Phoebe Wren and the Vortex of Light (10 page)

“What is it, Graygor?” he hissed, his fist still clenched and ready to strike – if nothing else, taking a good swipe at the diminutive gargoyle would make him feel better should Graygor’s report be anything less than positive. As it was, Graygor’s very presence was grating on Schnither’s already frayed nerves, and anything less than good news would earn Graygor a pummelling for sure.

“I have done it, Sir,” Graygor’s glee was undeniable, and served only to rattle Schnither’s cage further. Still, even such an idiotic pathetic being would not be so animated without reason, and Schnither slyly took him aside so that Garshwell would not hear. If there was even a mere suggestion of a chance that Graygor actually did bring decent news, Schnither would not risk letting Garshwell take the credit that planned to steal for himself.

“
What
exactly is it that you have done, Graygor?” Schnither did not even attempt to disguise the contempt in his voice as he towered over the diminutive demon who, in his excitement, did not even seem to notice.

“I have changed the Wrens’ flight details, Sir! They won’t fly home tomorrow as planned, but will wait until the following day – the
following day
, Sir! And Cosain and his pathetic clan have no idea! They will believe the Wrens to be safe when they don’t catch that flight tomorrow. But Captain Schnither, Sir, the plane on which they will travel on Friday will be unaccompanied, unprotected. It will be
ours
!” The words hissed out between Graygor’s pointed teeth, and his orange eyes glinted with a warped joy. Schnither could see that the little demon was delighted by his own cleverness, but he refused to acknowledge that Graygor had, in fact, done an exceedingly clever thing. He would never give him the satisfaction of hearing
‘well done’
.

“I see,” said Schnither coolly, his voice belying the excitement that was bubbling up in his belly. “Well, it is not what I had planned for the Wrens’ demise… but I suppose it will
do
.”

Graygor snarly little face fell with disappointment, and his wings drooped just a touch like the slouched shoulders of a child who had just received a telling off.

“Sir, it took much effort on my part to get the flight manifest changed. And none of those other oafs helped me. In fact…”

“
SILENCE!
” Schnither boomed, and the diminutive demon started and stumbled backwards, visibly shaken. “Get out of my sight you snivelling little
urchin!
Do you
really
presume yourself to be that much smarter than
me
? Do you not think that I had plans for the Wrens’ destruction laid out to the
last letter
? I had
every detail
worked out! Now, be gone before I send you to the Abyss!”

Seething inwardly, but not daring to let his fury show, Graygor turned on his heel and fled along the maze of dimly lit corridors, unspoken obscenities whirring through his head, until he shot out of the mountain’s concealed entrance like a black bolt of lightning. Once he was sure he was out of earshot, his curses and profanities tumbled audibly from his foaming mouth, spewing forth like a dark blot across the bright African sky. His pride had been severely dented and his fury at being overlooked knew no bounds.

Back inside the unholy headquarters, Schnither could scarcely contain his own delight at this unexpected turn of events.
Of course
Graygor had done an excellent job, in fact the snivelling little ghoul had probably saved Schnither’s skin, but that was not something he was ever going to admit to! Schnither would claim this twisted act of mischief as his own, and Abaddon might even congratulate him on his ingenuity! He would not have long to wait to find out, as one of the two guards on duty at the doors of Abaddon’s chambers called Schnither and Garshwell to enter. Still smarting from his last visit, Schnither entered the gargantuan room with caution, his eyes desperately trying to adapt to the smoky gloom before Abaddon could pounce on him like before. Schnither had not taken kindly to the humiliation he had felt when he landed in a heap at the Dark Master’s feet, and he did not want to forfeit his dignity like that again.

“Captain Schnither, Lieutenant Garshwell,” Abaddon’s voice was as smooth as silk, and it cut through the gloom like duplicitous golden sunshine through fog. “I do hope you have better news for me this time?”

“Yes, my Liege, most definitely better news.”

