Robyn Hood: The Rise of Nottingham's Shadow.: Robyn Hood, #1

Prologue

Over three centuries had passed since the cataclysmic event that had reshaped the world, reducing it to a mere shadow of its former self. The once-great civilisations had crumbled, their towering achievements reduced to ruins and dust. In a desolate, dystopian future, a chilling 350 years have passed since the world teetered on the precipice of oblivion. A megalomaniacal tyrant, his ambitions thwarted, unleashed a catastrophic inferno upon the planet. This malevolent act scorched the earth, tainting the very air we breathe and corrupting the once-fertile soil. It was an apocalypse that nearly wiped the canvas of civilisation utterly clean.

Now, gazing upon the landscape of England, it's as though time itself has been spun backwards, transporting us not to the 24th century but rather to the echoing depths of the 12th century. The relics of progress and prosperity have crumbled into the annals of history.

In the harrowing aftermath of this global collapse, humanity stood bereft of the knowledge and skills that once powered their civilisation. They had lost the art of crafting even the most rudimentary of essentials: electricity, the lifeblood of the bygone era, lay dormant; fuel for the once-mighty combustion engines had dwindled into a dim memory. The very foundations upon which civilisation had stood, pillars like law and order, the apparatus of governance, had been swept away by the unforgiving tides of chaos.

Within the remnants of ancient metropolises that had somehow survived the nuclear storms, ruthless gangs arose to seize control. They prowled the crumbling streets, their dominion extending deep into the heartland, scavenging ruthlessly for sustenance. The once-thriving cities had devolved into lawless wastelands where anarchy reigned supreme.

Survivors, driven to the brink by the ceaseless terror, fled in droves. Forced into the unforgiving wilderness, they clung to the faintest glimmers of hope, venturing into the remotest corners of the earth in their quest for sanctuary. In this forsaken world, humanity's fight for survival was a symphony of despair, echoing across the vast, desolate expanse of a world forever changed.

Within a mere decade, once-thriving cities crumbled into desolation, their once-bustling streets now haunted echoes of a bygone era, fading into the hushed annals of history. The relentless march of time consigned them to the shadows of memory.

Amidst this harrowing decay, humanity coalesced into small, resilient enclaves, mere islands in a sea of desolation. In groups of twenty souls or fewer, they clung to one another, forging new family bonds amidst the ashes of the old world. It was a survival born of necessity, a testament to the unyielding human spirit.

In those early, unforgiving years, a staggering ninety-five percent of the nation's once-teeming populace succumbed to the inexorable spectre of starvation or brutality of gangs stockpiling the remaining dwindling supplies. The bounty of yesteryears, once stored in supermarket aisles, had dwindled to nought. Those who remained faced a brutal reckoning, grappling with the bitter reality that sustenance was a fleeting luxury.

Amidst this stark attrition, the surviving enclaves remained sparse and scattered, like precious oases in a vast, unforgiving desert. But as the centuries wore on and the population slowly clawed its way back from the abyss, a tentative transformation began to unfurl.

People, driven by necessity and fuelled by the primal instinct for connection, ventured beyond their tightly-knit communities. The spectre of stranger danger, once paramount, began to wane as the world opened up once more. Slowly but surely, they rekindled the ancient practice of trade, forging bonds with other resilient pockets of humanity.

What was once mere villages burgeoned into modest towns, their growth mirroring the resurgence of hope. Yet, with each passing day, the skills and comforts of the once pervasive 21st century slipped further into obscurity. These conveniences, these trappings of a bygone era, had vanished like grains of sand in the wind, save for a precious few tomes that had miraculously survived the ravages of time. These books, treasured relics of an easier life, heralded the dawn of a new age, an age where humanity sought to rebuild with wisdom gained from the past, forging a path forward in this brave new world.

