gns.thegraveyardvultures-第3部分

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　　He　turned　away；　tried　to　hurry；　then　pulled　up；　cringing；　not　daring　to　look　back。　A　voice；　a　whisper　on　the　early　morning　breeze；　yet　so　familiar。
　　
　　'Idle　and　yet　I　shall　live　again；　ft　is　you　who　will　moulder　in　this　grave；　Mark'
　　
　　Sabat's　lips　moved　in　a　hoarse　answering　croak。
　　
　　'No！　You're　dead。　I　killed　you。'
　　
　　A　laugh　answered　him；　a　shrill　peal　that　might　have　been　the　wind　freshening　and　rusliing　through　the　leaves；　howling　down　from　the　mountain　passes　above。　But　there　was　no　wind。
　　
　　？Running；　his　limbs　now　responding　to　the　desperation　that　whipped　him。　Stumbling。　Falling　and　picking　himself　up；　clothing　torn；　grazed　hands　beginning　to　bleed。　On　down　that　narrow　track；　daylight　ing　quickly　now。　And　behind　him　the　laughter　being　fainter　and　fainter。
　　
　　The　hotel　lobby　was　deserted　as　he　entered；　pulling　himself　up　the　narrow　flight　of　stairs；　exhaustion　threatening　to　close　in　on　him　at　any　second。　Somehow　he　made　it　to　his　room；　slammed　the　door　gratefully　behind　him　and　leaned　against　it。　He　saw　the　rolled　up　carpet；　the　pentagram　chalked　on　the　bare　boards。　Everything　as　he　had　left　it。。。　Oh；　merciful　God；　no！
　　
　　The　silver　chalice　lay　on　its　side；　dented　as　though　some　heavy　object　had　knocked　it　over　and　crushed　it。　A　shaft　of　early　morning　sunlight　streaming　in　through　the　small　latticed　window　glinted　on　the　buckled　shiny　metal；　reflecting　a　dazzling　print　that　had　tarnished　where　it　had　struck　…　a　cloven　hoof　mark　
　　
　　Sabat's　horrified　gaze　followed　the　damp　trail　left　by　the　spilled　water；　a　meandering　dried…up　watercourse　on　a　parched　landscape　that　crossed　the　chalk　marks；　broke　the　continuous　lines　that　had　formed　a　plete　star。　The　ultimate　bastion　had　been　breached！
　　
　　'I　shall　live　on。'
　　
　　Whirling；　recognising　Quentin's　voice；　for　one　awful　moment　expecting　to　see　his　brother　there　in　the　room；　maybe　as　the　aged　woodcutter；　more　likely　in　another　form。　But　there　was　no　body。　Just　the　voice。
　　
　　It　was　then　that　the　full；　awful　realisation　hit　Mark　Sabat。　He　heard　the　maniacal　laughter　again　and　this　time　knew　from　whence　it　came　。。。　from　within　himself！
　　
　　He　rushed　to　the　cracked　and　dusty　wall　mirror；　stared　at　his　reflection。　No　outward　change　except　exhaustion　stamped　on　his　aquiline　features；　dirt…grimed；　clothing　dishevelled。
　　
　　'You　fiend！'　he　hissed。　'You　foul　monster；　Quentin。　I　have　killed　you；　sought　to　destroy　you　for　the　good　of　Mankind。　But　instead　your　soul　has　possessed　me。　But　not　pletely。　D'you　hear　me；　Quentin；　not　pletely。　For　I　still　have　my　own　soul。　A　man　with　two　souls；　like　Petraux；　the　French　sorcerer。'
　　
　　'And　what　happened　to　Petraux？'　A　mocking　question　asked　within　his　own　mind；　taunting。
　　
