"Smith, Guy N - Sabat 04 - The Druid Connection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

Sabat felt his body tense, go cold as an icy trickle ran up his spine and spread out into his scalp. He strained his smarting eyes, made out the shape of a woman in long tattered robes. At least he thought it was a woman. . . .

Small and frail, almost childlike, barely five feet tall. Long matted hair that straggled down over revolting bulb like breasts, cancerous growths protruding from vents in the soiled garments. Barefoot, toenails broken and curling over like the talons of some horrific bird of prey. Skeletal waste arms, shaking finger pointed accusingly at the intruders in this place of silence and death. An eddy of smoke hid her for a few seconds as though it sought to spare these two humans from a sane world the sight of this revolting creature.

And when the smoke had cleared, Sabat and Kent saw that she had stepped forward out of the shadows into a patch of moonlight where every detail of her grotesque face was displayed.

'Jesus God, it isn't possible!' Kent stepped back instinctively, dragging Sabat with him.

A noise, a cackle of manic laughter broke the stillness. This creature from the shadows in human form was commanding them to look upon her, to feast their eyes upon the rotting flesh on her body, to breathe in the stench of putrefaction which even the billowing smoke could not mask. Eye sockets, nothing more, but she seemed to see out of the sunken cavities, tiny black pits of hate directed at the two men. Twin nostrils that bubbled mucus, a toothless mouth-slit widening into a grimace. A thing that had come from beyond the grave!

Sabat sensed the power emanating from this macabre living entity, a force that hit him with sheer psychic power like that icy wind getting up again and bringing with it stifling acrid smoke that had him instinctively throwing up his hands to ward it off.

'Sabat, you came here at your own peril and those who trespass in the domain of the Oke Priests must pay the penalty. You shall not leave here! I come to take you with me to the Lupercal Cave!'

Rasping tones that scraped on Mark Sabat's bemused brain with a stupefying effect. A muzziness that was beginning to cloud his thinking, numbing his fear. A surrendering of his willpower that was only saved by his companion, Kent the journalist, the atheist.

'It's some kind of trick!' Kent's scream was bordering on hysteria. 'That old bag's dressed up to scare the hell out of us. Get her, Sabat! Teach the bitch a lesson!'

The grotesque apparition checked, recoiled as though she had been struck a physical blow, the mouth widening into an expression of shock and terror. And in that same instant Sabat felt his inner mechanism click back into gear like a car that has faltered and then picked up to full speed. One moment he was on the defensive, now he was on the offensive.

Even as he leaped forward that acrid smoke billowed and came to the aid of the unknown wretched figure, taking him full in the face, forcing him to turn aside and gasp for fresh air. Kent ducked, came up beneath the putrid fumes, pushed his way forward.

The Grotesque screamed as she turned to flee, a yell that was scarcely human, but even as he leaped in pursuit the thought crossed Sabat's mind that it was not the despairing fear-stricken cry that they had heard a few minutes earlier. Was there another monstrosity within the bounds of this awful cemetery?

The chase was on, an eerie flitting figure dodging between the headstones, whirling and leaping with unbelievable agility for one so ancient. Their instinctive SAS training had caused the two men to split up, a two-pronged pursuit which would surely corner this smoke witch before long. She ran, hesitated by a gap in the hedge, then burst through it into the adjoining rough field. And as if the moon had already decreed that she should not escape, it came out from the clouds yet again and shone down with all the brightness it could muster, illuminating the scene, creating weird shadows.

On she ran, skipping with a lightness that kept her ten yards ahead of the two men, a direct line to where there was yet another gap in the straggling hawthorn hedge. Freedom beckoned her, a footpath that would have taken her to the safety of the woods. Then she screamed again, a cry of physical and mental agony, staggering back as though some invisible barrier had not only barred her progress but burned her flesh.

'She can't leave this place!' Sabat called out to Kent. 'She can only survive within its boundaries. Keep after her, we'll run her down.'

Like a woodland nymph she was fleeing again, this time following the course of the perimeter hedge but keeping a yard or so from it as though she feared its powers. Kent was following on her heels, Sabat embarking upon a diagonal course, trying to cut her off. Surely they must corner her before long.

