“We are prepared, my Lord.” Kano removed a tapered sword from his cloak, holding it low. His face was pale and skeletal in the subterranean light. “I will kill him myself!”
A smile creased Cain’s face.
“Then go and do so. But ensure that Soloman does not disturb me before I complete the ritual with the child. That is everything on this sacred night.” He put down The Grimorium Verum. “The spell is intricate and difficult, and I have not finished preparations.”
“And the mandrill, my Lord?”
Sinew and fang purred at the gesture.
It sat back and the jaws parted to reveal jagged white fangs. Its talons clenched, callused feet hard against granite.
Cain laughed.
“I will release my pet when it is time.”
***
Crossing chilly, mist-shrouded landscape, Soloman braced to be hit by a sniper at every step. But as the colossal walls of the fortress loomed closer and closer and rose titanically before him, he was convinced they wouldn’t be using rifles.
He understood somehow that they would be using edged weapons and pistols, a part of their demented minds finding more pleasure in killing at close range, watching the light go out in their enemy’s eyes as blood flowed over their hands.
Locked into a death mode to fear nothing, he walked boldly through the gate, tossing the duffle bag aside. Maggie and the rest halted as he viciously racked the shotgun and went through the arch, scanning and ready, entering the outer ward.
Soloman stared about, saw nothing. And then he knew the fight would begin in a series of ambushes inside the walls, where they had a distinct advantage. He frowned at the thought, hating it. But he was so solidly locked into a killing mode, he didn’t care.
So be it.
He tried to get a feel for the Castle’s architecture, to anticipate what the interior would resemble.
The more he could learn, he knew, the better off he would be when the attacks came. Because then he’d have to react instantly, using every advantage as he fired left and right in what would be true chaos.
He stared over the outer ward.
The gate had long ago crumbled into ruin, leaving no defensive measures for closing the squared courtyard, so they’d been forced to let him in. And now they were carefully concealed inside the walls, blades poised.
Soloman turned, motioning for the rest to approach. He’d secured twelve grenades on his waist, the Grizzly locked in a hip holster. He also had fifteen fully loaded clips for the semiauto concealed on his vest and ankles. Extra shotgun shells were stuffed in his jacket, the tanto was at his waist, and it would have to be enough. It was as much ammo as he could carry, just as he’d been trained.
“I’m going to lead,” he said. “Stay very, very close. These psychos are using all kinds of weapons, and they’re deadly with them. If something happens, do the best you can to evade but leave the fighting to me. Don’t try to deal with any of them. They’ll finish you in a heartbeat.” He glanced at all of them in turn. “Do you understand?”
They nodded.
Marcelle clenched his hands, and Soloman knew that the priest had the ability to crush any attacker with that gorilla strength. He pointed to him. “Be careful, Marcelle. A blade can take you down in a second. It doesn’t matter how strong you are.”
The priest nodded, grim. Marcelle had no fear, Soloman knew; he didn’t fear death or Hell or Cain or anything else that lay within this castle. Then he saw Mother Superior Mary Francis, the faintest smile on her face.
He blinked, struck for a moment.
She spoke. “This is the oldest enemy of God, Colonel. He has always lost. And he will lose again – no matter the cost.”
Soloman stared a moment, but he was too caught up in a combat mode to be reflective. He turned, moving carefully toward the gatehouse—a series of intact towers that defended the inner ward, which was like a courtyard. After they passed through the tunnel, he knew, they’d have to find the stairway that led downward, for Cain would remain underground for the Black Mass; it had to be done underground.
Stretching back a hand at Maggie, Soloman said, “Give me one of those flashlights we bought today.” Maggie slapped it into his hand as he entered the darkened gatehouse, skull-windows gazing on them with an aura of malevolence.
“Damn,” Soloman whispered, instantly worried. “Maggie, stay close to me. Marcelle, take care of Mary Francis.”
“I am beside her, Colonel,” was the reply.
