Piercing the Darkness (76 page)

“That has to be it!” said a spirit to his friends.

They were whirring and rushing along above the highway, keeping pace with the truck and eyeing it curiously. The spirit leading them had been in a terrible fight; his wings were tattered, his flight was wobbly, and his face was misshapen.

“This time,” he slurred, “we won’t let any heavenly warrior stop us!”

“Destroyer will reward us!” said another.

“We will stop the truck and get that letter!”

They swept their wings tightly behind their shoulders and dropped like torpedoes toward the truck, cutting through the thin layers of morning mist, the wind whistling through their wings and whiskers.
This should be easy enough. They could foul the engine, break the steering, flatten a tire. They could—

LIGHT! SWORDS! WARRIORS! The truck was full of them!

Nathan shot into the air and met the battered demon.

“You again?” they both said.

The demon dissolved into red smoke. Nathan spun to take out another one.

Armoth tore three spirits apart with one sword swipe, and then spun in a blur to bash two more with his heel.

A dozen warriors had burst out of the truck and now swirled around it, swatting and hacking.

Their picnic ruined, the remaining spirits fled like flies and the truck kept rolling.

CHAPTER 40

THE SAINTS WERE
on their knees. The division was fading. Mark had devoted multiplied hours of his time and large measures of his personal concern to healing and restoring the hurting and wounded among his flock, steadily, prayerfully undoing the tangled mess that Destroyer and his hordes had created in the church. It had taken some real breaking, some repenting, some forgiving on all sides, but it happened, and was still happening, one heart at a time.

The Jessups were so hurt and dismayed that it took careful, loving appeals from the Walroths for them to come back into fellowship; Judy Waring was carrying a lot of bitterness against the likes of Donna Hemphile who had used her—and her mouth—to hurt God’s people. But she had to admit that it was, after all, her mouth and her heart, and she started her turnabout with those two areas of her life. Every one of them had to totally reevaluate their opinion of Tom Harris, and they were still in that process even as they prayed.

It wasn’t an easy restoration for any of them, but in the face of their revealed enemy they had a clear choice: rejoin God’s army and fight the evil that was even now destroying them, their families, and their Christian faith, or . . . proceed with being destroyed.

They rejoined the army—with a vengeance.

THE ANGELS KEPT
quiet, stayed low, and didn’t talk much as they secretly placed themselves at strategic points around the country, waiting for Tal’s “brushfire” to start.

Mota the Polynesian and Signa the Oriental had many points to cover all around the Bacon’s Corner area, but they now had more than enough warriors, so carefully, methodically they covered them. Terga, the tender-egoed prince of the town, was getting edgy about the sudden tide of prayer coming from the reunited saints, but so far he did not sense the activity all that prayer was bringing about. Besides, he’d heard the news from the powers above him: the woman had been captured; the danger was over.

CREE THE NATIVE
American and Si the East Indian had returned once again to the Omega Center for Educational Studies, and were now planting angelic warriors like explosive charges in just the right places all around the campus. It was tedious, dangerous work, the greatest danger being discovery. While they crawled along or under the ground, moved under the surface of the lake, stole from tree to tree, or spent hours totally motionless under rocks, boats, or buildings to avoid discovery, they could always see Barquit, the Prince of Omega, soaring to and fro, his eyes everywhere, laughing and exulting in any progress made in the classes and workshops, then growling and spitting at any clumsy moves by his demons or by his puppet-people below. He was still very much in charge and ruling his demon hordes with an iron hand. Now that the woman was captured, he felt no fears or worries at all, and obviously planned on remaining at his post forever.

ON THE SURFACE,
Bentmore University looked like the same old red-brick, permanently established alma mater it had always been, and classes were in full swing as usual.

In the spirit realm, however, Corrupter, Bentmore’s rotund master of disinformation and fleshly indulgence, moved like a blimp over the campus, seeking out any damage the school may have incurred from that recent, violent exchange with Heaven’s warriors. Ha! Destroyer was nothing but a status-anxious worrywart! Damage? There was none
to speak of. Professor Lynch had been a bit ill lately, but he was getting old anyway, and there were plenty more where he came from. With the woman captured, the future was wide open.

Across the river, atop the North American Can Company, Chimon the European and Scion of the British Isles were back, hiding behind one of the factory’s many ventilator stacks. Things looked quiet at Bentmore right now, but when Tal’s brushfire started, there would be noise enough.

Chimon and Scion were looking for hiding-places and sending troops to fill them. The warehouse by the river could hold a myriad or so; the wharf on the Bentmore side would also serve very well, being closer to the campus. The troops moved silently and quickly. One false move, one ill-timed glint of light, could endanger them all.

AT EVERY POINT
along Sally’s journey, at every stronghold of Satan, the angels moved into position and then waited for the signal.

But they all knew they were waiting longer than expected.

IN THE PEAKS
above Summit, Tal and Guilo watched and listened for any hint of what might be happening inside. Behind them, a hidden army lay in waiting, ready.

“Any time now,” Tal said more than once. “Any time.”

IN PURELY A
physical sense, Mr. Goring’s chalet was an inviting A-framed structure built with rough-hewn timbers and a full-height glass front that commanded a marvelous view of the mountains. It could have served so well as a ski lodge or mountain getaway.

In a spiritual sense, it was a churning, frothing hornets’ nest of evil, and Sally could feel it even before her captors led her through the front door. She knew she was being watched from every direction; she could discern the oppressive, smothering hate that covered the place like a leaden fog.

Destroyer was already in the chalet, shoving his way into the living room, brushing aside the Strongman’s demons and attendants with
rude boldness. Into the Strongman’s lair he went, strutting down a narrow aisle formed by two straight lines of demon lords from all over the world, until finally he stood in the presence of the Strongman.

“My Ba-al,” he said loudly, with a rather showy bow, “I bring to you Sally Beth Roe!”

The Strongman had heard the demonic cloud in an uproar, and now he could see Khull and his party bringing Sally Roe to the front door. He nodded in carefully measured approval. “So you have. So you have.”

The demon lords raised their swords to begin a cheer.

The Strongman growled, his arms outstretched, “Hold!” They froze and stared at him. “First we will see if there is anything to cheer about.”