In the darkest underbelly of the earth, the surviving one-armed demon from the failed attack on Phoebe and Demetrius limped up to gargantuan black doors that were closed across the entrance to a cavernous room. Two hideous beasts stood guard, each holding enormous spears, which they crossed over the doors as the demon approached.
“Halt!” snarled the first guard. “Who are you and what is your business here?”
“I am Schnither, Captain of the Dark Army, reporting back from duty,” hissed the gnarly black being. “He will be expecting me.” The ‘he’ to whom Schnither referred was Abaddon the Defiler, undisputed boss of Schnither and his cronies and feared Master of the Mooar Mountain, the dark nerve centre of all things evil. Abaddon was a fearsome ruler and neither Schnither nor any of his fellow demons dared to challenge his reign.
“It looks like your mission wasn’t a rip roaring success,” sneered the second guard, gesturing towards Schnither’s dismembered limb and he sniggered, revealing a green serpentine tongue and razor sharp, pointed teeth. The stump of Schnither’s arm was still oozing a thick yellow liquid, but the indignation and fury at being outsmarted by those bright shiny angelic nuisances was causing Schnither more pain and discomfort than his impressive war wound.
Schnither glared at the first guard, wondering if he should teach the flabby beast a lesson right then and there. The notion of wiping the smirk off the guard’s face appealed to Schnither, but he thought better of it – he didn’t want to cause an unnecessary uproar when the news he was about to deliver to the Boss wasn’t exactly as good as it should have been.
“Just open up, minion” spat Schnither, unfurling his twisted body to its full height. At almost seven feet tall, and with a girth far exceeding that of the guards, he was a formidable sight, and the two sneering sentinels sobered up immediately.
“Oh, uh… yes, Captain Schnither sir, right away. You should have said it was important…”
The first guard’s voice trailed off as he realised that his babbling was not helping his cause in any way, and he and his fellow sentry heaved against the heavy wooden doors. The doors groaned open, and thick black smoke began to billow menacingly through. There was an eerie yellow glow about the room, and as Schnither stepped through the doorway, he paused to allow his red eyes to adjust to the gloom. He had scarcely acquainted himself with his creepy surroundings when a voice addressed him from out of the murkiness.
“You! Captain Schnither. What news?”
The unexpectedly dulcet tones broke through the darkness, a voice so low that Schnither had to hold his breath to hear it properly.
“Master,” he stumbled over his words as he edged closer through the smoky gloom. “Our mission… it was, uh, not entirely a success.” Schnither was sweating, his hideous face contorting in terror.
“Yes-s-s, I hear-r-r-d,”
The faceless voice drooled the words and Schnither had to steady himself against the cold stone wall to keep from collapsing in a shuddering heap. Suddenly, the smoke burst apart, rolling furiously to either side as a dark form, almost nine feet tall, appeared only inches from Schnither’s quivering body – Abaddon, the feared Dark Master. Abaddon’s countenance was intense, unrelenting, and his features, while hard and cold, belied an ethereal beauty of aeons past – there could be no denying Abaddon’s glorious past as the Angel of Light, the Son of the Morning, and even now, in the deepest darkest recesses of the earth, through the dark around him and the dark within him, Schnither could see the physical traces of a beauty that once fellowshipped with the Atoner himself. Abaddon’s flint grey eyes bored relentlessly into Schnither, who was completely taken by surprise at the appearance of his Dark Master.
“My Liege!” Schnither reeled back in shock and fear, tripping over his own feet and landing unceremoniously on his backside at Abaddon’s feet. Next to his Master’s imposing form, Schnither appeared small, feeble, and he was acutely aware of his own irrelevance.
“You have failed me – again!”
Abaddon’s once deceptively soft tones had become a ferocious roar, and in his accusatory rage he spat the words at Schnither, leaning menacingly over his servant’s cowering body, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging and straining.
