Phoebe Wren and the Vortex of Light (36 page)

Behind him along the underground corridor, Brother Bennett could hear movements, and knew that his whereabouts had been discovered. He was being followed, but the sounds echoing along the stone corridor told him that it was not mortals who were on his trail. Where one could have expected to hear footfall, there were instead the scratching, whooshing noises of talons on stone and large leathery wings brushing against the sides of the narrow cloister. Brother Bennett did not wait to see who – or
what
– would appear around the corner, and hoisted himself up through the narrow hatch and out into the Great Hall of Darken Abbey. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust as he clambered out of the gloom of the underground passageway and into the bright light, which was streaming into the Dark Hall through twenty exquisite stained glass windows, all three feet wide and some twenty feet tall. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, acutely aware that there was not a moment to waste, his heart pounding so hard that it felt as if it may burst out of his chest. Brother Bennett clambered to his feet and dropped the trapdoor shut behind him with a clunk that reverberated around the Great Hall. He reached into a clandestine pocket which he had sewn into the hem of his habit when he began to suspect that all was not as it seemed in Darken Abbey, and pulled out a small leather bound book – his journal.

Brother Bennett had always been an avid scholar of the written word, and these last few months as things had begun to unravel in the abbey, he had kept a meticulous record of events and peculiarities, which he felt sure would be crucial, if not during his time, then for whomever would come after him. Despite his steely resolve, Brother Bennett’s hand trembled as he knelt in front of the stone altar, and ran his fingers along the decorative stonework. What he was looking for was so well hidden that even he, who had designed this secret hiding space, had trouble finding it. Although it seemed like an eternity, it was in fact only a few seconds before Brother Bennett’s fingers found what they were looking for, and he pressed firmly on a small smooth stone, releasing a little square of stone just below it which slid deftly inwards, revealing a space just big enough to hide his precious journal. He slid the well-worn leather book into the secret chamber just as the trap door, through which he had moments earlier ascended, lurched and heaved against a force which was pushing on it from below. Whatever was following him through was obviously relying on brute force to break through, and had neither the patience nor the wherewithal to loosen the latch and simply lift the door open. Brother Bennett was thankful for the ignorance of the pursuing dark creature, which afforded him the time to securely reseal the secret cavity in the altar, locking his journal safely away from evil prying eyes. He arose shakily to his feet, and was about to begin his escape towards the abbey’s anteroom when the trapdoor below him finally gave way to the beast underneath it and seemed to explode skyward with a tumultuous crash, although in reality the small but solid door did not even bend its hinges.

Brother Bennett held his breath as yellow vapour billowed through the opening in the floor, then gasped in horror as a hideous head appeared, bulbous red eyes flashing with fury. It was Captain Schnither.

During the last few weeks, as Brother Bennett had uncovered the extent of the interference of the Enemy in the abbey, he had encountered Schnither firsthand. Indeed, he had almost lost his life to the fiend, who was apparently bent on his destruction, whilst returning from a supplies run to the local village just a few evenings back. But this was different. Now, the Enemy had actually infiltrated the abbey, intent on taking up residence there, and the monks had been forced to flee. As Schnither pushed his way up through the trap door, he had obviously overestimated its size, and his giant frame became trapped fast, granting Brother Bennett a few vital moments to make his escape. The monster behind him had not witnessed Bennett placing his journal in its secret hiding place, and for that he was extremely thankful. There was nothing more he could do now to redeem the fate of Darken Abbey, but at least he could help those who would come later to win it back from the clutches of darkness.

As Schnither writhed and struggled in his prison, inching painfully but interminably closer to his emancipation, Brother Bennett seized his chance and spun round in the direction of the anteroom. He was only a few feet away from almost tangible freedom, when a tall shadowy figure stepped out from the relative gloom of the anteroom, blocking Brother Bennett’s escape route. As the figure moved into the light, Thadius Bennett instantly recognised the pale face with its thin pink lips and squinty green eyes – Brother Bartholomew Clarence. The old monk stopped dead in his tracks. Behind him, Schnither had finally squirmed free, and was standing there, wheezing and panting as though he may keel over and die at any moment. Brother Bennett glanced over his shoulder at Schnither, whose foul breath was warm on his back, then he fixed his gaze resolutely on Brother Clarence whose face was an eerie mask of evil intent.

