gns.thedruidconnection-第22部分

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n　must　be　tried　by　a　druid　council　of　justice；　not　by　the　weakness　of　mortal　judges？
　　
　　Sabat　was　silent。　His　brain　searched　for　avenues　of　escape；　means　by　which　Kent　might　be　saved；　and　failed。　There　was　no　alternative；　as　the　Hirschlanden　Warrior　had　said。
　　
　　'All　right；'　he　nodded；　tight…lipped。　'I　will　do　as　you　say　and　keep　my　word。　Three　days　and　I　shall　deliver　these　two　men　to　the　Council　of　Justice　at　Stonehenge。　With　them　I　shall　bring　my　colleague；　also　the　sacred　sword。　But　if　you　trick　me；　O　Warrior；　then　my　vengeance　will　be　terrible。　You　may　take　my　life　and　my　soul　but　you　shall　not　escape　unscarred。　That　I　promise。'
　　
　　Suddenly　the　floating　skull　was　gone；　leaving　the　ex…SAS　man　and　his　two　babbling　panions　in　total　darkness。　And　in　that　same　instant　the　small　torch　came　back　on　and　the　atmosphere　was　several　degrees　warmer。
　　
　　Sabat　felt　weak；　as　though　he　had　undergone　a　serious　illness　yet　survived。　Two　opposing　forces　had　fused　in　deadly　conflict；　settled　for　an　uneasy　peace　formula。　He　shone　the　torch　on　the　other　two；　grimaced　at　what　he　saw。
　　
　　Walter　Stone　would　be　an　imbecile　for　the　rest　of　his　days；　one　who　had　suffered　some　kind　of　major　stroke；　a　human　shell　that　would　babble　in　inane　oblivion。　Possibly　even　death　would　not　release　him　for　if　his　soul　had　been　claimed　by　the　Cult　of　the　Severed　Head；　then　his　skull　would　float　in　everlasting　torment。　For　the　Planning　Officer；　Sabat　had　no　pity。　The　bastard　had　got　what　he　deserved　…　true　justice。　No　mortal　jury　could　punish　him　so　effectively。
　　
　　For　Kent　there　was　hope；　a　slender　lifeline　back　to　sanity　and　only　Sabat　could　give　him　that。　A　bargain　had　been　made；　Sabat　would　keep　his　side。　It　was　up　to　the　ancient　Oke　Priests　to　keep　theirs。
　　
　　Somehow　Sabat　got　Kent　to　his　feet；　a　chuckling　child　that　might　throw　a　tantrum　at　any　second。　The　journalist　needed　to　be　humoured；　persuaded。　Vacant　eyes　that　stared　straight　ahead；　the　body　trembling　with　inexplicable　mirth。
　　
　　Somehow　Sabat　got　him　through　the　door；　closed　it　behind　them　to　shut　out　Stone's　incessant　ramblings。　Walking　slowly；　unsteadily；　a　drunk　being　helped　home　by　an　understanding　friend。
　　
　　It　took　them　almost　an　hour　to　reach　the　parked　Daimler。
　　
　　Walter　Stone　sat　there　on　the　floor　for　a　long　time　after　the　others　had　gone。　He　did　not　remember　their　presence；　nor　that　of　the　entity　in　the　shape　of　a　tiny　skull　which　had　driven　him　to　the　brink　of　madness　then　thrust　him　into　the　yawning　chasm　beyond。
　　
　　A　sense　of　euphoria　now；　an　aimless　meandering　through　the　house；　searching　for　something；　he　did　not　know　what。
　　
　　Picking　up　objects　in　the　darkness；　examining　them　by　feel；　casting　them　aside。　A　porcelain　statuette　shattered　into　a　thousand　fragments　on　the　floor；　obliviously　crunched　to　powder　beneath　his　feet。　A　milk　bottle　rolled　off　the　sink；　bounced　and　scuttled　across　the　kitchen　floor　but　did　not　break。　Emptying　drawers　and　cupboards；　scattering　their　contents；　turning　on　a　tap　in　the　bath；　entranced　by　the　sound　of　running；　splashing　water；　neither　wishing　nor　knowing　how　to　stop　the　gushing　liquid。
　　
