Jeeps and motorcycles – quite obviously military issue, from their colour – had joined the party, skidding down hillocks on either side of the road. A couple of the jeeps had no roofs; mounted on top were huge machine-guns, spitting out bullets as the raiders opened fire. They raked the road ahead of one cart, and the two horses pulling it broke free of their reins, running for freedom, leaving both driver and cart at the mercy of the raiders.
If they had any.
Already the lead bikes had caught up with the truck behind Mick’s. Riding on the bikes were pairs of raiders, one handling the steering, the other clinging to the back. Both were dressed similarly, though: goggles over their eyes, breathing masks over their mouths, wearing thick, leather gloves and boots. Some kind of dark tartan Mick wasn’t familiar with flapped in the breeze, overlaying the combats beneath. And at their hips hung what appeared to be claymores, with rounded guards over the handles.
As he watched, one bike pulled alongside the truck and its passenger fired some kind of hand-held harpoon, like he was hunting a landlocked metal whale. A length of rope unfurled with it and the next thing Mick knew, the raider had leapt from the bike and onto the truck, swinging from its side. The raider launched himself forward, level with the driver’s door, then grabbed hold with his free hand before letting go of the rope. He produced a handgun and shot out the window. The driver, a woman called Kimberly Johns, looked terrified when the glass shattered, but at least she was still alive. Mick saw her reach over and bring up the rifle she always carried in her cab, but before she could use it the raider had tossed something inside. Within seconds, the cab filled with smoke, and the truck began weaving. That explained the breathing masks. Through the smoke, Mick saw Kim’s outline slump against the big wheel, and gradually the truck ground to a halt.
Again, he knew he should stop – but Mick had problems of his own. More bikes catching up, two flanking him, both carrying raiders with similar harpoons. They were going to pull the same stunt on him. “Shit!”
He sped up, but his vehicle wasn’t meant for racing. They could outrun and outmanoeuvre him easily. That didn’t mean he should just give up, though. There were alternatives to running, and he wasn’t going to let them take Stacey without a fight.
Mick lined up one of the bikes in his mirror, making sure it was directly behind him. Then he stamped on the brakes: not enough to tip the truck, but enough to cause the bike to slam hard into the back of his trailer. With a certain amount of satisfaction, he noted the dislodged raiders sprawled across the road, their bike laying a few feet away from them.
Another two bikes joined the remaining one on his tail. Mick accelerated again, but already they were firing their harpoons – up and into the top of his trailer. At least two of them swung over. Mick heard them trying to break into the back – then their footsteps across the top of his truck, heading for his cab.
Unlike Kim, he didn’t carry a gun, had never used one in his life and didn’t intend to start now. But he was far from unarmed. Even back in his early days, he’d kept his trusty baseball bat – a holiday present from a cousin, now long dead – down the side of the seat. His fingers curled around the handle. Mick didn’t know how much use it’d be against bullets or gas canisters, but if even one of those raider bastards stuck their head in here, they’d get one hell of a shock.
Mick flinched when he heard the gunfire, however – waiting for the bullets to pierce Stacey’s cab.
Then him.
C
EALLACH HELD HIS
bike straight, but off to the side of the truck in front of him.
He’d seen what the driver had just done to Ròidh and Machar back there, braking so that they’d run slap bang into the truck. Ceallach glanced across at Garbhan, on the bike running parallel, and Flannagan riding his just a little behind. They’d deposited their kinsmen onto the truck: Neas and Osgar were hanging by their harpoon ropes, while his partner, Torradan, had climbed on top to see if he could take out the driver.
Neas had smashed the lock and Osgar pulled up the shutter. Ceallach watched as the pair peered inside. It was a fine haul today: sacks of potatoes, crates of cabbages, carrots, tomatoes and cucumbers. If an army marched on its stomach, then they would be going far.
Just as
she
had promised.
Towards the back of the truck were more sacks. But as Osgar swung in and approached them, he seemed to stop, cock his head, then stumble backwards. Neas, directly behind him, moved towards his companion – then caught him as he fell.
Ceallach frowned. What the fuck was happening in there?