In a tight group they went into the long, wide hallway of the gatehouse to emerge into the inner ward in the last light of a sun surviving too long in an angry autumn sky. And as the last faint grayness faded to black, they stood, all of them staring over the courtyard.
The castle was colossal, surely impenetrable in its days of lost glory, but now the doors were moldy cinders fallen to dust, security surrendered to a past age. Cain could have repaired them quickly, Soloman knew, but right now there was nothing in the castle not immediately accessible. He stared around and tried to discern the most logical place for a stairway to the dungeon, shaking his head in frustration.
“Marcelle,” he asked, “do you have any idea how to get to the dungeon?”
The priest stepped forward. “I am familiar with Celtic design. Across the inner ward are the kitchen and chapel. To the left would be the servants’ quarters. I believe the stairway to the dungeon would be far to the right.”
“Good,” Soloman whispered, scanning the narrow windows of surrounding turrets. He felt the eyes, knew the warlocks were planning an ambush. “We need to move down to the dungeon. If—”
“Or to the prison tower,” Marcelle interrupted, pointing to a tower behind them, high and to the right. “That is traditionally where prisoners were held until the time of execution.”
Soloman grimaced, debating, and knew they were running out of time. He couldn’t count on Cain waiting for midnight to complete the ritual. If Cain panicked, he might kill Amy before then. His confusion was reflected in Marcelle’s quick response.
“I understand,” the priest said. “There is another stairway there.”
He pointed to a door obscured in darkness at the rear of the gatehouse; it was on the outer edge of the ward.
“I suggest,” he continued, “that you search the dungeon while I search the tower. But you should keep the women with you, for you have the weapons, and I am not skilled. I will go alone and take the risk upon myself.”
“Not a good idea, Marcelle. What if—”
Marcelle stepped closer. “I will reach the top of the tower, Soloman. Do not be overly concerned.”
A reluctant pause. “All right, Marcelle. But be careful. Take one of the flashlights and—”
Soloman whirled and fired, directing the blast at the black eye of a turret but as soon as he fired he knew he’d missed, stones shattering high off the window. He cursed, angrily racking a round. He had narrowly glimpsed a hooded face.
“Well,” he whispered, “at least now we understand each other.”
He turned to look gravely at the priest. “Go ahead, Marcelle. But do as I say: Be very, very careful. These people are stone crazy. And get back to me as soon as you can. We’ll be below.”
The priest walked toward the gatehouse, flashlight in hand. “I will meet you in the dungeon,” he said.
***
Cain frowned as Kano rushed forward.
“Soloman is in the inner ward! The priest has gone into the prison tower! And Soloman fired at a member of The Circle! He missed! But he was submerged in darkness by very little! The Circle is moving to intercept Soloman before he can get to the child!”
Frowning, Cain reached over to lay a hand on the mandrill’s bristling brown head. And at the touch the mandrill purred, fangs separating as it strained against the chain. It struck blindly at the air.
“My Lord?” Kano whispered.
“Yes?”
“Do we allow Soloman into the dungeon?”
“He will reach the dungeon in any case, Kano. He is skilled. Are your brothers awaiting him?” asked Cain in an ominous tone, and he glanced at Kano with an alien expression.
Kano felt the impact, stepped back.
“My ... My Lord?”
Cain’s hand lashed out to snatch the warlock from the ground, and it was over quickly, blood raining through niobium-titanium fangs into lungs that filtered it into strength, enhancing and expanding, replenishing the full measure of what he’d thirsted for during the long dry day. Afterwards Cain tossed the lifeless husk aside.
“Why was such life wasted on a mortal?” he asked.
***
Soloman froze, listening. He raised a hand to Maggie and Mary Francis, searching the spiraling darkness beneath them. He could see no more than ten feet because of the twisting, descending stone staircase. He held the shotgun close, anticipating.
