The Word of God (59 page)

Too late! Sir Miles, in trying to leap aside, had crashed into a metal garbage bin. Down he went, the bin falling over with a clatter. The sword slashed down. Just in time Sir Miles twisted away and in doing so kicked the bin with his feet. The bin rolled in front of Sir Richard and he stumbled. Swearing loudly he kicked it aside, then slashed downwards again.

In desperation Sir Miles grabbed the metal lid of the rubbish bin and held this up as a shield. It was just enough to blunt and deflect the blow which clanged off the lid and into the lawn. In the process the lid was almost sheared in half, leaving a sharp, jagged edge. The blow obviously missed Sir Miles's arm as he rolled quickly aside and sprang to his feet, still gripping the improvised shield.

Sir Richard swore and advanced again, the sword weaving across his front as
he looked for the best cut. Both men were now sweating and gasping for breath. Sir Richard lunged and Sir Miles parried with the shield. They sprang apart. To Peter it appeared that the unequal combat could have only one terrible ending.

Another slash by Sir Richard was only just parried by Sir Miles. Instead the blade nicked the knight's leg. Blood showed through a rent in the camouflage trousers. Sir Miles stepped back and spread his arms. At the top of his voice he shouted: “May God defend the right!”

The words sent a thrill of goose bumps though Peter. Sir Richard reacted with a savage snarl and another scything swipe with the sword. But instead of springing back Sir Miles jumped forward, taking the blow squarely on his shield at close range. His right arm groped for Sir Richard's throat, but the traitor was able to fend this off and spring back.

The sword went up again, shimmering in the sunlight, but now streaked with blood. Sir Miles stepped back, his eyes questing for an advantage. The two knights circled on the lawn. Sir Richard swung one massive slicing blow which missed, then jumped away and jabbed twice. Sir Miles sprang in but was taken in the cheek by the point. He reeled back, his right hand to the wound. More blood flowed.

Sir Richard jeered and mocked him. “Where is your God now fool? Prepare to meet the Lord of Darkness!”

He stepped forward and swung the sword. Sir Miles jumped backwards, almost falling over on the border of the garden bed which ran along below the other veranda. Sir Richard advanced to take another swing. As the sword went back Sir Miles moved. Still gripping the shield he snatched up a garden rake from against a post. Holding it in both hands like a quarter staff he swung it up.

The sword hacked down, splintering and shearing off half the handle of the rake, then clanging off the shield. Peter let out a cry of horror, which was instantly repeated as Sir Miles swung the other end of the rake in an underarm blow. The sharp steel tines caught Sir Richard in the groin.

For a shocked instant neither knight moved. Sir Richard hunched himself as the agony struck. He tried to step back but the tines were embedded and gripped him. He tried to swing the sword back for another blow. His mouth opened and closed and beads of sweat stood out on his brow. Peter felt his own body cringe in sympathy with the injury.

With a scream of rage and agony Sir Richard wrenched himself free and swung the sword back. Sir Miles tried to grip the man's throat with his right hand but Sir Richard held his arm. That he was in great pain was obvious as he clutched
his groin and screwed his face up in agony. Sir Miles did not wait. He stepped forward and smashed the shield into Sir Richard's face.

Sir Richard let out a scream and staggered back, dropping the sword in the process. Peter was appalled to see that the jagged edge on the shield appeared to have ripped Sir Richard's right eye from its socket. Blood gushed from the wound and the traitor clapped his hands to his face.

Sir Miles sprang forward and bent to pick up the sword.

Bang!

The Black Monk fired from close behind Sir Miles. Sir Miles was knocked flat. Sir Richard screamed and stumbled backwards to lie in a moaning huddle on the lawn, begging for help.

Peter realized that now was the time. He tensed to spring but the Black Monk swung to face them. A glance showed Peter that the Devil Worshipper at the end of the line was fingering the trigger of his automatic shotgun.

If he fires he will hit the lot of us at once,
his rational mind told him. Terror gripped his bowels and a sour taste of defeat welled up into his gullet.
But we are going to die anyway so why not die fighting? Some of us- Joy perhaps- might escape.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Graham was crouched ready to spring. He hissed: “When I saw go, attack.”

