gns.cannibalcult-第25部分

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　　It　took　him　twenty　minutes　to　reach　the　clearing　in　which　the　small　chapel　stood。　His　pulses　were　racing　with　the　eagerness　of　a　hunting　beast　of　the　wild　closing　in　for　the　kill。　The　same　cunning；　waiting　and　listening；　nostrils　flaring　as　he　sniffed　the　night　air　and　smelled　an　aroma　that　had　him　tautening；　those　broken　fingernails　digging　into　the　palms　of　his　hands。　For　he　smelled　the　rancid　odour　of　roasting　human　flesh！
　　
　　Nauseating。　He　recalled　its　taste；　almost　vomited。　But　he　was　strong　now；　stronger　than　them。　And　was　not　his　very　name　feared　throughout　the　continent　and　all　the　other　countries　of　the　world？　Pierre　de　Lancre；　merciless　hunter　of　witches。　He　smiled　grimly　to　himself　and　moved　stealthily　forward　a　few　steps　then　stopped　to　listen　again。　Light　came　from　within　the　building；　slitting　out　through　the　ill…fitting　door；　but　there　was　no　sound　to　be　heard。　Sabat　was　wary；　Nevillon　and　his　young　mistress　were　no　ordinary　witches。　They　might　sense　his　presence。
　　
　　He　hesitated　at　the　door。　That　smell　of　burning　meat　was　much　stronger　now；　perhaps　he　was　already　too　late。　He　braced　himself；　drew　a　deep　breath　and　let　it　out　slowly；　his　own　way　of　steadying　those　racing　pulses。　Whatever　the　oute　he　had　to　go　in　there；　confront　his　deadliest　foes　face　to　face。　His　fingers　strayed　to　the　butt　of　his　revolver　then　fell　away。　This　would　be　no　time　for　bullets；　it　would　be　a　duel　with　much　deadlier；　far　more　dangerous　weapons。
　　
　　His　knee　went　up；　shot　forward　with　tremendous　force；　a　blow　that　devastated　the　rotting　woodwork；　splintered　the　matchwood　panels　of　the　door　as　it　flung　it　back；　pulling　a　rusted　hinge　out　by　the　screws。　Sabat　leapt　forward；　an　SAS…type　entrance；　low　and　fast；　a　difficult　moving　target。　Then　he　pulled　up；　almost　felt　foolish。　The　room　was　much　as　he　had　last　seen　it；　twin　black　candles　burning　on　the　shelf　adjacent　to　the　old　cast…iron　stove　which　was　no　longer　draped　in　black；　that　lead　coffin　with　its　lid　closed；　stark　and　horrific。　Nothing　else；　there　was　no　sign　of　Madeleine　Gaufridi！
　　
　　Sabat　tensed；　suspected　a　trap　of　some　kind。　Two　long　strides　took　him　to　the　coffin；　his　strong　fingers　gripping　the　lid。　This　time　his　muscles　responded　like　smooth　well…oiled　machinery；　flexing　and　taking　the　strain　of　the　heavy　weight。　The　lid　shot　back；　hit　the　wall　with　a　dull　clang　and　showered　lime　plaster　and　dust　out　of　the　crumbling　bricks。
　　
　　He　coughed；　peered　through　the　grey　cloud　。。。　saw　the　shrouded　corpse　of　the　Beast　of　France　lying　there；　staring　up　with　sightless　eyes！　Dead　pallid　flesh　gave　off　its　own　unpleasant　stench　but　Sabat　scarcely　noticed　it。
　　
　　'He　is　still　dead！'　the　witchfinder　spoke　his　surprised　relief　aloud。　'He　has　not　risen　again。　Maybe　I　am　still　in　time　even　though　Walpurgisnacht　is　well　advanced　。。。'
　　
　　His　words　tailed　off　to　a　hoarse　whisper　as　his　nostrils　flared　again　at　the　stench　of　roasting　human　meat。　His　eyes　widened；　he　wheeled　and　saw　the　temperature　gauge　on　the　front　of　the　old　cooker；　300。
　　
　　'My　God！'　Sabat　glanced　back　at　that　coffin。　*　The　meat　for　this　unholy　night's　banquet　is　already　cooking！　Nevillon　has　arisen　and　claimed　his　victim　and　his　astral　body　has　already　fled；　leaving　behind　it　a　useless　shell。　But　who　cooks　in　the　oven？'
　　