Nothing happened, but he waited longer, knowing he’d heard a faint rustling beneath them. Like the whisper of feet moving into position.
And then Soloman suddenly wished that he hadn’t allowed Maggie and the rest to accompany him on this. It was too wild, too surreal. His emotions were flaring out of control with the stress because it was unlike anything he’d ever done, and he was even good at this job. He couldn’t imagine what Maggie was experiencing. But as he risked a narrow glance back, he saw that she was locked in defiant control.
Too late to change his mind, he motioned for them to proceed. And they continued down the stairway slow and close, each holding a flashlight that lit the corridor. Then Soloman saw a cobblestone floor before them and moved to the door, motioning for them to hold their positions.
He hesitated, waiting, watching, and listening. He detected nothing but knew that his perceptions weren’t reliable. Two or more of the killers could be strategically positioned on the far side of the portal, swords uplifted.
Soloman took a deep breath, not worrying about silence because the flashlights were giving away their positions anyway, an advantage and a disadvantage. But he saw distant torches burning in the underground, knew this section was being used.
He made sure the safety of the shotgun was off and walked slowly forward, halting six feet from the door. There was a moment spent as he took a series of deep breaths, preparing. Then he stepped forward to—
“Soloman!” Maggie screamed.
He whirled, knowing instantly what was happening, using the ruse that he’d been deceived. It would be a two-point attack: Someone had come from above and in a split-second another one would rush out of the dungeon entrance to cut off his retreat.
Soloman half-turned as a vulture-like shape descended between the women firing a pistol, and he took a split-second as the shape came over them, black cloak spread like batwings with white fire flashing.
As the bullets struck to the side Soloman half-turned to glimpse a second figure almost on top of him, charging from the dungeon.
Deciding instantly, he hurled himself back at the steps, rolling beneath the descending black shape as it soared over his head to land hard on the cobblestone threshold, firing all the way. The attacker quickly exchanged clips as he staggered off-balance, and then Soloman was on his feet, shotgun rising. He saw the second man rushing forward as the first collided against the wall, and he fired three quick rounds into the rushing figure.
It staggered the warlock and Soloman grabbed the massive body to shove him violently toward the figure that had leaped between Maggie and Sister Mary Francis. Then in a chaotic eruption of gunfire with swords flailing Soloman fired again point-blank into the second man’s chest, a deafening series of blasts that finally sent both of the warlocks against the wall in gore.
Heated, on fire with killing rage, Soloman slammed six fresh rounds into the shotgun, cursing as he racked it and saw a live round accidentally jacked into the air, spent from excitement. He shouted at Maggie, “Are you all right? Are both of you all right?”
“We’re all right!” Maggie shouted back and then froze, lifting her head as if she’d heard something.
She stared with mesmerizing intensity into the echoing darkness as Soloman bent and picked up the unspent round, shoving it into the chamber; he couldn’t afford to waste any. He glimpsed the move as Maggie leaped down the stairs and cursed violently as she ran past him. He lashed out to grab her, but it was too late.
“Maggie!” he screamed.
She ran through the dungeon door.
“No!”
Soloman charged forward as she howled in pain, hurled to the side by a blade that lashed out and returned, whirling back, and Soloman angled outside the violent flash as the blade struck sparks from the wall.
***
Marcelle was halfway up the stairs when he heard the almost silent approach beneath him, knew battle had been engaged. He turned, descending quickly to take steps three at a time when he saw the black shape looming up, a sword held low.
A white flicker whipped out, and Marcelle leaned back. With a shout he leaped farther up the steps, his hands raised to grapple. And the cloaked figure, a warlock or sorcerer, advanced with lethal purpose, the blade raised high. Even in the frantic moment Marcelle saw that the man was powerfully built, far taller than he, but lacking his elemental development.
“I do not wish to harm you!” Marcelle rasped, backing up the stairs. “Give us the child and leave this place! Hear me! I do not wish to harm you!”
