“After tonight? The night is not yet over, priest.”
The morning of Walpurnacht dawned bright and clear, and Batik awoke filled with a sense of burning anticipation. His skin had become hypersensitive to touch, and his body trembled with suppressed emotion.
Even the air in the room seemed to crackle with static, as if a lightning storm were hovering over the city.
Batik rose from his bed and drew in a deep, shuddering breath.
The joy of Walpurnacht was upon him. His memory flashed images of past festivals when he had been filled with a holy strength and had coupled with a dozen willing women, never seeming to tire.
Remembering Madden and Griffen, he felt anger washing over him.
What link did he have with such farm-working peasants? How had he allowed himself to become involved with their petty squabbles?
He would kill them both and enjoy the day, he decided.
He moved to his pistol and settled the butt in his palm. It felt good, and he burned with a desire to kill, to destroy.
Jon Shannow leapt to his thoughts …
His friend.
“I have no friends. No need of friends,” hissed Batik.
But the image remained, and again he saw Shannow standing in the dark of the dungeon hall.
His friend.
“Damn you, Shannow!” he screamed, and fell to his knees, the gun clattering to the floor. His joy evaporated.
Downstairs Jacob Madden was battling with his own demons. For him it was almost worse than for Batik, for he had never experienced the surging emotions of Walpurnacht. There was no joy for Madden, only the pain of his memories, his defeats, and his tragedies. He wanted to run from the building and kill every Hellborn he saw, wanted them to suffer as he suffered.
But Griffin needed him, Donna Taybard needed him, and for Madden a duty like that was an iron chain on his emotions. It would not break for a selfish motive.
So he sat in his misery and waited for Batik.
The Hellborn dressed swiftly and cleaned his weapons. Then he moved down into the wide living area and checked on Griffin. The man’s color was good, and he slept peacefully.
“How are you?” he asked Madden, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Don’t touch me, you bastard!” snapped Madden, knocking the arm away and surging to his feet.
“Be calm, Jacob,” urged Batik. “It is Walpurnacht; it is in the air. Breathe deeply and relax.”
“Relax? Everything I loved is gone, and my life is now a shell. When do we go after Donna?”
“Tonight.”
“Why not now?”
“In full light?”
Madden sank back into his chair. “What is the matter with me?”
“I told you; it is Walpurnacht. Tonight the Devil walks, and you will see him. But from now until he is gone you will feel his presence in the air around you. During the next twenty-four hours there will be many fights, many deaths, many rapes, and thousands of new lives begun.”
Madden moved to the table and poured himself a mug of water. His hands were trembling, and sweat shone on his face.
“I can’t take too much of this,” he whispered.
“I’ll help you through it,” said Batik. Outside in the narrow alleys the sound of chanting came to them. From somewhere nearby a scream, piercing and shrill, rose above the chants.
“Someone just died,” said Madden.
“Yes, and she won’t be the last.”
The day wore on. Griffin awoke, and the pain from his wounds doubled. He screamed and cursed Madden, his language foul and his eyes full of malice.
“Take no notice,” Batik said softly.
Toward dusk, with Griffin asleep once more, Batik readied himself for the night, smearing his face with red dye. Madden refused to disguise himself, and Batik shrugged.
“It is only paint, Jacob.”
“I don’t want to look like a devil. If I am to die, I’ll die like a man.”
Toward midnight the two men rechecked their guns and slipped out into the street, heading toward the center of the city. In the main thoroughfare they came upon a huge crowd of dancing, chanting people. Scores of men and women writhed together in the nearby doorways and alleyways. Madden looked away.
A young girl, her scarlet dress spattered with blood, was slashing at herself with a curved knife. She saw Madden and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck.
Madden hurled her from him, but another woman took her place, running her hands over his body and whispering promises of joy. He pulled himself clear and thrust his way into the crowd after Batik.
The crowd moved on toward the temple square, and all the chants merged into a single word, repeated again and again.