The Black Monk turned a malevolent, glittering eye on him. Hatred seemed to flow from it in a mesmerizing beam. Peter's consciousness narrowed down to that single eye and the muzzle of the pistol just below it.

The Black Monk's mouth opened. “Now die for Satan you interfering filth!” he shouted.

Peter saw the finger tighten on the trigger and he screamed: “Go!”

As he did he saw the Black Monk's mouth open even wider and seemed to gasp. His head suddenly jerked and blood sprayed from it. Peter was conscious of several whip-like cracks and the Black Monk was suddenly bowled over.

Peter heard more sharp cracks and saw Batoff flung backwards as though snatched away by an invisible hand. For an instant Peter could not comprehend what was happening. Then he saw the blood. He looked left and saw the second Devil Worshipper was also down and that blood was pumping from a hole in his skull onto the concrete path.
Shot!
he thought.

The Black Monk lay in a shapeless black bundle, one arm flung out and the hand forming a grisly claw. Beside him was the Scroll.

A voice shouted: “Don't move!”

Peter swung his head in surprise. Running across the road from the houses
opposite was Inspector Goldstein. He wore a clean, grey suit and had a pistol in one hand and a mobile phone in the other. Two other men, both dressed in faded jeans and denim jackets, appeared from the garden of the houses. Both carried automatic weapons of some sort.

Megan gasped. “The police! We are saved!” she shrieked.

A wave of relief surged though Peter. He glanced to check that all the Devil Worshippers were in fact down, then turned to Joy and opened his arms. With a sob she rushed to him. He held her tight.

“Don't look. You are safe now,” he whispered. He found he was shaking and that tears were streaming down his face. Joy sobbed and buried her face in his chest. He stroked the top of her head and hugged her tight.

Inspector Goldstein arrived on the run. He quickly bent to check the Black Monk's pulse. A grunt indicated he must be dead. Peter watched over the top of Joy's head, his gaze held by the ghastly fascination of it all. The other two plain clothes policemen arrived.

Graham shook his head. “You left it a bit late,” he chided Inspector Goldstein.

“Hummpf! Better late than never,” Inspector Goldstein replied. He bent and pocketed the Black Monk's pistol, then picked up the Scroll in its frame. The glass had been broken but it still appeared intact. “Is this the Scroll?” he asked.

Graham nodded. “Yes it is,” he replied. He pointed to Frank, who still couched in stunned horror. “He had it. Check with him.”

Inspector Goldstein turned to Frank and held up the Scroll. “Is this the authentic article? The one your father brought back from the Middle East?”

Frank nodded and moved over to talk to Inspector Goldstein. Gwen stepped forward and rolled Sir Miles over.

“He's still alive!” she cried. “Quick!”

Joy let out a gasp and let go of Peter. She moved over to help Gwen, who cradled Sir Miles's head in her lap.

“Use your phone and call the ambulance,” Joy called to Inspector Goldstein.

“It's not a phone, it's a radio,” Inspector Goldstein replied. Having said that he raised the radio and said into it: “You hear me Mordechai? Good. Move now! Fast!”

Peter moved over to where Sir Miles lay. As he watched the knight opened his eyes. He saw them and gave a weak smile.

“What happened?” he whispered. The pain of talking made him grimace.

Gwen stroked his face. “Don't talk, you've been shot,” she said.

Sir Miles shook his head. “No… no I haven't. I am wearing a bullet proof vest.
All knights wear one. It is our modern version of armour. I am only stunned. I think my heart may have stopped for a moment from the shock. I will be alright. What is going on?”

He glanced at where Sir Richard still lay in a whimpering huddle nearby, then at the bodies sprawled on the lawn. He saw Inspector Goldstein and smiled.

“You have the Scroll Inspector? Good. Could I now have it please?”

To Peter's surprise Inspector Goldstein shook his head and tucked the Scroll under his arm. He put his radio inside his suit and took out his pistol again. “Sorry, but I have orders from my government to get the Scroll,” he said.

Sir Miles frowned. “But the Australian Government gave me authority in writing to collect the Scroll,” he replied. A puzzled look crossed his face, followed by a look of pain as he moved to sit up.