　　'He　died　。　。　。　and　rose　again　in　another　life；'　Sabat　muttered　as　he　recalled　the　legend；　the　story　of　how　Petraux　had　fought　a　battle　within　himself　and　in　the　end　took　his　own　life　so　that　when　he　was　born　again　the　evil　which　had　triumphed　over　him　lived　on。　'But　it　shall　not　happen　to　me；　Quentin。　You　and　I　have　fought　and　hated　for　too　long；　in　bygone　lives；　and　still　I　live。　I　must　take　you　with　me　where…ever　I　go；　but　it　will　not　be　easy　for　you　because　I　shall　fight　you　all　the　way。　The　black　powers　may　have　an　enemy　within　my　camp　now；　but　I　also　have　one　within　theirs。　And　maybe　one　day　I　shall　destroy　you　totally。'
　　
　　This　time　there　was　no　answering　jibe；　just　a　silence　that　was　disturbed　by　the　rattle　of　crockery　somewhere　down　below　as　the　hotel　kitchen　prepared　for　the　start　of　another　day。
　　
　　Shoulders　slumped；　eyes　already　beginning　to　close　with　fatigue；　Sabat　lurched　towards　the　bed　which　stood　in　the　centre　of　the　pentagram。　His　dragging　feet　caught　the　chalice；　and　sent　it　rolling　until　it　struck　the　skirting　board　with　a　metallic　clang。　Fully　dressed　he　flung　himself　on　to　the　bed；　felt　sleep　swamping　him　like　an　ining　tide；　the　relentless　rollers　sweeping　him　along。
　　
　　And　he　dreamed；　a　dream　in　which　his　astral　body　went　forth　with　Quentin　at　his　side。　Not　the　Quentin　he　had　fought　in　that　clearing；　a　revolting　specimen　of　senility；　but　a　young　and　handsome　man　who　bore　his　own　looks。　A　desert　landscape　in　which　nothing　grew　except　sparse　cacti　and　even　they　were　wilting　in　the　terrible　heat。　Water　that　loomed　up　ahead　and　then　vanished　as　they　approached　；it。　But　Quentin　seemed　unperturbed　striding　along　as　though　he　felt　no　disfort；　Mark　struggling　along　beside　him　and　trying　to　hide　the　agony　of　his　roasting　flesh。
　　
　　And　in　the　hottest　part　of　the　day　（did　the　temperature　ever　vary　and　was　there　such　a　thing　as　nightfall？）　they　came　upon　the　battleground；　multilated　bloody　bodies　lying　in　the　sand；　huge　black　vultures　devouring　the　human　carrion；　seemingly　undisturbed　by　the　intrusion　of　living　men。
　　
　　Mark　Sabat　stared　and　felt　the　horror　eating　his　stomach　like　a　quick…growing　cancer。　Two　races　were　intermingled　with　the　carnage；　light…skinned；…fair…haired　warriors　lying　prone　with　the　heavier…built；　dark…skinned　ones；　the　latter's　faces　brooding　scowls　even　in　death。　No　victors；　no　losers；　just　a　stalemate　deathlock　in　the　eternal　battle　of　Good　versus　Evil；　Light　versus　Dark。
　　
　　And　only　two　remained　alive　in　this　desert　hell；　himself　and　Quentin。　The　last　ambassadors。　The　armies　were　destroyed　and　now　the　oute　depended　upon　this　final　duel　to　the　death　between　the　two　of　them。
　　
　　Sabat　awoke；　his　clothes　clinging　damply　to　his　skin；　his　face　wet　with　sweat。　Waning　sunlight　flooded　the　room　and　he　was　aware　that　it　was　late　afternoon。　Within　minutes　he　was　shivering　as　the　perspiration　began　to　cool　on　his　body；　his　thoughts　going　back　to　that　terrible　parched　desertland　of　death。　He　smiled　faintly　to　himself；　that　had　been　the　first　test；　his　astral　alone　with　Quentin's　in　that　burning　hell；　but　he　had　been　strong　enough　to　return　to　his　own　physical　body　even　though　his　brother　had　e　back　with　him。　Neither　could　destroy　the　other　in　the　final　battle　so　both　must　share　the　same　body。
　　
　　But　the　real　battle　was　only　just　beginning。
