The big iron door reminded Michael of an old castle drawbridge and at first glance appeared
immovable, but he knew different. He grabbed the cold, wet handle and turned pushing with his
other hand. Initially the door moved slowly and creaked in complaint, but then after the initial
difficulty, it moved much more easily and was surprisingly light for its size. Stepping inside, he
lowered the collar of his coat and looked back out into the night rain. At least the officer was
right, I wasn"t detected; at least I don"t think I was. He turned back to the foyer of the school,
large, grand and illuminated by candles. He assumed the electricity was off and the school
caretakers had gone round lighting the candles, but frankly, he really did not care.
He looked round and remembered the last time he stepped foot in the school; the day he
returned home after witnessing that ritual. It had appeared far different than it presented itself
just now. The shadows jumped and danced as the flames moved on each torch. It really was a
nice and historic setting, but admiration would have to wait, he had a job to do.
He approached the stairs unaware the door had begun to swing shut. When his foot hit the
bottom step, the slam echoed throughout the large stone foyer startling Michael and no doubt
notifying any occupants of his arrival. He grabbed the banister to steady himself before looking
back. He did not know what to expect or why the door had slammed closed, he was sure that it
had been wedged open with the grit on the floor when he had left it. Perhaps the wind caught it,
yes, that’s it, the wind caught the door. As he turned, he found himself gripping the banister
firmly, his knuckles turning white, especially when he heard the pad of soft footsteps that
sounded like they were not far behind him. He was right to be concerned. As he turned to face
the foyer, he was confronted with five robed figures that had appeared from the shadows. “You
have got to be kidding me!” he yelled as the first of the five approached.
Each figure held a wooden staff and, other than the one now moving towards him, stood
perfectly still. He could not see anyone"s face for they were covered by their respective hoods.
The one walking stopped about a metre away from Michael. Michael gulped. A moment later,
the robed figure changed his stance and spun the staff several times, its final resting place
being that of a position ready to strike. If this guy is trying to intimidate me; it’s working.
Michael spun round and scaled the stairs three at a time, hoping the hooded figures would not
follow.
As he approached the top of the stairs he looked up and stumbled. Waiting for him were five
hooded figures, how the hell did they get up here so quick? He quickly considered his options,
there were none. He could not go back in case they were still waiting for him downstairs and he
could not proceed because of these five. He regained his balance and watched as the central
figure approached him, again. It stopped and took up an attacking posture as before. This
time, however, Michael had nowhere to run; he was going to have to fight. Mary better be alive
after this.
Michael was conscious that his only experience of combat was fencing, and without his foil
he was hopeless, at least he thought he was. The lone figure advanced and swung his staff.
Michael dodged once, twice and felt the brunt of the third blow in his abdomen. Immediately, he
felt the wind escape from him, but had little time to think about it, when the staff was swung
again, hitting him square in the nose. The force of the blow sent him flying backwards and he
hit the stone floor with a resounding thud.
He grabbed his nose and felt the warm sensation of blood trickle down his nostril. Wiping it
away with his sleeve, he looked up at his assailant and although his blood was boiling with
hatred and anger, he could not see any way to defeat him. His entire body was crying out in
protest as he got to his feet, no doubt for another beating, he thought straightening himself.
Almost immediately, the figure advanced and struck a blow with such force, Michael was thrust
backwards into the book case that lined the corridor wall. At least I am no longer near the
stairs. He stole a look at the other four figures behind the fighter, still standing motionless, how
strange.
Michael stood up once more, not sure where his strength was coming from or when it would
fail, but despite the obvious areas of pain, he figured he should be in far more pain than he was
and was thankful. The attacker swung his staff again making contact with Michael"s head and
forcing him to stumble. He was aware the staff narrowly missed his eye; he could only imagine
what damage a blow like that could have done to his sight; but, defiantly, he stood again. Stay
down you fool! His mind cried out. However, diving between a small gap in the bookcases, he
made the most of a flash of opportunity to gather a deep breath and regain his composure as
the next sweep of the staff narrowly missed him and struck the top shelf causing the books to
scatter like toppled dominoes.
“Who the hell are you?” There was no response, except the fighter turned to face the
others. Michael guessed they were talking through some form of telepathy, but reasoned that
was impossible, just as the four of them joined their companion and took up similar stances
before him. Whatever was keeping him from being badly hurt, he knew it would not last forever.
He was rapidly running out of time.
Michael looked at the five fighters that now were poised to attack, “well this is fair folks, five
against one!” He did not smile but his eyes kept darting from one assailant to the other. It
seemed an eternity before there was any further movement from anyone other than Michael
who continued to look at each fighter one by one. As they advanced simultaneously, Michael
had only one thought, duck!
