Guardian (19 page)

Fired by the sudden release of adrenalin that accompanies such unexpected frights, the fishermen chased the shark's passing with a stream of expletives that did little to compensate for their shock, but much to boost their confidence. Familiar as they were with the slashing teeth of their chosen trade, the narrowness of their own escape was not lost on them. For my part, I simply lay on my back in the fish-slimed water slopping around the bottom of the boat and let myself go, shaking from head to foot with a mixture of cold, exhaustion and fear. And adding to the general chaos as I retched and urinated weakly.

* * *

Almost immediately, however, I felt the uncomfortable, choppy motion of the boat steady as she rolled onto her beam and lay across the wind, pulling against the large sail I could now make out, drawn taut above me. Once it had probably been white, but now the moon's clean glow could raise little more than a pale flicker of grey as it pulled my rescuers ever more swiftly into the surrounding night, away from my prison of the recent past from where, even now, I could hear the sound of furious imprecations falling swiftly behind.

Except for the sibilant hiss of water running down the boat's thin hull, the silence closed around us and, staring intently, I was able, for the first time to take in my surroundings. So far, few words had been exchanged, but that was hardly surprising, given the effort involved in getting away before we snagged against the dhow or were hit by gunfire. Suddenly anxious for Roz, I remember twisting round, desperate to see her, and unexpectedly aware of the painful tenderness that attacked every part of my salt-cleansed body. The intensity of wanting to hold her, wanting to be sure she was OK surprised me. The darkness didn't make it easy, but the pale glow of her exposed flesh drew my eyes to the foot of the mast, where she appeared to be distractedly tying down a bundle of loose rope. As if aware of my gaze, she turned towards me with a smothered exclamation: “Paul, are you alright?” Trying to favour just about every part I could think of, I dragged myself into a sitting position, unable to prevent a grimace, which I know always makes me look as though I'm angry and which, in this case, I certainly wasn't.

Suitably propped, I managed to whisper back: “I've been worse.” I could see, even as I spoke, that the response was enough to drain the tenseness out of Roz and reassure the two men and the young lad now sitting almost immobile in the stern. There, the oldest of them leant against the tiller, leaving the others to attend to the set of the sail as the wind and sea combined to throw my newly acquired transport from side to side. I could tell pain wasn't about to get a holiday, but later I was to vaguely remember the sweet relief of fresh water held to my lips by a hand to which I owed everything.

Unable thereafter to do much more than lean against the hull and catch my breath, I waited as the boat put rapid distance between us and my nemesis. Away to my left, I could see the twinkling lights of a swiftly retreating settlement, which I presumed to be Malindi. I had little idea of my location, but it was quite clear that we were not heading towards the shore. Indeed, if anything, we seemed to be setting a course designed to take us back out beyond the reef and well clear of any obvious help. The shoreline, bright though the sand was in the gleaming moonlight, was already beginning to fade and the swell under the boat was once again lifting me with the hypnotic rhythm to which I had become so accustomed over the previous days. With the dhow lost in the darkness, the danger of being tracked by sound had passed and although there was little sense of elation, we could at least talk normally and, in so far as the small craft allowed it, we could rearrange and settle ourselves more comfortably. And this change in tempo and all that it meant brought with it a renewed surge of hope, which galvanised me into easing gently towards the mast, there to reach for Roz's arm. “Roz, where are we going? How did you find me? What are you doing here?” I could hear the words tumbling out, easier to understand now that I was no longer suffering quite so badly from the incipient lip stall of utter fatigue, but only just comprehensible for all that. But then, my thoughts were also lurching around with an associated lack of rationality.

For the time being, though, it was enough that I had the freedom even to ask. Eyes screwed up against the salt now drying rapidly on my eyelids and beginning to pulsate in the open wounds on my back, sides, thighs, in fact pretty much everywhere, I tried by the wash of moonlight to study her expression. But it was no good. I had to make do with an almost disembodied voice, soft and full of relief.

