Suddenly, from out of nowhere, there was a blaze of resplendent light that lit up the African night sky, as Croga appeared on the periphery of the mêlée, angelic face set like flint, avenging swords slashing and cutting through the fray. His unannounced and unexpected appearance threw the demons into utter confusion, sending some of them spinning and crashing into each other, while some took to the air and vanished in chaotic terror. Those that remained turned their attentions to Croga, whose swords found their mark time and again, sending demons to the Abyss in a swirl of yellow vapour. Cosain and the other angelic warriors seized their lifeline, and re-engaged the Enemy with a renewed vigour and Heavenly zeal. Their swords glowed with a fierce Heavenly light, and glancing up at the window, Cosain wondered what Demetrius had prayed before falling asleep. “If only he fully realised the power that is in his prayer,” Cosain thought, as his sword connected with a wailing, snarling demon who had lunged at him, teeth bared, separating his hideous head from his gnarly body.
For a full thirty minutes, the skies above the Otonno house rumbled and raged in a blur of unseen conflict. To any human onlooker, there was nothing untoward on this clear and chilly night, but in the Heavenlies the forces of evil rallied hard against the forces of good. The battle that thundered on was fierce and prolonged, but as hard as Schnither and Garshwell and their horde fought and thrashed, Cosain and the angelic troop would not be beaten, and Neam’s assertion proved true – ‘Good will triumph over evil. Every time’.
At last, exhausted and positively fizzing with fury, Schnither drew alongside Lieutenant Garshwell as they fought now for their very lives. The arrogant horde of demons that they had lead into battle had been decimated, leaving only a handful of bedraggled, battered beasts, and Schnither could see that those who were left were on the brink of fleeing the fight.
“Garshwell,” he bellowed, yellow smoke billowing from his nostrils as he snorted and hissed in sheer exhaustion and unbridled rage. “We cannot overcome them, they are too resilient.” The admission pained Schnither to the point of causing him physical discomfort, which was reflected in the contortion of his already hideous features.
Lieutenant Garshwell could not argue with Schnither’s appraisal of the situation, but he was all too aware of what lay in store for them should they retreat. They were in a no-win situation with the only apparent outcome being certain obliteration for Captain Schnither and his lieutenant.
“We cannot fall back, Sir, he will annihilate us if we do…” A look of sheer terror swept fleetingly across Garshwell’s face, and Schnither realised that he would rather take his chances against the angels’ fiery swords than return in defeat and face the insatiable wrath of Abaddon the Defiler.
“Very well, Garshwell,” replied Schnither reluctantly. “But I cannot stay, I must return to the Mooar Mountain… Abaddon would retrieve me from the Abyss only to slay me again himself if I did not report back.”
Lieutenant Garshwell knew that his commander was correct in his hypothesis, and so with a grim acceptance, he saluted Schnither, who shot upwards into the darkness, leaving Garshwell and the few remaining demons to their certain fate at the hands of the angels. As he flew, Schnither looked back briefly, just in time to see Cosain run Garshwell through with his blazing blade. The Lieutenant screamed his savagery before his monstrous black body exploded into a thousand pieces, and vanished leaving only a trail of orange vapour.
“You fought bravely, Lieutenant Garshwell,” Schnither whispered to himself. “I fear there will come a time when I will envy you your fate.” And he shuddered violently at the thought of the very probable demise that awaited him at the hands of Abaddon the Defiler.
CHAPTER 21
Cosain hastened Heavenward for a moment as the furore below him dwindled and died. From this vantage point, he surveyed the site where just moments before the most ferocious of battles had been played out. When he was entirely satisfied that his troop had despatched all of their demonic assailants to the Abyss, and that there were no more waiting in the wings to pounce, he rejoined the other angels, who had settled on terra firma, and regrouped to dissect the events that had just taken place.
“Captain,” said Solas. “You are injured.”
“It is nothing,” replied Cosain, although blood still oozed from the gash in his upper arm.
“Here,” said Dilis. “Let me Captain. Please.” And with that he lifted his still glowing sword and set its broadside gently along Cosain’s wound.
