The Tsar tripped and crashed into a fence, breaking through the wood. He rose, tumbling forwards, the ground less grassy here. He banged into another fence and when he looked up, he gasped. The figure of The Hooded Man was towering above him. He was about to swing his sword when he realised it was just a statue, that the representation was holding a staff and was fighting with another, much larger figure. That the hood was down instead of drawn up.
Must be in the old tourist section of Sherwood, he thought, the place where they honoured the first of his kind.
The original, not this… this copycat who'd come along centuries later.
Even so, that mimic had managed to cripple his forces. Now had him on the run. The Tsar was searching for the warrior within himself, the man who'd fought so valiantly in the '80s, who'd beaten people up for protection money, taken assassination jobs.
You have grown soft, so used to luxury in your hotel back in Moscow, shielded from everything. Now you must fend for yourself because there is no-one else.
No-one else here to face him, Andrei, but you.
It was the first time in years he'd heard that name, his true name. Not Lord, or Sire, or The Tsar. The name he'd had as a child, an orphan. The name he'd used in the Russian army.
He remembered all those battles now, the bloodlust that had been in him, and the way he'd got rid of those enemies of the mafia during peacetime. Actually doing the damage himself instead of just watching others in a ring beating the hell out of each other.
The Tsar gnashed his teeth and trudged on, feeling his way along the sides of buildings, then up along an overgrown path. Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw the fire. His fire. The one he'd created with the explosion. He'd got turned around somehow and gone in a circle.
The fire was spreading through the trees, hopping from trunk to trunk, branch to branch.
"I'm coming for you, Tsar!" shouted a voice that echoed all around, full of fury. He'd invaded Hood's country, his city, killed his men and taken his women hostage. Now this: The Tsar had set fire to his beloved Sherwood.
But an angry man makes mistakes. If I can just keep calm, keep my cool. The Tsar let out a small laugh at the ridiculousness of that, while all around the fire raged.
Find the warrior inside, find that same fire in your own belly!
He stood up straighter, then called back: "Then come. I am read-"
The shape leaped out of nowhere, out of the flames. It dove headlong into The Tsar, shoving him sideways into the nearest tree. His shoulder stung as it connected with the wood and he let out a cry. Swearing, he shrugged off his greatcoat.
"What's the matter? Too warm for you? I used to be afraid of the fire," said a gruff voice from under the hood. "Afraid of the memories."
The Tsar stood again, swiping sideways with his curved sword and hitting thin air. "You should be afraid of me!"
"I don't think so." Hood lashed out now with his weapon, and The Tsar met the thrust. They exchanged blows against a background of mist, smoke and crackling flames. Then Hood rammed him up against a tree, this time crossing the blades so that they were either side of The Tsar's neck. Even as the man was doing this, The Tsar couldn't help noticing a wince of pain when Hood raised his arm. Some wound at his shoulder? A weakness?
The Tsar pressed the man back, then twisted the crossed swords so he could angle them sideways. He gave another push and the hilts smacked into Hood's shoulder. He let out a howl, fell back, and dropped his sword. Then he dropped to his hands and knees, gasping.
That is where you should be!
The Tsar kicked him in the side, rolling him over. As Hood clutched at the shoulder wound, The Tsar spotted blood staining the leg of his combats. He trod on this second wound and again. Hood let out a wail.
"So, you can be hurt. Not as invincible as you would have people believe, eh?" Hood lay there on the ground, with The Tsar above — sword at his throat. "All this will have been worth it just to kill you, comrade. Tanek was right, one day it would have come to this. Better that it should be settled here and now."
Hood didn't move, apparently helpless, The Tsar victorious over him. He finally felt like that warrior again. He, who had defeated Hood after the Frenchman failed; when his own tanks, guns and men had failed.
Then Hood grabbed the blade with his good hand. Though it must have been agony to do so, he levered it back — the sharp edges cutting into his skin, slipping slightly and causing even The Tsar to cringe.
"I agree," said the man, wrenching his head to the side and letting go of the sword. It dug into the soil behind, holding it there fast. But, as Hood slid from beneath The Tsar, he kicked the legs out from under him at the same time.
There was nothing he could do. He was falling, knowing what was going to happen but powerless to prevent it. The metal hilt of the shashka, as smooth as it was, still went into him — helped by his own bodyweight and forward impetus. The Tsar grunted as he dropped down over the hilt, and onto the blade itself. Impaled.
He was still alive, just, when Hood picked up his own sword and walked round in front.
"You should have stayed where you were, comrade," he told The Tsar, spitting out the final word.
Then there was a final swish and The Tsar had to concede, in the end, that The Hooded Man had a point.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Heat. Fire. Pain.
It was all he could remember of the torture session. But, naturally, Tanek had left Jack a few reminders. Scalding burns, and several nails still digging into his body that hurt whenever he twitched. Though not even they hurt as much as the thought he'd let down Mark, Tate and the others. Not to mention Robbie. He'd given them up — granted, because they were threatening Mary's life, but she would have been the first to tell Tanek and Adele to take a hike. Mark probably lasted longer when faced with the olive-skinned psycho's attentions. Jack had also fallen for Adele, just how stupid was he? The daughter of their greatest enemy. Greatest till now, anyway. Not even De Falaise could have pulled off the stunts this Tsar character was responsible for.
Jack had passed out again a couple of times since the pair left, and night had fallen in the meantime. He'd also been left unguarded. They probably thought he didn't warrant watching any more. That he'd be going nowhere considering what Tanek had put him through.
They obviously didn't know Jack very well. He'd screwed up, big time, and he aimed to put things right. How, he didn't know, but he'd start with getting free of this fucking chair! Easier said than done when you were tied to the arms and legs.
He should have been freezing, stripped to his underwear. But they'd also been making use of Faraday's furnace. Jack recalled seeing the body of their blacksmith in the corner. How many more would be counted amongst his number by the time the day was out?
During the torture the furnace had been an instrument of terror; now, even though it had died down, it was probably keeping him alive. And might just be the answer to freeing him.
Mustering what little energy he could, Jack stretched his toes — the rope tying his ankles to the chair legs preventing him from placing his feet properly on the floor. As he strained, the cords in his neck tightened, and the nails that had been banged so methodically into his torso, arms and legs, sent more ripples of torment through him. Never, not even after all those rounds in the wrestling ring, had his body felt so battered and abused.