In the early throes of the 23rd century, a haunting veil of desolation shrouded the land. The once-mighty edifice of old-world infrastructure, laws, and governance had crumbled into the abyss of history. In the ensuing chaos, an ominous breed of powerbrokers emerged, relentless in their pursuit of dominance. These were the architects of a new era, a grim epoch ruled by the iron fist of warlords, who audaciously donned the mantle of sheriffs. Their might was personified in their ruthless enforcers, a merciless cadre known simply as the Guard.

At first, their ascent bore certain benefits, offering a semblance of order in a world plunged into lawlessness. The sheriffs carved pathways through the tangled wilderness, resurrecting town walls, reviving forgotten roads, and even reconstructing castles, albeit at a heavy toll upon the hitherto peaceful denizens of the land.

Where once towering skyscrapers had scraped the heavens, humble wooden houses now stood as the modest abodes of the populace. The once-paved roads had yielded to encroaching forests, their former grandeur reduced to mere myths whispered by the wind. In this transformation, the sheriffs wielded their newfound authority, initially with subtlety, winning the trust of the beleaguered masses, steadily expanding their sphere of influence until they held dominion overall.

Taxes, ostensibly levied to fund these rejuvenating endeavours, swiftly morphed into chains of servitude. Those who dared defy the relentless taxation found themselves thrust into the abyss of captivity, their freedom a casualty of fiscal disobedience. The once proud and free populations, who had savoured the simplicity of life as farmers and artisans, converged into the sheriffs' tightly controlled principalities.

Overnight, they ceased to be individuals, transformed into mere chattel, a commodity to be manipulated and regulated. The sheriffs, some of whom had deciphered the ancient texts and maps, bestowed names upon these territories, evoking the distant echoes of long-forgotten counties and towns. Nottingham, once a tranquil haven, was among the mournful echoes of the past, now overshadowed by the grim spectre of sheriff's rule. The land had metamorphosed, its people ensnared in the relentless grip of this authoritarian dystopia, where the price of order was the very essence of their humanity.

Nottingham, once a haven of tranquil existence, now lay shackled under the oppressive yoke of its neighbouring conqueror, the sheriff of Newark. His rule, an unrelenting tempest of cruelty and power, brooked no opposition. In this nightmarish regime, defiance was met with ruthless, unmerciful retribution. Factions that dared to defy his dominion were summarily crushed beneath the iron heel of his tyranny. Those who dared to lead insurrections were doomed to a grisly fate. The ringleaders, their guilt pronounced by a merciless court of his making, faced the hallowed gallows, where they would draw their last, agonising breaths before a jeering public.

But the sheriff's cruelty knew no bounds. In his quest for absolute submission, he devised a more sinister torment for the co-conspirators. These unfortunate souls would be ensnared in the web of servitude, their freedom a distant memory, their futures uncertain and bleak, toiling endlessly to repay their perceived debt to the merciless sheriff.

Yet, in the shadow of this malevolent rule, a beacon of resistance flickered to life. Loxley, a humble hamlet, steadfastly refused to bow beneath the weight of exorbitant taxes. A rebellion was brewing, led by none other than the venerable village elder, the indomitable Big Tim, a stalwart of their community, the baker. Alongside him stood the resilient miller, and a master artisan skilled in the craft of bow-making, a carpenter who doubled as a deft leatherworker.

Their transgression was to proclaim the injustice of the sheriff's demands, a grievance too loud and clear to be ignored. The sheriff, in his insatiable thirst for dominance, saw this defiance as a spark that could ignite the flames of rebellion in neighbouring settlements. And so, he resolved to make a sinister example of these brave souls, to send an unambiguous message to all who dared question his rule. The fate of Loxley hung in the balance, as the stage was set for a dramatic showdown between the forces of oppression and the flickering ember of resistance.

Chapter One.

Robyn – After the smoke clears.

Robyn was jolted awake by an ominous symphony of claws screeching across a metallic surface, a nightmarish overture that sent shivers racing down her spine. Disoriented, she gasped as the crackling of something unseen enveloped her. Her eyes stung and streamed with tears, rendering her helpless in the oppressive darkness, which was far from the comforting shroud of night. Smoke. Thick and malevolent smoke, suffocating her senses.