Cosain winced in pain, but as Dilis’s blade rested on his arm, the open and bloody wound began to cauterise, and as the angelic warriors looked on, the gash in Cosain’s arm knitted together from the bottom to the top, and his arm glowed with a golden radiance until the wound was removed entirely and his ethereal skin showed no sign whatsoever of ever having been damaged.
“Thank you, my brother,” said Cosain. “I imagine Schnither was overjoyed with his aim!” The thought amused the Captain of the Hosts, despite his realisation that his wound could have been much more severe, and he smiled reflectively. “Croga, your perception was sharp, you arrived here with not a moment to spare; the powers of darkness were fervent in their pursuits tonight.”
“Yes, Captain,” replied Croga, as he sheathed both swords across his mighty back. “It was Lasair who first felt an unsettling in his spirit, which I soon came to share. He stayed to guard the Wrens, and I followed my hunch to Esau and Martha’s house. It would seem that our intuition was accurate.”
“The Enemy has suffered a hefty blow tonight,” observed Trean. “As far as I could tell only Schnither absconded – and I suspect that his escape may well be short lived. Abaddon the Defiler will undoubtedly be eagerly awaiting his return from battle. And when he hears what Schnither has to tell him… whoa!” Trean made a whistling noise through his teeth, and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. He, like the rest of the angels, knew that the battle which had preceded would be nothing compared to the wrath and venom of Abaddon.
“Croga, you can rejoin Lasair now; I feel that the rest of this night will pass off peacefully – but keep careful watch over the Wrens nonetheless. We must remember that, as far as the Enemy is concerned, they will believe us to be relieved of our duties tomorrow, since the Wrens were due to fly on Thursday. I imagine that Abaddon will order his demons to lie low for a while to give us a chance to return to the Heavenlies, leaving the Wrens unprotected. Of course, we are on to their schemes, we know that Phoebe and her family do not fly until Friday, and we will be ready for the enemy’s attack. But we must let them believe that our assignment is over, and that we are out of the picture.”
“Is that not a risky tactic, Captain?” asked Solas, his faced concerned. He was loathe to question his Captain, yet could not refrain from voicing his concerns. “Surely relaxing our guard now puts Phoebe and her family at risk?”
“Yes, there is no denying that it will be tricky, Solas,” said Cosain contemplatively. “But we cannot risk the Enemy realising that we are wise to his plans. Tomorrow, we must make Schnither believe that we have gone, and we must conceal our presence until the Wrens’ flight takes off on Friday. I am certain that the Enemy will send his hordes after the aeroplane, and this time he will be hell-bent on its total annihilation, he will not tolerate survivors a second time. We cannot afford to put a foot wrong now – the survival of the Wrens and the establishment of the Celtic Justice Mission depends on it. The Atoner has lofty and important plans for the organisation that Jack and Eva Wren will set up.” Cosain’s face was serious, and Solas felt that the responsibility weighed heavily on his Captain.
“We are with you, Captain; whatever your plans for the next forty eight hours are, we will execute them to the last detail.”
Solas verbalised what the other angelic warriors were thinking, and their expression of trust in their leader bolstered his spirit.
“Thank you, brothers,” Cosain said earnestly. “You are noble and brave warriors; I could not wish for finer comrades. N
ow, we will resume our posts for tonight, and tomorrow we will make sure that the Enemy thinks we have withdrawn. Schnither’s report will undoubtedly have infuriated him, and the next wave of wrath that he will unleash will require all our strength, skill and ability to overcome. But overcome we will.”
And with that, the atmosphere blazed with Heavenly light as six mighty warriors took flight and returned to their stations, resolute and uncompromising about the perilous task that lay ahead of them.
