Okay! Many apologies for the lateness. However, I have some sad news.

Due to lack of interest, I am posting the final three chapters in one go. I am sorry that this had to end, but with a serious lack of love, this story is dying.

RougeNaite: Thankyou for your kind review. It is mostly due to your review that I have posted these.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even Marto. :(

For Grandpa.

Chapter Twelve: The English Five

The plane bearing the Australians to Heathrow touched down smoothly. Only seconds later, a viscous thunderstorm lashed at the windows of said plane. Adam looked across at Rick and had a sudden premonition. The thunderstorm was a symbol of this tour…and he sensed that somehow this tour would shake the team to the foundations.

Lirael came to the Sons one last time. 'My friends, whatever you do, do not let this series get in the way of your quest!' She quailed a little under the baleful eye she was given by the whole team.

But by the Fifth Test at the Oval, all of the Sons would have given anything to be totally freed from their quest. A combination of poor playing, bad umpiring, cheating Englishmen and rain had seen them go two-one down in the five-Test series. There was one Test left. If they won, it would lock the series two-all and Australia would retain the Ashes by default. A loss or a draw, and England would get their undeserving hands on that crystal trophy for the first time in sixteen years.

It did not look good.

Also coming into the Oval game, none of the English Five had been identified or defeated. The Sons had tried everything they could. They knew that if they failed, they would die.

The team had ordered Brad to take a few days off from county cricket. They knew they might need him. What they weren't expecting was for the battle to get totally out-of-hand.

Early on the fifth day, the Aussies were starting to get on top of things. They had taken three quick wickets. The English lead was not really big enough at this point – if England fell now, Australia would probably win. They were starting to look very dangerous.

Andrew Flintoff was batting with Geraint Jones (the anti-Adam). Flintoff was very cunning and had already worked out that Justin was a Clayr. So he skipped away from the pitch and hurled his sword at Justin. A scream of pain echoed through the stadium. But Justin stood there unmarked.

At Justin's feet lay the crumpled form of big Matty Hayden. His eyes were closed, his face pale, and blood was pouring from the deep, gaping wound on his chest. Justin's eyes went very wide and filled with tears. He took a step back.

Adam had a sudden, vivid memory of Matt's reaction when Justin had been hurt in New Zealand. He whistled down their boards. 'Run!' he yelled, 'This isn't gunna be pretty!'

They quickly and carefully took up Matt's body and fled to the tunnel below the grandstand. Bad move. As Justin let out an immense scream of pure anguish, Charter Marks exploded around him. The team felt the building shake and ran, just making it out as rubble came tumbling down, blocking the entrance.

'Oh no,' someone whispered, 'JL ain't gunna be pleased with that. What're we gunna do?'

'Damien,' Adam ordered, 'Stay here and search for Matt. Guard the others.' He drew his sword. 'Sons, let us fight!'

Justin was already fighting blindly and angrily with Flintoff. Four more Poms materialised on the field. Adam was drawn into battle with Michael Vaughan, and Brett looked ridiculously small next to his opponent Stephen Harmison. Brad was eagerly fighting Kevin Pietersen and all of them were somehow holding off Andrew Strauss.

At last Justin found the breath to begin blowing Saraneth. The Sons were relieved; all of them were injured and exhausted. As one, the four warriors held the note of the Binder.

But Vaughan merely laughed and shook his head. 'Toys, Clayr,' he said, 'And you cannot defeat us.' In desperation Brett tried Kibeth but the English players merely shook it off.

The battle continued and the blood of the Sons ran into the turf. What could they do?

Damien looked out despairingly, seeing his friends stumbling and falling. He was racking his brains urgently. For the life of him, he could not think of anything. Something was niggling, crying out to be recognised, but Damien didn't want to acknowledge it…

The four warriors threw out Marks of harmless explosions and retreated. Damien drew a diamond of protection and began to heal swiftly. All of the warriors were despairing.

'None of the pipes work. Ranna, Saraneth, Kibeth…none of Lirael's tunes made a difference! We will need the bells!'

Slowly Damien shook his head. But his fingers began sketching other Charter Marks, unconsciously. 'We cannot use the bells. They would harm us.' The bells suddenly appeared; Damien strapped the bandolier around his chest. It was time for that one thought to be acknowledged; time for him to take his place among the warriors…

'Astarael,' he whispered, eyes closed, his fingers unconsciously touching the largest bell. When he opened his eyes, they were cold but bright. 'The only one we can try to use is Astarael, and I am the only one strong enough to wield it. Adam has just the strength to hold you all here using Saraneth.' He paused, then seeing Justin about to suggest himself, he went on. 'We must not be defeated! Physically we must bind the English, then take them away.' He glanced at Adam and Justin. 'You, most of all, know I must do this. I have nothing to hold me here. Bring my body back to Australia, and bury me next to Matt and Justin. I shall help him when he arrives at the Ninth Gate. You too, Justin.'

The diamond broke up. Using chains of Marks and the cables in Adam's gloves, they bound the bodies tightly. The Five thrashed and struggled but could not get free. Whistling Marks, the Sons took up the bodies of the English and flew into the countryside.

Laying each of them down in the grass, the four warriors turned to Damien. Damien stood before them, looking remote and cold. Over his whites, the shirt of mail hugged him close, giving him definition; over that, his dark green tunic shone with the emblazoned golden Southern Cross. His long blue cloak fell to his feet, held by the simple silver pin they all wore. He turned to them and smiled, then kissed their foreheads for goodbye. Last he farewelled Adam, tears in their eyes.

Then Adam stepped back and swung Saraneth, bringing the true English spirits and the spirits of Justin, Brad and Brett under his sway. He nodded to Damien and closed his eyes tight.

Then Astarael's long, mournful note filled the air. It continued, long and eerie, until suddenly it stopped. None of the Sons dared look, until the echoes faded. Then Adam clasped the clapper of the Binder, and hesitantly they opened their eyes.

The five English players were beginning to stir, the chains that held them dissolving. But Damien lay unmoving, eyes closed, face slack and peaceful. On his chest lay Astarael, his fingers clenched tight around the clapper so that it could not sound.