"Smith, Guy N - 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 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 newcomer'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 coming 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 communes 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 coming 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.