　　There　was　only　one　way　to　find　out。　Those　long　fingers　which　had　somehow　gnarled　and　cracked　this　last　hour　closed　over　the　door　handle；　yanked　it　back。　Thick　choking　steam　billowed　out；　scalding　fog　that　hid　the　horrors　of　that　dark　recess。　Something　moved；　a　bulky　blistering　roasting　shape　that　had　been　resting　against　the　door；　a　monster　emerging　from　its　hell…hot　lair！
　　
　　Sabat　recoiled；　saw　smoking　hands　clawing　through　the　steam；　groping　for　him。　A　head；　the　shape　was　right　but　where　there　should　have　been　features　there　were　only　blackened　lumps　and　orijices；　eyes　that　stared　pain　and　malevolence　out　of　charred　sockets。　Unrecognisable；　a　half…cooked　thing　that　wheezed　whispered　screams　of　agony　amidst　clouds　of　nauseating　vapour。　And　still　lived！
　　
　　Sabat's　brain　reeled；　he　felt　terror　clutching　at　his　heart；　revulsion　but　not　pity　because　Pierre　de　Lancre　was　beyond　pity。　The　steaming　fat　on　that　still…living　form　thinned；　he　saw　it　more　clearly。　Breasts　that　had　once　been　shapely　were　shrivelled　by　the　heat；　nipples　scorched　but　still　hard　and　firm　like　glowing　cinders。　Hairless；　a　head　that　bobbed　up　and　down；　the　mouth　twisted　into　mute　shrieks　of　pain。　A　hand　found　his　jacket；　clutched　at　it　with　roasted　fingers　that　were　no　longer　slender　and　shapely；　tried　to　drag　itself　up　on　him。　He　felt　the　dry　hot　breath　on　his　face　like　a　gust　of　wind　across　an　arid　desert；　even　the　wounded　of　Armageddon　never　suffered　a　fate　such　as　this！　He　lip…read　his　own　name　on　those　moving　lips。　'Sabat。。。　Sabat。。。　help　me！'
　　
　　Revulsion　powered　the　short　left　jab；　his　bunched　knuckles　striking　that　face；　throwing　it　back。　The　girl；　for　it　was　undoubtedly　female；　hit　the　floor；　lay　there　looking　up　at　him；　hurt　in　those　eyes；　a　dog　that　had　been　struck　by　its　master　when　all　it　sought　was　affection。　'Sabat。。。　help　me！'
　　
　　Recognition　now；　physically　the　girl　could　have　been　anybody；　any　age；　that　blackened　bald　head　belonging　to　a　horrific　hag　from　an　age…old　fable　graphically　illustrated　by　a　twisted　artist。　Yet　that　body；　charred　but　still　alive；　seductive　even　in　the　ultimate　agony　and　degradation；　could　have　belonged　to　only　one　person。
　　
　　'Madeleine　Gaufridir　Sabat's　whisper　was　loud；　a　hoarse　shout　of　shocked　horror　that　never　made　it　to　full　volume。
　　
　　'Sabat。。。　help　me。。。　Sabat！'
　　
　　'I　am　not　Sabat。　Nor　Quentin。　I　am　Pierre　de　Lancre；　witchfinder。　Would　I　rescue　you　from　the　burning　stake？'
　　
　　She　flinched　as　though　he　was　about　to　strike　her　again；　fell　back。　She　knew；　oh　God；　how　she　knew　now！　She　saw　his　features　as　they　once　had　been　in　another　place；　another　life。　Her　festered　lips　closed　tightly　to　choke　back　yet　another　plea　for　mercy　because　she　knew　the　futility　of　pleading　with　this　terrible　man；　one　who　was　more　malevolent　in　his　own　way　than　even　her　beloved　Louis。
　　
　　He　looked　into　her　eyes；　read　her　silent　plea。　'Kill　me；　Sabat。　Please！　I　ask　nothing　else　but　that　you　end　this　agony　for　me；　if　only　for　what　has　been　between　us。'
　　
　　Sabat　stepped　back；　slid　the　？38　out　of　its　holster；　its　cold　steel　soothing　to　his　hot　hand。　He　held　it　loosely　at　hip　level　in　the　manner　of　a　western　gunfighter；　his　decision　was　made；　all　he　had　to　do　was　to　go　through　with　it。　His　fingers　curled　over　the　trigger；　the　first　pressure。
　　