In a fevered haze, she summoned all the vestiges of her strength, forcing her unsteady body into a sitting position. The air was a searing wall of heat, and every breath was a painful, desperate struggle against the encroaching smoke. Her mind was a chaotic whirlpool of confusion, unable to grasp the reality of the perilous situation.

With limbs heavy as lead, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, only to recoil in agony as her bare feet made contact with the scorching floor. Water. She needed water to soothe her scorched throat and burning lungs. Desperation drove her to seize the jug, ripping the sheet from her bed, and drenching it before wrapping it tightly around her face in a makeshift mask.

Her thoughts careened through the smoke-choked haze. Boots. She needed her boots, but they lay on the floor, radiating an unbearable heat. Her new boots, a labour of love crafted by her father, beckoned from the blanket box at the end of the bed, where her mother had lovingly placed them. Panic threatened to consume her, but she fought to regain control.

Blindly, she groped for the boots in the dark, her fingers finally finding their familiar shape. Time was a merciless adversary, and she knew she might not have the luxury of lacing them, a task her father had left undone for her to complete to her liking.

She screamed as the searing agony of her burns flared anew when she forced the boots onto her feet. Laces or not, she couldn't afford to leave them behind. With courage born of desperation, Robyn faced the relentless inferno, determined to survive the relentless trial that destiny had thrust upon her.

Her heart pounded in her chest like a desperate war drum, and her thoughts raced even faster. She needed to reach the door, her last glimmer of hope amidst the encroaching chaos. The floor below her, would be a deathtrap soon. She cast her desperate gaze upon the room, seeking a solution to her plight.

The room's furniture became her lifeline, her makeshift stepping stones to survival. She calculated her route with frantic precision, the sweat-soaked tendrils of hair clinging to her forehead as she pondered her options. The mattress, a potential bridge to safety, was dismissed in a heartbeat; it would only ignite and seal her fiery fate. Panic clawed at her thoughts, but she couldn't afford to falter.

Desperation fuelled her resolve as she scanned the room. Then, a moment of clarity pierced through the haze of fear. The bedside stool! Of course, the simple wooden stool stood as her unlikely saviour. Chiding herself for not realising sooner, she stretched her body across the bed, fingertips straining until they gripped the edge of the wicker seat.

With a final burst of determination, she hoisted the stool onto the bed, its feet scorched but still sturdy. There was no turning back now; this was her lifeline. Robyn clung to the wicker stool as her only hope, her fingers stinging with pain from her last hope of escape.

With a heart heavy with trepidation, she mustered every ounce of her dwindling strength and pushed herself upright, taking a faltering step onto the blanket box stationed at the foot of her bed. But the relentless smoke choked her, a reminder of the peril that faced her. In the cruel dance of life and death, she adjusted her mask, her makeshift saviour already drying out. The jug that had been her only source of temporary salvation lay empty, a bitter testament to her dwindling chances.

Time ticked away like a merciless executioner. With a trembling hand, she placed the stool on the floor, the weight of her fear pressing down upon her. Summoning all the courage she possessed, she ascended the stool, her heart thundering in her chest. It swayed under her weight, a precarious bridge to life or death. Just a short distance now to the chest of drawers, and she reached it with a unsteady hand. The real test lay before her. Had her frantic efforts been in vain? Would she find searing flames waiting behind the door?

The moment of truth arrived, laying her hand on the wooden door. A wave of relief washed over her as she discerned warmth but not unbearable heat. With no alternative and no time to spare, she pulled the door open, her heart pounding wildly. No flames greeted her on the other side, and she released the breath she had been holding, a rush of gratitude surging through her.

Yet, the battle was far from won. Smoke billowed into the landing, obscuring her path like a shroud of impending doom. The flames had not yet claimed her, but the relentless inferno still pursued her with its insatiable hunger.

