Guardian (17 page)

For all her optimism, two long and frustrating days were to pass before word came of a dhow with a copper post edging into the bay just ahead of a swiftly darkening sky. One thing was certain. It had come from the south, the right direction, and it obviously had no wish to attract attention, because it had dropped anchor well away from the beach. Clearly, there was no run ashore planned for this crew. Kimau found Roz down by the mole that marked the end of Malindi harbour, her bare legs hanging over its edge, suntanned heels kicking up and down as she squinted morosely out to sea. He squatted down beside her and didn't have to tell her why he was there.

“Where is it?”

“Not far, just around the headland there. It will not take us long. You can't see it from here, but it's definitely the one you're looking for. Come, I will show you.”

Roz scrambled to her feet and followed him eagerly, almost running to keep up with his long, loping strides until they rounded the small point and stopped. The soft, still warm sand trickled through her bare toes as she stood facing the sea, one hand shading her eyes against the dazzle of the undulating water, sparkling with the last rays of the lowering sun. Just inside the line of the reef, its great sail furled, a nondescript dhow rode at anchor. Completely unremarkable and, like all of its kind, completely devoid of paint, it could have been any one of the thousands that endlessly processed along the East African coast. Except, that is, for an unusual, sturdy and highly polished copper post fixed mid-ships, which even now appeared to have someone or something propped against it. But even for her young eyes, the shape was impossible to make out from that distance and elevation. Roz stared hard at the isolated boat bobbing and ducking to the roll of the incoming waves, snubbing at a long coir rope that no doubt ended in a rough-hewn block of coral doing duty as an anchor somewhere ahead of it. She could see no activity, but that was hardly unusual for the time of evening. Eyes narrowed, she thought hard for a moment. How long was it likely to stay? The tide would turn favourable for departure in an hour or so, but would she set sail in the dark, or wait till morning, when the tide would once again favour the ungainly vessel and the swiftly growing light would ensure an easier passage through the treacherous reef? And how many crew were likely to be on board? She knew that a four-hundred ton boum dhow would normally carry between eight and sixteen crew, but it was already getting too dark to make out the details. So could she really risk boarding in the face of so many unknowns? She was at least certain Kimau's uncle would now take her out, but he was equally adamant in his resolve to stay clear of any likely fracas, already considering any attempt at a rescue to be foolhardy in the extreme. There was no doubting the crew would treat any infiltration on board as a threat to their lives, never mind their livelihood, and it was predictable that they would act accordingly. Little mercy would be given or expected in the dark and confusion of night. And Roz was almost convinced that at the first hint of mayhem, her transport would leave. In any case, with the stakes so high, she couldn't expect the others to get involved. After all, with the sole exception of Kimau, who might be persuaded to ‘volunteer', they had their own lives to lead.

Surreptitiously, she glanced at her companion, who was also trying to make out details in the fading light. She hadn't broached the subject yet, but was acutely aware she would need his help if there was to be any hope of a rescue – always assuming this was the slaving vessel she was after. So far she had no weapons, no backup and little idea of how to get on board. The only positive attribute she had going for her was iron-clad resolve. But what was that worth against well-armed men? Squinting at the distant hull, any clandestine attempt to get on board seemed like a hopeless recipe for disaster, and she knew it. But for all that, she had no intention of backing down. She would just have to improvise as she went along or become one more member of the cargo if it all went pear-shaped. The gathering darkness finished its rapid slide across the water, frustrating any further hope of observation, and the urgency of the situation once more pressed in upon her. Her mind made up, she swung towards Kimau and put him on the spot.

* * *

Kimau's uncle was old and grizzled, but with Kimau's aid he worked the sail with a dexterity that brought the little craft to a dead stop, head into wind and a mere foot or two from the wooden hull looming over their flimsy craft, its slick sides reeking of rotting seaweed, stale fish and something indefinable, yet deeply disturbing and nauseous, all at the same time. Apart from the hiss of water forcing under the keel and the creak of wood on wood as she pitched against the waves coming from her bow, there was little sound, certainly nothing emanating from the deck above to startle Roz. It was shortly after midnight and their objective had remained swathed in its pitch-black mantle, her raked mast blotting out the stars one by one as it swung in lazy circles against the night sky. No light pierced the darkness around the ship, which seemed to drain even the little light the sea did manage to reflect. There had been no sound and no obvious movement to disturb the deceptive stillness as they warily approached the dhow from the west, close in to the beach and taking advantage of the off-shore breeze. A breeze that had, by its very direction, forced them to risk being spotted against the white sands gleaming softly behind them in the pale starlight. However, had they but known it, there was no immediate danger from the crew who, to a man, were stretched out comatose on the cluttered deck, taking what rest they could.

