Broken Arrow

But The Hooded Man: he was another story entirely. He was living on instinct and adrenalin. A true force of nature.

He stood there, all Hell breaking loose around him. Then he raised his head, not revealing too much of his countenance. Bow slung over his shoulder, he coaxed the chopper to come closer with a crook of his finger.

The pilot was hesitating, probably because of what had just happened to the other chopper. Then suddenly the helicopter moved forward, nose down. Robert knew all its weapons must be trained on him.

Faith, he thought to himself. If I just have enough faith.

They seemed to stand frozen like that, an iconic scene from one of Jack's old action movies, everything happening in slow motion around them. Like two gunslingers from a western, each one waiting for the other to draw.

Robert reached around the back of his belt first, but as he did he could've sworn he heard the clicking of the machine gun, saw it moving and training on him. He waited for a blast that never came — whether the guns jammed or the pilot hesitated again, he had no way of knowing — but he took advantage of the seconds it gave him. Pulling out a bolas (the same design as the one he'd used for hunting in Sherwood, only now made from a length of metal chain) he tossed it at the base of the helicopter's lowest rotor. It got tangled up quickly, the small spiked balls — taken from two maces — sparking as they whipped up into the blades.

The helicopter pulled its nose up and veered to one side, firing its gun now but spraying the bullets into the air and hitting nothing. Robert watched from under the brow of his hood, as it drifted across the skyline sideways Then as it piled into a bunch of trees at the edge of the field, getting tangled up in the branches.

May not have been a slingshot, Reverend, thought Robert, but it did the trick.

He didn't have much more time to think about it, because something hit him. Something big and hard that came out of nowhere, sending him spinning.

Robert felt the pain in his side as he flipped around. Connecting with the ground, he continued to roll, his sword flattening against his side. He felt his vest catch on something and rip apart at the front, the metal plate slipping out; heard something round the back of him crack and hoped it was only his bow.

When he came to a halt, he was looking up at the blue sky, the clouds passing overhead. Then it was going dark… He was beginning to black out. Not now, Robert. Fight it!

He held on to the image of that blue sky, and for a few moments it felt like an ordinary day in the English countryside.

Then whatever had hit him drew up not far away.

And he heard someone climb out, approaching his battered and bruised body.

Bohuslav had watched the defeat of the helicopters and had to pinch himself in case he was dreaming. Not that he ever had dreams like this, his were much darker affairs. More personal.

It had all started off so well. The destruction of whatever was flinging those crude missiles was countered with the more modern-day variety, guided in on target and blowing them to bits. It was when the Black Sharks had got closer to the fighting that the problems started.

And him! Govno! That irritating little man with his Hood and his arrows and his sword. He'd actually taken down two — count them, two! — of the craft himself. Small wonder his reputation had spread. His men would blindly, and bravely it had to be said, follow him into the very depths of Hades itself if he asked them to. Perhaps Tanek had been right to broach his concerns that Hood might come for them one day. Definitely better to take him out of the equation now. Except they weren't doing such a great job, were they?

Bohuslav's fingers itched. He could see that the only way they were still going to pull this around would be for him to put The Hooded Man down personally. Cut off the head and the rest of the body withers — he had learned that at a very early age in his experimentations with animals.

Bohuslav ordered his driver to double back, come at the battlefield from the side. 'Ram him,' he commanded, pointing ahead to the lone figure who had just defeated one of the most sophisticated pieces of military hardware known to man, as if he was teaching a school bully a lesson. It would definitely be a challenge to fight this individual one-on-one, but there was no harm in stacking the odds in his favour. Bohuslav had no qualms about this, he preferred to pounce on his victims when they least expected it, so the fight would be brief.

This one would be too, he'd make sure. As the jeep slammed into Hood, sending him reeling, Bohuslav smirked. Then he got out of the vehicle, producing his handheld sickles as he strode over towards the leader of this rag-tag team that had held fast against their might.

Through watery eyes attempting to close, Robert saw him.

A blur at first, he blinked and, as the form took on more shape, Robert made out the man's attire. He looked so out of place here, in that sharp black suit, white shirt and black tie. But, looking beyond that, looking into the hawk-like eyes, Robert recognised what he really was: another hunter, a predator even. Not the main man himself, but one of the minions he'd seen in his dream.

The predator was holding in his hands two sharp weapons, like the Grim Reaper's scythe, only smaller and more curved. More deadly. It had been his vehicle that had run Robert over, intentionally wounding the prey. This monster liked his meat to be softened up before coming in for the kill. And Robert could tell he'd killed before, that he enjoyed it.

'Wake up, mudak!' shouted the man. He was using one of the sickle points to pull Robert's Hood back, exposing his face and head. 'Yes, rouse yourself. It is time for you to die.'

Robert tried to move, but every inch of him was protesting.

'Your performance was impressive, I will give you that,' continued the suited man looming over him, 'but ultimately you must have known you'd fail.'

'F-Fail?' Robert half coughed, half laughed. 'You… You must have been at a different battle to me.'

'Ah, but this war is being fought on two fronts, my friend.' There was a searing pain in his thigh as the man buried one of the sickle points into Robert's leg. 'That's it, shout out. Let your men know all about it.'

Robert clamped his teeth shut, hissing out the rest of his howl. The man twisted his blade and Robert had trouble keeping his agony to himself. But the man was leaning in, close.

Close enough to…

Even though he couldn't get up, Robert could still swing his fist — and he did just that. He couldn't get as much leverage behind the punch as he would have liked, but it had the desired effect of knocking the Russian back, and the sickle blade slid out of Robert's thigh as he reeled.

Robert struggled to get up onto an elbow, his torso and thigh in competition to see which could cause him more pain. With his free hand, he unsheathed his sword, just in time to hold it before him to meet a blow from the enraged Russian.

'That won't save you,' promised the man, his piercing eyes flashing. 'Nothing will.' He struck again. Robert's blade clashed with two sickles this time, but he wasn't strong enough to hold them at bay. The man was leaning hard on the blades, the sickles getting lower and lower. 'And nothing will save your friends at the castle, either.'

Robert's elbow gave out, but he was quick enough to grab the other end of his sword. However, he was flat on his back, the man pressing down on top of him. The sickles were millimetres from his chest. Catching him off guard, the suited man suddenly put more weight on one side than the other, the left blade dropping — though not before Robert shifted slightly so that it entered his shoulder rather than his chest. Again, an excruciating white hot agony, and Robert let go of his grip on the sword.

Leaving the point of the sickle in Robert's shoulder, the man above him raised the other one high. He wasn't going for the chest any more. Now he was going to bring the sickle round in an arc, slit open Robert's throat, maybe even cut off his head.

There was a swish of air and Robert closed his eyes, steeling himself for the sickle to slice his flesh. Instead he felt something wet on his face and chest. Then came a cry.

When Robert opened his eyes he saw what had happened. Dale was standing off to one side, his sword covered in blood. The suited man was rising and backing off, clutching his hand… no, not his hand. Because that lay on the ground, still holding the sickle.