　　Downstairs　again；　tugging　at　a　hanging　picture　until　its　cord　snapped；　precipitating　him　backwards　so　that　he　lost　his　balance　and　fell。　A　sharp　corner　of　the　table　gouged　his　spine；　made　him　angry。　Now　his　hunt　for　the　unknown　was　more　persistent；　throwing　objects　to　one　side　without　investigating　them；　kicking　so　that　fragile　things　smashed。　He　was　bleeding　from　a　cut　on　his　hand；　a　steady　drip…drip　of　sticky　crimson　fluid　that　left　a　spotted　trail　in　his　wake。
　　
　　Still　searching。　A　box　that　rattled；　fascinated　him　so　that　he　tried　to　open　it；　became　angry　when　he　could　find　no　hinged　lid。　　A　grunt　of　surprise　as　the　interior　slid　out；　a　kind　of　drawer　filled　with　lots　of　little　sticks。　　Something　flashed　across　his　memory；　a　reminder　that　had　him　scraping　a　match　head　on　emery　paper。　　The　sudden　burst　of　flame　had　him　backing　away　with　a　cry　of　anguish；　the　match　falling　from　his　fingers　and　extinguishing　itself　in　a　puff　of　sulphurous　smoke。
　　
　　Walter　Stone　gurgled　his　amazement；　scrabbled　in　the　box　again；　spilling　some　of　its　contents　on　to　the　floor　treading　on　them；　igniting　them。　He　jumped　back　in　alarm　then　began　to　laugh　again；　dropped　to　his　knees　and　blew　at　the　flames　like　a　child　attempting　to　extinguish　burning　candles　on　a　birthday　cake。
　　
　　Some　of　the　matches　went　out。　Two　or　three　were　stubborn；　their　flames　wafting；　one　hungrily　attempting　to　reach　a　pile　of　scattered　newspapers　which　had　spilled　oul　of　the　kitchen　cupboard。　A　er　caught；　began　to　spread。　。　。　。
　　
　　Stone　watched　in　silence；　amazed；　an　awareness　that　he　had　achieved　this；　his　own　work；　all　his　own　doing。　Now　striking　matches　with　gay　abandon；　flinging　them　into　the　air；　a　private　firework　display；　the　bonfire　starting　to　blaze；　crackling　　as　　some　　smashed　　furniture　　yielded　　to　　　the　persistence　of　the　fire。　The　smoke　made　his　his　eyes　smart　and　he　pawed　at　them　annoyance。　Jubilation　as　man's　primitive　instincts　were　awakened。　Fire　was　pretty；　it　was　warm。
　　
　　Too　warm。　Hot。　He　retreated　into　a　corner；　coughed。　The　doorway　was　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　room　but　it　never　occurred　to　him　to　make　a　dash　for　it。　Within　seconds　that　single　avenue　of　escape　was　cut　off。
　　
　　Now　the　room　was　ablaze；　wooden　units　a　fiery　wall。　Still　he　stood　and　watched　through　smarting　eyes；　laughing　loudly；　talking　to　himself。　　It　was　nice；　very　nice；　he　hoped　that　the　fire　didn't　suddenly　go　out。
　　
　　Noises。　　A　shrill　blaring；　faces　beyond　the　flames　nut　he　ignored　them。　　A　crashing　of　glass；　shards　splintering　like　that　ornament　he　had　dropped　earlier。　　Voices　shouting；　a　hissing　watery　sound　like　the　bath　taps　upstairs　made　only　much　more　powerful。
　　
　　Walter　Stone　gave　a　cry　of　defiance。　Whoever　these　intruders　were　they　could　not　get　at　him　because　he　had　built　an　impenetrable　barrier　of　fire。　He　stumbled；　fell　。　。　。　and　then　he　saw　the　face　in　the　fire；　features　that　were　impervious　to　the　heat；　ancient　immortality　that　had　surely　risen　from　Dante's　hell；　features　so　malign　that　a　cry　of　inprehensible　terror　came　from　the　Planning　Officer's　cracked　and　blistered　lips。　He　heard　the　words；　somehow　understood　them　in　spite　of　the　fact　that　his　brain　was　past　reasoning。
　　
　　'The　sentence　of　death　has　been　passed　on　you　by　the　Council　of　Oke　Priests；　traitor　who　sought　to　desecrate　sacred　（and。　Your　body　will　be　burned　by　fire　but　your　soul　will　suffer　eternal　purgatory！'
　　
