Authors: David Gemmell
’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 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 upon 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 armour?’ As he moved in, his sword slashing towards 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 armour, 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 centre 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 towards him, Shannow moved in side-step and plunged his own 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 on to 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 300-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 into 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 on to the deck. The iceberg loomed in to the night like a gargantuan tombstone.
’Isn’t that incredible?’ said the man.
’Yes.’ They were joined by other revellers, who leaned over the wooden rail to watch the ice loom ever closer.
The ship ploughed on, scraping the side of the ice mountain. The revellers shrieked with laughter and leapt back as chunks of ice fell to the promenade.
Deep below 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 outwards, 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 carrying 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 now the lake had submerged the bridge and Shannow found himself wading through against the current. A stalactite splashed into the water beside him, cracking against his arm and tearing loose the spool. 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 towards him.
He searched for a fissure through which he could climb, but there was no way out. Sarento’s body bobbed alongside him, face down, 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, 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 riocheted 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 towards the comatose victim, but as he raised it a giant black shadow loomed over him.
Talons as long as sabres ripped through his back. The knife fell from nerveless fingers and Achnazzar could not even scream as the taloned hand carried him towards the dreadful maw.
Batik limped to Donna and tried to lift her.
’Christ Almighty!’ shouted Madden. Batik looked up to see that the demon, having finished with Achnazzar, was now reaching down once more. He cocked his pistol and stood, straddling Donna.
The taloned fingers opened . . .
Batik fired and the hand jerked, but relentlessly came down once more. He threw his empty pistol aside and drew Griffin’s weapon from his belt. As the fingers came within reach Batik leapt into the palm; his clothes burst into flame, but he ignored the agony as he held his gun two-handed and levelled it at the colossal face.
Eight hundred miles away, the created waters of the Adantic ocean streamed across the Blood Stone, draining its power, blurring its energy.
Batik fell through the now transparent fingers and plunged into the crowd below. Madden ran to him, beating at the flames on his clothing with bare hands. Incredibly, once they were extinguished, he found that Batik was still conscious. He helped him to his feet, and together they staggered back to the temple steps.
Above them the demon was fading fast and a strange sense of calm settled on Madden.
’It’s over,’ he told Batik.
’Not yet,’ replied the Hellborn, as the angry crowd surged towards them.
Soon after midnight Griffin awoke. The house was empty and he knew diat Madden and Batik had set out to save his wife. Shame burned in him, swamping the pain from his wounds. He should have been out there with them.
He struggled to sit, ignoring the pull at the stitches which Madden had experdy placed, and gazed from the window at the overgrown garden beyond. Never had Griffin felt so alone. He glanced down at his body and saw the wasted flesh; his shirt seemed voluminous now and his belt had needed an extra notch, which Madden had made with his hunting-knife. Anger surged, fuelled by frustration and helplessness. But he had nothing on which to vent his emotion and it turned inward as he saw again young Eric blasted from life in the doorway of their home. Tears brimmed and he blinked them away, swinging his head to focus his gaze on the garden. The trees should have been trimmed back, for their branches were spreading above the rose bushes and blocking the light needed for good blooms.
A shadow caught his eye - something had moved in the moonlight by the gate. Griffin scanned the area. Nothing. There were no lights in the house, and he knew he could not be seen. He waited, focusing his gaze on the gate and allowing his peripheral vision a chance to pick up movement. It was an old hunter’s trick taught to him by Jimmy Burke many years before.
There! By the silver birch. A man was moving stealthily through the undergrowth. And there! Another crouched beside a holly tree.
Griffin’s mouth was dry. He identified two other shapes as intruders and then cast his eyes about the darkened room for his pistol. But it was gone - Madden must have taken it. He lay back on the sofa and carefully eased himself to the floor, drawing his hunting-knife from its sheath. He was in no condition to fight one man - four might as well be four hundred!
Think, man!’ he told himself. His eyes flicked around the room - where would they come in?
The window was open and that seemed the best bet, so slowly he moved on all fours to sit beneath the ledge. The exertion weakened him and he felt dizzy. He took a deep breath and leaned his head against the cold stone. Minutes passed and his mind wandered. He had once hidden like this as a boy, when his father had been hunting him to deliver a thrashing. He couldn’t remember what he had done, but he recalled vividly the sense of defeat within the excitement, knowing that he was only putting off the awful moment.
The window creaked. Griffin glanced up and saw a hand on the ledge.
With infinite care he eased himself into a crouch. A leg swung into sight, the booted foot almost grazing Griffin’s shoulder, then the man was inside. Griffin rose to his feet, grabbing the long dark hair, and before the intruder could scream the hunting-knife sliced across his throat.
He began to struggle wildly and Griffin was thrown from him. The man fell to his knees, dropping his pistol. Griffin scooped it up and crawled back to the wall, waiting for the next man.
Across the room the first intruder had ceased to struggle. Griffin cocked the pistol and closed his eyes to aid his hearing. Nothing moved . . .
He awoke with a start. His mind had drifted him into a dream and he blinked hard, scanning the room. How long had he been asleep? Seconds? Minutes?
And what had awakened him?
The pistol butt was warm in his hand and slippery with sweat; he wiped his palm on his shirt and took up the gun once more. Outside he could hear the sound of distant chanting, and a red glow filled the room.
A man stepped inside from the door at the far wall and Griffin shot him twice. He stumbled and fell, then raised his pistol and a bullet smashed into the wall above Griffin’s head. Holding his pistol two-handed, Griffin fired once more and the man fell dead. The room stank of cordite and smoke hung in the air. Griffin’s ears rang, and he could hear nothing.
He pushed himself to his feet and risked a glance from the window. A man was running towards the house; Griffin’s first shot missed him, but the second took him in the chest and he fell. The wagon-master wiped sweat from his eyes as he glanced up at the night sky.
. . . And saw the Devil looming above the house tops.
’My God!’ he whispered.
’No, mine,’ said a voice. Griffin did not turn.
’I wondered what had happened to you, Zedeki.’
’You are a hard man to kill, Mr Griffin.’
’I am surprised you did not just shoot me down?’
’I thought you might like to witness the last act in the drama. Watch his hand, Mr Griffin. The next person you see will be your wife being carried to his mouth . . . then I will kill you.’