The Word of God (58 page)

Stephen climbed out after her. The two stood looking anxiously around. The Sargent Major called out: “Here are your two. Now let Major Johnston go. They can pass in the middle of the street.”

That was what had been agreed. Peter turned to Joy: “Untie him,” he said, indicating the Sig.

“No,” Graham contradicted. “They can do that. Just get up and start walking fella.” With that he re-aimed his rifle

Major Johnston stood up and brushed his uniform. “There won't be any treachery. We are going, now that you have the Scroll. Mind you, we might be back.” He said that with a twinkle in his eye. For a moment Peter had visions of a whole company of Confederate infantry assaulting the police station and he looked anxiously around.

Then he calmed himself and met the major's eye. “Sorry you came all this way for nothing sir,” he replied.

Major Johnston shrugged, then, to Peter's surprise he saluted. “You cadets have done really well.”

Major Johnston turned and motioned his sig to start walking. On an impulse Peter called out: “Sir! Major Johnston!”

Major Johnston stopped and turned. Peter tugged the revolver from his belt and clicked it open. For a moment he fumbled, unsure how to remove the bullets.

“Swing the cylinder out and push that rod,” Major Johnston explained.

Peter did so and found the bullets falling into his left hand. He gripped his SMG under his arm while he shoved the bullets into his pocket. Then he recovered his grip on the SMG and handed the revolver butt first to the major.

Major Johnston nodded and smiled. “That's a real gentlemanly gesture sir. I thank you. Now good day to you. And if you ever come to America look us up.”

At that Peter looked doubtful. Major Johnston laughed. “Don't worry.

We don't hold those sort of grudges. You kids have shown yourselves to be honourable soldiers of Christ. I don't consider you as enemies. In fact I wish you were in my company. Now I'd better say goodbye and get going before the police
arrive.” He then saluted again. Peter swapped the SMG to his other hand and returned the salute.

Major Johnston then turned and walked briskly down the path after his Sig. As he went through the gate Stephen and Megan started walking towards them. Peter stood with sweaty palms, gripping the SMG and hoping. Were more Confederates creeping up from the back to get the Scroll back? He felt an uneasy prickling up his spine.

“Joy, watch the back of the building,” he called.

Joy nodded and moved to the back corner of the police station to look up across the back yard. Peter watched anxiously as Stephen and Megan passed the Sig and Major Johnston in the middle of the intersection.

Now is the danger period,
Peter thought.
As soon as the major is out of the line of fire.

“Back off Gwen, and get under cover,” Peter said. Graham went even lower, his rifle aimed at the machine gunner.

Stephen and Megan came in the gate. Megan broke into a run. Tears were streaming down her face.

Peter gestured behind him. “Keep going Megan, get under cover in case they attack to get the Scroll back,” he warned as she reached him. He wasn't sure if she had heard as she embraced Gwen and a fresh flood of tears began.

Stephen understood though as he swerved and dived down behind the tree Major Johnston had been propped against. “I didn't see any,” he said. “They are shuttling people to Tepon airfield as fast as they can by vehicle. I think they are trying to get out of the country before the police can act.”

“Is that where you were?” Peter asked. He moved to crouch behind the corner post of the ‘L' shaped veranda as Major Johnston and his signaller climbed into the Land Rover. Heart beating fast Peter raised the SMG and squinted through the sights.

Stephen nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “They've got a couple of old piston engined transport planes there; a Douglas DC3 and one of those Flying Boxcar things, you know, the ones with twin tail booms. They belong to the Free Confederate Air Force of Alabama.”

“That figures,” Peter replied. Then he tensed again and watched as the machine gunner got up. The soldier turned and climbed into the back of the Land Rover. The Sargent Major moved to join him.

Peter swallowed and tried to stop himself shaking.
Any second now, if it is going to happen,
he thought.

Graham called: “I thought this mob came from Mississippi.”

“They do,” Stephen replied. “I guess their neighbours provided the transport.”

By this time all the Confederates were now in the Land Rover. With a roar it suddenly accelerated. Within seconds it had vanished behind the buildings in the direction of the main street.

“If they are going to attack it will be now,” Peter warned. “Graham, go and help cover the rear.”