“It may have,” Inspector Goldstein replied. “But I do not take orders from the Australian Government.”

“But.. What? Then who?” Sir Miles asked in puzzlement. Then his face cleared. “Goldstein! You are a Jew!”

Inspector Goldstein smiled then nodded. “Correct. I work for the Government of Israel. These ancient documents are a vital part of our heritage and they belong in Israel. That is where I am taking it now.”

Gwen gaped. “But… but you can't!” she cried.

“Oh but I can,” Inspector Goldstein replied. He was still smiling but now his pistol came up to point at them. Peter realized that the other two plain clothes men were also standing well apart and were pointing their weapons at the group.

Inspector Goldstein indicated one of the men. “Nobody try to stop us, or I am afraid we will have to shoot,” he said.

There was a pause. Inspector Goldstein glanced at his watch, then up towards the main street. Peter looked in that direction and saw several faces peering around the corners of buildings as locals allowed their curiosity to overcome their caution.

Another noise came to them:- aero engines. Peter looked up as an ancient Douglas DC3 lumbered low overhead, its engines labouring to gain height as it headed north. “The Mississippi Militia,” he said. “They are getting away.” To his own surprise he felt glad.

Inspector Goldstein smiled thinly. “Good. That will save a lot of complications. Ah, here is our car.”

A plain white sedan raced down the hill and swung round with a screech of tyres to pull up at the gate. Inspector Goldstein gestured to his two men and they
began backing off. “Don't try anything foolish. My men are very good shots. And don't try to follow us. Goodbye and thank you for your help. I salute you for your teamwork, courage and initiative.”

With that he backed off down the path. One of his men climbed into the back of the car and levelled his weapon at them. The other went to the other side of the car and aimed his weapon over the top. Inspector Goldstein climbed into the car. The other Israeli agent then scrambled in and the car accelerated away. As it went Inspector Goldstein gave them a wave just as it vanished from view.

Gwen stamped her foot in frustration. “He's getting away with the Scroll!” she cried angrily. “What can we do?”

“It doesn't matter,” Sir Miles said. “At least the Scroll isn't going to fall into the wrong hands. The Israelis will look after it.”

Graham was almost dancing with annoyance. “If we are quick we can get the police to catch them,” he cried. “They still have to get out of the country.”

Peter shook his head, amazed at how calm he felt. “They probably have their own plane waiting somewhere,” he suggested.

Graham snorted angrily. “So what? We have to try! We can't just give up. Sir Miles deserves to have that Scroll,” he cried, anger and frustration evident in his voice.

Peter suddenly smiled. “He can have a copy then,” he said.

Graham turned and gave him a puzzled look. “What? What did you say?” he demanded.

“He can have a copy,” Peter replied. “When I went into the police station earlier I used their photocopier to make twenty copies. We can all have one.”

There was silence for a few seconds as they absorbed this. Peter went on to explain. “That bloody Scroll has caused so much death and misery with all the secrecy about what it might say that I thought that if there were dozens of copies then no-one would bother to try to get the original. So I made some photocopies. Now I might make another hundred and email them all over the world. Come on, I'll show you.”

As they realized what he was saying his friend's faces all broke into grins. Graham whooped with delight and smacked his thigh. Joy jumped up and down and Gwen crossed herself and gave silent thanks in prayer. Even Sir Miles was amused. He stood up and came over to shake Peter's hand.

“Well done Peter. It was a brilliant idea. Of course many people will claim the photocopies are just fakes but they would say that about the original anyway, if it doesn't agree with their ideas. May I have a copy?”

“Certainly sir. And we'd better get you to a doctor fast,” Peter added, concerned at the trickles of blood still flowing down the knight's face and right arm.

He led the way up into the police station. From under the counter he extracted the photocopies of the Scroll and handed them around. They were not very good but the printing was perfectly clear. “Make a dozen more Gwen. Steve, get on that phone and call the ambulance, then call the coppers to find out where they are.”

At that another voice called out loudly: “They are bloody well here!”

The friends spun round, to be confronted by a large sergeant holding an automatic pistol. He had come through from the back with another policeman. “I'm Sergeant Pearson. Now somebody tell me what the hell has been going on here!”