“Satan … Satan … Satan …”
As they neared the long steps to the temple, the night sky blazed with red light and a shimmering figure appeared, hundreds of feet tall. Madden’s mouth opened, and, he shrank back from the colossus. It had the legs of a goat and the body of a powerful man, but the head was bestial and double-horned.
A huge hand reached down toward the crowd, and the young woman with the blood-drenched dress was lifted by the men around her and hurled into the taloned hand. It closed about her and lifted her to the gaping mouth. The girl disappeared, and the crowd cheered.
“This way,” shouted Batik, pulling Madden toward an alley beside the temple. “We don’t have long.”
“Acolytes’ entrance,” said Batik as they reached an oval wooden door at the side of the temple. It was locked, but he lifted his foot and sent the door crashing open. They stepped inside, and Madden drew his pistol.
“We must get up to the temple; they will be bringing Donna out to him any moment now.”
“You mean he’s going to eat her?” Madden asked incredulously.
Batik ignored him and set off at a run. Meanwhile a temple guard rounded the corner, but Batik shot him down and hurdled the body, taking the stairs beyond two steps at a time.
They reached another corridor, and two more guards appeared. A shell shrieked past Madden’s ear, and he dived for the floor, triggering his pistol twice. One guard pitched backward, and the other staggered but lifted his rifle once more. Batik fired twice, and the man crumpled to the floor.
At the top of another winding stair Batik paused before the door. He loaded his pistol and turned to Madden.
“This is it, my friend. Are you ready?”
“I’ve been ready all my life,” said Madden.
“I believe you,” Batik replied with a grin.
* * *
Shannow pushed Sarento into the elevator and stepped in behind him. The doors closed, and the giant smiled.
“Level G,” he said, and the elevator shuddered. “You have a number of surprises still in store, Mr. Shannow. I hope you enjoy them.”
“Stand against the door, Sarento.”
“But of course, though your fears are groundless; there are no guards in the cavern. Tell me, what do you hope to achieve? You cannot destroy the stone.”
The doors opened suddenly, and Sarento spun and dived through. Shannow followed him and opened fire, but the bullets ricocheted off a huge stalactite. The Jerusalem Man looked around at the immense cavern with a spherical roof that glistened with gold threads and shining stones. Stalactites hung like pillars. He moved into the glowing light near the center, where a small black lake surrounded an island on which stood a circle of Standing Stones, black and glistening.
“You stand at the heart of the empire, Shannow,” came Sarento’s disembodied voice. “Here every dream is a reality. Can you feel the power of the Blood Stone?”
Shannow scanned the cavern, but there was no sign of the giant. Walking to the edge of the lake, he saw a narrow bridge of seasoned wood on the other side of the stones. Traversing the lake, he mounted the bridge and crossed to the circle. At the first monolith he stopped to examine the sides. A deep indentation met his fingers. He pressed inside and heard a l
atch drop. A small section dropped away, but when he thrust his hand inside, it was empty.
“Did you think I would leave the gold there?” said Sarento.
Shannow spun to see that the giant was standing at the altar. He was dressed now in the armor of Atlantis, a golden breastplate with a golden stone above the heart. On his head he wore a plumed helm, and in his hands was a sword. Shannow fired, but the bullet screamed away up into the cavern roof. Taking careful aim, he fired once more, this time at the grinning face.
“Pendarric’s armor of invincibility, Mr. Shannow. Nothing can harm me now, whereas you are defenseless. It is fitting that we should meet like this: two Rolynd warriors within the great circle.”
“Where is the Mother Stone?” said Shannow, sheathing his pistol.
“You are standing on it, Shannow. Behold!”
The ground beneath his feet blurred, the covering of dank earth shimmering into nothing, becoming red-gold veined with slender black. All across the circle the ground glowed like a lantern.
“It is said that to kill a Rolynd brings great power,” said Sarento, moving forward with sword in hand. “We shall see. How do you like the sword, Shannow? Beautiful, yes? It is a sword of power. Sipstrassi. In the old tongue they were called Pynral-ponas: swords from the stone. What they cut, they kill. Come, Mr. Shannow; let me cut you.”
