按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
es。 'The cross is powerless without you； Mark。 Not even a symbol； just a lump of meaningless metal。'
Panicking now； a Christian in a roman lion pit； knowing that his agility can only postpone the inevitable mauling。
Mental torture added to bursting lungs and weakening muscles。 Mark Sabat hurled garlic bulbs and saw them bounce off his brother and roll away。 Quentin followed him； the axe poised effortlessly； awaiting the death blow。 It was crazy that such a decrepit body could move so swiftly； the brain within the shrunken bald skull tuned perfectly to outwit its retreating foe。
Suddenly Mark Sabat was airborne and falling； a wave of vertigo sweeping through him； a sensation akin to having stepped off a block of high…rise flats into a black nothingness。 Then a jerk checked him。 He was lying on his back staring up at an oblong that was lighter than the darkness all around； twinkling pinpoints which he recognised as stars。 It took him some seconds to realise what had happened and then it all came to him； the musty damp smell of soil which showered down on him from the narrow； sharp sides of the grave into which he had fallen； sharp slivers of rock gouging his back。
A familiar silhouette above him obliterated the starlight。 Quentin。 Old or young； it was the Quentin he had hunted from Haiti to Bavaria； axe poised for the final blow； savouring this moment of fratricide。 And it was at that instant； even as he was preparing himself for death； that Mark's fingers closed over the cold metal of the 。38 in his jacket pocket。 His movements were instinctive； an act of hopelessness tinged with defiance； a condemned man spitting in the face of his executioner。 A salvo of shots； so rapid that they sounded like a single peal of cannonfire ing up out of the ground； stabbing flame that burned its way through the material of the pocket in which the gun was fired； and gave off a stench that was a mixture of singed cloth and cordite。 And bullets thudding into a human body with a noise like catapult slugs striking wet cardboard。
Quentin was thrown back up to his full height even as he started to bring the axe down； the hail of slugs ploughing up his body； churning a furrow that began in his groin and ended with a savage gash across his throat； as though a ferocious wild beast had savaged him。 His scream of anger was drowned by the blood gushing from the severed jugular vein； the agony arching his back so that his bowed spine threatened to snap。 One suspended second when he tottered on the narrow brink that divides the chasms of life and death； his own death…wish suddenly expedited yet instinctively clinging to the life he had known； reluctant to relinquish it。 Tottering； swaying。
Mark's finger checked in the trigger。 He heard the axe thud harmlessly on the ground； saw Quentin ing at him； airborne； arms flailing like some ungainly prehistoric bird attempting to take flight； spouting warm； thick blood。
Mark Sabat felt the rush of air； covered his head with his arms and braced himself。 A sickening impact； smothered by the still kicking body of his brother； feeling and tasting warm blood on his face。
And the younger Sabat was fighting for his life again。 Somehow he managed to push the other off him； struggled up so that they were wedged side…by…side in the deep； narrow grave。 Only then did he open his eyes； and even the darkness failed to hide the awfulness of it all。 Quentin's face was only inches from his own； a grotesque countenance that showered him with bloodied curses； feeble fingers clutching at him； broken filthy nails scraping his flesh。 Mark heard the words clearly although it must have been impossible for the other to speak。 ' You fool！ Idle and yet I shall live again。 It is you who will moulder in this grave； Mark！'
Somehow Mark Sabat managed to extricate himself from those death clutches； vomiting as he did so and trying not to breathe in the foul stench of putrefaction and death。 Dimly he was aware that he still held the revolver and this time there was a deliberation in the way he brought the barrel to bear on his brother's forehead； almost a regret in the way he applied pressure to the hair trigger like a grieving jockey about to despatch his favourite but wounded mount。 The report was deafening in the confined space； the stab of flame lighting up the scene vividly and implanting it indelibly on Sabat's brain。
In that terrible lingering second he saw the other man's skull split like a cracked egg； grey yolk showering up the earthy walls and stringing back in tentacles which adhered to his clothing。 One last curse from that cavity of a mouth before it was swamped by a tidal wave of crimson fluid。
Sabat pulled the trigger again but the hammer fell on an empty shell。 He scrambled up； felt his feet squelching on the soft body beneath him； somehow secured a grip on the top of the grave and pulled himself up amid an avalanche of soil and stones。 Then he lay there on the ground； gulping in great lungfuls of freezing air and trying not to look at the three puppet…like corpses who sat closely by as though watching him； their expressions seeming to have changed to one of pleading； a mute request to be returned to their graves。
And Sabat knew that he would have to re…bury them。
Dawn was turning the eastern sky a pale grey by the time he had finished。 Every muscle and nerve in his lean body raged its protest as he finally flung down the broken spade which he had found behind the hut and stared at the three fresh mounds of earth。 The man and woman now occupied a single grave； the child a smaller one； and in the deep one lay Quentin。 Six feet of earth and rock covered the most evil man the world had ever known。 Yet Sabat was uneasy； now glancing about him。 It seemed colder than ever in spite of his exertions。 Almost as though night was ing back to cast its mantle over this bloodied clearing and hide the shame of a once noble family。
