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  He made a fanning out gesture to Mark, who nodded. He hated having to split them up — especially when he could still picture the boy's dead face — but he knew Mark needed to do this as much as he did. Robert pulled up his hood and began to stalk his prey, vanishing into the undergrowth.

  Keeping low to the ground, he backtracked round to where he'd heard the noise. Robert closed his eyes and breathed deeply, attempting to sense where the intruder was. Where the disturbance in his forest was rooted. It didn't prove difficult, not when the attacker suddenly showed himself and charged at Robert. He opened his eyes in time to see a flash of machete blade, a painted face leering down at him. A Servitor!

  Robert took hold of the rushing figure, at the same time dodging the man's weapon, then used his own momentum against him, flinging the Servitor into a nearby birch. "Damned Halloween freak," he snarled. The tree was slightly at an angle, so the robed man fell over it, landing on the other side. Robert was round it in seconds, bringing up a swift knee and clipping the cultist under the chin.

  He was suddenly aware of two more attackers on either side of him. They appeared from behind trees and lunged at Robert, machete blades cutting through the morning air. He dodged one, then had to turn swiftly and duck another. But as he came up again, he brought his clenched fist with him, practically lifting the Servitor off his feet with the punch. The next swing, Robert met with his own sword: metal striking metal. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the robed man backwards until he hit a tree, winding him. Robert turned his back on the man, turned his sword around and thrust it backwards so that it slid into his attacker's side and out again very quickly, incapacitating him.

  By this time the first attacker had recovered and was getting to his feet. Robert had time to quickly glance over and see how Mark was doing now their cover was well and truly blown. He saw the boy facing at least three of the freaks himself, and he'd already been relieved of his sword.

  Holding the sword by the flat of the blade, Robert brought the hilt down heavily on the approaching cultist's head. It struck him dead centre and he fell to his knees. Then Robert swung the sword like a baseball bat and hit the man in the face, sending his head rocking back and a few of his teeth flying.

  Unslinging his bow as he went, Robert pulled out an arrow and aimed across to where Mark was fighting, kicking the first Servitor who'd attacked to keep him down. Just as he was about to fire, though, a half dozen more of the men rose up from the mist or stepped out from behind trees.

  "Crap," said Robert under his breath. Mark was on his own, at least for now. He turned the bow on the nearest of the approaching cult members.

  What had been his first mistake?

  Mark was asking himself this even as he realised it was probably the worst time to be doing so. It was only what Jack would ask him later, if there was a later, but the time for analysis definitely wasn't now. He'd blundered in, hadn't he? Gone for the guy with his elbow sticking out, thinking he was an easy target. But then he'd realised, when the figure stepped out and confronted him, that the Servitor had been expecting this strike all along. What the hell was the matter with him? Mark had been so quiet and nimble as a boy, slipping in and out of cities and towns for supplies, scavenging them and stuffing them into his knapsack. But creeping up on people? Not so great at that.

  The noise had brought another one out of the trees, and now Mark understood what Robert had been pointing at. Another hiding behind an oak, the bark worn off. He should have taken one out at a distance with a rock then-

  Swish!

  Mark was suddenly stumbling backwards. This wasn't a training sword anymore, but the real thing, held by someone who really did want to do him some harm. He reached for his own blade, but had only got it part of the way free before he felt it being lifted out by a third cultist who had appeared seemingly from nowhere. The sword was snatched away and thrown into the snowy grassland beyond the trees.

  Swish!

  Again Mark only just had time to dodge the blow, as it whistled past his right ear. Stepping back did, however, have the added benefit of knocking the man behind him off balance, so that Mark could topple him fully over.

  Now there were only two to deal with. And where was Robert? Mark saw that he was having fun with his own playmates; more and more rising up out of the ground itself, it seemed.

  "You think you're always going to have a weapon to hand? Uh-uh. Nope. But your opponent might."

  That's what Jack had said, and he'd been so right. Mark didn't have his sword but they each had one. Well, really big knives that you could probably call swords, but that was splitting hairs. Think, Mark, think… how had Azhar done it again?

  Mark recalled the way that man had ducked and slid sideways to take the weapon from him. He had just seconds to react, to copy the move he'd witnessed. Now it wasn't a game, Mark found his body co-operating, his movements less clumsy. Mark grabbed his opponent's wrist and yanked, but the weapon wouldn't tug free. The cultist pulled back and readied himself for another thrust. Thinking fast, Mark let his backpack — only hanging over one shoulder — slide down his arm; then, as the blade came into range, he wrapped the thing in the material, yanking down until the machete fell out of the man's hands. As Mark bent forward to retrieve it, the first attacker fell over him and he instinctively followed through: standing and flipping him, letting the momentum of the move do all the work.

  Snatching up the machete, Mark met the second attacker's swing; the clang made his teeth rattle. The third joined in and suddenly Mark had to block his attempt to kill him as well. That was one of the major differences between real combat and practising on your own: trees and fences didn't fight back. These people did, and by all accounts they didn't stop till one of you had stopped for good.