Shannow backed away toward the bridge.
“Where can you run? Back to the Titanic and my guards? Face me, Rolynd. Meet your death with courage. Come; I do not have much time.”
“I’m in no hurry,” said Shannow.
Sarento leapt forward, the great sword flashing in the air, but Shannow dived under the blade and rolled to his feet.
“A nice maneuver. It is always interesting to see an animal run for its life, but what will it gain you? A few more seconds.” As Sarento ran at him, Shannow vaulted to the altar and jumped down on the other side.
“Terean-Bezek,” hissed Sarento, and two stone hands grabbed Shannow’s ankles. He looked down and saw the Blood Stone fingers trapping him as Sarento laughed and moved slowly around the altar.
“How does it feel to lose, Jerusalem Man? Does your soul cry out in its anguish?”
“You’ll never know,” hissed Shannow. As the sword came up, he looked away, down at the surface of the altar. There, engraved on the top, was the image of a sword with an upswept hilt.
The sword of the dream!
Shannow reached out. Something cold touched his palm, and his fingers clenched around the hilt. Then the sword flashed up, and the ringing of steel on steel filled the cavern.
Sarento stepped back. Gone was the perpetual smile. Shannow lowered the blade to the stone hands gripping his ankles, and as the sword touched them, they disappeared.
“You were right, Sarento. This cavern holds many surprises.”
“That is Pendarric’s sword. I never could find it. I could never understand why I was unable to find it, for it was said to be awaiting a Rolynd.”
“You are Rolynd no longer, Sarento. Your luck just ran out.”
The smile returned to the giant’s face. “We’ll see. Unless, of course, you can find some armor.” As he moved in, his sword slashing toward Shannow’s head, the Jerusalem Man blocked the blow and his riposte thundered against Sarento’s neck. It did not even break the skin.
Now the giant took his blade two-handed and attacked ferociously. Shannow was forced back, blocking and parrying. Three times more Shannow’s sword thrust or cut at Sarento’s armor, but to no effect.
“It is as useless as your pistol.”
Sweat flowed on Shannow’s face, and his sword arm was weary, while Sarento showed no sign of fatigue.
“You know, Shannow, I could almost regret killing you.”
Shannow took a deep breath and hefted his sword, his eyes drawn to the giant’s breastplate as Sarento stepped forward. The golden stone set there was now almost black. Sarento’s sword whistled down. Shannow blocked it and risked a cut to the head. The blade bounced away, but Sarento was shaken; his hand flew to his brow and came away stained by blood.
“It’s not possible,” he whispered. He looked down at the stone and then screamed in fury, launching a berserk attack. Shannow was pushed back and back across the center of the circle, and Sarento’s sword slashed through his shirt to score the skin. He fell. With a scream of triumph the giant slashed his blade downward, but Shannow rolled to his knees, blocking another cut and parrying a thrust.
The two men circled one another warily.
“You’ll still die, Shannow.”
Shannow grinned. “You’re frightened, Sarento; I can feel it. You’re not Rolynd—you never were. You’re just another brigand with large dreams. But they end here.”
Sarento backed away to the altar. “Large dreams? What would you know of large dreams? All you want is some mythical city, but I want the world to be as it was. Can you understand that? Parks and gardens and the joys of civilization. You’ve seen the Titanic. Everyone could enjoy its luxury. No more poverty, Shannow. No starvation. The Garden of Eden!”
“With you as the serpent? I think not.”
As Sarento’s sword lunged toward him, Shannow moved in a sidestep and plunged his blade under the breastplate and through Sarento’s groin. The giant screamed and fell across the altar. Shannow wrenched the sword clear and, as the cavern shuddered, almost lost his footing. A stalactite tore itself from the roof and plunged into the lake.
Sarento hauled himself onto the altar.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “The Titanic!” His blood-covered hands scrabbled at the altar top. Shannow’s sword touched his neck, and he rolled slowly to his back. “Listen to me. You must stop the power. The Titanic …”
“What about it?”
