he’d done; it was what he was still doing.

  The storyteller shrugged, then carried on. “Ah yes, that’s right. There was a young lad as well, about your age when he first encountered Hood.” Now he really did have Mouse’s attention. “Together they fought a number of foes, building up their own army in the process. A peace-keeping force like no other.

  “Their enemies included a witch and a man who thought he was a dragon... Oh, that’s a mythical creature, one with wings who could breathe fire.” The storyteller realised he was going off subject and got on track again. “Not to mention other armies from different places, one a group who worshipped the opposite number of that priest’s God.”

  Mouse pulled his legs up and folded his arms around his knees, his jagged metal weapon still in his fist, though he had loosened his grip slightly. The more the old man talked, the more Mouse wanted him to. There was something, not just about his tone of voice, but the story itself.

  A story, the man continued, of what had once been this forest, of the city Mouse had just come from. Back when it had still been standing, back when it had contained something called a castle.

  “So,” said the storyteller, “should I go on?”

  Mouse nodded, just as emphatically as he’d shaken his head before. Real or not, he was hooked.

  “All right then. Well, this particular story takes place after the others, but is no less important. Indeed, it might just be the most important of all the stories concerning the legendary Hooded Man...”

  CHAPTER ONE

  THOUGH THERE WERE three of them, they moved as one.

  They’d been trained to do so by the very best. To think alike, to act alike. To carry on the mission, even if one of their number was in trouble. The mission was all; that had been drummed into them time and again. There was no room for sentimentality, especially not on this occasion. No place for emotions. They’d had to become hard, cold.

  Focussed on the task in hand.

  The trio even looked the same, in their dark, skin-tight outfits and masks which left only their eyes visible: darting this way and that. Like clones. And like clones, they were expendable. Whatever happened tonight, whether they succeeded or failed, they would not be simply walking away from this place. How could they? It would prove impossible.

  Gaining entry to the city hadn’t been difficult... for them. Many had tried before, of course, and failed. Security was notoriously—and necessarily—tight here. Lessons had been learned from the past, obvious weak spots scrutinised and fixed. But if you wanted in badly enough, you could always, always find a way. It was their job to find those kinds of ways and they were extremely good at it.

  Guard shift changes had been monitored for some time now, patterns noted—even ones that changed. It was all a matter of routines, which these sorts of people loved. Then adapting to them, slipping in
through the cracks. Even now they were approaching their target location, where yet more guards stood between them and their marks.

  Taking these out wouldn’t be difficult, but it would only leave them a limited window of opportunity before it was noticed. Time was of the essence. The first figure nodded to their comrades, indicating Phase Two of the operation had begun, and simultaneously they struck—raising their pistols, silencers ensuring that only the faintest of sounds could be heard. The guards by the main gate dropped sideways, hardly having any time to register what had happened. Moving forward, the trio took out the figures on the turrets as well, leaving the way clear for them to clamber up and over into the grounds.

  The building loomed in front of them, large and imposing—to anyone else. Nottingham Castle. The three figures fanned out, dropping guards whenever and wherever they saw them, leaving a silent trail of bodies in their wake—only stopping to reload every now and again. All too soon they were at the building itself, disabling the alarm system. Breaking in through a downstairs window and slipping inside like burglars. But these men were here to steal something far more precious than paintings or jewellery, not that either had any value in the time after the Cull.

  After dispatching a couple of internal guards, they made their way through corridors lit only by candles and up the stairs, not pausing once, determined to finish what they had started. Exhibitions and displays of local art had given way to bedrooms, after less thoughtful tenants had trashed them. The building had become functional again, but also strangely homely over recent years. If their intel was correct—and it was—they’d find the first of their targets on this level, the next in a bedroom above.

  The trio split up, the first figures branching off to open two doors at once. The third was already moving up the stairs to do the same on the next level. The first of the men in black moved into the room, sharp eyes discerning outlines in the bed: on the left, a man. One of the Hooded Man’s most trusted soldiers, known as Dale. To his credit, the Ranger woke as soon as he sensed a presence in the room, but it was already too late. The assassin’s pistol was up and firing. Dale fell back onto the bed, where he sprawled out, unmoving. Then a couple of rounds were pumped into the waking female figure beside Dale. The assassin glided forward, checking pulses and nodding to himself.

  In the other bedroom, the second assassin found another young couple, fast asleep. This was one of the major prizes they were after: Hood’s adopted son, Mark, and his partner Sophie. Mark, too, sensed something was wrong at the last minute, looking up and over at the stranger in the open doorway. As the gun was raised, Hood’s son was up and launching himself at the assassin. The man didn’t even flinch; he just fired at the lad, catching him in shoulder and forehead. Mark dropped sideways onto the floor with a thump. His wife, Sophie, was now sitting up, still dazed and confused. She opened her mouth to scream, but a shot silenced her before she could get any sound out. Sophie dropped forward, doubling over, like a puppet with its strings cut.

  Above them, on the next floor, the third intruder had located the next objective: the room where Hood and his own wife would be. He opened the door silently, stepping inside at the same time. On the near side of the bed, he made out a woman sprawled out, long hair splayed over the pillow. She murmured something and he thought she might wake at that point, but it was obvious she was just having a dream. The assassin raised his pistol, finger on the trigger.