CHAPTER 22
Captain Schnither had reached the Mooar Mountain in whose belly lay hidden the foreboding chambers of his Dark Master, Abaddon the Defiler. He felt that he was stuck in some hideous déjà vu, and the thought of bringing news of yet another humiliating defeat to his master made him wretch. He landed on the twisty path that lead to the entrance of the mountain, preferring to tediously stumble and lurch up the rocky overgrown track as it afforded him a few precious minutes extra before he had to face Abaddon. The stump where Schnither’s left arm had been burned and ached, and the throbbing made him curse Cosain, who had maimed him thus. He could not ignore the unease that the pain in his wound was causing him, and he felt sure that this physical sensation was a bad omen of what he was about to experience at the hands of Abaddon. Schnither stopped again to be sick then wiping his mouth, he crept his way fearfully upward to the concealed entrance to the maze of corridors and dimly lit chambers which lay within the mountain. Schnither paused to catch his breath, wheezing and puffing putrefied air from his decaying lungs, before pushing aside the thorny briars, scrabbling along the side of the rock with his gnarled right hand until he found the lever which operated the hidden doorway into the mountain, and pulled down on it. A huge slab of rock slid sideways into the mountain, releasing a cloud of offensive gases, which caught Schnither’s breath and made him gag. Reluctantly, he moved forward through the opening, and the craggy door slammed shut behind him with a finality that jangled his already frayed nerves.
Schnither slid nervously through the corridors of the mountain, whose only light came from oily torches mounted here and there along the walls. While he was usually glad of the miniscule amount of warmth afforded by the torches in this darkest of cesspools, today he preferred the shelter of the shadows, and moved like a slimy black phantom through the shade.
Despite his best efforts, Schnither could not delay his arrival at Abaddon’s chamber forever, and with his stomach churning violently he finally approached the gargantuan doors. ‘Déjà vu,’ he thought. ‘Definitely déjà vu!’ Abaddon’s two thick headed guards stood at the doors as before, massive spears in their fat hands, but this time their wise-guy swagger had been replaced by sombre faces and nervously twitching eyes. Schnither could see that both sentries had angry looking red marks, one on his left cheek, and the other on his right cheek, and on closer inspection it appeared that… no, it couldn’t be… could it? In the centre of the second guard’s bruised cheek was an imprint of Abaddon’s ring; Schnither could clearly see the impression of the seal of the Atoner! Abaddon had obviously struck out at them simultaneously, a fist for each guard, but the second guard had been unfortunate to catch a blow from Abaddon’s ring finger! Had he not felt so nauseous, Schnither would have found this terribly amusing!
Schnither gulped – Abaddon must have already heard of the crushing defeat at the Otonno household, and was obviously not in a genial mood – the news he was about to receive would certainly not serve to salve his temperament. The guards looked at him in a manner loosely resembling sympathy, and without speaking they heaved on the great doors, which swung open on the murky room within. Schnither took a deep breath, closed his eyes and gave his head a shake in an effort to loosen up his practically paralysed body. He exhaled silently then stepped inside Abaddon’s chambers, and the guards slammed the doors shut behind him with great haste. It was eerily still, unnaturally quiet, and Schnither found himself holding his breath and straining his ears in an effort to gain even the slightest hint of where Abaddon might be. He did not have to guess for long, however, as the gently swirling mists within the room were violently ripped apart as Abaddon’s snarling form burst through in a barely contained rage.
“Schnither!” he boomed. “I told you not to fail me again! Did I not tell you this? Did you not hear me?” Abaddon’s voice was shaking with fury, his grey eyes sparking and flashing. “Can you not hear me, you pathetic little underling? Speak!”
Despite his terror, Schnither’s pride was dented by being referred to as an ‘underling’, and he straightened up before running his yellow tongue over his lips in a desperate effort to moisten them and permit him to respond.
“S-s-sir,” Schnither spluttered. “Sir, our ranks were… well, we did not retain the upper hand. That is to say, we were defeated. We fought hard but…”
“You fought hard?” Abaddon sneered. “You fought hard? There were hundreds of you, I sent hundreds of my demons with you, and yet six…” He recoiled as if the words he was about to say offended him. “…six angels were able to trample you, as if you were ants?”
“I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t say that… exactly, Master,” Schnither’s defence sounded puny even in his own ears, but he could not think of a single thing to say that would sound in any way suitable.
“Really?” smirked Abaddon. “Well, what would you say… exactly?”
“Well, Sir, Garshwell and I lead the attack. We were relentless, Sir, we hit those Heavenly warriors hard, we came at them from every angle… and we almost had them, Sir.”
“Almost? Almost?” thundered Abaddon. “If you almost had them, then you did not have them! They are all still out there, a very real threat to the success of my plans. And my plans will not fail another time, Schnither.”
