As the jeep bounced up and down, in pursuit, Rory and the other men in the back looked ahead at the bloke they were after. He was running fast, hard, towards the trees. We should let him reach them, then we won't have to deal with him at all, thought Rory. But the man was spinning around, not even stopping – running backwards even while he was notching another arrow.
The projectiles bounced off the front of the jeep, and Rory ducked in case any found their way inside. One of the bikes flanking them went down. Rory looked around to see the unfortunate man get crushed under the tracks of the Challenger tank that their 'commander' was operating. God Almighty, enough was enough, wasn't it?
Obviously not, because they were still in pursuit of the running figure Then the hooded man was gone. The woodland absorbed him, sucking him inside itself like he was an extension of it. Surely they could give up now?
Rory felt their jeep slowing, the bikes and the tank behind doing the same. All the vehicles stood at the perimeter of the woodland, as if expecting the man to emerge again and give himself up. No such luck.
In the end the silence was broken by their unit leader who appeared from out of the top of the Challenger. 'Inside,' ordered the man, 'after him on foot!'
If the men with him hadn't known the consequences of disobeying, they would have turned the jeep around and just driven off. But going in there was preferable to having a tank turn on you… just about. And there was no way any of them wanted to mess with Henrik. Not one of them could take him; Rory doubted whether all of them put together could, in fact.
Reluctantly, they climbed out of the jeep, climbed off their bikes and, holding their weapons in front of them, walked up to the edge of the woods. Rory hung back as far as he could.
'I said inside!' screamed Henrik from behind them. 'Right now!'
The men all looked at each other, not really knowing what to do for the best. Then one of them made the first move into the undergrowth. The next man followed, then the next. Soon there was only Rory left. Swallowing, he stepped forward into the line of trees.
It wasn't as densely packed as some woods that he'd seen – though admittedly, his experience was fairly limited in this respect. It was thick enough, however, to hide the person they were tracking. As the men in front of him walked further in, they automatically fanned out – partly to give themselves some room if anything happened, partly because they didn't want to be standing too close to anyone who might be a target. Rory could feel the beads of sweat trickling down his face.
There was a rustling off to their right and one of his group opened fire, splintering the trees. When the sound died down, there was nothing to see.
'Where'd he go?' Rory heard one guy say.
There was no answer to that, none of them had a clue. Then the person who'd asked the question went silently down, falling over as if fainting. It wasn't until Rory looked more closely that he saw the arrow sticking out of the man's side.
More dropped like this, only a couple getting a chance to let off a round or two. Rory spun, looking for a direction the arrows might be coming from. He saw nothing. It might as well have been the trees firing them.
Then the guy to his left let out a piercing scream, dropping his rifle and clutching his leg. There was a huge knife sticking out of his thigh; the man hissed a swear word before dropping to the ground. The group that had gone in were already half their number and the rest began to open fire randomly – in the hopes that they'd get off a lucky hit, maybe wing their enemy.
Not much chance of that. Even as they were firing, the arrows flew – and one by one the noises died down until the last person who'd been firing was silenced.
That just left Rory. He was no hero, he hadn't signed up for this – hadn't signed up for anything, actually – so it was time to get out of there, whether the mad German was waiting for him or not.
Turning to run back out, he came face-to-face with the man they'd been hunting. Or rather, the bearded man who'd been hunting them. Only he couldn't see much of that face because it was obscured by his hood. There was a strap around his shoulder which held a handmade quiver, and this still had a few arrows left in it – but he'd made every single one of his shots count. There was also one in the bow Rory was looking at, pointing at his head.
He dropped the rifle on the floor, holding up his shaking hands in surrender. 'Please… please don't hurt me, I had no choice. He was going to kill me. Kill us all!' Rory was almost in tears.
The man raised his head, looked directly at him. His eyes were narrowed, but whether he was readying to fire or just didn't believe a word of Rory's excuse was unclear. Then he lowered his bow.
'Who?' asked the hooded man.
'What?'
'Who was going to kill you?'
'T-the Frenchman. H-his name is De Falaise.'
'Get out of here,' he said to Rory. 'Take the ones who can still walk with you.' Then he went over and pulled the knife out of its home in the felled soldier's leg.
Rory gave a quick nod, searching for any survivors. There weren't many: two, three at most. Rory helped the guy whose thigh was pouring with blood, half dragging him along as he seethed in pain.
Rory risked one last glance over his shoulder at the man, who was now bending over some of the fallen soldiers. A single guy, but he'd managed to take out most of their group in no time. He had never seen anything like it… and never wanted to again.
Head down, he half-carried the injured man out of the woods.
Henrik tapped his seat, keeping his eyes on the panorama ahead of him.
He had never been very good at waiting. Everything had to come to him yesterday. It was one of the reasons he'd thrown in with De Falaise. It was a quick route to the top: to power, to influence over this new world. The man had made such an impassioned speech about his plans that Henrik would have been a fool not to listen. Yes, he could have tried to build up an army of his own, he supposed, but that would have taken longer. De Falaise already had Tanek, Savero, and a handful of other loyal followers – this would be the easier route to success. Then later maybe…
Things had been going well. They'd been spreading out from Nottingham, tracking down small communities that had set themselves up and obliterating any thoughts of resistance. The local people would serve them or they would die. Which was why these markets had to be stopped; free trade meant independence, and De Falaise could not allow that. The villagers would work for him and him alone, and he would take whatever they had to offer without recompense.
That was why they'd been dispatched to this area. It was why they'd come down on these people so hard: fear equalled respect.
But it had only taken this one 'spoke' in the wheel to cast doubt on their mission. One survivalist who thought he was pretty handy with a bow and arrow. Henrik grunted. Amateur.
He sat up when he saw movement in the woods. Two figures emerged, one dragging the other. His team had done it; they'd killed the primitive and were bringing back the body. No, wait, the body was still moving – not only that but he was dressed in their unique uniform, a combination of colours and styles that De Falaise had chosen himself. He was certainly not hooded. A couple more of his 'men' staggered out behind them. The useless dickheads had failed, and now they were returning with their tails between their legs.
Henrik almost chomped through the cigar he was smoking. He climbed up through the hatch, cursing them in German.
'Incompetents! Where is he?'
'I'm here,' came a voice from the woods, strong and loud. In spite of himself, Henrik flinched. But if the man had wanted him dead, then wouldn't he be already – an arrow between the eyes?
'Then show yourself, coward. Come out of your hiding place and we will discuss this.'
There was a pause before the reply came. 'You come out of yours.'
Henrik thought about this. Seriously considered hopping down from the Challenger, going to meet this man at the edge of the woods and pounding him into the ground. No weapons other than their fists. They would see who won then.
But why give up the advantage? Pride was something for romantics, not mercenaries. 'I give you thirty seconds to come out, or I will come in after you… personally.'
'Go back to your Frenchman and tell him this is over,' came the reply. It was not the voice of someone easily intimidated.
