“And I don’t have the right to know what my daughter is learning?”
Sandy stopped a word halfway up her throat and inferred a few things first. “You were snooping!”
Even as it happened, Marshall knew good and well that they were at it again, the old cats-and-dogs, fighting roosters routine. It was crazy. Part of him didn’t want it to happen, but the rest of him was too frustrated and angry to stop.
As for the demon, it only cowered nearby, shying from Marshall as if he were red hot. The demon watched, waited, fretted.
“In a pig’s eye I was snooping!” Marshall roared. “I’m here because I’m your loving father and I wanted to pick you up after classes. Stewart Hall, that’s all I knew. I just happened to find you, and …” He tried to brake himself. He deflated a little, covered his eyes with his hand, and sighed.
“And you thought you’d keep an eye on me!” Sandy suggested spitefully.
“Got some law against that?”
“Okay, I’ll lay it all out for you. I’m a human being, Daddy, and every human entity—I don’t care who he or she is—is ultimately subject to a universal scheme and not to the will of any specific individual. As for Professor Langstrat, if she doesn’t want you present at her lecture, it’s her prerogative to demand that you leave!”
“And just who’s paying her salary, anyway?”
She ignored the question. “And as for me, and what I am learning, and what I am becoming, and where I am going, and what I wish, I say you have no right to infringe on my universe unless I personally grant you that right!”
Marshall’s eyesight was getting blurred by visions of Sandy turned over his knee. Enraged, he had to lash out at somebody, but now he was trying to steer his attacks away from Sandy. He pointed back toward Stewart Hall and demanded, “Did—did she teach you that?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“I have a right to know!”
“You waived that right, Daddy, years ago.”
That punch sent him into the ropes, and he couldn’t fully recover before she took off down the street, escaping him, escaping their miserable, bullish battle. He hollered after her, some stupid-sounding question about how she’d get home, but she didn’t even slow down.
The demon grabbed its chance and Marshall, and he felt his anger and self-righteousness give way to sinking despair. He’d blown it. The very thing he never wanted to do again, he did. Why in the world was he wired up this way? Why couldn’t he just reach her, love her, win her back? She was disappearing from sight even now, becoming smaller and smaller as she hurried across the campus, and she seemed so very far away, farther than any loving arm could ever reach. He had always tried to be strong, to stand tough through life and through struggles, but right now the hurt was so bad he couldn’t keep that strength from crumbling away from him in pitiful pieces. As he watched, Sandy disappeared around a distant corner without looking back, and something broke inside him. His soul felt like it would melt, and at this moment there was no person on the face of the earth he hated more than himself.
The strength of his legs seemed to surrender under the load of his sorrow, and he sank to the steps in front of the old building, despondent.
The demon’s talons surrounded his heart and he muttered in a quivering voice, “What’s the use?”
“YAHAAAAA!” came a thundering cry from the nearby shrubs. A bluish-white light glimmered. The demon released its grip on Marshall and bolted like a terrified fly, landing some distance away in a trembling, defensive stance, its huge yellow eyes nearly popping out of its head and a soot-black, barbed scimitar ready in its quivering hand. But then there came an unexplainable commotion behind those same bushes, some kind of struggle, and the source of the light disappeared around the corner of Stewart Hall.
The demon did not stir, but waited, listened, watched. No sound could be heard except the light breeze. The demon stalked ever so cautiously back to where Marshall still sat, went past him, and peered through the shrubbery and around the corner of the building.
Nothing.
As if held for this entire time, a long, slow breath of yellow vapor curled in lacy wisps from the demon’s nostrils. Yes, it knew what it had seen; there was no mistaking it. But why had they fled?
CHAPTER 5
A SHORT DISTANCE across the campus, but enough distance to be safe, two giant men descended to earth like glimmering, bluish-white comets, held aloft by rushing wings that swirled in a blur and burned like lightning. One of them, a huge, burly, black-bearded bull of a man, was quite angry and indignant, bellowing and making fierce gestures with a long, gleaming sword. The other was a little smaller and kept looking about with great caution, trying to get his associate to calm down.
