Phoebe Wren and the Vortex of Light (13 page)

In the blink of an eye, Cosain and the Heavenly warriors had taken to the sky, heading as one straight for Schnither, Garshwell and the demonic troop, like a radiating bolt of majestic lightning. The angels shot head first into the black writhing mass of evil, blasting it apart so that demons went flying in every direction, like the explosion of a macabre Catherine wheel. The initial impact was devastating for the demons, with dozens of them sent spiralling and spinning to their doom before they even had a chance to swing their swords. The larger, stronger demons were not so easily disassembled however. Garshwell and half the horde pulled back, circling higher into the sky then doubling back until they were behind Cosain and the angelic warriors. From the dark fray, Schnither and the other half of the malevolent troop unleashed all their fury on the angels, ensuring that they had to focus all their attention on fending off that attack while Garshwell and his minions regrouped and prepared to attack from behind. The onslaught that followed was fierce and devastating. Cosain, Solas, Dilis, Trean and Neam, seeing that they were hideously outnumbered, formed a defensive ring, standing shoulder to shoulder and rallying against the hellish brood with all their might. The ethereal warriors fought bravely, and their defensive stance enabled them to shield and defend each other while sending one screeching fiend after another to the Abyss.

But the demonic horde was relentless, and for every fiend despatched to the hellish void, five more seemed to appear until Cosain and his angelic brothers began to wane and weaken. Wave after wave of demons threw all their fury at the angelic warriors, whose resolve never diminished, although their backs and arms and legs burned with exertion and exhaustion.

“Cosain” gasped Trean, “We cannot continue like this indefinitely! What are we going to do, Captain?”

Cosain could see the look of bewildered disbelief on Trean’s face mirrored on the other angels’ faces, and it was as he looked around that his guard dropped, just momentarily, and Schnither seized his chance. He lunged at the Heavenly Captain, slicing through his upper right arm with his crooked, serrated blade and leaving a deep gaping wound. As the angelic blood poured out, Cosain winced in pain and had to make a huge effort not to drop his sword as his left hand shot instinctively up to put pressure on the yawning wound. Cosain tried in vain to lift his sword, but the wound inflicted on him was too deep, and his right arm was powerless. He would never let Schnither claim the victory, however, and swapping his sword into his left hand, Cosain resumed the fight, although gravely weakened by his injury. Schnither retreated upwards, screeching with glee – not only had his aim hit its angelic mark, but he had wounded
the Captain of the Host
. He hoped with all his black heart that it would be a fatal wound, and even the mere possibility of Cosain’s demise made his hideous face contort in warped joy, his red eyes flashing and his cackling mouth revealing three rows of rotting teeth.

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.

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. Now, 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.

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.