  Mark batted away the attacks, using sheer desperation rather than finesse to carry him through. It was keeping him alive… so far. What he didn't know was how he was going to keep this going indefinitely, especially as the remaining cultist was rising from the floor. Rising, and searching around for Mark's sword.

  What would Robert do in this situation? he wondered. What was he doing right now in fact?

  That wasn't the right thing to ask, to get him out of this — so he asked himself quickly instead: What would Dale do?

  What would Dale do if Sophie was watching?

  And what would you do, Mark? What would you do to show her you can cut it?

  Cut… cut… Mark grinned. He'd had an idea. Letting the pair he was dealing with get a little closer, though not too close, he pretended to trip.

  "Mark!" He heard the anguished cry from across camp, Robert assuming he'd gone down because he was injured. Mark didn't have time to answer him. Instead, he lashed out at the men's legs, catching calf muscles and shins beneath the material of the robes. One spun around and Mark took the opportunity of hamstringing him, drawing the blade across where he judged the back of the heel to be.

  It had the desired effect. Both men dropped, screaming.

  Mark clambered to his feet, the smile spreading across his face.

  "Mark!" came the cry again, and he couldn't understand why Robert was still calling. He'd taken down the two-

  He remembered too late about the third, the one who'd been reaching for his sword. Mark pivoted, but at pretty much the same time the arrow flew past and into the fellow about to embed the sword in his head. The projectile's tip found the tattoo on the cultist's forehead, as if it were a bull's eye target, and he fell backwards.

  When Mark looked across he saw the base camp littered with robed figures, arrows sticking out of various parts of their bodies. Robert was running over and waving something to Mark.

  "…let them commit suicide…" The Hooded Man was saying. Mark didn't understand. Then he looked down at one of the men he'd crippled, saw him take his own machete with both hands, then ram it into his stomach. Mark felt his lip curling. The other one was doing a similar thing, except he was letting gravity do the work for him, lifting himself up
as high as he could on his knees and just letting himself drop onto the blade.

  Mark joined Robert, checking around to make sure no more were laying in wait. When he reached Mark saw he was crouching down next to one of the last cultists alive; the first proper rays of sunlight streaking through the trees onto the scene.

  "And… and… He was cast… down," hissed the white-faced man with the arrow sticking out of his side, "on… onto the Earth… and His angels… were cast…. cast down also…" Then he took hold of his head and snapped it sideways, breaking his own neck.

  Robert removed his hood and looked at Mark. "Are you alright, son?" Mark never tired of hearing Robert call him that. He nodded. "I didn't know there would be quite so many, otherwise I never would've suggested… But, you did well today. I'm proud of you. Jack would be, too."

  "How did they find us here?" Mark asked when he'd finally got his breath back.

  Robert stared down at the corpse. "I think we've made an enemy of these guys. They're keeping tabs on us now just like we've been doing with them. They're worried I'm going to stop their master from making His grand appearance."

  "Master?"

  "The Devil."

  "Oh… What was he talking about just then, before…"

  "Tate'll be able to tell us more about that. They seem to think they're fallen angels or something. Explains why they're not scared of dying. They probably believe they come right back again fighting fit."

  "That's scary."

  "Fanatics usually are. But that's not what scares me the most." Mark's puzzled expression drew the rest out of him. "I think there could be something else coming. Something much more frightening."

  Mark didn't ask him how he knew that, because he'd heard some of the mutterings before he'd woken Robert from his sleep.

  Besides, Robert hadn't been the only one who'd had dreams last night.

  One more set of eyes had been watching the camp from close by that morning, had been watching most of the night.

  They'd seen the Servitors make their way through the forest, taking their positions outside where Robert and the boy were spending the night. Had seen the boy get up to go to the toilet, spot something and then rush back to Robert's tent to warn him.

  Had watched the fight with interest. More than interest: Excitement. A tingling that had spread through the body until the last cultist had been defeated. It had almost been as good as being in the middle of it all, back in York.

  From behind the oak, Adele let out the breath she'd been holding. And smiled. She'd enjoyed this little episode, but she knew there were tastier treats to come. And she'd be right there in the middle of those, definitely. There with the man she was after.

  Right there with The Hooded Man.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He'd been hearing the rumblings of discontentment for some time.

  Dale had debated about saying something to someone, but was faced with a dilemma. He was 'one of the guys', a member of the Sherwood Rangers who fought on the streets with his friends. Buddies that he'd made since coming to the castle last year. But he was also very close to Jack and Robert. If it wasn't for them, he might still be wandering around this country looking for a place to fit in. A former lead singer and guitarist in a band, whose life had fallen to bits after the virus struck, and who'd drifted from town to town, city to city, with a guitar in one hand and his other hand folded into a fist.

  He often thought back to those days before everyone got sick: to the gigs he'd played with the other guys — Abbott on bass, Lockley on drums and Paige on keyboards. Only she hadn't just been one of the guys, had she?

