"Then it's even more serious than I thought."
"Isn't it serious enough?"
Tate gripped the side of the table with one hand, and pointed at Robert with the other. "If they're killing, sacrificing, then there can only be one reason."
"They enjoy it?"
"They're attempting to raise Him."
Robert looked at Tate sideways. "Come on! Satan? You're telling me they're trying to conjure him up or something? That's ridiculous."
"No more ridiculous than our Lord Jesus Christ coming back from the dead. They want him to appear in the flesh, Robert. After all, hasn't this world been called by many a Hell on Earth? Wouldn't He be right at home here?"
"You don't seriously believe that."
Tate held up his hand. "What I believe is irrelevant, they believe it. And they will carry on executing people until He appears."
"Then what will they do?"
"Anything He tells them to. He's their master."
There was silence for a few minutes, during which Robert looked down at the table. "They have to be stopped. Regardless of what they think is going to happen, I can't just let them carry on."
"I know," replied Tate.
He studied the Reverend. "Will you come back with me to the castle? I could really use your insight."
Tate breathed out wearily before answering. "When God calls me, I must answer."
Robert thanked him and got up, leaving the cottage to fetch his horse. They would set off immediately for Nottingham. Gwen came back into the room when she heard the door slam. She was still cradling Clive Jr in her arms.
"Don't bother to explain. I heard everything."
"You were listening?" Tate was more than a little surprised.
"Of course. I can't stand to be around that man, but I wanted to know what was going on. Seems I was right all along about another threat coming." Gwen fixed Tate with a stare. "Still think Robert and his men can protect us?"
"As I said before, my child, I know he will try."
"And you will help him?"
"I will."
"Then I wish you all the luck in the world," Gwen said, before walking out again.
"And I," whispered Tate, his eyes trailing her as she disappeared, "pray that God might deliver you from this darkness." Whether he meant the darkness of the conflicts to come, the Morningstar cult and whatever waited for him at the Castle, or the darkness inside Gwen's own soul, not even Tate knew for sure.
CHAPTER SIX
The blade swished as it whipped past his ear, narrowly missing his head.
He rolled out of the way then leapt up to avoid another stroke, beneath him this time. Landing badly, he toppled to one side — recovering just quick enough to fall backwards when he saw the blade about to run him through. He hit the ground hard, emptying his lungs. Laying there, sucking in a deep breath, he saw a shadow fall over him.
Then the blade was at his throat.
If it had been a real sword, he'd be dead by now. As it was all he'd suffered were a couple of splinters in his neck.
A hand reached down and he took it, felt himself being hauled to his feet. The man standing opposite Mark said nothing, merely gestured that he was ready to go again if the boy was. Mark nodded to the dark-skinned soldier, his sparring partner today. Mark didn't know Azhar all that well, but the man wielded a sword like he'd been born with it in his hand. Jack had left Mark to 'do battle' with him over an hour ago, and as he now watched the man spin the sword Mark wished his tutor had at least given him a weapon to fight back with.
Azhar swung again, the wood clipping Mark's left shoulder. He let out a yelp, hopping back out of its way. He didn't stay there for long though, because his opponent was already moving forward, jabbing for his ribs. "Hey, watchit!" Mark cried when the tip poked him hard in the side. He had to react fast, as the wood flashed past his face. Now that one really would have hurt!
Azhar's feet were a blur as he positioned himself in front of Mark, preparing to swing the sword again. Mark dived beneath the next sweep, running at Azhar to try and shove him off balance. The man easily side-stepped the boy's attack, causing Mark to dive head-first at the ground. He came skidding to a stop on the slushy snow of the Middle Bailey field, where a pair of size 15 boots were waiting.
"Very impressive, kid. The old sliding on the snow manoeuvre." Mark cast his eyes upwards to see Jack standing there, leaning on his staff and chuckling. He helped him to his feet, then brushed the snow roughly from the front of his jacket.
"It's not funny," said Mark. "And it's not fair, either. How come he gets a sword and I don't?"
"You think you're always going to have a weapon to hand?" Jack shook his head. "Uh-uh. Nope. But your opponent might."
"What if my opponent has a semi-automatic?"
"Then you learn how to dodge bullets as well as swords."
"This is pointless."
"If it helps, think about it like Jedi training."
Mark moaned. "It doesn't. I was never a big movie fan, Jack, remember? I was more into sports — which is how I ended up following your career."
Jack smiled at the reference to his time on the wrestling circuit. "Still my number one fan, eh?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On how long I have to keep doing this shit for."
Jack clipped him around the ear. "That's cos Robert's not here, or he'd have done the same. It's not grown up to cuss like that."
Mark let his shoulders sag.
"Look, tell you what: Azhar, toss Mark your sword a second."
The soldier threw his wooden sword over to the boy, who almost dropped it.
"Okay, now you're armed. He's not. Think you can take him?"
Mark grinned, swinging the sword to test its weight. It was payback time. He stepped into the area of combat, while Jack watched from the sidelines. Azhar hunched down low and matched Mark's circling movements, eyes flitting from his enemy's face to his hands. Mark swung the sword experimentally. He'd practised before with one of these, sneaked away when no one was looking to get the feel of what it was like. He'd taken on trees and fences, fancied himself as pretty good too — not in Azhar's league, of course, but given enough time… Except Azhar didn't have the sword anymore, did he? Now the advantage was all Mark's.
He came at Azhar, swinging left and right. The darker-skinned man moved like a cat, making sure the sword never came within three feet of his body. Mark gripped the weapon with both hands, bringing it up in an arc which would ordinarily have caught his opponent beneath the chin — but Azhar had already leaned back. The difference between his move and the one Mark attempted earlier was that Azhar was soon upright again.
Mark showed his teeth, in an effort to put Azhar off, but there was absolutely no reaction. This made him even angrier. He swung the blade this way and that, as he figured he was bound to strike something sooner or later — an arm, a leg… a whack in the head might be nice in return for all the pokes and prods.
He hit nothing.
Mark was on his final swipe — Azhar right in front of him — when suddenly the man wasn't there anymore. He was at Mark's side, having dropped and slid around, and was relieving Mark of the sword, grabbing his wrists and wrenching the weapon free. In seconds Mark was again on the wrong end of the tip, which was hovering between his eyes.
There was laughter coming from somewhere. At first Mark thought it was Jack again, but it wasn't deep enough. When Azhar stepped back Mark turned and saw Dale sitting on the steps to the East Terrace. He had his guitar with him, and was shaking his head, clapping his thigh at the sight of Mark's defeat.
"Nice one, Marky. You had him right where he wanted you," Dale brought his guitar around and started to play a melody, making up words on the spot.