He turned away； tried to hurry； then pulled up； cringing； not daring to look back。 A voice； a whisper on the early morning breeze； yet so familiar。
'Idle and yet I shall live again； ft is you who will moulder in this grave； Mark'
Sabat's lips moved in a hoarse answering croak。
'No！ You're dead。 I killed you。'
A laugh answered him； a shrill peal that might have been the wind freshening and rusliing through the leaves； howling down from the mountain passes above。 But there was no wind。
？Running； his limbs now responding to the desperation that whipped him。 Stumbling。 Falling and picking himself up； clothing torn； grazed hands beginning to bleed。 On down that narrow track； daylight ing quickly now。 And behind him the laughter being fainter and fainter。
The hotel lobby was deserted as he entered； pulling himself up the narrow flight of stairs； exhaustion threatening to close in on him at any second。 Somehow he made it to his room； slammed the door gratefully behind him and leaned against it。 He saw the rolled up carpet； the pentagram chalked on the bare boards。 Everything as he had left it。。。 Oh； merciful God； no！
The silver chalice lay on its side； dented as though some heavy object had knocked it over and crushed it。 A shaft of early morning sunlight streaming in through the small latticed window glinted on the buckled shiny metal； reflecting a dazzling print that had tarnished where it had struck … a cloven hoof mark
Sabat's horrified gaze followed the damp trail left by the spilled water； a meandering dried…up watercourse on a parched landscape that crossed the chalk marks； broke the continuous lines that had formed a plete star。 The ultimate bastion had been breached！
'I shall live on。'
Whirling； recognising Quentin's voice； for one awful moment expecting to see his brother there in the room； maybe as the aged woodcutter； more likely in another form。 But there was no body。 Just the voice。
It was then that the full； awful realisation hit Mark Sabat。 He heard the maniacal laughter again and this time knew from whence it came 。。。 from within himself！
He rushed to the cracked and dusty wall mirror； stared at his reflection。 No outward change except exhaustion stamped on his aquiline features； dirt…grimed； clothing dishevelled。
'You fiend！' he hissed。 'You foul monster； Quentin。 I have killed you； sought to destroy you for the good of Mankind。 But instead your soul has possessed me。 But not pletely。 D'you hear me； Quentin； not pletely。 For I still have my own soul。 A man with two souls； like Petraux； the French sorcerer。'
'And what happened to Petraux？' A mocking question asked within his own mind； taunting。
'He died 。 。 。 and rose again in another life；' Sabat muttered as he recalled the legend； the story of how Petraux had fought a battle within himself and in the end took his own life so that when he was born again the evil which had triumphed over him lived on。 'But it shall not happen to me； Quentin。 You and I have fought and hated for too long； in bygone lives； and still I live。 I must take you with me where…ever I go； but it will not be easy for you because I shall fight you all the way。 The black powers may have an enemy within my camp now； but I also have one within theirs。 And maybe one day I shall destroy you totally。'
This time there was no answering jibe； just a silence that was disturbed by the rattle of crockery somewhere down below as the hotel kitchen prepared for the start of another day。
Shoulders slumped； eyes already beginning to close with fatigue； Sabat lurched towards the bed which stood in the centre of the pentagram。 His dragging feet caught the chalice； and sent it rolling until it struck the skirting board with a metallic clang。 Fully dressed he flung himself on to the bed； felt sleep swamping him like an ining tide； the relentless rollers sweeping him along。
And he dreamed； a dream in which his astral body went forth with Quentin at his side。 Not the Quentin he had fought in that clearing； a revolting specimen of senility； but a young and handsome man who bore his own looks。 A desert landscape in which nothing grew except sparse cacti and even they were wilting in the terrible heat。 Water that loomed up ahead and then vanished as they approached ；it。 But Quentin seemed unperturbed striding along as though he felt no disfort； Mark struggling along beside him and trying to hide the agony of his roasting flesh。
And in the hottest part of the day （did the temperature ever vary and was there such a thing as nightfall？） they came upon the battleground； multilated bloody bodies lying in the sand； huge black vultures devouring the human carrion； seemingly undisturbed by the intrusion of living men。
Mark Sabat stared and felt the horror eating his stomach like a quick…growing cancer。 Two races were intermingled with the carnage； light…skinned；…fair…haired warriors lying prone with the heavier…built； dark…skinned ones； the latter's faces brooding scowls even in death。 No victors； no losers； just a stalemate deathlock in the eternal battle of Good versus Evil； Light versus Dark。
And only two remained alive in this desert hell； himself and Quentin。 The last ambassadors。 The armies were destroyed and now the oute depended upon this final duel to the death between the two of them。
Sabat awoke； his clothes clinging damply to his skin； his face wet with sweat。 Waning sunlight flooded the room and he was aware that it was late afternoon。 Within minutes he was shivering as the perspiration began to cool on his body； his thoughts going back to that terrible parched desertland of death。 He smiled faintly to himself； that had been the first test； his astral alone with Quentin's in that burning hell； but he had been strong enough to return to his own physical body even though his brother had e back with him。 Neither could destroy the other in the final battle so both must share the same body。
But the real battle was only just beginning。
CHAPTER ONE
THE CEMETERY had long been untended。 A quarter of a century ago it ha