  Paige and he had formed 'One Simple Truth' together while they were studying music in college. They'd been good mates throughout the course, and it just seemed like a sensible progression, especially as they'd just started going out. Paige had a real natural beauty, and she'd come along at a time when he'd just started to notice the opposite sex. She could be a bit serious sometimes, though, which is why, initially, he left a lot of the song-writing to her. It wasn't that he couldn't do it, Dale could make up stuff on the spot if he had to, it was just that she seemed to come up with the most soulful tunes.

  When they advertised on the bulletin board for more band members they'd had all kinds of responses — some genuine, some just time-wasters. But they'd really gelled with the long-haired Lockley and bearded Abbott, especially in the improvised jamming session the first time they all got together. Jesus, how he missed them! The first few live shows at local pubs had been the pits, however, and Dale had almost called it a day at one point. Paige persuaded him to go on, and to his surprise they started to develop a fan base — particularly amongst the college and uni crowd.

  Then came bigger and better gigs, and soon the money they were getting paid made attending classes seem moot. They were making it anyway, practising what their tutors only preached. It wasn't long before a talent scout with an eye for the next big thing spotted them. They were signed to a small indie label, but that automatically meant bigger gigs, and supporting turns for artists much higher up the ladder. Local stations played a couple of their releases and they even found themselves being aired on BBC Radio.

  By this time One Simple Truth — and specifically Dale — had attracted another following entirely. Girls would hang out at the stage doors after gigs just to try and get an autograph. Or a kiss. Paige said nothing because she knew, at the end of the day, he was still hers. But during the course of their journey, Dale discovered his own simple truth: he found it impossible to be tied down to just the one girl. He loved the adoration his — granted — limited amount of fame brought him. And, girl by girl, tour by tour, he gave in to temptation.

  Paige had confronted him, of course, and he hadn't even bothered to deny it. "What can I say? I have a weakness," he'd told her. When she'd threatened to walk from the band, he'd tried to talk her out of it, telling her she'd be slitting her own throat as well. "You're going to hold this against me, when we could be as big as Oasis or U2?"

  The decision was taken out of her hands, because that's when the virus had struck. Dale watched his fellow band members die from that terrible disease, while he remained healthy.

  Paige had been the first to fall ill, collapsing after a gig one night. She'd been rushed to hospital for tests — back before anyone fully realised what they were dealing with. "Tell me," Paige had said to him from her bed as they'd waited for her parents to get there from miles away. "Tell me you still love me."

  He clasped her hand, but said nothing.

  "Please," she whispered.

  Dale had been about to lie to her when suddenly she'd had a seizure, coughing up blood onto the bed sheets. The doctors and nurses rushed in, flitting around. There was nothing they could do. They whisked Dale outside, but he'd already seen the worst — and when they came and told him half an hour later that she was dead, he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  He got drunk that night, asking himself what the hell was wrong with him. Why couldn't he have felt for Paige what she felt for him? Why couldn't he have committed to her when she was the one who'd been instrumental in getting them where they were?

  His answer was to spend the night with some blonde girl he picked up in a hotel bar, someone who'd recognised him and he'd taken full advantage of the fact. He left early and hadn't seen her again. For all he knew she'd come down with the virus too, not long afterwards. Dale hadn't really paid it much mind.

  He'd always been able to handle himself, a consequence of getting called a sissy for being interested in music growing up. The amount of fights he'd been in to show them, no, he wasn't actually a sissy at all and would happily rearrange their faces if that's what they really wanted… It had served him well after everything went to rack and ruin, and he'd had to defend himself from all kinds of dangers. He'd even stood up to gangs when he came across them, though sometimes came off the worst and crawled away to lick his wounds.

  When he'd heard about what they were doing
at Nottingham Castle, something seemed to click. It was a chance to be a part of a 'group' again, something that was being talked about and, yes, celebrated throughout the area. A major part of him knew he could do some good here, but how much of him wanted to join so he could be applauded again? So that he'd be sought after, not for his music this time, but because he could save the damsels in distress? If he could work his way up through the ranks, perhaps he would actually be a star once more?

  Which brought him back to his dichotomy. Would keeping quiet about this hamper his relationship with Jack and Robert? Should he tell them about what he'd heard?

  Not that Robert was here at the moment. He'd gone off with Mark, that little git who'd given him a bloody nose a couple of days ago. Dale realised that Mark would always be Robert's favourite — he'd heard the tales from the others about how the kid had been taken to the castle and tortured, then nearly hanged by the former sheriff. He was like a son to Robert, Dale got that. He also got that he himself was kind of a replacement for someone called Granger who'd been part of the final battle. Jack and Tate often remarked how much Dale reminded them of the guy, who'd given his life so that they could take the Castle. It was more than a bit annoying at times.

  From his usual perch on the steps, Dale spotted Sophie walking through the grounds with Mary. Sophie. Now she was a prize worth possessing, a girl he thought he might be able to love. If Dale could actually figure out what love was. She'd shown more than an interest in him, that much was certain — but when push came to shove she'd always shoved him away. "Dale, don't," she'd said when he'd tried to kiss her the last time.

  What was the reason? Was it Mark? The kid had feelings for Sophie, any fool could see that. But Dale had always assumed she wanted a real man, or at least someone old enough to vote and drink — not that laws about that stuff meant anything in this world.