In a graceful, fiery spiral they drifted down behind one of the college dormitories and came to rest in the cover of some overhanging willows. The moment their feet touched down, the light from their clothes and bodies began to fade and the shimmering wings gently subsided. Save for their towering stature they appeared as two ordinary men, one trim and blond, the other built like a tank, both dressed in what looked like matching tan fatigues. Golden belts had become like dark leather, their scabbards were dull copper, and the glowing, bronze bindings on their feet had become simple leather sandals.
The big fellow was ready for a discussion.
“Triskal!” he growled, but at his friend’s desperate gestures he spoke just a little softer. “What are you doing here?”
Triskal kept his hands up to keep his friend quiet.
“Shh, Guilo! The Spirit brought me here, the same as you. I arrived yesterday.”
“You know what that was? A demon of complacency and despair if ever I saw one! If your arm hadn’t held me I could have struck him, and only once!”
“Oh, yes, Guilo, only once,” his friend agreed, “but it’s a good thing I saw you and stopped you in time. You’ve just arrived and you don’t understand—”
“What don’t I understand?”
Triskal tried to say it in a convincing manner. “We … must not fight, Guilo. Not yet. We must not resist.”
Guilo was sure his friend was mistaken. He took firm hold of Triskal’s shoulder and looked him right in the eye.
“Why should I go anywhere but to fight?” he stated. “Here I was called. Here I will fight.”
“Yes,” said Triskal, nodding furiously. “Just not yet, that’s all.”
“Then you must have orders! You do have orders?”
Triskal paused for effect, then said, “Tal’s orders.”
Guilo’s angry expression at once melted into a mixture of shock and perplexity.
DUSK WAS SETTLING over Ashton, and the little white church on Morgan Hill was washed with the warm, rusty glow of the evening sun. Outside in the small churchyard, the church’s young pastor hurriedly mowed the lawn, hoping to be finished before mealtime. Dogs were barking in the neighborhood, people were arriving back home from work, kids were being called in for supper.
Unseen by these mortals, Guilo and Triskal came hurriedly up the hill on foot, secretive and unglorified but moving like the wind nevertheless. As they arrived in front of the church, Hank Busche came around the corner behind the roaring lawn mower, and Guilo had to pause to look him over.
“Is he the one?” he asked Triskal. “Did the call begin with him?”
“Yes,” Triskal answered, “months ago. He’s praying even now, and often walks the streets of Ashton interceding for it.”
“But … this place is so small. Why was I called? No, no, why was Tal called?”
Triskal only pulled at his arm. “Hurry inside.”
They passed quickly through the walls of the church and into the humble little sanctuary. Inside they found a contingent of warriors already gathered, some sitting in the pews, others standing around the platform, still others acting as sentries, looking cautiously out the stained glass windows. They were all dressed much as Triskal and Guilo, in the same tan tunics an
d breeches, but Guilo was immediately impressed by the imposing stature of them all; these were the mighty warriors, the powerful warriors, and more than he had ever seen gathered in one place.
He was also struck by the mood of the gathering. This moment could have been a joyful reunion of old friends except that everyone was strangely somber. As he looked around the room he recognized many whom he had fought alongside in times far past:
Nathan, the towering Arabian who fought fiercely and spoke little. It was he who had taken demons by their ankles and used them as warclubs against their fellows.
Armoth, the big African whose war cry and fierce countenance had often been enough to send the enemy fleeing before he even assailed them. Guilo and Armoth had once battled the demon lords of villages in Brazil and personally guarded a family of missionaries on their many long treks through the jungles.
Chimon, the meek European with the golden hair, who bore on his forearms the marks of a fading demon’s last blows before Chimon banished him forever into the abyss. Guilo had never met this one, but had heard of his exploits and his ability to take blows simply as a shield for others and then to rally himself to defeat untold numbers alone.
