CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

IT WAS A town like so many others he’d seen grow and develop over the years since the Cull.

A place he’d seen thrive since they’d got the market system up and running once more, making the trade routes as secure as they could between communities—thanks in no small part to the Rangers.

And to him.

All right, there was still the odd incident with bandits, but generally they were few and far between. Not like they had been when the Dragon and the Widow had been around. Back then, you could virtually guarantee your load would get ’jacked—in fact it had almost put paid to the trade routes altogether. It gave him no small satisfaction to know they’d kicked both of those maniacs’ arses, kick-starting a new era of trade in the process. They’d definitely come a long way since those sporadic, ad-hoc markets near Nottingham he’d overseen, that was for damned sure. The ones the Sheriff’s men had loved to tear into. That was how he’d met Robert Stokes in the first place, when the Hooded Man had intervened during one of those attacks. Mark had been there too, just a boy back then. And look at him now.

Progress, thought Bill Locke as he watched the hustle and bustle of the stalls in the square. It was good in one way, and he was certainly proud of all their achievements in this respect, just as Robert was rightly proud of his Rangers. But it had taken such a long time, and before you knew it, you were getting on a bit in years. Next thing you’d be “Ready for the knackers’ yard” as his dad used to say.

“Not bloody yet, though,” Bill mumbled under his breath, taking another long draught of the pint he was enjoying. Real ale, brewed right here in town. You couldn’t beat it.

He was standing in the doorway of the Pig & Whistle, which had been totally renovated a few years ago, courtesy of the new owner Arnold Brant, who’d been a landlord all his life. Bill had helped organise the labour and facilitated the procurement of any bits and bobs Arnold needed, all of which meant that he never had to pay for another beer ever again. Not that anyone paid for anything in the old sense, since they went back to the barter system. Every now and again there was talk of a monetary system, talk of the banks starting up again—usually at one of those terminally dull council meetings he’d had the misfortune to attend once or twice himself. Or the King might say something about it. But it would get forgotten about just as quickly. This worked, for now—might even be better than going back to having those fat cats, creaming money off people. At least it was all up front and honest this way. Any disputes over the worth of items were usually settled by having local Rangers step in.

He’d often been accused—though never to his face—of being like those fat cats of years gone by. That Bill was using the marketing systems to cream things off for himself. Those kinds of people obviously didn’t know him that well, didn’t realise what he’d done in the past to battle bastards, and bitches, like that. This was all the reward he needed: a busy market; a fine brew in his hand; and maybe, just maybe, to find a good woman he might share it all with.

He’d been thinking about that more and more lately, how he’d sidelined that kind of thing while he’d been so busy. Or maybe it was the other way around, kept himself busy so he wouldn’t have to think about all that. How he’d been doing the same thing since he was twenty-five and Connie had broken his heart, leaving him standing there at the altar like an idiot in front of all their friends and family. Only to be told later that she’d run off with someone else, that she’d never really loved him in the first place. He’d vowed after that to leave love well enough alone, that it was a mug’s game. And yet... This was a new world after all, and time was ticking on. Perhaps—

Bill shook his head; such thoughts were more dangerous than a whole gang of bandits. He took another gulp of his drink instead.

It was then that he noticed them, on the main road heading into town. This town, the real name of which had been lost in time and was now only referred to by its nickname; a joke that had stuck: ‘Bartertown.’ In the distance were several men on horseback. Several hooded men. The hooves were kicking up dirt on the track, making it look like they were riding in on a dust storm. Rangers...

Now what were they doing here? Bill wasn’t aware of any patrols that were due, nor that there were any disputes that needed attending to—and he liked to keep track of these things. Which usually meant there was trouble. Maybe they were coming to fetch him? Wouldn’t be the first time he’d been called on since he’d left Nottingham Castle and branched out on his own. Somehow his and Robert Stokes’ paths always kept crossing, and you could almost always guarantee bloodshed in the wake of it.

The riders brought their horses up short on the edge of the town square, prompting the people at the market to look over in their direction. One of the Rangers trotted his horse forward, obviously the captain of the group. He kept his hood on, though, which Bill found strange. Rangers were taught the value of letting the people they were dealing with—or protecting—see their faces. After all, they were people as well; peacekeepers, not soldiers. “Your attention!” he shouted from under the hood. He had most of the crowd’s attention already, but now all the townsfolk gathered were looking directly at him.

No “please can I have your attention,” no common courtesy. Whoever was in charge of training them at the castle these days needed tearing off a strip or two, Bill decided, and he’d be more than happy to oblige.

“We have reason to believe that illegal weapons are being hidden in this town,” the man’s booming voice continued. By illegal, he probably meant guns—the kind that had been banned by the Rangers to make their jobs safer and easier. Bill’s reaction when he’d heard about the law had been “Bollocks to that!” Same as it had been in all those ‘discussions’ with Robert over the use of them by Rangers. ’Course, now they had the NRI, which carried and used modern weaponry, so it made more sense. The police hadn’t used guns in the world before the Virus, apart from in emergencies, and had banned them on the streets: why not now? After kicking up such a stink, though, and in light of the things that he’d done in support of the Rangers in the past, Bill had been given a special licence to carry his beloved twelve-bore. There was no way he was going to be parted from that after everything they’d been through together. It wasn’t some kind of toy, like those stuck-up twits used to have at their country retreats back in the day; it was functional, practical. And it was the closest thing he had to a best friend.