On the other hand, the wraith-like creatures infesting every square inch of the floating nightmare were very much awake and watching with mounting glee as the tiny craft slowly crept towards them. With Roz now right below them, desperately searching for a foothold against the heave and pitch of her fishing smack, a ripple of evil anticipation flickered along the deck like the sigh of a morning breeze riffling through stately palms. Now – now was the time to rouse the crew, to stoke their deepest fears, to wake them suddenly with a half-remembered whisper of danger in the far recesses of their sleep-dulled minds. To thus goad the sleeping crew was meat and drink to the reptilian onlookers, forever lusting after the life-force of their potential victims. In their swarming hoards they hung boldly above the sleeping crew, confident their long-practiced intervention would trigger an immediate and deadly outcome. Cravings already whetted that day, they had watched me writhe and moan as I begged the owner to stop the merciless lashing that drew yet more blood from dozens of deep cuts all over my body, arms and legs. And now here was an opportunity to witness, to even initiate, guaranteed butchery and probably get away with it, as far as Heaven was concerned. All it needed was the right trigger and the nameless guilt and dread in which all the crew were steeped by the horrors of their trade would quickly do the rest, driving them into a frenzy of activity, sufficient to overwhelm any stranger daring to step onto the ship's deck. At which point, virtually nothing could halt the killing of someone like Roz, who surely had little or no chance of defending herself against fully grown men.

The heave of a passing wave coincided neatly with her furthest stretch and suddenly Roz found herself treading air as the wave receded, the fingers of her right hand the only means of preventing a dangerous and ignominious descent back to the sea that had already drenched her. Clutching the mid-ships guardrail with all her strength, and fighting desperately against the combined lurch upward of the dhow and the downward pull of gravity, Roz forced herself to lunge with her left hand towards a rope end flopping backwards and forwards just above her. The roll of the ship dangled her helplessly outwards, but its reverse pitch brought the rope within momentary reach and, with a barely suppressed gasp of relief, she began to pull herself upwards, feet scrabbling for purchase against the rough planking.

It wasn't so much the barely perceptible change in the background noise that triggered the preternatural alert. Rather the instantly suppressed glitter of an impossibly white light sparkling off a small patch of worn grey sail sagging from the end of the dhow's uneven boom, still secured where it had been roughly lashed as the anchor went overboard. The flicker was so quick that the scattered photons of ethereal light were gone even as they registered, but the devils' leader, Arcturus, caught the mistake as his eyes roved the deck, impatiently waiting for the right moment to give the command that would start the intended riot.

The brief warning had barely faded from his retina before Arcturus knew for a surety what was coming. It wasn't that he'd made any particular mistake, or been foolish enough to let down his guard. Long eons of time had taught him that, in his book, the Enemy never did play fair. God was just as likely to materialise a whole regiment of warrior angels right on top of the dhow as allow Arcturus to get on with his business undisturbed. That was the problem. You never knew what the Enemy was up to, or where He would stir up the next dispute over His beloved humans, or even over territory. And as for Arcturus' own supreme commander, Lucifer, if you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and lost any of his territory, you were damned. Literally. There was no alternative. Particularly if you were in command: you fought to the death, or you faced certain conviction and at best exile, probably attended by the rest of your outraged company. Rumour had it that Lucifer had even begun using the Enemy's own invention for his own ends, the gruesome annex to Hell referred to in the Enemy's writings as the bottomless pit. Apparently, it had recently become his weapon of choice for destroying those unfortunate enough to cross him. There was no appeal and once dispatched no one had ever returned. Arcturus shuddered, but this time he did at least have an edge. Not much perhaps, but hopefully just enough. At a guess, the angels shadowing him and growing in numbers ever since the slaver had set out from Durban, had been ordered in because something had changed and right now that could only mean the recently arrived boat with its lone female, who was in the very act of slipping silently over the port gunnels. For the life of him, he wasn't sure why this puny entity was worth any bother, but something had obviously stirred the Enemy and He was clearly displeased, or He wouldn't have ordered an attack. For centuries Arcturus had been pursuing his grisly trade unmolested, even before the fiasco on the west coast of Africa during the 1740s, when he had first come to Satan's attention by losing John Newton, a prized slaver captain. If that hadn't dragged out over several years of administrative incompetence involving a few arch-demons, he would have been summarily executed there and then. However, as fate would have it, there were enough of the hierarchy involved to ensure others took the rap, allowing him to escape execution. Just.

* * *

After that it had taken years of assiduous work but, with precisely the right mixture of subservient depravity and brazen arrogance, he had advanced far enough up the promotion ladder to come to the attention of Satan's inner court and, despite what his immediate superior thought of him, he was sure he was now considered almost useful within the upper echelons of Hell's hierarchy. Moreover, as a relatively senior commander he could, if all went well, expect eventual access to Hell's presiding council and perhaps even participation in the sort of acts of depravity over which, as yet, he could only dream and slobber in eager anticipation. If only he could manage to keep a low profile in the meantime. Almost hissing with rage he watched carefully as the angels approached.

