Cain (47 page)

Bleeding heavily, Marcelle spun and saw the opening to the prison tower, a place once used to hold those who refused to accept the wrath of warlords. He wasted a single stare at the advancing figure before he leaped, crawling quickly through the portal to gain his feet.

A low moon gleaming white in the night bathed him, and Marcelle prayed a short prayer for Absolution, knowing that it was almost over. He tried to control his fear but fear was all there was, all there was ...

Emerging like Satan from some blackened underworld, the warlock rose slowly from the floor, the wicked, long blade leading the way. Marcelle grimaced, knowing that it had all come down to this single, dreaded moment. He must fight now, he knew, or die.

He had sworn that he would never take a life – had sworn that he would never raise his hand against another, that he would die before striking back to save his own blood.

There was a conflicting moment of madness as he watched the war-lock advance, always silent. Then Marcelle remembered that it was not his life that he was defending. It was another's, the life of a child who had not yet even begun to live. He shook his head, clenching bloody hands.

"Hear me!" he gasped. "You are deceived!"

The warlock froze.

"Your master is defeated!" Marcelle shouted. "He was a god once, it's true! But his glory was cast down! He is not what you think! And he will not conquer this world! Hear me on this! Hear me! You are deceived! He will not conquer this world!"

The warlock took a slow step forward.

Grimacing, Marcelle backed up.

"Hear me at the last!" he continued. "Hear me and I tell you that your sin may not be mortal! But if you continue I will be forced to use force against you and you will die! Don't you understand?" He raised his hands before his face, clenching with incredible strength. "You are strong but I am
far stronger! And if you attack again I will be forced to kill you! Can't you understand? Is there no truth left within you?"

A pause.

Then, finally deciding, the warlock bowed his head and stood back in a masterful pose, committed. He held the blade close in his right hand, his left raised across his chest, close to his chin. He came onto the balls of his feet, balanced, ready to advance or retreat. Obviously, he considered this a serious challenge. In a moment he had crossed half the distance of the tower to corner Marcelle, blade leading.

Marcelle lowered his head, retreating until he knew there was no more room to retreat.

“So be it," he whispered. "But I will pray for your immortal soul. Do what you will do."

The warlock came so quickly that Marcelle lost the flash of the blade in the darkness and his hands flew out to grasp his attacker's neck with terrific strength. And as a severing pain struck deep in his chest Marcelle bellowed, twisting to the side to evade a second blow.

With a howl of abysmal agony he evaded the third and his arms encircled to snatch his attacker in a hug with gorilla arms tightening hard to close like iron cables, hands locked at the spine. Then in the next second Marcelle closed his arms even tighter and a scream burst from the warlock's throat, the sword falling to the ground.

But it was too late for surrender.

Marcelle tightened as a piteous whine burst from the cloaked shape and it squirmed to escape. Then the priest's face contorted with effort and he felt ribs snapping, the spine breaking beneath the pure brute force as he shut his eyes with a roar.

Finishing it.

***

Soloman
found Amy's cell quickly, moving with a speed and intensity of mind that amazed even him.

He shouted to the child, telling her to back
away from the iron door as he tore the Grizzly from his waist. And when Amy was clear he fired to shatter the lock, kicking the door against the wall.

Amy ran to him.

Breathless, he caught her in his arms, hugging her hard for a moment as he knelt. Despite the holocaust upon them he took a moment to hold her, gaining strength and life. And Maggie was there, holding both of them. She moaned a prayer and Soloman leaned his head back, grimacing. He shoved Amy into her mother's arms.

"Hurry!" he hissed. "Get her out of here!"

Maggie gripped his arm. "What are you going to do?"

He pulled loose and rose, a bloody image in the torchlight.

"I'm going after Cain."

A cold chill struck
Soloman as he heard the despondent groan of Mother Superior Mary Francis and he turned, knowing something disastrous had happened. And then he saw it: a crouching, sloped, bestial image standing in the doorway of the dungeon, swaying on short legs. Seconds later a low growl rumbled across the floor, thick with a thirst that emanated from a black animal center.

He
stared and realized that – whatever it was – it wasn't human. Then, horrifically, it advanced; a huge, apelike silhouette in shadow moving on long muscular arms and stout legs. In the faint light of torches, distended fangs gleamed like knives.

Frowning,
Soloman stepped toward it. Without a word he squared off, slowly lifting the shotgun. He let it know it would have to come through him, a primal challenge that was clearly understood beast to beast.

Mary Francis quickly knelt to lift Maggie arid Amy. "Come!" she shouted frantically. "This is for
Soloman! We must give him room to fight!"

Gasping in pain, Maggie rose with Amy in her arms and with the old nun's support they staggered away. They were moving toward a deeper part of the dungeon, searching for a place to hide, when they heard a striking, hideous, roar that made the torches tremble.

And heard Soloman return it.

***

Marcelle lay in blood, moaning.

He was almost dead, he knew.

Th
e wound was deep, numb, and burning, sending agony into his soul to tell him that, yes, he would die from this. He rolled onto his back and mechanically felt the black wetness that was his chest as the stars gazed down at him.

He tried not to despair, knowing that every man had a level he could not endure. Then he remembered Amy and his face twisted in a savage grimace of determination. With a loud curse he rolled again onto his
chest and began to crawl, foot by foot, toward the stairway that led down, down, down ...

Toward the child ...

***

Soloman
fired as the beast hurled itself forward, striking iron bars to rebound high and hard and then collide against him with force, instantly tearing the shotgun from his hands.