Neas fell back as well; it looked for a second like he’d lost his footing and both men were about to tumble out of the truck. Ceallach angled his bike slightly, just in case – signalling the others not to get in the way. Then Neas straightened up, letting Osgar go. He reached for his pistol, but even before his hand was at the holster, he was spinning as if he’d been punched. Ceallach inched his bike closer to see what was going on.
It was then that he saw what was sticking out of Neas. Thin feathered wooden shafts, embedded in his shoulder and midriff. Neas had fallen to one side, revealing who’d done this. There, rising from under some covers, hidden amongst the sacks, was a man.
Not just any man. This one wore a hood and held a bow in his hand – and Ceallach knew immediately who he was. The man whose legend had spread across this entire island over the past couple of years; the man who had dispatched the Frenchman at Nottingham Castle; who’d led his troops into battle against the might of the Tsar’s forces, armed with only arrows and swords. Some of it was made up – had to be! Christ, how could one man take down attack helicopters using that kind of weaponry? To hear people talk, you’d think he was bullet-proof or something. Rubbish. Yet Ceallach felt a twinge of fear when he looked at him, especially when he saw the man’s eyes under that cowl. It felt as if he should be ordering a withdrawal before it was too late.
Osgar, who had also been wounded, clambered to his feet again, clutching the parts of his body now punctured by the Hooded Man’s arrows. It was a clumsy attack by an already defeated opponent, and Hood dodged it easily enough. But then he did something else, something he probably wouldn’t have if Osgar had stayed down.
Hood shouldered Osgar, almost giving him a fireman’s lift, then bent slightly before throwing him out of the back of the truck. His aim was as true with the man’s body as it had been true with the arrows, striking Garbhan’s bike full on, knocking the rider off and dragging the bike itself into Flannagan’s path. Ceallach swallowed hard as he saw Flannagan hit the obstacle, the bike tipping up and pitching its rider over the handlebars.
The result, which Ceallach left behind him, was a tangled mess of bodies and machinery. Hood stepped forward, standing on the edge of the truck, taking aim at the final rider and his bike.
Ceallach manoeuvred sideways, avoiding the arrow by inches, and drew his pistol to fire a couple of rounds. Hood took cover behind a crate, while more of Ceallach’s bullets bounced off the shutters.
Another close call with an arrow convinced Ceallach to veer off, hopefully out of the Hooded Man’s line of fire. He accelerated, gesturing wildly to Torradan, who was still on the roof.
“Inside!” shouted Ceallach, but knew the man couldn’t hear him through the mask. He pointed his own gun downwards and pretended to fire, hoping Torradan would get the message. The man shook his head in bemusement. Ceallach couldn’t blame him – who would have expected there to be a man with a bow and arrow in the back of the truck they were hijacking?
“Shoot!”
Torradan pointed downwards.
“Yes, for fuck’s sake! Through the roof!” shouted Ceallach, though the words were again lost. An arrow whipped past the side of Ceallach’s head and he struggled to keep balanced. He swore into the mask. But at least it got through to Torradan, who now began shooting down at the roof of the truck.
“Now,” whispered Ceallach, “let’s see if you really are bullet-proof, Hooded Man.”
R
OBERT
S
TOKES LOOKED
out from the back of the truck.
The biker who’d been firing at him had skirted round the side, trying to get away from his arrows. He’d keep for a moment or two, while Robert scanned the horizon, searching the vehicles that they’d left behind in their wake. Looking for –
There!
The raiders checking the backs of the trucks and carts were getting just as much of a shock as the two who’d broken into this one. Because there were his Rangers – trained men and women – waiting, hidden, unbeknownst even to the drivers of this convoy, and now jumping up to tackle the armed men.
At the same time, the jeeps accompanying the bikers were being set upon by Rangers on horseback – horses that
were
used to the noise – led by one of his best men: Azhar. They were springing their own sneak attack, jumping over onto the jeeps to fight the gunners.
Satisfied his men were handling the situation, Robert risked a peek around the edge of the truck. He spied the remaining biker, making hand gestures to the raider on the roof. Confident the rider was distracted, Robert leaned around and shot off an arrow. His aim was thrown by the movement of the truck, though, and the projectile went wide. But only just.