Schnither hesitated, unsure of the wisdom of saying out loud what he was thinking. Finally, he decided that he couldn’t be in much more trouble, so he blurted out, “Cosain and his cronies think that all they have to do is get that girl and her family safely through tomorrow. They have no idea that we will bring their plane down on Friday, Sir – this plan is foolproof. Once the angels get off side tomorrow, we will make our move. And the end of the Wrens will be a mere inevitability. And…” he paused again. “And I practically removed Cosain’s sword arm, Captain, you should have seen…”
“Oh be quiet you lackey!” yelled Abaddon, who was obviously not impressed by Schnither’s best exaggerations.
Schnither’s jaw clenched in indignation as the work ‘lackey’ slapped him square in the face. He was incensed, but not stupid, and he kept his displeasure to himself.
Abaddon the Defiler paced his chambers for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke again, vanishing into and re-emerging from the smog at irregular intervals. His voice was quieter now, but the menacing undertone could not be ignored.
“This, Schnither, is your very last chance. I will not tolerate any more blunders from you. You have two days to prove to me that you are not an utter waste of space.” He spat the words, and Schnither clenched his jaw so hard that his rotten teeth were in danger of shattering.
“And just in case you think I’m joking,” said Abaddon with a sarcasm that was almost tangible, “I will leave you with this little reminder.”
Before Schnither had time to react or employ any avoidance tactics, Abaddon had pulled a short but devastatingly sharp blade from up his sleeve, and swiped at Schnither, deftly removing his left ear in one adept swoop.
Despite himself, Schnither screamed in shock and pain, and his remaining hand flew to where his ear had been only to find a mushy mess of flesh and blood. The anger and indignation that had been building within him threatened to overflow, but as wounded and furious as he was, Schnither knew better than to even consider taking on the all encompassing might of Abaddon the Defiler. Instead, he regained his composure, straightened his stance, summoned as much pride as he could muster, and slowly saluted his Dark Master.
“Yes, Abaddon, Sir,” slurred Schnither. “I will persona
lly see to it that the Wrens are exterminated. There will be no mistakes. And no more second chances.”
With that, Schnither bowed low before Abaddon, and backed away from him towards the great doors, keeping a dubious eye on his assailant until he had exited the room and the heavy doors slammed shut behind him.
“You too?” asked the first guard, nodding towards the earless side of Schnither’s head, but he paid dearly for his inquisitiveness as Schnither pummelled him hard in the belly, leaving him gasping for breath.
Schnither tore through the leaden corridors at a gallop, building momentum until he burst out through the rocky entranceway like a black writhing tsunami, and shot into the starry night sky, leaving a trail of yellow ooze and curses in his wake. Yes, he would see to it that the Wrens were dealt with once and for all. And those haughty angels would pay dearly for what they had done to him.
CHAPTER 23
THURSDAY 15th JULY
JOHANNESBURG, AFRICA
The morning sun rose slowly over the African savannah, yawning its warming rays lazily across the plains and lighting up a pristine new day. As Bushman rabbits scampered for cover outside the Wrens’ home, and jacanas and snipes warbled in the distance, everything appeared entirely normal to the unsuspecting eye. Just another day.
Inside the house, Phoebe stretched and yawned as the light from the bright new day outside shone in through the little crack where her curtains had not quite been pulled closed. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, and for a confused moment she could not decipher exactly where she was. Surely she must be in Ireland, in the Quills’ spare bedroom, and at any minute Ella would knock her door and call gently, “Phoebe, are you awake?” But the familiar call never came, and it slowly dawned on Phoebe that she was in fact back in Africa – this was real, she hadn’t dreamed the last twenty four hours. Phoebe realised too that this day, Thursday 15th July, had been the day that had changed her life forever in the worst possible way, and the realisation made her shudder. As her train of thoughts advanced, Phoebe remembered that there would be no aeroplanes or flights involved in this day, therefore no crash could be evoked and – for now at least – she and her parents were alive and well. She smiled a broad smile of thankful contentment, and breathed a heartfelt ‘thank you’ as she threw back the bedspread and prepared to face the day that never was.
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