A whirlwind of fangs and claws struck as
Soloman frantically grabbed the mandrill and hurled it aside, kicking it viciously as it came off the wall. The savage impact stopped it in midair and again Soloman grabbed the tremendously heavy beast and received a ravaging blow to his face.

Once more he hurled the beast aside and it struck the floor hard and rolled.
Instantly it gained its feet to charge back in a whirlwind of swirling simian arms and distended fangs, and Soloman knew a moment of pure panic as the jagged white jaws and claws came over him with a strength he could never equal.

Falling back before the onslaught
Soloman knew only flaying fangs and talons and then some part of himself that he'd lost in the chaos – something he'd forgotten in the horror blazed alive once more. His hands lashed out, snatching it by the neck. He held it at bay for a roaring white moment before the remorseless claws found his forearms, tearing and crushing.

Soloman
screamed in pain at the deep wounds and rolled violently, turning and spinning, the movements faster and faster in a red blaze of pain and blood until he savagely threw the beast away, rising instantly.

The mandrill hit the ground on its feet and threw itself back, covering the small distance with a roaring bloodthirsty intent, and
Soloman frantically withdrew the Grizzly to fire wildly as—

It hit him again
and conscious thought was never a part of what happened afterward.

The violent jaws flashed past his neck and then
Soloman saw the black tanto rising in his hand, rising and plunging with death-strength into the massively muscular chest and neck.

The beast screamed, struck deep, and returned the rage but
Soloman anticipated the blow, raising his shoulder and arm to block a clawed hand. And then they were tumbling again, a battle of beasts fang to fang in red light, lightning-quick blows lashing through a mist of blood as they battled.

Blows were blinding, delivered and received in a tide of flashing blood as they fought face-to-face. Then
Soloman realized dimly that he was losing the titanic battle and with desperation roaring in his head grabbed the beast by the neck.

He hurled it back with hate
and then closed in on it, smashing it over the stones and as they rolled again Soloman's blade rose and fell in a red holocaust of vengeance that separated him from this world, from all he had ever known.

Soloman
struck blindly, in a brute frenzy that released pure rage. There was no mercy, just vengeance as he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed in a shower of blood until the beast began to tire.

A clawed hand lashed out, slower this time, and
Soloman ducked to evade the blow. Then, throwing himself forward, he struck hard, his fist frozen with all his strength on the hilt of the blade as he hit it solidly in the chest, breaking a rib. Soloman felt the blade slide deliciously over bone as he instantly tore it clear, drawing viciously to do even more damage. He spun to block a back-handed sweep as the brown shape whirled again into him.

Collision!

Together they hit the floor in a storm of tornadic blows, each delivering fiendish wounds as they rolled down the corridor with roars blending. Soloman saw only white fangs painted red with his blood as he struck with the tanto again and again to hit the neck over and over, striking to kill, knowing nothing else. He struck in a red rage, wounded and wounding until the beast beneath him fell suddenly . . . still. . .

Still
... and dead.

Bending his head to its chest,
Soloman moaned. He knelt a long time, everything forgotten in the pain, the place, the battle. It had almost been too much for him and then he remembered . . . Cain . . .

Amy.

He lifted his head tiredly and didn't waste a glance down because it was over and he had more to do. He stood, exhausted.

"Maggie!" he shouted, swaying.

She came out of the darkness, Mother Superior Mary Francis holding Amy in her arms with the child tightly clutching the black habit. Then as the nun approached she bent down to grasp something that Soloman had lost in the battle with the mandrill. He was too dazed to wonder what it was as she silently placed it inside her cloak.

Maggie was before him, supporting him.

With a fierce glare Soloman held her close. "Get out of here," he whispered, breathless.

"
Soloman, please come with—"

"No, Maggie! It ends for both of us
! Cain dies tonight! It's over!"

"Sol—"

His grip on her neck brought a cry from her.

"It's over, Maggie!" he shouted. "Cain has to die! But none of us are going to survive if you don't get out of here right now! Find Marcelle! Get back to the car!"

Mary Francis rushed forward, grabbing Soloman's arm to pull his frantic grip from Maggie.

"Do what you must do!" she shouted into Soloman's face. "Do what you must do! But do not fear him! Do not let him use your love against you! That is his greatest weapon!"

Staring, Soloman saw her essence, a strength that was not of this world. He nodded. "Get Maggie and Amy the hell out of here, Sister. I'm about to bring this place down."

Expressionless, she moved to usher the two toward the stairwell as, behind them,
Soloman bowed his head.

He was already tired and wounded as he lifted the shotgun. He felt deeply that there was no way to defeat what lay above, but there was no other path to take. His whole life had come to this and now he would finish it.

Leaning against the wall, he laid the daypack on a hook beside the staircase and made sure the ruse could be lit quickly. It would kill both of them, he knew, but that was good enough.

Live . ..

Die ...

Whatever.

***

Supporting Maggie and Amy, Mary Francis ushered them up the stairwell, stepping around the dead bodies sprawled in a red flood at the
threshold. Together they hurried in frantic silence, knowing they weren't              safe yet.

They were halfway up when Amy reached out in tears, grasping the
old nun's neck, staring hard. And even in the confusion and panic Mary Francis seemed to feel the impact of the gaze.

Amy whispered, "Mary . . ."

Mary Francis paused, turning at the words.

Then Amy slowly lifted the rosary beads, clutched them tight in a trembling fist. Her eyes were pleading, needy, and the nun paused to lean Maggie against a wall, instantly reaching up to wrap a strong old hand over Amy's.