Coughs wracked her fragile frame once more, resonating through the pitch-black hallway that felt like a corridor of despair. Fumbling her way through the inky darkness, she inched along the passage, every step a precarious dance with the unknown. Her sole mission, now etched into her mind, was to reach her parents, to save them from the looming horror that threatened to consume their world.

Anticipation pounded in her chest as she swung open the door to their room, but to her astonishment, it was empty, bathed in the eerie glow of encroaching flames that voraciously devoured the wooden floorboards. She slammed the door shut, not knowing their fate, and spun on her heels. Time was the cruellest of adversaries, and escape was her only option.

She traced the wall, navigating the disorienting darkness. The stairs beckoned, her last path to freedom, but her heart sank as she gazed upon a nightmarish tableau. The lower floor was an inferno, the stairs themselves aflame, a cruel reminder of her dwindling chances.

Deflated, she sagged against the wall, her world collapsing around her. And then, like a distant beacon of hope, she remembered it—the window at the end of the hall, shrouded by boards for as long as she could recall. Her father had intended to replace the glass, but the task had remained unfinished. With a desperate pull, she pried the shutters open, and the boards outside gave way, offering her a slender chance at survival.

Peering out into the half-lit morning, the first tendrils of daybreak painting the sky, she realised the flames had not yet reached this side of the house. But the world beyond was a maelstrom of chaos. Shouts and screams filled the air from all directions, their meaning lost in the tumult. Were they trying to battle the inferno? Did they know she was trapped within these walls? These questions would have to wait, for the flames crept ever closer, clawing their way toward her.

Time dwindled to mere seconds, and with one last effort, she squeezed through the narrow opening, landing unceremoniously on her father's workshop roof, teetering dangerously close to the edge. Gathering herself, she perched there, the relief of being outside washing over her. Her thoughts immediately turned to her parents, and she scanned for a way down.

With no alternative, she turned and grasped the wooden frame of the roof's edge, slowly lowering herself, her legs giving way as she dropped the final two feet into the path beside the workshop. The bedsheet, now parched and stained with smoke, still clung to her face, a grim reminder of the ordeal she had endured.

She needed to find her parents, to assure them of her survival, but her body betrayed her. Exhausted and drained of adrenaline, she slumped to the earth, ripping the protective sheet away in a desperate gasp for air. Coughing fits wracked her frail form as her head pounded, her vision blurred, and the world around her spun into a foreboding darkness.

Robyn teetered on the precipice of consciousness, the boundaries between dreams and reality a shifting, uncertain veil. Her thoughts were a tumultuous storm, swirling with questions that clawed at her sanity. Where were her parents, the pillars of her life? Why had they not come for her? Did they believe she had been consumed by the merciless inferno? She had to find them; the urgency was a relentless drumbeat in her mind.

As she mustered the strength to rise, a sudden presence materialised. Joan, her dearest friend, wrenching her from the cold grip of despair, and yanking her unceremoniously to her feet. Panic surged anew, a maelstrom of confusion and terror swirling within her. Why were they running? What horrors pursued them in the night? And why wasn't it her father guiding her to safety?

Run, we have to go, NOW! Joan's voice pierced the chaos, a frantic plea that echoed through Robyn's disoriented mind. Desperate questions tumbled from her parched lips, her voice a feeble whisper in the chaos of the night. Where were her parents? Why flee? Was it the fire, or something more sinister? And why was Joan the saviour in this surreal nightmare? A whirlwind enveloped her addled mind.

Amidst the chaos, the village around them was ablaze, an apocalyptic vision of destruction and despair. The symphony of agony, shouts, and crumbling structures reverberated through the night, an enigma Robyn struggled to comprehend.

The sheriff's men are burning the village. They are burning everything and rounding up everyone. Joan's words carried an urgency that pierced through the fog of Robyn's confusion. With a strength born of desperation, Joan practically dragged her along a path strewn with debris, across a small stream, and into the looming forest beyond. They stumbled forward, her breaths ragged, her eyes stinging from smoke and fear until they reached the sanctuary of the trees. There, amidst the shroud of darkness, Robyn's world descended into an ominous void.

