gns.thegraveyardvultures-第2部分

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　。　。　。　knew　that　his　own　loss　of　faith　had　failed　him　in　his　greatest　hour　of　need；　that　he　was　but　a　mere　mortal　facing　up　to　a　devil　incarnate。　And　Quentin　was　fully　aware　of　this；　too！　No　longer　was　the　evil　brother　a　helpless　figure；　age　and　decay　still　ravaged　him　hideously　but　his　muscles　powered　him　with　the　speed　and　strength　of　one　in　the　prime　of　life。　The　cold　air　hissed　as　the　axe　went　back　and　up；　a　whistling　arc　of　instant　death；　its　blade　honed　to　razor　sharpness。　A　cry　left　those　toothless　lips　that　was　more　animal　than　human；　reverberating　in　the　still　atmosphere；　the　mountains　all　around　starting　to　take　up　the　echoes。
　　
　　Sabat　fought　against　shock　and　horror　which　were　threatening　to　petrify　him　into　an　easy　target。　A　sideways　leap　just　as　the　blade　came　down；　hearing　it　strike　the　rocky　ground　amid　a　shower　of　sparks。　Whirling；　flinging　the　crucifix　with　desperation；　seeing　it　hit　his　adversary　full　in　the　chest。　But　Quentin　only　swivelled　round；　a　horrific　sneer　on　his　aged　features。　'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