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　ONE
　　
　　THE　CEMETERY　had　long　been　untended。　A　quarter　of　a　century　ago　it　had　been　the　pride　of　the　small　village。　Neat　rows　of　white；　marbled　tombstones；　bedecked　regularly　with　fresh　flowers　according　to　the　season；　the　grass　trimmed　so　that　it　resembled　strips　of　lush　green　lawn。　Now　the　worst　side　of　nature　had　taken　over。　Brambles　which　had　hitherto　been　kept　in　check　relishing　the　freedom　to　stretch　their　thorny　tentacles；　moss　and　dandelions　obtaining　a　stranglehold　on　the　grass　and　stifling　it　so　that　it　grew　long　and　brown　and　went　to　seed。　The　elements　whipped　the　gravestones　mercilessly；　obliterating　the　lettering　so　that　names　and　dates　were　indecipherable；　and　the　dead　passed　into　oblivion。
　　
　　The　small　church；　too；　standing　amid　the　tall　scots　pines　had　fallen　into　a　state　of　disrepair。　Slates　had　blown　from　the　roof；　smashed　on　the　weed…covered　path　from　the　lichgate　and　had　not　been　replaced；　guttering　rusted　and　overflowed　during　heavy　rainfall　because　starlings　regularly　nested　and　roosted　there；　the　big　double　doors　fast　conceding　to　the　depredations　of　woodworm。
　　
　　One　weekly　service　on　Sunday　mornings　was　a　last　reminder　that　religion　still　clung　to　this　decaying　edifice；　conducted　by　an　ageing　curate　who　was　long　past　retirement。　And　when　his　time　came；　it　was　rumoured　in　the　village；　the　Church　missioners　would　concede　defeat　and　allow　yet　another　of　their　remote　outposts　to　fall。　Because　nobody　wanted　the　church；　that　much　was　apparent　by　the　dwindling　congregation　which　had　now　fallen　below　half…a…dozen；　while　the　ranks　of　the　godless　were　swelling。
　　
　　The　bishop；　writing　in　his　diocesan　magazine；　had　referred　to　the　possible　closure　of　this　once　beautiful　church。　A　word　had　been　sprayed　on　the　entrance　doors　with　aerosol　paint　（he　conveniently　abstained　from　quoting　the　word　or　even　mentioning　that　it　had　four　letters）；　and　a　couple　of　graves　had　been　'interfered　with'。　That　worthy　man　chose　to　remonstrate　liberally　in　print　with　anonymous　vandals　although　he　blamed　the　villagers　for　this　apparent　lack　of　pride　in　their　church。　He　did　not　mention　what　had　bee　of　the　proceeds　of　a　long…established　Church　Restoration　Fund；　much　of　which　had　been　on　deposit　account　at　the　bank　for　many　years。　Nor　was　it　clear　whether　the　Diocese　had　totally　financed　a　hideously　modern　place　of　worship　which　was　in　the　last　stages　of　construction　in　one　of　the　city　suburbs。　Bishop　Wentnor　wasn't　one　to　go　into　scrupulous　detail　where　church　finances　were　concerned。
　　
　　Only　on　moonlit　nights　was　any　of　the　former　elegance　of　St　Adrian's　Church　restored。　The　ethereal　silvery　glow　accentuated　the　architecture　while　obscuring　the　missing　slates　and　crumbling　stonework　in　shadow。　Even　the　churchyard　took　on　some　degree　of　respectability。　And　it　was　during　these　periods　of　a　full　moon　that　worshippers　came　in　numbers。　But　not　as　Bishop　Wentnor　would　have　wished。
　　
　　It　was　well　after　midnight　before　the　full　group　was　assembled　in　the　old　cemetery。　They　had　arrived　mostly　in