gns.theplutopact-第1部分

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　　Dusk　was　beginning　to　creep　down　from　the　mountains　when　the　Witchfinder　rode　into　Craiglowrie。　His　hunched　position　in　the　saddle　of　the　black　mare　disguised　his　true　height；　yet　all　the　same　he　was　tall　and　terrible；　the　features　beneath　the　dark　broad…brimmed　hat　seemed　like　those　of　a　sun…bleached　skull　from　a　distance。　The　grimace　that　revealed　black　and　broken　teeth；　the　eyes　that　glowed　with　the　fire　of　a　personal　hatred；　and　seemed　to　search　out　each　and　every　one　of　the　peasants　who　trembled　and　watched　behind　the　windows　of　their　tumbledown　bothies。
　　
　　They　remembered　the　last　time　he　had　e　to　this　remote　Scottish　valley；　a　pany　of　soldiers　in　his　wake。　Six　villagers　had　been　dragged　from　their　homes　and　burned；　the　Witchfinder's　long　bony　forefinger　singling　them　out…judge　and　executioner…not　speaking；　just　smiling　evilly。　And　when　he　left；　the　stench　of　burned　human　flesh　hung　in　the　atmosphere　for　days　afterwards　as　though　he　had　manded　the　elements　not　to　disperse　it…a　grim　reminder　to　those　who　still　lived。　That　had　been　in　1580。　And　now；　fifteen　years　later；　he　was　back；　a　devil　incarnate　on　a　mission　of　death；　hidden　beneath　the　folds　of　his　travel…worn　cloak　was　a　royal　mission　which　none　dared　question。
　　
　　The　fact　that　he　was　alone　now　was　in　a　way　more　terrifying　to　the　watchers　than　if　he　had　ridden　in　with　an　armed　escort；　for　such　was　his　aura　of　power　that　he　seemed　like　a　god　of　old　e　to　torture　and　kill；　to　wreak　mayhem　wherever　he　travelled。
　　
　　His　eyes　narrowed　to　slits；　taking　in　the　village　in　one　sweeping　glance；　reviving　old　memories　which　brought　a　grim　smile　to　the　bloodless　lips。　There　stood　the　kirk；　a　symbol　of　defiance　against　evil；　in　spite　of　its　weatherworn　structure。　Almost　contempt　in　the　Witchfinder's　expression　now；　perhaps　wishing　that　he　could　burn　the　ageing；　red…faced　clergyman　who　peered　from　behind　the　partly　open　doors；　another　monarch；　another　Act；　and　perhaps　one　day　that　would　e　about。　Eyes　everywhere　were　watching　him；　like　frightened　fireflies　ready　to　withdraw　into　the　darkness。
　　
　　Tall　and　erect　now；　straining　his　gaze　to　make　out　the　half…demolished　cottage　some　way　up　the　mountain　slope。　He　watched　intently；　as　though　looking　for　some　movement　from　within　but　there　was　none。　Just　a　faint　wisp　of　peaty　smoke　rising　straight　up　into　the　windless　sky。　That　meant　Balzur　was　at　home。　But　there　was　no　hurry；　he　would　not　be　going　anywhere。
　　
　　The　stranger　nudged　his　horse　forward；　tired　hooves　scraping　on　the　stony　track。　He　rode　slowly　between　the　uneven　line　of　dwellings　until　he　reached　a　larger　building　at　the　far　end　beyond　the　kirk；　its　windows　lighted　and　a　door　ajar…the　hospitality　of　the　inn；　denied　to　none。
　　
　　The　Witchfinder　dismounted　in　one　easy　movement；　throwing　the　loose　reins　over　a　hitching…post。　The　animal　stood　there　meekly　as　its　master　mounted　the　narrow　steps　and　threw　the　door　wide　open。
　　
　　The　single　room　which　served　as　a　hostelry　for　the　inhabitants　of　Craiglowrie　was　primitive…trestle　tables　of　planks　placed　across　sawn　tree　butts；　earthenware　jugs　and　mugs；　an　acrid　reek　of　ale　and　crudely…distilled　spirit　which　caused　the　newer's　nostrils　to　flare。　A　man　straightened　up　from　the　fireplace；　hunched　by　some　deformity　from　birth；　blistered　lips　moving　beneath　his　red　beard。
　　
