Talons as long as sabers ripped through his back. The knife fell from nerveless fingers, and Achnazzar could not even scream as the taloned hand carried him toward 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 leveled it at the colossal face.
Eight hundred miles away the created waters of the Atlantic 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 toward them.
Soon after midnight Griffin awoke. The house was empty, and he knew that 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 Madden had expertly 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, fueled by frustration and helplessness. But he had nothing on which to vent his emotion, and it turned inward as he again saw 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 rosebushes 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 giving 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 he slowly 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, and 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 picked 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 toward 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 housetops.
“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.”
The Devil disappeared, and Zedeki screamed. Griffin swung and fired, and the bullet punched Zedeki back against the wall; his knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, still gazing at the star-filled night sky.
Griffin sat down and watched the young man die.
Abaddon stood on the black marble balcony overlooking the temple steps, reveling in the appearance of his god, feeling his doubts swirling away from him like mist in the morning. The sound of gunshots came from within the temple, and the priests scattered. He saw Achnazzar hurled from his feet and devoured by the Devil. Then a dark-clad figure ran forward, the Devil’s hand dropped, and Abaddon screamed his triumph as the warrior was swept into his palm.
But the Devil disappeared, and a pain clutched Abaddon’s heart like fingers of fire. He screamed and fell back through the doorway, crawling to his bedside and the ivory-inlaid ebony box that lay there. He whispered the words of power, but the box did not open. Pulling himself to his knees, he struggled for calm and pressed the hidden button at the base. The lid sprang open, and relief surged in him as his hands pulled clear the large oval Blood Stone. The pain in his chest eased slightly. He blinked and focused his eyes on the stone; the red was fading, with the black veins growing as he watched.
“No!” he whispered. Brown liver spots blossomed on his hands, and the skin began to wrinkle. He managed to get to his feet and draw a silver-embossed pistol from a leather scabbard hanging at the bedside.
“Guard!” he yelled, and a young man ran into the room.
“What is it, sire?”
Abaddon shot him through the head, then carried the stone to the twitching body and held it under the pumping jet of blood coming from the man’s brow. Still the power ebbed, the black veins spreading and joining.
“There is nothing you can do, Lawrence,” said Ruth.
Abaddon dropped the stone and sank down beside the guard’s body. “Help me, Ruthie.”
“I cannot. You should have died a long time ago.”
&n
bsp; His hair glistened white, and his face took on the look of worn leather. He no longer had the strength to sit, and his body slumped to the floor. Ruth sat beside him, cradling his head in her lap.
“Why did you go away?” he whispered. “It could all have been so different.” The flesh melted from his face, and his lips moved in a last ragged whisper. “I did love you,” he said.
“I know.”
His body fell back in her arms, and she could feel the bones beneath the skin, brittle and pointed. The skin peeled away, and the bones crumbled to the floor.
On the steps of the temple, Batik swiftly reloaded his pistol and sat facing the crowd. The roar of rage died down, and the people fell back, staring at their painted hands and looking in confusion at their comrades. At the front of the crowd a man groaned and toppled forward, and a friend knelt by him.
“He’s dead,” said the man. Someone else in the crowd, feeling unwell, drew his Blood Stone from its pouch; it was blacker than sin. Another man died, and the crowd backed away from the body. As other people checked their stones, panic grew.
On the steps Madden helped Batik to his feet, and they moved to Donna, ripping the silver bands from her body. She moaned and opened her eyes.
“Jacob?”
“It’s all right. You’re safe, girl.”
“Where is Con?”
“He’s waiting for us. I’ll take you to him.”
“And Eric?”
“We’ll talk later. Take my hand.”
Below them the crowd was streaming away. Madden lifted Donna into his arms as a dark-haired young man approached him.
“God’s greeting,” he said.
“Who are you?” asked Batik.
“Clophas. You do not know me, Batik, but I was at Sanctuary while you were there.”
“It seems a long time ago.”
“Yes, a lifetime. Can I help you with the lady?”
On the Titanic people fought with one another to climb the choked stairways and escape the rising water. The Mother Stone, unleashing all its energy, played its role to the fullest, tilting the ship to imitate the original disaster. Scores of Guardians, their wives, and their children slid below the foaming torrent, thrashing and screaming for assistance. None was offered.
Whereas in the disaster of 1912 a number of brave men had manned the pumps until the last minute, not one Guardian had the knowledge to do the same. Where the original tragedy had been enacted for three hours, this Titanic was sinking within minutes. Bulkheads collapsed, and hundreds died, dragged to their deaths by the seething ocean.
There was no escape. Many threw themselves from the upper decks, splashing into the sea below, only to find themselves piercing the edge of the stone’s field of energy and dropping through the water to hurtle down the mountain onto the jagged marble ruins of Atlantis.
Amaziga Archer and her son, Luke, struggled through the smoking lounge and onto the A-deck foyer. The water there was waist-deep and rising. Lifting Luke to her shoulder, she climbed through a shattered window and out onto the steeply tilted deck. Luke clung to her as she fought her way up toward the stern, rearing like a tower above the swelling sea. Hooking her arm around a brass stanchion, she listened to the cries of the victims trapped below.
Slowly the dying ship slid under the waves. Cold water touched Amaziga’s ankles … it shimmered and faded.
The Mother Stone was finished, choked by the thin thread of gold and exhausted by the disaster it had created. The ship shuddered, and the sea disappeared. Amaziga sat up and touched her clothes. They were dry. Looking around, she saw that she lay on a rusted deck and that twenty feet from her a male survivor struggled to his feet.
