"Guy N. Smith - The Pluto Pact" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

PROLOGUE



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 come to this remote Scottish valley, a
company 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 commanded 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 commission 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 come 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 come 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