　　'Sire。'　He　gave　a　half…bow；　sweeping　downwards　with　the　stump　of　a　malformed　hand。　'My　humble　inn；　food　and　drink；　are　yours。'
　　
　　There　was　a　gleam　in　the　Witchfinder's　eyes　as　he　scraped　mud　from　the　soles　of　his　riding　boots　on　to　the　rough　floor。　'Aye；　landlord；　all　that　I　want　I'll　take　in　the　name　of　the　King　and　his　Kirk。　Ale　for　now；　and　tell　me　of　this　man　Balzur。'
　　
　　Amber　liquid　was　slopped　into　a　vessel　on　the　bar　and　when　the　innkeeper　spoke　his　festered　lips　quivered。　'Sire；'　he　began；　'Balzur　has　ruled　Craiglowrie　and　the　people　of　these　mountains　ever　since　the　royal　soldiers　left　after　quelling　the　uprising。　His　word　is　law　。。。　until　now！'　Relief　overcame　fear。　'Thank　God　our　message　found　you；　Witchfinder。'
　　
　　'My　ing　has　nothing　to　do　with　your　message'…a　pause　as　the　speaker　took　a　long　swallow　of　ale。　'I　have　travelled　many　miles　because　there　is　said　to　be　one　here　whose　magic　offends　the　King　and　his　Kirk。　But　tell　me　more　of　this　Balzur　and　his　black　powers。'
　　
　　'He　munes　with　the　devil'…a　sudden　rush　of　words。　'Young　maidens　and　children　have　been　snatched　from　their　homes　in　the　dead　of　night；　and　never　seen　again。　The　people　live　in　terror；　and　bestow　gifts　upon　Balzur　in　the　hope　that　he　might　pass　over　their　families。　Only　last　week　a　wee　lassie　。　。　。　'
　　
　　'I'll　warrant　his　power　is　not　as　strong　as　mine；'　the　Witchfinder　gave　a　low　laugh。　'But；　nevertheless；　I　shall　need　the　help　of　the　people　of　Craiglowrie。　All　the　brushwood　they　can　find　to　make　a　fire　so　great　that　it　will　light　up　the　English　towns　on　the　other　side　of　Solway。　Tonight　the　sky　will　radiate　my　power　for　all　to　see；　driving　the　evil　ones　back　into　the　darkness。'
　　
　　'The　people　await　your　bidding；　sire。'　'Then　bid　them　hasten；　for　the　time　is　nigh。'　As　the　Witchfinder　watched　the　dwarf…like　figure　step　out　through　a　rear　doorway；　he　heard　the　mutter　of　low　voices。　Laughing；　he　refilled　his　mug。　This　ing　night　would　be　yet　another　to　savour。
　　
　　It　was　fully　dark　when　the　Witchfinder　left　the　inn；　a　myriad　of　sparkling　stars　in　the　sky　promising　frost　before　morning…a　night　to　huddle　around　a　blazing　fire。　And　tonight；　the　people　of　Craiglowrie　would　be　able　to　do　just　that！　The　tall　man　glanced　towards　the　mingled　crowd　further　down　the　street。
　　
　　He　set　off　at　a　walk；　his　pace　deceptive　so　that　some　of　the　older　villagers　had　to　break　into　a　shambling　run　just　to　keep　his　silhouette　in　view。　He　permitted　himself　another　smile　as　he　noticed　the　dead　branches　piled　high　around　the　base　of　a　lone　oak　which　had　once　been　struck　by　lightning。　These　peasants　had　wasted　no　time　in　their　eagerness　to　be　rid　of　Balzur。
　　
　　The　going　was　steeper　now　though　he　did　not　slow　his　step。　His　heart　was　pounding　at　the　thought　of　what　lay　ahead。　The　remains　of　a　hillside　cottage　were　lit　up…an　ethereal　glow　that　cast　weird　shadows　across　heather　and　gorse。　So　long　as　Balzur　was　at　home；　nothing　else　mattered。
　　
　　As　the　Witchfinder　paused；　staring　at　the　jagged　stone　entrance　with　its　ill…fitting　door；　he　heard　the　low　mutterings　of　those　who　followed　at　a　distance。　They　were　afraid…Balzur's　sorcery　was　feared　from　the　Craiglowrie　mountains　to　the　Firth；　and　beyond。　Even　now　they　doubted　the　powers　of　the　Witchfinder　against　the　magic　of　Balzur。
　　