“It is sailing an identical course to that which destroyed it when it sank with the loss of 1,500 lives. The gold …”
“The ship is on a mountain. It cannot sink.”
“The iceberg will pierce the side, a three-hundred-foot gash. The stone will create … the … ocean.” Sarento’s eyes lost their focus, and his body slid to the stone. As his blood touched the glowing ground, it hissed and bubbled, and a deep red stain was absorbed by the rock. Shannow dropped his sword and stepped to the altar. Sarento’s fingers had been scrabbling near a raised relief, and when he pulled at it, the top moved. Crossing to the other side, the Jerusalem Man pushed the gap wider, then reached inside. There were four spools of wire.
He dragged them free and scanned the circle. There were thirteen Standing Stones, and he ran to the first and looped the gold around the base.
Far above him the ghost ship sped through the eldritch sea, while people danced and sang in the great ballrooms. One young couple walked out onto the deck. The iceberg loomed in the night like a gargantuan tombstone.
“Isn’t that incredible?” said the man.
“Yes.” They were joined by other revelers, who leaned over the wooden rail to watch the ice loom ever closer.
The ship plowed on, scraping the side of the ice mountain. The revelers shrieked with laughter and leapt back as chunks of ice fell to the promenade.
Deep below the decks came a shuddering jolt, and the ship trembled as if sliding over shingle.
“You don’t think Sarento has taken rebirth too far?” asked the girl.
“There’s no danger,” the man assured her.
And the ship tilted.
Shannow had attached the gold to six of the monoliths when a growling rumble set the ground vibrating. The vast roof trembled, and a foot-wide crack opened. Stalactites began to fall like giant spears, and water streamed from the fissure above him. Shannow grabbed the wire and pulled it tight. Below him the ground glowed ever brighter. Two more monoliths were connected when the far wall of the cavern exploded outward, as millions of tons of icy water cascaded down from the stricken Titanic.
The lake swelled. Shannow ignored the chaos around him and struggled on; the spool he was car
rying ran out, and he swiftly tied a second spool to the wire. Water swirled around his legs, making the stone surface slippery. Then four more monoliths were joined by the slender gold line, but by then the lake had submerged the bridge and Shannow found himself wading against the current. A stalactite splashed into the water beside him, cracking against his arm and tearing the spool loose. Cursing, he dived below the water, his arms fanning out to retrieve it. He was forced to swim back to the last monolith and follow the wire down. Then, with the spool once more in his hand, he struck out. The water was rising faster now, but he ignored the peril until he had completed the golden circle.
He could no longer feel the stone beneath his feet, but the fading glow could still be seen. Water was now flooding the cavern, and Shannow watched as the roof came steadily toward him.
He searched for a fissure through which he could climb, but there was no way out. Sarento’s body bobbed alongside him, facedown, and he pushed it away. As the roof loomed directly above him, he was forced to turn on his back to keep his mouth above water.
As Batik pushed opened the door, shells hammered into the frame, and the Hellborn warrior dived through the doorway and rolled. Four guards turned their guns on him. Madden came through a fraction of a second later, his pistol blazing; one guard went down, and another was stung by a bullet across the forearm. The other two opened fire on Batik, and a bullet seared through his side, while another ricocheted from the marble floor to tear the flesh under his thigh. Despite his wounds, Batik coolly returned the fire, his first bullet taking a guard under the chin and hurling him from his feet, his second hammering home into the last man’s shoulder, spinning him. Madden finished the man with a shot to the head.
All around them red-robed priests were scurrying for safety as Batik grabbed Madden’s outstretched arm and hauled himself to his feet.
Outside the huge double doors Achnazzar lifted his dagger over the unconscious Donna.
“No!” screamed Batik, and he and Madden fired simultaneously. Punched from his feet, Achnazzar landed hard on the upper steps and rolled to his stomach. He could feel blood filling his lungs. Clutching the knife, he crawled toward the comatose victim, but as he raised it, a giant black shadow loomed over him.
Wolf in Shadow Page 32