Then came the greeting of the oldest and most cherished friend. “Welcome, Guilo, the Strength of Many!”
Yes, it was indeed Tal, the Captain of the Host. It was so strange to see this mighty warrior standing in this humble little place. Guilo had seen him near the throne room of Heaven itself, in conference with none other than Michael. But here stood the same impressive figure with golden hair and ruddy complexion, intense golden eyes like fire and an unchallengeable air of authority.
Guilo approached his captain and the two of them clasped hands.
“And we are together again,” said Guilo as a thousand memories flooded his mind. No warrior Guilo had ever seen could fight as Tal could; no demon could outmaneuver or outspeed him, no sword could parry a blow from the sword of Tal. Side by side, Guilo and his captain had vanquished demonic powers for as long as those rebels had existed, and had been companions in the Lord’s service before there had been any rebellion at all. “Greetings, my dear captain!”
Tal said by way of explanation, “It’s a serious business that brings us together again.”
Guilo searched Tal’s face. Yes, there was plenty of confidence there, and no timidity. But there was definitely a strange grimness in the eyes and mouth, and Guilo looked around the room once again. Now he could feel it, that typically silent and ominous prelude to the breaking of grim news. Yes, they all knew something he didn’t but were waiting for the appointed person, most likely Tal, to speak it.
Guilo couldn’t stand the silence, much less the suspense. “Twenty-three,” he counted, “of the very best, the most gallant, the most undefeatable … gathered now as though under siege, cowering in a flimsy fortress from a dreaded enemy?” With a dramatic flair, he drew his huge sword and cradled the blade in his free hand. “Captain Tal, who is this enemy?”
Tal answered slowly and clearly, “Rafar, the Prince of Babylon.”
All eyes were now on Guilo’s face, and his reaction was much like that of every other warrior upon hearing the news: shock, disbelief, an awkward pause to see if anyone would laugh and verify that it was only a mistake. There was no such reprieve from the truth. Everyone in the room continued to look at Guilo with the same deadly serious expression, driving the gravity of the situation home mercilessly.
Guilo looked down at his sword. Was it now shaking in his hands? He made a point of holding it still, but he couldn’t help staring for a moment at the blade, still gashed and discolored from the last time Guilo and Tal had confronted this Baal-prince from the ancient times. Guilo and Tal had struggled against him twenty-three days before finally defeating him on the eve of Babylon’s fall. Guilo could still remember the darkness, the shrieking and horror, the fierce, terrible grappling while pain seared every inch of his being. The evil of this would-be pagan god seemed to envelop him and everything around him like thick smoke, and half the time the two warriors had to maneuver and strike blindly, each one not even knowing if the other was still in the fight. To this day neither of them even knew which one finally delivered the blow that sent Rafar plummeting into the abyss. All they remembered was his heaven-shaking scream as he fell through a jagged rift in space, and then seeing each other again when the great darkness that surrounded them cleared like a melting fog.
“I know you speak the truth,” Guilo said at last, “but … would such as Rafar come to this place? He is a prince of nations, not mere hamlets. What is this place? What interest could he possibly have in it?”
Tal only shook his head. “We don’t know. But it is Rafar, there’s no question, and the stirrings in the enemy’s realm indicate something is in the making. The Spirit wants us here. We must confront whatever it is.”
“And we are not to fight, we are not to resist!” Guilo exclaimed. “I will be most fascinated to hear your next order, Tal. We cannot fight?”
“Not yet. We’re too few, and there’s very little prayer cover. There are to be no skirmishes, no confrontations. We’re not to show ourselves in any way as aggressors. As long as we stay out of their way, keep close to this place, and pose no threat to them, our presence here will seem like normal watchcare over a few, struggling saints.” Then he added with a very direct tone, “And it will be best if it not be spread that I am here.”
Guilo now felt a little out of place still holding his sword, and sheathed it with an air of disgust.