From where they had been trailing him, just off to seaward, he knew they could easily have reached the dhow undetected if one of them hadn't made the elementary mistake of easing sword and scabbard too early. But as far as Arcturus was concerned, that was one mistake too many. The razor-edged blades they wielded were fearsome, but they were only ever as good as the warriors who sported them. And it didn't take much light to pierce the thick pall of darkness surrounding the dhow, which any angel worth his salt would have known. With long years of campaigning behind him, Arcturus recognised instinctively where the weakness lay. Experienced warrior angels, any one of whom could match any ten of his own veterans single-handed, didn't make elementary gaffes of that nature. So, with at least one of the angels short on experience, there was every reason to suppose their line of advance could be turned, provided he was off the mark fast enough. Yet even as Arcturus began to relocate his forces, Numibia, the dark-skinned and supremely athletic angel in overall command, was weighing up the odds on just that likelihood. Numibia knew they'd blown it. Like the rest of them, he had to admit to a certain inexperience, but that didn't mean he was irresponsible, or that he would simply ignore the mistake. None of the angels now under his command had been assigned to Earth very long and, so far, they had been spared the raw power and ugliness of Earth-side skirmishes, most of which, by all accounts, tended to be a far cry from the set-piece battles junior angels studied and war-gamed back in Heaven. There, the King's armies had instant access to overwhelming force wherever and whenever it was needed. War in Heaven exulted in the sort of backup system guaranteed to thwart even Satan's evil genius, and it always struck terror into the hearts of his fallen troops, driving them to a fever pitch of useless speculation whenever battle was about to be joined. Hard as they might try to guess where the next assault would materialise, God merely had to speak a word and any one of a number of distinguished squadrons would materialise instantly, exactly where required. Hence the demon's poor morale and often careless tactics. But here on Earth it was very different, and Numibia had begun to wonder why he, of all unit commanders, had been given charge of this motley bunch of raw troops. Somehow, it seemed none of them had previously graced a frontline squadron on Earth detachment, which meant he was immensely grateful for Israfel's presence.

As far as Numibia knew, his warriors hadn't even managed to earn distinction in the regular but less demanding warfare that had for so long marred the plains of Heaven. About which his human charges understood little. Trapped within their restrictive dimensions of time and space, they had only a minimal grasp of reality, believing Heaven to be ‘up there', somewhere above what seemed to them to be empty, inhospitable space. A belief of immense surprise to angels on their first Earth posting, as they began to learn more about their sassy, egotistical and highly valued charges. How could the pinnacle of God's creation, with few exceptions, be so ignorant? Of course, it didn't take long to understand why humans thought of space as no more than a vast emptiness or why, in their almost total ignorance, they assumed there was nothing ‘out there' except distant galaxies, stars and planets. But it did take quite a while to acknowledge, even to themselves, that virtually no human understood anything of the real universe in which they existed. Operating with a mere five senses was clearly a hindrance, barring all but the chosen few from even beginning to comprehend the reality of the Heaven that lay all around them. True, they were separated from this reality only by a thin veil, yet the completely incomprehensible dimensions that formed the full or ‘real' universe remained far beyond the understanding of most. But enough of human error. Back in the present, eyes narrowed, Numibia peered intently as he neared the slave boat, waiting for the inevitable response to their blown cover. Nevertheless, he had almost begun to believe they might have got away with it when the dhow erupted. Before he could shout a warning, a phalanx of black forms exploded outwards from the wooden hull and threw themselves savagely against the startled angels.

* * *

Arcturus, battle plan full formed, had telepathically accessed what passed for minds amongst his ill-disciplined horde and ordered a number of them quickly forward to disrupt the angels' advance. He had decided to buy more time for himself to organise an effective defence by first sacrificing a few of the less useful thugs under his command. A sacrifice he could afford to make at this stage. A nominal force of demons mixing it with even halfway determined angels would guarantee defeat, but that wasn't his concern. For now, at least. He was much more interested in taking down the young woman, because he had an idea that killing her would thwart the Enemy's plans, and that would certainly get him recognition. Provided he survived.

