By this time the first attacker had recovered and was getting to his feet. Robert had time to quickly glance over and see how Mark was doing now their cover was well and truly blown. He saw the boy facing at least three of the freaks himself, and he'd already been relieved of his sword.
Holding the sword by the flat of the blade, Robert brought the hilt down heavily on the approaching cultist's head. It struck him dead centre and he fell to his knees. Then Robert swung the sword like a baseball bat and hit the man in the face, sending his head rocking back and a few of his teeth flying.
Unslinging his bow as he went, Robert pulled out an arrow and aimed across to where Mark was fighting, kicking the first Servitor who'd attacked to keep him down. Just as he was about to fire, though, a half dozen more of the men rose up from the mist or stepped out from behind trees.
'Crap,' said Robert under his breath. Mark was on his own, at least for now. He turned the bow on the nearest of the approaching cult members.
What had been his first mistake?
Mark was asking himself this even as he realised it was probably the worst time to be doing so. It was only what Jack would ask him later, if there was a later, but the time for analysis definitely wasn't now. He'd blundered in, hadn't he? Gone for the guy with his elbow sticking out, thinking he was an easy target. But then he'd realised, when the figure stepped out and confronted him, that the Servitor had been expecting this strike all along. What the hell was the matter with him? Mark had been so quiet and nimble as a boy, slipping in and out of cities and towns for supplies, scavenging them and stuffing them into his knapsack. But creeping up on people? Not so great at that.
The noise had brought another one out of the trees, and now Mark understood what Robert had been pointing at. Another hiding behind an oak, the bark worn off. He should have taken one out at a distance with a rock then-
Mark was suddenly stumbling backwards. This wasn't a training sword anymore, but the real thing, held by someone who really did want to do him some harm. He reached for his own blade, but had only got it part of the way free before he felt it being lifted out by a third cultist who had appeared seemingly from nowhere. The sword was snatched away and thrown into the snowy grassland beyond the trees.
Again Mark only just had time to dodge the blow, as it whistled past his right ear. Stepping back did, however, have the added benefit of knocking the man behind him off balance, so that Mark could topple him fully over.
Now there were only two to deal with. And where was Robert? Mark saw that he was having fun with his own playmates; more and more rising up out of the ground itself, it seemed.
'
That's what Jack had said, and he'd been so right. Mark didn't have his sword but they each had one. Well, really big knives that you could probably call swords, but that was splitting hairs. Think, Mark, think… how had Azhar done it again?
Mark recalled the way that man had ducked and slid sideways to take the weapon from him. He had just seconds to react, to copy the move he'd witnessed. Now it wasn't a game, Mark found his body co-operating, his movements less clumsy. Mark grabbed his opponent's wrist and yanked, but the weapon wouldn't tug free. The cultist pulled back and readied himself for another thrust. Thinking fast, Mark let his backpack — only hanging over one shoulder — slide down his arm; then, as the blade came into range, he wrapped the thing in the material, yanking down until the machete fell out of the man's hands. As Mark bent forward to retrieve it, the first attacker fell over him and he instinctively followed through: standing and flipping him, letting the momentum of the move do all the work.
Snatching up the machete, Mark met the second attacker's swing; the clang made his teeth rattle. The third joined in and suddenly Mark had to block his attempt to kill him as well. That was one of the major differences between real combat and practising on your own: trees and fences didn't fight back. These people did, and by all accounts they didn't stop till one of you had stopped for good.
Mark batted away the attacks, using sheer desperation rather than finesse to carry him through. It was keeping him alive… so far. What he didn't know was how he was going to keep this going indefinitely, especially as the remaining cultist was rising from the floor. Rising, and searching around for Mark's sword.
That wasn't the right thing to ask, to get him out of this — so he asked himself quickly instead:
What would Dale do if Sophie was watching?
Cut… cut… Mark grinned. He'd had an idea. Letting the pair he was dealing with get a little closer, though not too close, he pretended to trip.
'Mark!' He heard the anguished cry from across camp, Robert assuming he'd gone down because he was injured. Mark didn't have time to answer him. Instead, he lashed out at the men's legs, catching calf muscles and shins beneath the material of the robes. One spun around and Mark took the opportunity of hamstringing him, drawing the blade across where he judged the back of the heel to be.
It had the desired effect. Both men dropped, screaming.
Mark clambered to his feet, the smile spreading across his face.
'Mark!' came the cry again, and he couldn't understand why Robert was still calling. He'd taken down the two-
He remembered too late about the third, the one who'd been reaching for his sword. Mark pivoted, but at pretty much the same time the arrow flew past and into the fellow about to embed the sword in his head. The projectile's tip found the tattoo on the cultist's forehead, as if it were a bull's eye target, and he fell backwards.
When Mark looked across he saw the base camp littered with robed figures, arrows sticking out of various parts of their bodies. Robert was running over and waving something to Mark.
'…let them commit suicide…' The Hooded Man was saying. Mark didn't understand. Then he looked down at one of the men he'd crippled, saw him take his own machete with both hands, then ram it into his stomach. Mark felt his lip curling. The other one was doing a similar thing, except he was letting gravity do the work for him, lifting himself up as high as he could on his knees and just letting himself drop onto the blade.
Mark joined Robert, checking around to make sure no more were laying in wait. When he reached Mark saw he was crouching down next to one of the last cultists alive; the first proper rays of sunlight streaking through the trees onto the scene.
'And… and… He was cast… down,' hissed the white-faced man with the arrow sticking out of his side, 'on… onto the Earth… and His angels… were cast…. cast down also…' Then he took hold of his head and snapped it sideways, breaking his own neck.
Robert removed his hood and looked at Mark. 'Are you alright, son?' Mark never tired of hearing Robert call him that. He nodded. 'I didn't know there would be quite so many, otherwise I never would've suggested… But, you did well today. I'm proud of you. Jack would be, too.'
'How did they find us here?' Mark asked when he'd finally got his breath back.
Robert stared down at the corpse. 'I think we've made an enemy of these guys. They're keeping tabs on us now just like we've been doing with them. They're worried I'm going to stop their master from making His grand appearance.'
'Master?'
'The Devil.'
'Oh… What was he talking about just then, before…'
'Tate'll be able to tell us more about that. They seem to think they're fallen angels or something. Explains why they're not scared of dying. They probably believe they come right back again fighting fit.'