“We made it!” he shouted, but the rotting deck parted beneath his feet and the dead ship swallowed him and his screams. Amaziga felt the deck move beneath her and crawled carefully to the stern, where the ship touched the cliff face. The deck gave way. Amaziga’s hand flashed out to grip the rail, and Luke screamed and hung from her neck. The muscles in her arm stretched and tore, but her fingers remained locked to the rail. She glanced down into the dark, empty bowels of the ghost ship.
“Hold on, Luke!” she shouted, and the boy gripped her tunic. She took a deep breath, then dragged on her arm, hauling herself upward and hooking her left arm to the rail. As her weight hit the rail, it bent outward, almost dislodging her. Swinging her feet up, she scrambled onto the hull and inched her way to the cliff. There the drop was even greater, and the ruins of Atlantis gleamed like pointed teeth. She removed the leather belt from her tunic and looped it around Luke’s back, tying him to her. Then she stepped to the rock face and began the long, hazardous climb.
Shannow found a concave bulge in the rocky roof where an air pocket was trapped above the bubbling water. Death was close, and as much as he tried to prepare himself for the end, he knew he was not ready. Rage and despair tore at him. No Jerusalem! No end to the quest of his lifetime! The rising water lapped at his chin, spilling over into his mouth. He gagged and spit it out, his fingers scrabbling at the rocks as the weight of his coat and gun dragged him down.
“Calm yourself, Shannow!” came a voice in his mind. A glow began to his right, and Pendarric’s face appeared like a shimmering reflection on the stone roof. “Follow me if you wish to live.”
The glow sank below the water, and Shannow cursed and took several deep breaths, filling his lungs with oxygen. Then he dived below the surface. Far below he could see the Mother Stone, its glow fading fast, but ahead of him floated the ghostly face. He swam toward it, ever deeper, his lungs beginning to burn as his weary arms pushed at the water. Pendarric glided farther ahead to a black tunnel mouth near the cavern floor. There Shannow felt the tug of the current and was swept into the tunnel. His chest was a growing agony, and he released a little air. Panic began, but Pendarric’s voice cut through his fear.
“Courage, Rolynd.”
His body was buffeted from rock to rock in the narrow tunnel until he could hold his breath no longer; his lungs expelled the precious air and sucked in salt water. His head swam, and he lost consciousness just as his body tumbled free of the mountain. Pendarric’s translucent form materialized beside Shannow, but the king was powerless to aid the dying man.
“Ruth!” he called, his plea roaring across the gulf of spirit.
Shannow lay unmoving as Pendarric called again and again.
She appeared and took in the scene in a moment. Kneeling, she rolled Shannow to his chest and straddled his back. Her hands pressed hard against the small of his back, forcing his lungs to expel the deadly liquid. But still the Jerusalem Man showed no sign of life. She jerked him to his back and lifted his head, pinching his nostrils closed. Her mouth covered his, and her breath filled his lungs. The minutes passed, and Shannow groaned, sucking in a long shuddering breath.
“He will live?” said Pendarric.
Ruth nodded.
“You are tired, lady.”
“Yes, but I have found the way.”
“I hoped you would. Is the pain great?”
Ruth’s eyes met his, and she did not need to answer.
“You have great courage, Ruth. Hold to it. Do not let the power of the Blood Stones overpower you. They will make you dream great dreams; they will fill your heart with the desire to rule.”
“Do not fear for me, Pendarric; such thoughts of conquest are for men. But as I draw the power from the stones, I can feel my soul contaminated by the evil. I can feel the hatred and the lust swell within me. For the first time in my life I understand the desire to kill.”
“And will you?” asked the king.
“No.”
“Can you stop the Hellborn in the south without killing?”
“I can try, Pendarric.”
“You are stronger than I, Ruth.”
“Wiser, perhaps, and not as humble as I was. I do not want to die, and yet you were right. I cannot live with this seething force inside me.”
“Take the swan’s path
and know peace.”
“Yes. Peace. Would that I could carry all hatred from the world with my passing.”
Pendarric shrugged. “You will destroy the stones. It is enough.”
Shannow moaned and rolled.
“I will say farewell here, Ruth. It was a privilege to have known you.”
“I thank you for my lessons.”
“The pupil is greater than the teacher,” he said, and vanished.
Shannow awoke on the rocky ground a half mile from the marble ruins and found himself gazing up at the Titanic. Once more it was the golden, rusting wreck he had first seen. Then a great tear ripped along the hull, and the sea gushed from her like a giant waterfall, hurtling down on the ancient city below. The torrent continued for some minutes, and Shannow could see tiny bodies carried in the foaming water.
He sat up to see Ruth beside him, watching the second death of the legendary ship. Tears were falling, and she looked away.
“Thank you for my life,” he said lamely.
“I bear the responsibility for theirs,” she replied as bodies continued to rain down on Atlantis.
“They fashioned their own doom,” he told her. “You cannot blame yourself.”
She sighed and turned from the ship. “Donna is safe and reunited with Con Griffin.”
“I wish them happiness,” said Shannow.
“I know; it marks you as a special man.”
“What of Batik?”
“He was wounded, but he will survive. He is a tough man, and he took on the Devil single-handed.”
“The Devil?”
“No,” said Ruth, smiling, “but a close imitation.”
“And Abaddon?”
“He is dead, Jon.”
“Did Batik kill him?”
“No, you did, Jerusalem Man. Or perhaps the Guardians did a very long time ago.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you remember me telling you about Lawrence and how he was at peace and happy after the Fall? How he helped rebuild?”