“These weapons, we believe, are being kept here with a view to aiding and abetting the organisation known as the Defiants,” the Ranger added. “Everyone remain exactly where they are. We’re here to search this place from top to bottom, to search everyone present. And if we find anything suspicious, then...” He deliberately let the sentence tail off.

There were murmurs from the townspeople, concern etched on their faces. One minute they were enjoying looking round the markets, making a few deals, the next they were being accused of assisting terrorists. Oh, Bill knew all about the Defiants and their methods, their wild accusations against both Rangers and the new monarchy alike. Sadly, they were growing in number, but surely it hadn’t come to this? Bullyboy tactics and what had to be unsanctioned searches? Were Robert’s people so spooked by this group they’d lost all sense of proportion? Bill doubted it. Even if there was a cache of weapons here, and anything was possible, this wasn’t the way to go about dealing with it. By putting fear into ordinary folk.

Gritting his teeth, Bill slammed his pint down on the nearest table, sending a crack up the side of the glass. “Oi!” he shouted back to the mounted man. The hooded Ranger looked across towards him. “Hold up, there.”

When the Ranger didn’t answer him, Bill continued. “On whose orders are ye doing this? I’m pretty sure it’s not gonna be Robert Stokes. Or Jack Finlayson’s, fer that matter.”

Again, nothing. Bill was starting to get a really bad feeling about this.

“We don’t need to tell you anything, scumbag.” This was from one of the other Rangers behind.

“Izzat so?” Bill cocked his head, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Well, let me tell you something, scumbag. I—”

A couple of the Rangers had readied their bows and were training arrows in his direction. “Aye. So it’s like that, is it?” said Bill to himself.

Several things happened all at once then. The first was, somebody broke free from the market crowd and ran for it; Bill didn’t know why, and probably never would. Maybe they were worried the Rangers would search them and find something else, maybe they were armed illegally. Whatever the case, the man—who was dressed in jeans and a white shirt—darted like a hunted deer, away from the Rangers. One of the men turned and let his arrow fly. It struck the fleeing man in the back, hard. Not in the shoulder or thigh, or anywhere else a Ranger would be trained to target just to take someone down, but slap-bang in the middle of his back. The man spun, blood staining the front of his shirt and spraying from his mouth. A girl nearby, not much older than Robert’s lass, April—Bill’s god-daughter—screamed loudly.

Understandably, the crowd panicked.

As the Ranger was turning and firing, Bill saw the handle of an automatic pistol slip out from under the man’s top, the rest of it tucked into his trousers. If the killing wasn’t enough to tell him these weren’t Rangers, then that definitely was. No way any of them would be armed with guns; it went against everything they stood for.

More arrows were loosed into the crowd, piercing chests, arms, legs. One poor soul was even staggering around with an arrow in the face, like some kind of warped recreation of King Harold’s death.

You could almost always guarantee bloodshed in the wake of it...

But not like this, not a massacre. And it had absolutely nothing to do with Bill and Robert’s paths crossing, he knew that. This was cold-blooded murder, pure and simple.

Bill ducked back inside the doorway and an arrow hit the jamb, inches away from his head. “Judas Priest!” he exclaimed, rummaging around under his seat for the bag he’d brought in with him.

When Bill emerged again from the Pig & Whistle, it was with his shotgun in his hands. He was already moving forwards when a couple more arrows flew past him. Then something caught his eye.

Turning, he saw a dozen small fires had sprung up, the pub included. Flaming arrows! The gun was up and at his shoulder even as he was arcing back in the direction of the ‘Rangers.’

Blam!

The one just to the left and behind the lead Ranger was blown clean off his horse. The man in charge growled something, then pulled out a gun of his own—abandoning any pretence of legitimacy now. He fired a couple of bullets at Bill, who stepped sideways, letting them splinter off the frame of a market stall.

“Damn and blast it!” growled Bill, as the other Rangers began firing as well—not just at him, but at the people escaping. He leaned on the stall, tipping over a stack of cheeses, but creating cover he could hide behind. Bill rose and emptied another barrel in the Rangers’ direction. It went wide, but caused one of the horses to rear up. The Ranger astride it had a hard time trying to wrestle the animal under control again.

More of the incendiary arrows were loosed, this time into the market itself. Awnings quickly caught fire, the wood of stalls doing the same moments later. A couple of the projectiles slammed into Bill’s makeshift shield, sending a wave of heat up and over the top. He had to break cover. Bill primed his shot-gun again and half-ducked, half-stumbled out from the stall, firing another round as he did so.

Something landed a few metres away from him, small and black.

He barely had time to register the fact it was a hand grenade—let alone think again that this was definitely not the kind of weapon a Ranger would use—when it went off. Bill was carried upwards and sideways across more falling market stalls. He blinked once, twice: taking in the sight of the flames engulfing not just the market, but the entire town. All reds and yellows and oranges. In their own way, they looked beautiful.

Then, as his eyelids grew heavier, all Bill could see was blackness: total and overwhelming.