More frantic hand gesturing followed, then the first shot through the ceiling. Robert retreated just in time to avoid it, pressing himself up against the wall as three more came in quick succession.
He readied his bow and shot upwards. There was little chance of an arrow going through that metal, especially at this range, but thanks to the idiot above him, there were now several holes in the trailer’s roof. Robert’s knack with the bow and arrow had always been good, but since he’d stepped out from behind his desk back at Nottingham Castle – to fight the Tsar and the Morningstar cult – it had improved beyond measure. So it was no problem now to guide his arrows through those holes, returning the favour to the man above him.
For a second or two everything was still, and Robert thought he might have incapacitated him. That theory was shattered when more bullets raked the ceiling. Fruit and vegetables exploded in all directions, crates splintered.
He had to leave that confined space, take out the guy on the roof. Thinking quickly, he looked towards the back door. Robert grinned, then shouldered his bow and ran at the open space.
At the last moment, he grabbed one of the harpoon ropes still dangling there, attached to the roof. Robert swung out of the trailer just as another shower of bullets was pumped into it, arched his body around and twisted, so that his booted feet slammed against the top edge of the door. The rope taut, Robert pulled himself upright, then onto the roof of the truck, crouching on one knee.
The raider looked across at him, his jaw falling open. The man’s combats were torn at the knee, a wound bleeding there.
A bullet whizzed past Robert, but not from the raider on the roof. His companion on the bike, riding alongside, was providing covering fire. But before Robert could do anything about that, the truck veered sideways, causing the raider on the bike to swerve to avoid a collision. Robert made a mental note to thank the driver of the truck when this was all over. Both Robert and the raider on the roof had staggered sideways, but Robert was the one who recovered first, leaping at his enemy before he could raise his pistol.
Robert grabbed his arm, trying to keep the gun down. A shot almost went through Robert’s left foot, forcing him to step back a little. It gave the raider a chance to bring the gun up sideways, though Robert still had a firm grip on his wrist.
Robert let go with one hand and punched the man in the stomach. The raider bent, allowing Robert to wrestle the pistol from him. It clattered onto the roof and disappeared over the side.
The raider retaliated by bringing up a fist, striking Robert’s cheek and causing him to reel. Then he drew his claymore and attempted to run his opponent through – but Robert met the blow with his own sword. Metal struck metal, the vibrations going up Robert’s arm. The raider wasn’t exactly a novice with this weapon; Robert met a couple of crafty swipes that almost opened up his throat and belly.
Pushing the raider back, Robert suddenly had the advantage – slashing across the man’s blade and kicking out at him at the same time. He was about to deal the winning blow when bullets raked the side of the truck. More heavy duty than the biker’s pistol, they could only have come from one of the mounted machine-guns on the jeeps. As Robert was pitched sideways by an erratic swerve from the driver – there’d be no thanks for that one! – he saw that one of the raider jeeps had broken through his Rangers and was attacking.
Another lurch, and Robert found himself going head over heels, losing his sword in the process and slipping over the side of the truck.
He held on to the edge by his fingertips, while the raider above him climbed to his feet. The man started to laugh. He held his sword aloft, then brought it down on Robert’s fingers, forcing him to shift his weight from hand to hand as he dodged the swings.
He couldn’t do this indefinitely – either he’d end up with no fingers or he’d fall off the truck. Then there was the alternative of being riddled with bullets from the jeep’s gun.
But there was nothing he could do. His enemy was giving no ground. Perhaps this was it, perhaps he
was
about to die.
The raider lifted his sword one last time, about to bring it down on Robert’s head and cleave his hood in two; destroying both the man and the legend with a single blow.
Then there was another blast of gunfire, but not from the jeep or the biker. Robert recognised the sound immediately. There was a spark as the bullet stuck the raider’s claymore, forcing him to drop the weapon.
Robert traced the line of fire back to a woman riding a horse. She was just behind the jeep, her dark hair flowing in the wind.
“Mary,” breathed Robert, still struggling to hold on to the truck.