“I'll tell you all about it later and to be honest, I'm not exactly sure where we're going, but I trust Mbogo. That's him steering and he's the owner, so I know we'll be safe. The young one is my friend Kimau. All I can tell you is we're heading up the coast to a small settlement that Mbogo says is just beyond the Sabaki River and well hidden. They've little love for slavers there, as the tribe's been attacked themselves. He says we'll be safe and we're to wait, maybe a week or so, until the slaver is well on its way north. He doesn't think they'll waste any time looking for you, but it's better to be safe than sorry.”

I was confused. Why couldn't we just sail into Malindi, approach the police and then get in a car and either drive to the nearest hospital, or back to Mombasa? Surely, we'd be as safe there as anywhere, once we'd told the police the story? And at least I'd get some proper medical attention. What was the problem? Was there something more I didn't understand? There was so much I wanted to ask and say, but now didn't seem to be the time. And come to think of it, there was probably quite a lot I had forgotten, either wilfully or simply from sheer fatigue. So I just reached for her hand, squeezed it and eased myself back against the planking, before lapsing into silence, trying desperately to order my thoughts. But as I did so, a profound and welcome lassitude stole over me, leaving me to drift quickly away into unconsciousness. The last reflection being of a girl, beautiful, vivacious and feisty beyond belief.

Speed is a relative term, but no human could possibly have followed the cut and thrust of what was about to happen. Neither Israfel nor Arcturus was confined by the parameters of an Earth-bound existence, even though dealing with humans meant they were regularly forced to combine elements of their two very different worlds. Usually to the greater detriment of the angels who, unlike their planet-favouring opponents, spent less time in the company of humans, with all its attendant limitations.

However, right now whether operating in the physical or spiritual realm was an irrelevance and their entire concentration was focused on each other. A concentration born out of the oldest enmity in creation and honed by millennia of malevolent war. With the eighth of his many senses highly developed by these conflicts and the sheer effort of staying alive in an environment plagued by armed angels, Arcturus had realised immediately that whilst the patrol now approaching openly and almost casually from landward might well pose a threat in due time, their purpose in life right then was simple distraction. Which, to Arcturus, inevitably meant his back was exposed. Snarling, he whirled instantly and his angled blade, following the line of rotation, parried the thrust meant to fillet him. With a sound no louder than a sigh, their extraordinary weapons bit and slid against each other, until the hilts met and the pommels locked. Each was instantly aware that neither sported another weapon, or the fight would have been over for the other, so there was no need for immediate disengagement and for a moment they stood swaying, eye to eye, testing resolve and strength.

At any other time, the stench in Israfel's nostrils would have been enough to make him gag, but imminent danger held every muscle, every involuntary reaction in check. He had never been this close to such a high-ranking demon, but he knew enough about its past to be particularly wary. Unlike the rank and file with whom he normally dealt, this one would be no pushover. More calmly than he felt, he looked deep into Arcturus' livid black eyes, where the vertical yellow pupil slits failed to mask the furious hatred crouching behind the ugly mask that had once been a gloriously handsome and well-loved face. And deep in the lower recesses of his evil conscience, slithering almost out of sight like an innate canker, lay the all-pervading, insidious, virtually overwhelming fear to which Arcturus would never admit, but which at times could leave him gibbering. The dread that if it all went wrong one day, he could finish up in the hands of the living God.

For Arcturus, too, this duel was something of a first. Having been elevated above the rank and file and into a position of command for some considerable time, he could barely remember the last occasion on which he'd been forced to compete in hand-to-hand combat against a serious opponent, and he knew immediately that his adversary had every intention of fighting to the finish. The implacable planes of the face mere inches from his own were reinforced by a righteous anger reflecting through eyes that burned so bright, he was almost blinded. Arcturus knew himself to be an imposing warrior of considerable standing amongst his own kind and there were few within the ranks who would dare challenge him, but for a fleeting second even he felt the worm of doubt stir fitfully. And he knew the angel had seen it. Cursing, he flung himself forward, trying to impose his superior size to break the impasse of the interlocked weapons. And, for a moment, Israfel was caught off guard. Staggering back under the unexpected weight, he was forced to drop to one knee and parry two lightning-fast thrusts that came from the hands of a master swordsman. Giving ground, he managed to regain his balance and, using a helpful roll as the ship leaned to port, exploit his marginally superior speed to momentarily dominate the fight, advancing one step at a time, all the while spinning his sword in quick, flashing arcs designed to keep Arcturus off guard and powerless to mount a counterattack. It worked for a few seconds, but it was never going to completely subdue someone as astute as Arcturus.