“And,” he prodded, “you do have a plan? We were not called here to watch the town fall?”
The lawn mower roared by the windows, and Tal guided their attention to its operator.
“It was Chimon’s task to bring him here,” he said, “to blind the eyes of his enemies and slip him through ahead of the adversary’s choice for the pastor of this flock. Chimon succeeded, Hank was voted in, to the surprise of many, and now he’s here in Ashton, praying every hour of every day. We were called here for his sake, for the saints of God and for the Lamb.”
“For the saints of God and for the Lamb!” they all echoed.
Tal looked at a tall, dark-haired warrior, the one who had taken him through the town the night of the Festival, and smiled. “And you had him win by just one vote?”
The warrior shrugged. “The Lord wanted him here. Chimon and I had to make sure he won, and not the other man who has no fear of God.”
Tal introduced Guilo to this warrior. “Guilo, this is Krioni, watch-carer of our prayer warrior here and of the town of Ashton. Our call began with Hank, but Hank’s presence here began with Krioni.”
Guilo and Krioni nodded silent greeting to each other.
Tal watched Hank finishing up the lawn and praying out loud at the same time. “So now, as his enemies in the congregation regroup and try to find another way to oust him, he continues to pray for Ashton. He’s one of the last.”
“If not the last!” lamented Krioni.
“No,” cautioned Tal, “he’s not alone. There’s still a Remnant of saints somewhere in this town. There is always a Remnant.”
“There is always a Remnant,” they all echoed.
“Our conflict begins in this place. We’ll make this our location for now, hedge it in and work from here.” He spoke to a tall Oriental in the back of the room. “Signa, take as your charge this building, and choose two now to stand with you. This is our rest point. Make it secure. No demon is to approach it.”
Signa immediately found two volunteers to work with him. They vanished to their posts.
“Now, Triskal, I’ll hear news of Marshall Hogan.”
“I followed him up to my encounter with Guilo. Though Krioni has reported a rather eventless situation up to the time of the Festival, ever since then Hogan has been hounded by a demon of complacency and despair.”
Tal received that news with great interest. “Hm. Could be he’s beginning to stir. They’re covering him, t
rying to hold him in check.”
Krioni added, “I never thought I’d see it happen. The Lord wanted him in charge of the Clarion, and we took care of that too, but I’ve never seen a more tired individual.”
“Tired, yes, but that will only make him more usable in the Lord’s hands. And I perceive that he is indeed waking up, just as the Lord foreknew.”
“Though he could awaken only to be destroyed,” said Triskal. “They must be watching him. They fear what he could do in his influential position.”
“True,” replied Tal. “So while they bait our bear, we must be sure they stir him up and no more than that. It’s going to be a very critical business.”
Now Tal was ready to move. He addressed the whole group. “I expect Rafar to take power here by nightfall; no doubt we’ll all feel it when he does. Be sure of this: he will immediately search out the greatest threat to him and try to remove it.”
“Ah, Henry Busche,” said Guilo.
“Krioni and Triskal, you can be sure that a troop of some kind will be sent to test Hank’s spirit. Select for yourselves four warriors and watch over him.” Tal touched Krioni’s shoulder and added, “Krioni, up until now you’ve done very well in protecting Hank from any direct onslaughts. I commend you.”
“Thank you, captain.”
“I ask you now to do a difficult thing. Tonight you must stand by and keep watch. Do not let Hank’s life be touched, but aside from that prevent nothing. It will be a test he must undergo.”
There was a slight moment of surprise and wonderment, but each warrior was ready to trust Tal’s judgment.
Tal continued, “As for Marshall Hogan … he’s the only one I’m not sure about yet. Rafar will give his lackeys incredible license with him, and he could either collapse and retreat, or—as we all hope—rouse himself and fight back. He’ll be of special interest to Rafar—and to me—tonight. Guilo, select two warriors for yourself and two for me. We’ll watchcare over Marshall tonight and see how he responds. The rest of you will search out the Remnant.”