　　There　was　a　faint　stench；　barely　noticeable…but　once　you　recognised　it　you　heaved　and　vomited。　Burning　human　flesh！　Yet　to　the　Witchfinder　it　was　the　sweet　fragrance　of　success；　familiar　to　one　such　as　himself。　He　moved　forward；　no　longer　hesitating。　The　time　for　savouring　was　over。　His　booted　foot　struck　the　door；　and　flung　it　back　with　a　splintering　of　wood。
　　
　　Balzur　was　there；　at　the　far　end　of　the　littered　room。　The　fire　in　the　wide　grate　belched　out　poisonous…smelling　smoke　as　though　the　soot…caked　chimney　above　was　rebelling　against　it。　In　some　respects　the　wizard　resembled　the　one　who　had　encroached　upon　his　domain。　Beneath　the　grime　on　his　scaly　flesh　the　features　were　finely　cut；　as　though　nobility　had　existed　in　his　ancestry。　Old；　so　old　it　seemed　incredible　that　he　still　lived　and　moved　。　。　。　until　you　looked　into　his　eyes　and　then　you　understood！　Two　sunken；　malevolent　orbs　that　radiated　the　ultimate　in　evil…an　invisible　force　that　had　men　cowering　back　and　babbling　their　fear　of　his　magic。　Except　the　Witchfinder；　he　met　his　adversary's　gaze　unflinchingly；　then　allowed　his　eyes　to　travel　round　the　room。
　　
　　He'd　seen　most　of　it　before　in　similar　abodes；　verminous　creatures　scurrying　and　squeaking　in　their　cages；　dried　and　whitened　bones；　the　jar　of　preserved　foreskins。　Only　here　the　stench　of　death　was　predominant…a　dismembered　child's　body　smouldering　and　hissing　amidst　the　peat　and　kindling　wood。　There　were　markings　on　floor；　walls　and　ceiling；　a　few　familiar　but　most　beyond　his　ken。　Balzur；　truly；　was　a　black　magician　supreme；　a　disciple　of　the　Left　Hand　Path。
　　
　　The　Witchfinder's　mouth　was　suddenly　dry；　and　a　momentary　spasm　of　fear　twanged　his　heartbeat　out　of　rhythm。　Then　he　had　himself　under　control　again…staring　at　the　wizard's　tall；　skeletal　figure；　arrogant　and　defiant。
　　
　　'I　need　no　further　proof　of　your　vile　sorcery；'　the　Witch…finder　cried；　with　relief　that　his　voice　did　not　quaver。　'I　see　it　all　before　me　here。　And　for　what　I　see　you　are　condemned　to　die　by　fire；　so　that　your　evil　may　be　consumed　with　you。'
　　
　　'My　power　is　greater　than　yours；　Witchfinder。　Molest　me　at　your　peril！'
　　
　　'Seize　him！'　the　other　shouted；　half…turned　towards　the　villagers　crowding　into　the　room。　'Drag　him　to　the　stake。'
　　
　　Then　came　a　rush　of　angry；　sweat…stinking　bodies；　and　calloused　hands　grabbing　for　the　old　man　whose　upraised　arm　failed　to　hold　off　those　who　had　so　long　yielded　to　his　demands…touching　him　at　first　with　the　revulsion　of　an　inquisitive　child　finding　a　dead　reptile；　then　dragging　him　boldly　out　into　the　open。　A　chorus　of　abuse　drowned　his　feeble　protests　as　he　was　raised　aloft　and　carried　down　the　uneven　slope。　Burning　torches　illuminated　the　scene；　reflecting　on　Balzur's　features。　The　Witchfinder；　bringing　up　the　rear；　gasped　in　amazement。　Their　power　destroyed；　his　victims　usually　screamed　and　pleaded　for　mercy。　But　not　Balzur！　His　face　was　an　impassive　mask；　without　so　much　as　a　glimmer　of　apprehension　in　the　deep…sunken　eyes…tight…lipped；　angry；　but　unafraid！
　　
　　Several　stumbled　on　the　long　trek　down　to　Craiglowrie　village；　and　once　the　wizard　was　almost　dropped。　But　their　anger　had　now　escalated　to　a　frenzy。　Burn　the　fiend。　Let　Pluto；　ruler　of　the　underworld；　take　his　own　back　into　his　fiery　halls。　They　recalled　the　Bible　readings　in　the　kirk　as　the　timid　clergyman　had　relied　upon　its　teachings　to　bat　the　evil　hanging　over　them　for　so　long。　'Thou　shall　not　suffer　a　witch　to　live。　He　that　sacrificeth　unto　any　god　save　the