“So, Brother Clarence – or should I say,
Craven
– it has come to this,” Brother Bennett’s voice was steady and strong, and his eyes displayed not a single trace of fear, although the old monk must have been afraid. He refused to be intimidated by the beasts surrounding him, because he knew that
his
Master, the Atoner, had ultimate authority over even these fearsome creatures.

“Yes,
Thadius
,” hissed Brother Clarence, and even as the word slid from his thin lips, his form was changing and metamorphosing like the dark antithesis of a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Craven – for that is who he was – shed the human form of Brother Clarence like an old coat, until there was nothing left that resembled anything human, and he stood before Brother Bennett in all his serpentine vileness.

“You could not stop us,
Brother Bennett
,” leered Craven. “Oh you tried, you tried very hard indeed, and your efforts were… well,
almost commendable
. But did you really think that you were more powerful than us? Than
me?
” Craven was unashamedly boastful and proud, and it was very apparent that he believed entirely in his own abilities.

“I could not stop you in my own strength, Craven, no. About that much you are correct. But neither you nor any of your cronies can stand against the might of the Atoner. Your eternal fate has been sealed!” Brother Bennett’s wrinkled face seemed somehow fresh and alive and his eyes flashed as he shouted his truth defiantly at the two demons he could see, and those he couldn’t but who he knew to be there, listening from the rafters.

“Enough!” Craven bellowed at the old monk. “I will not hear it!”

“You
will
hear it, Craven, and some day you will acknowledge that your fate has been sealed and your doom awaits you!” Brother Bennett shouted back, straightening his back and standing up to his full height. “You cannot win this war! You may have taken Darken Abbey, but even that is temporary! The Atoner will take it back and you will be banished!”

“Nooo!” Craven was enraged, hissing and frothing from his mouth. “How dare you defy me! Schnither,” he roared. “
FINISH HIM!
”

Schnither was poised, just awaiting the word to put an end to this annoyingly righteous old monk, and he sprang like a coiled spring, arms outstretched and his gaping mouth revealing three rows of sharp teeth. Brother Bennett was motionless, apart from his lips, which were twitching in fervent prayer. If this was his sacrifice, then so be it. At least the journal was safe, and the key – these ignorant buffoons would never find his section of the Key of Esse. He closed his eyes, accepting and awaiting his certain fate, when suddenly a light so bright that it illuminated through his closed eyes blazed through the Great Hall. Brother Bennett’s eyes flicked open as he heard the furious screeches of Craven and Schnither and a hundred other black creatures, and there before him was a myriad of radiant angelic beings, all dressed for battle with bronze breast plates and devastatingly powerful swords in their mighty hands.

“Thadius Bennett!” One of the Heavenly Host yelled to Brother Bennett from the furore. “Go,
now!
You must take the key and commit it to a safe place. It cannot be found –
must not be found
– until such times as the Atoner stipulates. Do you understand?”

Brother Bennett nodded his understanding to the great warrior, who stood at least eight feet tall, and whose golden eyes sparked and flashed like lightning. The angelic combatant did not repeat himself, but returned at once to the battle, his sword thrusting and slicing with deadly effect.

Thadius Bennett did not waste another second; he grabbed his habit around the knees, and hoisted it up just above his ankles then ran with all the might he possessed, out through the abbey’s anteroom, out through the small side door and into the light. Still he ran, down the winding pathway and out through the abbey’s gates, his pace never slacking despite the burning and aching in his old knees. Brother Bennett ran on, with the supernatural pace of a man half his age, never once looking back, until he Darken Abbey was nothing more than a speck on the horizon and an image emblazoned in his memory…

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Copyright © Julie K. Timlin, 2014

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ISBN 978-1-78148-315-2 in electronic format

ISBN 978-1-78148-722-8 in printed format

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