Graham stood up and turned to move. As he did another voice came from up on the veranda- a harsh voice with a foreign accent.

“Stand still all of you. Put your hands up and drop your weapons or this girl dies.”

Peter spun round and froze in shock.

The Black Monk! And he was holding Joy and had a pistol aimed at her head!

Chapter 37

INSPECTOR GOLDSTEIN

T
he Black Monk!

Peter's heart rate whipsawed with fear.
The Black Monk! And he has Joy as a hostage!

A second Devil Worshipper in a black balaclava moved to stand on the veranda beside the Black Monk and a third appeared at the corner of the building. The sun was shining directly on the Black Monk and Peter received a vivid impression of the man.

His face was harsh and drawn, the skin brown and wrinkled like leather. His eyes were a glittering black and he had bushy black eyebrows which met in the middle. Uneven, yellowish teeth were bared in a snarl of hate. The man's black cassock and cowl were ragged and filthy. Over his right shoulder was slung what appeared to be a huge sword. In his hand was a snub nosed automatic pistol.

A claw-like hand shot out. “Drop the guns and move over there! Quick! Or the girl dies a horrible death while you watch.”

Peter gaped, aghast. He glanced at Joy in anguish, then at Graham who was biting his lip. There did not seem to be any option although Peter suspected that they would die anyway so he might as well fight and get it over with.

If only the Confederates will attack now!
he thought; knowing it was illogical as he had just been desperately hoping they wouldn't.
At least they might not shoot us.

For a minute they stood like a frozen tableau. Then Frank shrugged and dropped his shotgun. Sir Miles stood up and let his revolver slip to the grass.

The Black Monk snarled again: “Quickly! Drop der guns! Zen move over zere. Move or I shoot!”

One of the Devil Worshippers had a pistol trained on Graham. Peter could almost see Graham's mind at work:
He's thinking, ‘Can I raise my rifle and shoot before he hits me?'

Peter wondered the same but in his heart he knew the Black Monk was not bluffing. Then, to Peter's relief, Graham gave a shrug and a grimace of disgust then lowered the M16 to the lawn. Reluctantly, and sick at heart with dread, Peter did likewise with the SMG. Gwen was the last to put her weapon down.

The Black Monk pointed again: “Over zere, near der building in von line. Move! Batoff, collect zer guns, schnell!”

Peter remained where he was between the concrete path and the veranda of the L shaped part of the building. Gwen moved to join him, then Graham, Stephen, Megan and Frank. Old Ned scuttled across, whimpering with fear. Sir Miles stood defiantly near the tree.

The Black Monk aimed his pistol at him. “Move, or die now!”

Sir Miles stared back, his face impassive. He said: “You will kill us anyway so what is the difference?”

“Because you can die a hideous death or a mercifully quick vone,” the Black Monk replied.

Sir Miles nodded and moved to stand beside Peter. The Devil Worshipper on the veranda then came down the steps and began picking up the weapons, placing them well away. The second Devil Worshipper moved from the corner to stand on the path down near the gate, an automatic shotgun levelled at the group.

The Black Monk released Joy and pushed her down the steps. “Join der ozers!” he snapped. Joy stumbled and fell heavily, then managed to grip the railings and steady herself. She made her way across to stand on the end of the line near Peter.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “They were already inside and I wasn't looking that way.”

“Silence!” rapped the Black Monk. He gestured to where Sir Richard was smirking at them from the tree. “Batoff, cut der Schwarze Ritter free.”

As Batoff moved to do this the deep sound of engines became audible. The noise rose in volume until it filled the valley. Peter knew at once what is was.

Aero engines! The Confederates are escaping!
he thought.

A large aircraft flew low overhead. Peter glanced up and saw that he was right. It was a Flying Boxcar with its distinctive twin tail booms and twin engines.

No chance of the Confederates attacking now,
he thought bitterly, aware of the irony of the desire.

As the aircraft flew on up the valley, gaining height as it went, Batoff used a razor sharp knife to slash the ropes which bound Sir Richard's hands. Sir Richard struggled to his feet and stood rubbing his hands and wrists painfully. His face was a mask of malice.