  He hesitated, his own senses tingling. Realising that even as he was watching the sleeping figure in the bed, about to take her life, he himself was being scrutinised. Someone was behind him, and it was only now—as his eyes adjusted—that he saw the other side of the bed was empty. Before he could react, he felt pressure around both his wrist and at his throat simultaneously. His first thought was: how could his attacker have gotten behind him? Had he been up already when they struck? The one thing they hadn’t considered: Mother Nature and a full bladder nonchalantly tossing a spanner into the works?

  It didn’t matter, he needed to focus on the fact that his pistol was falling from his grasp; that he was blacking out because of the forearm jammed up against his windpipe, the arm crooked around his neck. The assassin jabbed backwards with his elbow, ramming it into his opponent’s ribs hard enough to elicit a grunt. The pressure at his larynx eased slightly. Another jab removed it entirely.

  The assassin shoved back with all his weight, sending the man crashing into the wall opposite. At the same time, the assassin spun and kicked, knocking his attacker backwards into the wall a second time. It would have been enough to fell most people, but the shadowy figure just shook himself and came at the third assassin once more.

  The first blow to the face was blocked, but a second one—almost immediately after the initial one—thudded into the assassin’s side. It was followed by a succession of jabs to the kidneys which hurt like all hell. Regardless of this, the assassin rose and brought the flat of his left hand up hard and into his opponent’s chin. If it had been just a few centimetres lower, he might have broken the man’s neck, but as it was it only served to whip his opponent’s head briefly to the side.

  Then the man brought a knee up hard into the assassin’s stomach, doubling him over. He brought both fists down together onto the assassin’s back as he withdrew his knee, and suddenly the assassin was on the ground. Before the killer could do anything else there was pressure on the back on his neck. Though he couldn’t see, he reached back around and felt the foot there, but was at the wrong angle to dislodge it. This time his vision did swim and a moment later he was unconscious.

  Underneath them both, the remaining assassins had met up again—puzzled that their comrade hadn’t returned. They ascended to the next floor, to complete the mission if he had failed in his duties. The key members of Hood’s elite must be put down tonight and nothing would stand in the way of that.

  When they reached the next floor they saw no sign of their team-mate. Exchanging puzzled glances, they made their way cautiously down along the corridor towards the next target’s room. The door was still closed, so the first assassin opened it. The bed was empty, no-one present at all.

  He felt a tap on the shoulder, his fellow assassin drawing his attention to something. A figure down the corridor, head bowed, wearing a hood. Holding a bow and arrow. The first assassin couldn’t help himself, he swallowed dryly—the gulping sound audible. The most sound he’d made all night.

  Then came another sound as something whirred through the air toward them. Hood had raised his weapon and shot faster than either of them could ever hope to fire their pistols. They separated, one going left, the other right. The arrow passed between them, falling away behind.

  The first assassin shot back, but Hood was no longer standing there. Fuck! he thought, fighting the urge to cry out loud, where did he go? Then he wished he hadn’t asked, as Hood dropped from a ceiling beam to land on him, grappling him to the floor and knocking over a candle-stand in the process.

  The other assassin trained his pistol on them, then felt something cold and hard pressing into the middle of his shoulder-blades: the unmistakable shape of a gun barrel. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said a female voice with such authority that he didn’t dare argue with it. “Now drop your weapon!” Reluctantly, he did as he was told.

  Looking over, the first assassin saw he was on his own now—saw the woman with long, black hair streaked with silver, dressed in a vest-top and pyjama bottoms, prodding what looked like an old-fashioned cowboy gun into his comrade’s back. He would just have to do what nobody before him had ever done: take Hood down, and do it single-handed.

  He angled his pistol behind him and fired a couple of shots, but couldn’t tell whether either had winged the Hooded Man. Probably not, because the next thing he knew he was being struck across the back of the hand by the end of the man’s bow. The pistol clattered to the ground and Hood kicked it away.

  At the same time, flames rose behind them from the felled candle...

&nb
sp; The assassin rolled away and rose into a crouch, facing his adversary, who was getting to his feet. The man wasn’t overly muscular, but there was strength there—you could tell from the stance, the way he carried himself. He was also incredibly lithe, moved like some kind of animal: fluid and organic. The assassin tested him, shifting his body to the right, and Hood followed suit: a reflection in a mirror. The assassin reached into his boot and took out a knife, something Hood couldn’t match. Then he lunged at Hood, blade downwards, slashing an arc first one way, which Hood dodged, then the other—catching him on the upper arm.

  Hood growled; it had only served to make him madder.

  But it had also distracted his wife, and her captive took full advantage of it. He spun as she cried out, knocking her pistol from her grasp with his elbow. The gun went off, deafening them both. The assassin shoved Mary backwards, pitching her to the ground, and scooped up his own pistol.

  Now it was Hood’s turn to be distracted, which cost him another slash with the knife-blade—this time across the thigh. In retaliation, he brought the bow up and smashed the assassin in the face with a grunt. By this time, it was too late—and the other assassin had fired several times at the prone figure in front of him.

  “Mum!”

  The cry came from two directions at once: from a small figure who had appeared at the other end of the hall—where Hood had started off—and from the Hooded Man himself. The child rushed forward, down the corridor; a little girl, no more than eight, with the same dark hair as the woman on the ground, dressed in pink pyjamas adorned with red roses. She launched herself at the killer, grappling his legs and bringing him to his knees.

  Hood held out a hand for her to stop. “April! April, no! It’s okay!”

  The girl took no notice as she proceeded to bite into the assassin’s calf. He let out a yelp. “Arrgh, get offa me!” the masked man wailed.