The confidence in Schnither’s voice belied his jellied knees, and he had to pour all his efforts into remaining upright. He had not appreciated being belittled by Abaddon before and would certainly not entertain being disparaged in front of Garshwell.

“The news is
much
better, Sire. In fact, I have set in motion a chain of events, which will ensure the demise of the entire Wren family, and with them out of the picture that blasted
mission
will never come to be…” Schnither spat the word ‘
mission’
from his mouth, as if its taste was offensive to him. Garshwell surveyed his captain with suspicion, and even through the gloom he could tell that Schnither had some treachery up his sleeve.

“Well, that
is
good news,” retorted Abaddon, as he slid forward through the smog, the smoky atmosphere parting before him, vapours rolling to either side of his impressive form like mist breaking over the bow of a ship. Abaddon had his hands clasped behind his back as he moved, and now he brought the bejewelled forefinger of his left hand to his pursed blood red lips. The ruby ring on his finger glinted in the dusky light, and at once Schnither recognised the Heavenly seal of the Atoner in the thick set gold band – it would appear that Abaddon’s once ethereal features were not all that remained from his time of service to the Atoner. Schnither realised that his eyes had locked on the ring on the Dark Lord’s forefinger, and immediately broke his gaze on this realisation. But it was too late. Abaddon too had noticed that the ring had captured Schnither’s imagination, and he ran the thumb and forefinger of his right hand across the precious jewel.

“You wonder why I still retain
His
seal, Schnither?” Abaddon smirked at the balking demon before him, and held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity.

“N-no, Master,” Schnither stammered, “I was not… I did not…”

“
SILENCE!
” bellowed Abaddon, his sharp features contorting and now entirely devoid of any trace of the angelic beauty they once possessed. His enormous frame seemed to double in stature, and the terrifying wings extended fully, making Schnither wonder where Abaddon ended and the inky walls began.

Schnither cowered beneath his imposing master’s frame, entirely expecting his life to be snuffed out with one blow from an enraged Abaddon. Instead, and much to Schnither’s surprise, Abaddon seemed to… to what? Soften? Was that even
possible?
His great and terrible physique relaxed and he stood down, apparently deep in thought. Schnither was too afraid to move, besides which he was not convinced that his knees would support his weight should he even try to move away. He dared not lift his head, but guardedly raised his eyes, slowly, slowly, until they rested on his Dark Master’s face. To Schnither’s astonishment, Abaddon’s steely grey eyes seemed cloudy and distant – almost nostalgic – and Schnither and Garshwell both held their breath as their master began to speak.

“Yes, I still wear the rubied ring of the Atoner,” Abaddon said quietly, “He gave it to me once, in an idyllic time, many ages ago. It was a time we will never know again, Schnither, none of us, for we have made our choice for eternity…”

Abaddon’s voice trailed off, and as Schnither watched, any trace of sentimentality vanished and his face hardened once again while his eyes seemed to die until any glimmer of ancient residual good was gone, leaving only spiteful grey globes.

“And
He
thinks He can just cast me down here and expect no retribution! How
pitifully mistaken
He is!” Abaddon’s voice crescendoed to an unbridled roar, like a surging, crashing sea that filled the chambers, and reverberated off the dense, claustrophobic walls. Where once was thoughtful reminiscence of a time long since passed there now resided fury whipped up by the sting of rejection and the humiliation of a great pride irrevocably dented. “I will be avenged!” he cried, “He will not cast me down or belittle me another time! His chosen ones will feel my wrath! Schnither! Quickly! Tell me of your plans.”

Still startled by the uncharacteristic shift in personality he had just witnessed, Schnither composed himself at once, and began to explain to Abaddon how the Wrens’ flights had been switched, unbeknown to the Heavenly Host, and how their new flight would subsequently be unguarded and entirely vulnerable to attack. Schnither conveniently avoided the details of his posse’s latest defeat at Medical Miracles Hospital, and certainly did not let Abaddon know that it was in fact Graygor who had cunningly altered Araco Airline’s flight manifest. As he spun his web of lies and deceit, Schnither came to believe more and more that in fact he
had
devised this cunning plan, and that he would personally oversee the demise of the Wrens, until he could scarcely tell which parts of his tale were truth and which were lies. Still, it would not matter as long as his mission was successful and he reaped the due reward.