“What should I do with you, eh?” Abaddon regained some composure, leaned back, away from Schnither, and a sinister smile curled across his face. It was more of a snarl, and although the roaring had ceased, Schnither now felt more dread than he had before. Somehow, Abaddon’s thunderous rage, terrifying as it was, was less intimidating than when he spoke in muted tones, which could so easily have lead his audience into a false sense of security. ‘The calm before the storm,’ Schnither mused.
“What is the fate of those who let me down?” Abaddon pondered the question, and Schnither wondered whether it was rhetorical or whether in fact the Dark Master sought his answer. In the end, he decided it best not to speak – there was nothing he could say to make things any better and in all probability opening his mouth would only make things worse. Schnither shuddered. His instincts told him to get up, to run for his life, to fly as far away as he could get and never come back. But he knew that this was not a viable option – there simply was no escape, nowhere to hide for those of his kind who had sworn allegiance to Abaddon. The thought was sobering and Schnither clenched his jaw, causing the muscles along his jaw line to pop.
Abaddon the Defiler now stood up straight to his full nine feet, his four black wings unfurled to a span of eight feet – he was a terrifying sight, and Schnither was sure that his fate had been sealed. He gulped, and closed his eyes – maybe it would be swift and he would feel no pain…
“One… more… chance.” Abaddon’s voice was soft and compelling once again. “I will give you one more chance to get it right. Yours is not a difficult task – I ask you only to rid me of that pesky girl. She is a human, a mere mortal. How difficult can it be?” He paused as if the words pained him, then spat, “Phoebe Wren, and her do-good parents, and that boy who encourages her so. The Atoner has assigned seven of His finest. He obviously has big designs for that little girl. But He has not reckoned on what I have planned!”
Abaddon’s face had contorted into a freakish mask of twisted glee, and his eyes blazed with zeal at the thought of scuppering the Atoner’s plans.
“Now, Captain Schnither, go. Leave me. I have assembled a team – a stronger, smarter team – for you. They await your command. But do not fail me again. You will not find me so lenient a third time…”
As quickly as he had appeared, Abaddon the Defiler vanished back into the gloom – it was as if he had been swallowed up by the murkiness, never to re-emerge. But Schnither knew better than to assume that Abaddon was ever far away, and he wasted no time in scrabbling to his feet and backing towards the massive doors of the Dark Master’s chamber. He scurried backwards, arms extended behind him, until he felt the unyielding weight of the doors behind him, then spun around, grabbing frantically for the door knob. Schnither heaved the door towards him with all his might and as it swung open, both guards tumbled through and fell at his feet.
“Eavesdroppers!” Schnither hissed, and he wasted no time in kicking them both back out through the doors, which he pulled tightly shut behind him.
“How dare you listen in on a private meeting!” Schnither raged. “I should have you sent to the Abyss for such an act of treachery!”
Schnither lifted a clenched fist and struck one of the guards square across the side of his head. The beastly figure, who had been struggling to his feet, went flying across the marbled floor, and thudded into the wall at the opposite side of the hall. Schnither was about to exact the same punishment on the second guard, when loud footfall heralded the arrival of his new troop of demons, who marched up to Schnither, halted sharply a few feet away, and saluted their still fuming captain.
“Captain Schnither, sir,” snarled the first fiend. “I am Lieutenant Garshwell. We have been despatched to your command to assist in overseeing the demise of Phoebe Wren and her interfering parents. What are your plans, Captain?”
Garshwell was intense and unwavering, his bulbous eyes fixed on Schnither, awaiting his Captain’s command.
Impressed by the efficiency of Lieutenant Garshwell, and with his ego suitably stroked by such respect, Schnither was full of his own importance, and entirely believing of his own hype. How quickly his re-inflated pride helped him to forget the humiliation he had felt in Abaddon’s chamber!
“Follow me,” Schnither commanded, his voice sounding more confident than he felt, since in the pit of his stomach he was still smarting from his encounter with Abaddon the Defiler. “We will put a stop to this hope and redemption nonsense once and for all.”
And with a whoosh of his powerful black wings, Schnither bolted upwards and exited through the ceiling with his evil cohorts following obediently behind.