A vicious swipe sliced his vest as Marcelle leaped aside, and another blinding slash stung his arm, cutting deeper than he’d anticipated. He instinctively reached up to his injured shoulder as he backed, crouching, giving the message that, if it came to it, he would strangle this attacker’s life from his body; the impression was strong.
Stares were exchanged for a split-second, and Marcelle took the advantage, backing quickly, thinking of Amy. He realized from the faintness of breath that he was badly injured, his strength already fading. His attacker had obviously sliced an artery or a superior vein, and Marcelle knew that if he didn’t reach a hospital he would be dead inside an hour.
Then the warlock attacked again, and Marcelle desperately parried with the flashlight, roaring in pain as a finger was severed in the collision of blade and steel. Then the blade returned, and at another injury Marcelle almost forgot the pain of the first.
His attacker continued to ascend, whirling and striking in fantastic combinations of blows that Marcelle countered again and again, defying the mesmerizing skill and speed that inexorably pushed him into the prison tower, from which there was no escape.
***
No time for tactics.
Soloman understood what had happened.
Maggie had heard Amy’s distant scream, and her love had abruptly overcome her judgment. Then she had launched herself through the door and another warlock waiting with cold control on the other side had struck a blow that sent her wildly to the floor.
Soloman went through the door like a hurricane.
Collision!
A fierce collision, a violent intertwining of arms and frantic blows before the warlock savagely broke free and whirled with a bladed hook—a close-combat weapon once used for disemboweling men and horses in the Middle Ages.
Soloman blocked the blow with the shotgun and spun to block another and then another, trying to gain a single second for a shot as the blade fell like lightning, tearing wood from the stock.
With a roar Soloman lunged to hit the warlock full-force, blasting him away from Maggie and into the nightmarish atmosphere of the dungeon where they rolled together, tearing
, grappling until Soloman somehow lost the shotgun and whirled, hurling the cloaked shape against iron bars.
Wasting a single breath he spun toward Maggie and saw her bleeding from an arm, Mary Francis over her. He also saw that no other warlocks occupied the tunnel; there was only this. He reached for the Grizzly, the shotgun lost in the collision.
Black and enraged, the warlock rose.
Soloman found nothing, glared down; the holster was empty.
The cloaked shape descended over him.
A sweeping slash and Soloman angled desperately to the side, evading the hook by the faintest edge, but the long weapon returned in a vicious crosscut that would have torn out a lung, and Soloman leaped forward to block it forearm to forearm. He struck back hard, his fist connecting solidly, and then he whirled to hurl the powerful figure down the tunnel again, gaining precious breathless moments.
“Oh, God,” Soloman gasped, glaring about for his weapons, but they were gone, gone, and he couldn’t use the grenades because it could kill all of them. He heard soft steps and turned, knowing.
In a blinding wheel of steel, the black shape attacked, whirling the hook in a mesmerizing display of skill. He threw a dozen blows that Soloman evaded by the narrowest flashing margin in the darkness, angling, blocking, slipping for frantic moments as the hook struck sparks from the close walls and floor.
It was a fantastic conflict of speed with fire struck at each blow, and Soloman reacted like lightning again and again, barely avoiding the razor edge. Then the curving blade swept across once more, and Soloman ducked wildly as it struck the bars and locked. With a shout the warlock tried to tear the blade free.
Soloman reacted.
He trapped the warlock’s weapon arm, roaring as he delivered an elbow to the face, and in the next split-second he brought a knee up to strike the flat side of the hook at the hilt.
It snapped.
The warlock glared as he stumbled back, holding the shattered hilt. He looked at Soloman a moment, and Soloman thought he was about to run, was glad to let him. Then the man charged forward, raising the broken edge like a knife, but at this there was no contest. Soloman parried the slashing blow, and his forearm lashed out to hit the warlock’s neck. Then, clutching his stunned opponent’s head, he spun without mercy to snap the spine and felt the man’s body fall limp.
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