Awakening, she found herself half-buried in a chaotic bed of leaves, disorientation and fear gnawing at her core. An eerie silence enveloped her, leaving her alone in a chilling forest, stripped of all but her nightdress and the boots that clung to her feet like relics of a forgotten life. Panic clawed at her consciousness as she desperately tried to piece together the fragments of that fateful night, the creeping dawn, and now, the inexplicable darkness that shrouded her.

Memories danced on the edges of her mind like phantoms teasing her sanity. When had she last glimpsed daylight, and how had she ended up here, shivering and vulnerable? The world spun around her, a dizzying maze of questions without answers. Her throat was a furnace of agony, her dry mouth like sandpaper, and the chilling emptiness of the forest weighed heavily on her soul. Where had everyone vanished to? And where was Joan, her lifeline, in this bewildering nightmare?

Desperation clung to her frail voice as she attempted to call out, but her vocal cords rebelled, and a painful cough was all that emerged. Joan, she croaked, her voice a fragile whisper carried away by the ominous night. Joan, are you there?

From the shadows, a voice emerged, a lifeline of hope. Quiet, it urged, a haunting murmur in the darkness. Joan materialised from the obscurity, a guardian in this nightmarish realm. She handed Robyn a flask of water, a precious elixir in this desolation, and shrouded her white nightdress with dead leaves to shield her from prying eyes. Stay still, stay quiet, Joan implored, her voice a threadbare whisper laced with urgency.

Together, they huddled close, to the forest floor, their only refuge from the frigid night, leaves their fragile armour against the chilling air. In the heart of this eerie wilderness, they clung to each other, two lost souls seeking warmth and shelter amidst the chaos of a world turned upside down.

Unable to sleep, Robyn woke early. It was still dark, and morning would be here soon. Then what? If only she had possessed the foresight to glimpse into the future and witness, the profound transformation her life would undergo on that fateful night, she might have navigated the preceding hours with an entirely different perspective. The weight of this question hung heavy in the air, casting a haunting shadow over her thoughts.

The very essence of her existence seemed poised on the precipice of an irrevocable transformation. What secrets would today unveil? What trials and tribulations awaited her and Joan in this treacherous reality?

The night had been pregnant with uncertainty, and Robyn's contemplations swirled in the profound silence of the forest, each moment carrying the weight of her unspoken question: If she had only known...

Joan awoke and passed her a flask of water. Robyn took a long, grateful slurp of the water, quenching the thirst that had haunted her for hours. She handed the flask back to Joan, ready to demand answers, to unravel the twisted tapestry of this nightmare. But Joan's insistence held her back.

Not yet, Joan urged, her eyes filled with concern. Take another sip. You need it.

Robyn obliged, the water soothing her swore throat as she drank deeply, her breath shuddering with each gulp. With newfound energy coursing through her veins, impatience bubbled within her, demanding answers like a relentless drumbeat.

Where are my mother and father? Robyn implored, her voice quivering with fear.

The sheriff's men took them away, Joan replied, her voice bearing the heavy weight of their shared burden.

Are they alive? Robyn's voice wavered.

Yes, they're alive, Joan confirmed, her eyes betraying a mixture of hope and despair.

Robyn's heart sank as uncertainty gripped her. She had never been accustomed to such turmoil. Her world had been one of simplicity and warmth, not of fear and uncertainty. The house her parents had built with love, their sanctuary, had been reduced to ashes. It was a stark reminder of the capricious nature of life.

Who else is left, in the village or here? Robyn asked, her voice tinged with sadness.

Nobody, as far as I know, Joan replied with a heavy heart.

How did you find me? Robyn inquired, her curiosity overcoming her anguish.

Joan's story unfolded, a harrowing tale of confrontation, violence, and escape. Robyn listened; her heart heavy with gratitude for her friend's courage. The flames that