Wide on the flank, Israfel saw them coming even before Numibia. As one of the few who had any previous experience of fighting on Earth, the Guardian had been automatically asked to captain the right of the line, drawing it round in a sweeping pincer movement. The move was aimed at encircling the ship and forcing Arcturus to spread his troops along several fronts at once, or lose all hope of repulsing the angels as they moved swiftly forward in their thin but disciplined line. After some days of being obliged to watch from the side-lines as Paul suffered, Israfel had been itching to have a go at the sinister militia that not only swarmed all over the dhow, but could regularly be seen leering and gesturing as they freewheeled above the angel camp in an arrogant but ultimately pathetic display of strength. For what seemed like ages now, Numibia had also waited restlessly for the command that would rescind the embargo on pre-emptive strikes. Since the day the slaver had cleared the South African port on yet another of its lethal trading voyages, there was not an angel among them who hadn't wanted to take the fight to the enemy. But direct intervention had been expressly forbidden. Until now, their orders had allowed retaliation only if directly attacked. Not that it stopped them from meting out the occasional sharp reminder of exactly where everyone stood in the pecking order. Usually with individuals who got too close, or grew too cocky, clearly labouring under the mistaken impression that a lack of action implied weakness. Now at last, Numibia was about to discover exactly what Earthbound combat would be like with at least one, maybe two full legions of demons under the command of an able, ruthless and determined leader. Not that he was going to take any great pleasure in close-quarter fighting. Quite the contrary, because he, like Israfel, found their foetid smell and endless stream of coarse invective somewhat unnerving. Nevertheless, both had seen and heard sufficient to strengthen their resolve and, in Israfel's case particularly, enough to leave him seething with anger over the way Paul and the rest of the human cargo were being treated.

A sharp call from somewhere to the left cut through these reflections and, in a single smooth and practised movement full of deadly promise, Israfel drew his main weapon and let its light flash on the contorted features of the nearest assassin diving at him from slightly above and to his left. Apparently relying on height and speed to give momentary advantage, his opponent had committed himself with unusual and surprising haste. Israfel didn't bother to swing at him, contenting himself with a swift step forward and down to use the creature's own speed to his advantage. In free flight, unable to stop and too close to the next angel to risk a banked turn that would expose his vulnerable flank, the demon's underbelly was inevitably and dangerously exposed to Israfel's upturned sword. Having repositioned, all Israfel had to do was angle his sword upward and wait. The sudden countermove caught the onrushing demon by surprise. It was either inexperience, or sheer carelessness but, by the time comprehension dawned, it was never going to matter which. The razor-sharp tip, honed to the width of a single light photon, simply vanished into the creature, more or less where his navel would have been if he had been born in the sense that humans understood birth. But of course he hadn't. Eons before, God had simply spoken and he had appeared instantly, full formed, a magnificent, radiant angel, created to stand in the ranks of the favoured, ablaze with an intense inner light and appointed for an incredible future. That is, until he gave in to pride and threw in his lot with Lucifer. Lucifer, the most beautiful of all God's creatures, who desperately wanted God's throne for himself and who was prepared to provoke mutiny to achieve his fantasy. This weaver of dreams, this arch-liar had enticed away nearly a third of the angel host with promises of higher rank and greater status in his new, ‘independent' administration.

Now, as with all those who had given way to that temptation, the years of self-indulgence and separation from God had taken their toll. Chevin (for that was the demon's God-given name), reduced to a lowly captain of a burned-out platoon, had grown ugly and spiteful over the years, reflecting outwardly the vicious hatred spawned in his spirit, which now burned unchecked, as he continually contemplated the depth of his awful, decisive and irreparable mistake. Ruthlessness and an unspeakably cruel attitude had replaced a once gracious disposition; spite coloured everything; depraved lust informed every decision; and only the depth and intensity of his despair marked him out from a thousand wilful colleagues. But above all his anguish had found focus in an implacable hatred for his chosen champion, the Prince of Darkness. Satan, from whom there was no escape. The one who had already ensured his own eternal damnation in the lake of fire, the final fate for all of Hell's denizens and certain humans. And now in the instant of joining battle, those distant fires were beckoning. Sick with the realisation, Chevin sensed rather than felt the unbearable light flooding him as the blade sank deep, piercing to his very essence. For a creature nurtured in profound darkness, light was the one medium against which there was no defence.

Which was precisely why the angels needed so little armament, yet remained so confident of ultimate success. They knew darkness cannot stand against light. Even a single candle in a dark room will destroy darkness. A sword, whose nearest description in human terms was a laser, but which surpassed any laser much as an interplanetary rocket might outstrip the first steam engine, was a virtual passport to victory, even in the hands of an apprentice. Almost, but not quite. And it was the ‘not quite' that, against all the odds, kept alive a slender, albeit continually frustrated, expectation amongst the fallen angels that they might, somehow, somewhere, get lucky. To his left, Israfel could see a darting mass tearing into the thin line of angels and then breaking up as combatants squared off, with up to half a dozen of the black-shrouded fiends swarming around individual angels. Here and there, a pair would emerge from the fray locked together in mortal combat, shooting up or down, it made no difference, trailing fire as sword met sword, the picture of temporary chaos which, as always, permitted that tiny element of doubt as to the eventual outcome of the battle. An impression that lasted barely as long as it took to take in.