‘So that was Graygor’s news,’
Garshwell thought to himself.
“And this wretch is claiming it all as his own!’
Garshwell narrowed his eyes as he considered Captain Schnither’s treachery, then smiled wryly to himself.
‘Clever,’
he thought, and reluctantly had to admire Schnither’s sneakiness.

“And so you see, my Liege,” Schnither concluded, “We are one step ahead of Cosain and his cohorts. They won’t know what has hit them. And neither will the Wrens!”

“
Gooood
,” leered Abaddon, “You have done well Schnither, perhaps I will give you the honour of allowing you to personally tear through that aeroplane’s fuel lines…”

“Thank you, Sir,” grinned Schnither. “It would certainly be the greatest honour.”

And with that he and Lieutenant Garshwell bowed low to the ground so that for a moment they were encapsulated in the thick smog that hung in the air, before rising to their feet and slinking out of Abaddon’s chamber, an evil smirk etched across Schnither’s grotesque face.
This
time, he would not fail…

Neam’s long dark hair billowed out behind him as he raced through the stratosphere towards Medical Miracles Hospital. The towering warrior’s piercing blue eyes were wide and alive, scouring his environment for any sign of Schnither or his band of evil henchmen. Sword drawn, Neam was taking no chances. And he would take no prisoners. He knew that the information in his possession was crucial to the safety and survival of Phoebe and her family, and as he flew he recalled the horror of the moment he had witnessed Araco Airlines flight 434 plummet from the skies with the Wrens on board and disintegrate on contact with the earth. The memory pained him and he pledged that he would do all within his power to never let anything like that happen again.

“You will never win, Abaddon the Defiler,” Neam whispered to himself. “The Atoner’s plans for Phoebe and her family will succeed. Good will triumph over evil. Every time.”

Neam’s strong hand clenched his sword tighter and he began to descend through the atmosphere towards Medical Miracles Hospital. Below him, he could see Cosain, Lasair, Trean, Dilis, Solas and Croga dotted around the hospital perimeter, obviously on high alert and ready for the next barrage of fury from Schnither and his demonic bevy.

“Neam!” His captain was first to detect the warrior’s approach. “Any news from the airport? Schnither and his minions launched a further attack right here at the hospital as we suspected they would, although we were able to ward them off. Braygor the Pesky was here, working his devious roguery, and he may well have succeeded in harming Jack and Eva had Lasair not had the presence of mind to keep them out of harm’s way and buy us some time.”

“Captain,” Neam briefly bowed his head as he greeted his commander with the utmost respect. “You were right to station me at the airport. Braygor’s treacherous twin Graygor had been despatched to wreak mayhem there, and had I not been there to witness his schemes… Well, it is safe to say that we would have been placed at a
serious
disadvantage.”

The other five angelic warriors had by now gathered around to hear Neam’s news, and he proceeded to explain how Graygor had interfered with the Araco Airlines flight manifest, anticipating Jack’s phone call to the Araco attendant, and pre-empting his flight change.

“So now,” Neam concluded, “I imagine that Graygor will have reported back to Schnither, who will undoubtedly have advised Abaddon the Defiler of his antics. And in his arrogance, Captain Schnither won’t even have considered the fact that perhaps their plans are not just as covert as he would have hoped. His misplaced and erroneous confidence in the clandestine nature of their schemes will be their downfall…” Neam paused, looking from one earnest angelic face to the next. “And it will give us the advantage, brothers. We must ensure that we execute our mission as the Atoner has directed. We must protect Phoebe and her parents with our lives – they
must
get safely back to Ireland, no matter what.”