Slowly, but with increasing confidence, Arcturus began to use Israfel's forward momentum to his own advantage. Using all his considerable skill to parry and redirect the lethal rain of blows aimed at his head and upper body, he allowed himself to drift almost imperceptibly backwards, drawing Israfel after him, encouraging the tide of battle to take them closer and closer to where Roz was still frantically trying to free her boyfriend. For by now Arcturus was confident Roz held the key to the current mayhem, and provided she was taken down in full view of his Angelic opponent while she and the boy were still on his territory, he could no doubt handle the consequences. And he was certain he could achieve the aim, despite the weaving and spinning of an almost mesmerising rain of light from a blade that danced lethally close to his body. But Israfel was no more stupid than Arcturus. It didn't take him long to work out why he was being drawn ever closer to Roz and he knew that if Arcturus intended to kill her himself, then at some time he would have to risk exposure as he reached into the girl's spirit to choke off her life. Whilst it was the only opening Israfel would need, he wasn't going to let it happen in the first place. But he had reckoned without the demon's guile.

As they continued inching towards Roz, Arcturus suddenly called out to a demon controlling one of the men: “Santo, get your man up and let him know there's a white girl begging for it, if he's quick enough.” Arcturus allowed a leer to play across his face as he stared at Israfel. “Thought you'd take me down when I was occupied with the girl, did you? There's no need. That human can do the job for me and he'll love it. Which means your code of moral justice can't touch me. Just watch.”

And with that he shifted to the front foot and began to show exactly what he could really do with a sword, forcing Israfel to skip swiftly away from Roz and any hope of providing direct protection. But he needn't have worried. She was far more resourceful than either of them had given her credit for. From beside the taffrail to which he had beat a hasty retreat, Israfel watched as Roz filleted her first opponent with almost practiced ease, barely pausing before turning to manoeuvre Paul over the ship's side. Profoundly agitated for the first time, Arcturus began to realise the awful possibility that for all his scheming, she might yet get away. Spitting a stream of invective, he began yelling at the only forces he had left who were not directly occupied by the battle. Those still riding the backs of individual crew members, their talons locked deep into flesh and spirit. It took far too long, but finally the fools got a few of the crew moving, only to find the first to arrive fared no better, ending up clutching at a stream of blood coursing from his belly. Which left Arcturus so incensed that he even risked a sideways swipe at one of his minions as it skittered past, effectively doing the hotly pursuing angel's job for him. And in that instant, the flat of his blade being nearest, Israfel caught Arcturus across the head with a double-handed strike, dumping him unceremoniously onto the deck, his sword sliding momentarily out of reach. Immediately, Israfel sank the tip of his blade into the now exposed throat. “Be still or die,” he commanded.

Working on the equivalent of catching his breath, he watched carefully as Roz disappeared over the side, savouring the moment when he would put an end to Arcturus, only momentarily concerned as yet another sailor took too close an interest in the girl. But with the two youngsters gone, clear and incisive, the whole squadron heard their Commander-in-Chief's voice: “Enough for now. No further killing. Pull back and well done.”

Disappointed, Israfel replaced his sword with a foot and leaning down towards Arcturus, looked intently into the wildly glaring eyes that were still waiting for the death stroke. “This time, excrescence, you are spared. But if we meet again, you will surely die.” And with that Israfel was gone, leaving Arcturus to compensate for loss of face in the only way he knew how: personally eviscerating any of the troops he thought had witnessed his shame and vowing to pursue and kill the angel in question if it took him all eternity. But, given the significance of what the future held for him, he would have done better to apply himself to considering exactly why the angels had attacked.