Then came the smoke again, thicker and more acrid than ever, a dense suffocating fog that shut out the moonlight, reducing everything to a grey gloom, a place of silhouettes and unearthly shapes. Sabat coughed, ducked and drew in fresh air, held his breath. The fire must be in this field and not in the cemetery, a pile of dead vegetation left to smoulder by some agricultural worker. The fugitive might escape beneath its cover and . . .

He pulled up, found himself wondering where Kent had got to. It was as though Sabat had stepped into a strange land in no way connected with a rural village. A fringe of trees formed a space that might have been a forest clearing except that it was impossible to discern one's surroundings clearly because the smoke was gushing forth from a huge rectangular pile of what appeared to be lumps of turf or maybe peat. And on top of this, defiant, arms and face raised to the heavens beyond the smoke clouds, stood the one whom they had been pursuing.

Sabat stood and stared, was suddenly aware of being joined by Kent, heard the latter's intake of breath and a muttered 'Jesus Christ!' They saw the old woman clearly as the silvery-grey beams of smoke-filtered moonlight shone on her. A pathetic, sorry figure, Sabat reflected. Wasted, as though a skeleton had been exhumed with strips of decaying flesh still clinging to the dead bones. The rotting clothing appeared to have torn and shredded still further in the chase so that the figure beneath was displayed in its full obscenity, a nauseating nakedness that made the two men wish that they did not have to look.

Her voice was a low moan, a prayer or plea to some unknown deity as she stood atop the burning heap, calling for help in her hour of desperate need. The atmosphere seemed to come alive as though pending an electric storm. Sabat was aware of the static, the way his flesh goose pimpled, clammy fingers touching him again. He reacted instantly, saw the situation for what it was, a threat to their lives and their souls. His hand delved into the pocket of his corduroy jacket, fingers closing over that tiny silver crucifix. It snagged on a thread, got caught. Oh God, the forces of darkness were working on him already, obstructing him. Even Kent was holding on to him. With a determined effort, calling upon every last physical and mental reserve, Sabat pushed his companion away and at the same time dragged the small cross clear of his pocket. It seemed to have grown heavy these last few seconds, several pounds in weight that required a deliberate effort to raise above his head. Even as he managed it the smoke came at him with full force, a blinding, suffocating mass that almost had him staggering back. No longer could he see that fearsome creature on the smouldering peat. He didn't even know if she was still there.

Sabat's arm went back, shot forward with full force. Many times had he lobbed dummy grenades in SAS training exercises under similar conditions, running the gauntlet of smoke bombs and tear gas. Now, that training was repaying him. He sensed that he was on target even before the unearthly scream rang out, threw himself flat as the sky above zig-zagged with forked lightning. Self-preservation; he did not even think about Kent, for the other had undergone the same training and it was up to him to act likewise. You threw yourself to the ground and kept down, and if you were religious you prayed to God. If not, you trusted to luck.

The smoke thickened, a rancid smell and cloying taste which reminded Sabat of that oven which had once cooked living human flesh.* Finally it thinned and only then did he raise his head, squinting through half-closed eyes.

The moon was shining again and displaying a three-feet high rectangle of blackened squares of turf, charred and smelling evilly. But there was no sign of she who had made her last stand on its summit.

'What happened?' A dishevelled Kent was on his knees a few yards away, staring in bewilderment.

'My power was greater than hers,' Sabat smiled wanly, 'or theirs, at this given time. What you see there is a sacrificial turf altar of the ancient Oke Priests. Doubtless we shall learn in due course that a supply of turf had been delivered for replacing part of the church lawns but take it from me, Kent, it was brought here for a very different reason. You heard what she said about the Lupercal Cave? Well, that was a temple used by the druids not far from Rome where dogs and goats, and sometimes humans, were sacrificed. That woman intended to do that to us. Without her altar, her power was limited. She had to get back to it before we caught her. We almost left it too late. Fortunately I was on target when I threw the crucifix, otherwise I guess that would have been the end for us.'