The Black Monk moved down onto the lawn to stand facing them from near the tree. The appearance of the man was enough to make Peter's heart chill with fear.

They will kill us now for sure,
he thought.

This was almost immediately confirmed. The Black Monk bent down and seized the sack containing the Scroll. He tipped the Scroll out onto the lawn and bent to pick it up. For a moment he examined it. Then he grunted with satisfaction and turned to look at the group.

“Now you must all die. You owe Satan a sacrifice and the Lord of Darkness does not like to be cheated. So prepare your souls,” the Black Monk rasped.

At that a wave of absolute terror gripped Peter. His stomach churned and his bowels weakened. He began to sweat and shiver. Above all his mind grappled with the concept of God. Without conscious thought he began to pray fervently.

Beside him Old Ned began to gabble for mercy. He dropped to his knees and began crawling forward, hands out, pleading. Megan started to sob. Gwen started to pray aloud. Batoff moved quickly forward. In three strides he reached Old Ned. With a vicious kick to the head he sent the old man sprawling backwards.

Peter tensed himself.
If he comes that close again I will try to grab him,
he thought.

But he made no move. Fear was having a paralyzing effect.

Where are the police? Oh why doesn't Inspector Goldstein arrive?
he wondered. He knew he was shaking and sweating and wiped his palms on his shorts.

Sir Richard jabbed a finger at Sir Miles. “I will kill this one. It is my right. Give me the sword Friar.”

The Black Monk grunted, tucked the Scroll under his arm, then reached up over his right shoulder and drew out the sword. Peter gaped in surprise and fear. It was a real sword, a broad sword with a double edged blade nearly as long as the Black Monk was high. The blade rasped out of the scabbard and glittered in the sun. The Black Monk handed it to Sir Richard. The traitor took it in a two-handed grip and turned to face Sir Miles, his face a mask of hate. To Peter's horror he saw that the traitor was actually licking his lips in savage anticipation.

The sword was pointed at Sir Miles. “Kneel you pious, sanctimonious filth!” Sir Richard snarled.

Sir Miles stepped forward out of line. To Peter's surprise he bent his knee to kneel. At the same time he made the sign of the cross and said a prayer in what Peter presumed was Latin. Sir Richard sneered and braced himself. The sword was swung back.

Peter tensed himself, appalled by the tragedy about to happen. “Don't look Joy,” he gasped.

Sir Richard began his swing. As he did Sir Miles moved. In a desperate lunge he dived forward, his hands clawing for Sir Richard's legs. He missed; but so did Sir Richard. The mighty blade whistled in a savage arc and clanged onto the
concrete path. Sir Richard sprang clear of Sir Miles's clawing fingers and raised the sword for another swing.

Again the sword slashed down. Sir Miles rolled to one side and scrambled to his feet. The sword flashed in the sunlight and Sir Miles sprang back. He let out a gasp and Peter saw with horror that the blade had made contact with his right forearm. Blood began to drip and trickle from his fingers.

Sir Richard swore foully and raised the sword for another scything blow. This time Sir Miles ducked and rolled sideways. The sword slashed the air just above his head. He sprang aside and dodged behind the tree just in time to avoid the next savage swing. The blade chopped deep into the tree.

Sir Richard tried to swing the blade but it was stuck. Sir Miles instantly rushed in and punched him hard. Sir Richard lost his grip on the sword and both men went down in a struggling heap. For a minute they were locked in a desperate wrestle. Peter found he was cheering and urging Sir Miles on.

Batoff and the other man fingered their guns nervously and ordered them to stand back. The Black Monk moved forward and sent a brutal kick into the side of Sir Miles's head. Sir Miles reeled back, blood showing in one eye and on his lip. The Black Monk aimed the pistol at his head. For a second Peter thought the Black Monk was going to fire but instead he gestured to Sir Richard.

“Finish der job!” he snapped.

Sir Richard, panting and dishevelled, sprang back to the tree and wrenched the sword free. The Black Monk moved further away across the lawn to be clear of the fight. Sir Richard swung the sword from side to side in vicious swipes which audibly cut the air. Each time Sir Miles backed off until he was at the bottom of the stairs.

Gwen gasped. “Look out Sir Miles!” she screamed.