　　A　strange　feeling　engulfed　the　man　whose　clothing　was　already　burning　on　his　body；　a　kind　of　dizziness　in　which　everything　was　blurred；　even　the　heat　lessening　for　a　few　seconds。　An　awful　sucking　sensation　as　though　a　vacuum　pipe　attached　to　his　head　was　forcibly　drawing　his　brains　out。　Everything　went　black；　then　he　was　conscious　again；　but　it　was　all　different。　Somehow　he　was　airborne；　still　in　that　fiery　room；　looking　down　on　his　own　incinerated　body！　He　did　not　understand；　did　not　attempt　to　reason　even　though　his　mind　was　no　longer　fogged。　This　was　the　way　it　was　meant　to　be；　freed　from　the　encumbrance　of　a　bulky　shell；　able　to　float　wherever　he　wished。　Yet　he　felt　pelled　to　remain　and　watch。
　　
　　Outside　the　firemen　had　been　forced　to　retreat　across　the　road；　playing　their　hoses　on　the　burning　building　from　a　distance。　The　flames　leaped　higher；　throwing　up　columns　of　sparks；　debris　falling　in　a　series　of　avalanches。　A　crowd　had　gathered；　a　fever　of　excitement。　People　secretly　enjoyed　a　spectacular　fire；　peering　through　the　eddying　smoke；　trying　to　see　。　。　。　a　man　was　trapped　in　there；　being　burned　alive。　They　craved　a　glimpse　of　a　frantic　blackened　figure；　strained　their　ears　for　screams　of　agony；　reluctantly　moved　back　a　few　yards　when　the　uniformed　policemen　remonstrated　with　them。　A　child　was　pointing　skywards；　feverishly　yelling　at　a　parent　that　he　had　seen　a　face；　a　head　without　a　body；　rising　up　out　of　the　inferno；　being　told　to　shut　up。
　　
　　Walter　Stone's　euphoria　was　brief；　his　newly…found　freedom　short…lived。　Even　as　he　attempted　to　soar　to　freedom　he　was　checked　as　though　some　invisible　cord　attached　to　him　had　stopped　him　short　with　a　sudden　jerk。
　　
　　He　let　out　a　cry　of　anger　and　frustration　as　he　felt　himself　being　led　away；　pulled　into　the　murky　blackness　of　the　shadows　beyond　the　firelight；　experienced　again　that　terror　when　he　had　fled　blindly　from　the　pursuing　skull。
　　
　　The　awful　realisation　that　now　he　had　no　body；　just　a　head　that　floated　in　the　darkness；　hastening　to　obey　a　call　that　could　not　be　denied；　for　his　masters　were　terrible　to　behold　when　they　were　angered。　He　must　keep　them　waiting　no　longer。
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　THIRTEEN
　　　
　　DARKEN　HURST'S　initial　reaction　upon　learning　of　Marion's　death　was　one　of　new…found　freedom。　But　within　hours　of　that　terrible　visit　to　the　mortuary；　attempting　to　identify　his　wife's　charred　remains；　he　had　bee　a　victim　of　blind　terror。　Flight　was　uppermost　in　his　mind。　He　could　not　remain　in　the　house　on　his　own。　Which　was　why　he　had　gone　back　to　Lola；　where　he　would　probably　have　gone　anyway。
　　
　　'Pull　yourself　together；　Darren；'　her　attractive　features　hardened；　pale　blue　eyes　flashing　contempt　for　the　man　whose　image　had　suddenly　crumbled。　'Only　last　weekend　you　were　considering　ways　of　getting　Marion　out　of　the　way　and　now　somebody's　gone　and　done　it　for　you。　So　what　the　hell　are　you　plaining　about？'
　　
　　'You　don't　bloody　well　understand；'　he　downed　the　whisky　she　had　handed　him　in　one　gulp；　set　the　glass　down　with　a　shaking　hand。　There's　something　happening；　forces　we　can't　fight　against。　Even　Bishop　Boyce　is　shit…scared。　Inexplicable；　horrible　deaths；　madness；　a　girl　missing；　and　now　Walter　Stone　burnt　to　a　cinder　in　his　own　house。　Who　next？　For　God's　sake；　who's　going　to　be　next？''
　　
　　'Somebody's　deliberately　out　to　scare　you；'　Lola's　mouth　was　dry；　she　couldn't　stand　much　more　of　this。　'Ever　thought　that　maybe　some　rival　building　pany　has　designs　on　the　land　now　that　it's　been　taken　out　of　the　Green　Belt？　Tolson　Contractors；　for　instance。'