　　'So　Louis　betrayed　you　in　the　end。*　Sabat　wondered　if　he　spoke　or　whether　he　just　heard　his　own　thoughts；　his　utter　contempt　for　one　who　had　e　back　from　the　guillotine　and　rejected　the　only　one　who　was　loyal　to　him。　'You　must　die；　Madeleine；　and　this　time　you　will　not　return。　But　take　this　one　forting　thought　to　the　black　beyond　with　you。　Louis　Nevillon　has　fled　to　the　astral；　to　skulk　there　until　he　chooses　to　be　reborn。　But　I　shall　seek　him　out　there；　for　only　I　can　follow　him　to　such　a　place；　and　then　my　vengeance　will　be　more　terrible　than　had　I　found　him　here。　Goodbye；　Madeleine！'
　　
　　The　？38　crashed　once；　bucked　in　his　hand。　He　saw　that　burned　face　disintegrate　into　a　crimson　mulch；　the　squatting　body　holding　upright　for　a　second　or　two　as　though　it　was　unwilling　to　capitulate。　Then；　slowly；　it　fell　back；　hit　the　stone　floor　almost　sedately。　In　death；　as　in　life；　Madeleine　of　the　many　aliases　bowed　out　with　dignity。
　　
　　Sabat　turned　away；　holstered　his　smoking　weapon。　Already　the　tragedy　of　a　young　girl　possessed　was　pushed　from　his　mind；　his　puter…like　brain　devouring　data　for　the　next　move。　He　looked　down　into　the　coffin　again。　There　was　no　doubt　that　only　a　dead　physical　body　reposed　there；　flesh　which　would　begin　to　depose　now　that　its　evil　soul　had　departed　for　another　world。　He　could　have　destroyed　it　but　there　was　no　point　because　when　Nevillon　returned　he　would　use　a　different　body；　just　as　Quentin　had　until　Pierre　de　Lancre　had　proved　his　superiority。
　　
　　There　was　no　time　to　be　wasted。　Sabat　groped　in　his　small　breast　pocket；　plucked　out　a　half…length　of　white　chalk　which　always　reposed　there　and　which　he　had　only　remembered　now。　It　had　had　its　uses　before　just　as　it　would　again　someday。
　　
　　He　would　have　liked　more　time　to　prepare　the　room　but　time　was　never　a　plentiful　modity　on　Walpurgisnacht。　The　floor　should　have　been　swept　clean　to　remove　any　particle　of　dirt　which　might　have　hid　an　evil　entity；　he　had　neither　silver　chalices　nor　charged　water。　Everything　in　this　place　was　evil。
　　
　　He　must　rely　solely　on　the　crudely　chalked　pentagram　to　protect　his　mortal　body。　Symmetry　was　overlooked；　the　huge　five…pointed　star　within　the　circle　merely　symbolic。　It　might　not　be　enough　but　that　was　a　chance　he　had　to　take。　There　was　no　point　in　undressing；　no　means　to　seal　the　nine　openings　of　his　body。　He　had　to　place　his　total　reliance　upon　himself；　his　faith；　and　Pierre　de　Lancre。
　　
　　He　lay　on　that　pile　of　blankets　where　he　had　copulated　with　Madeleine。　They　were　still　damp；　he　prayed　that　the　wetness　was　from　his　own　spilled　seed　and　not　the　cold　semen　of　the　risen　dead；　the　veritable　spawn　of　evil。　So　much　was　against　him　that　he　had　to　disregard　it　all。　Never　before　had　he　ignored　so　many　precautions；　taken　such　a　multitude　of　risks　when　departing　for　the　astral　plane。　A　universe　of　hiding　places　lay　ahead　of　him；　a　billion　secret　refuges　for　one　who　sought　to　escape　him。　His　task　was　an　impossibility；　but　he　still　had　to　try　and　he　had　no　guarantee　of　returning。
　　
　　He　tried　to　relax。　It　wasn't　easy。　The　darkness　outside　the　pentagram　was　alive；　forces　that　gathered　like　swarming　bees　scenting　honey　in　a　closed　hive；　they　just　had　to　find　the　way　in。　Shouting；　screaming；　Quentin's　voice　loudest　amongst　them；　but　Sabat　ignored　them；　for　if　they　broke　through　his　defences　there　was　no　way　he　could　stop　them。
　　
　　His　breathing　became　rhythmical。　He　told　himself　that　he　was　not　Mark。　Nor　Quentin。　He　had　bee　Pierre　de　Lancre　the　witchfinder　called　from　the　dark　past　t