David Gemmell - Wolf in Shadow

Think, man!' he told himself. His eyes flicked around the room — where would they come in?

The window was open and that seemed the best bet, so slowly he moved on all fours to sit beneath the ledge. The exertion weakened him and he felt dizzy. He took a deep breath and leaned his head against the cold stone. Minutes passed and his mind wandered. He had once hidden like this as a boy, when his father had been hunting him to deliver a thrashing. He couldn't remember what he had done, but he recalled vividly the sense of defeat within the excitement, knowing that he was only putting off the awful moment.

The window creaked. Griffin glanced up and saw a hand on the ledge.

With infinite care he eased himself into a crouch. A leg swung into sight, the booted foot almost grazing Griffin's shoulder, then the man was inside. Griffin rose to his feet, grabbing the long dark hair, and before the intruder could scream the hunting-knife sliced across his throat.

He began to struggle wildly and Griffin was thrown from him. The man fell to his knees, dropping his pistol. Griffin scooped it up and crawled back to the wall, waiting for the next man.

Across the room the first intruder had ceased to struggle. Griffin cocked the pistol and closed his eyes to aid his hearing. Nothing moved. .

He awoke with a start. His mind had drifted him into a dream and he blinked hard, scanning the room. How long had he been asleep? Seconds? Minutes?

And what had awakened him?

The pistol butt was warm in his hand and slippery with sweat; he wiped his palm on his shirt and took up the gun once more. Outside he could hear the sound of distant chanting, and a red glow filled the room.

A man stepped inside from the door at the far wall and Griffin shot him twice. He stumbled and fell, then raised his pistol and a bullet smashed into the wall above Griffin's head. Holding his pistol two-handed, Griffin fired once more and the man fell dead. The room stank of cordite and smoke hung in the air. Griffin's ears rang, and he could hear nothing.

He pushed himself to his feet and risked a glance from the window. A man was running towards the house; Griffin's first shot missed him, but the second took him in the chest and he fell. The wagon-master wiped sweat from his eyes as he glanced up at the night sky.

. . And saw the Devil looming above the house tops.

'My God!' he whispered.

'No, mine,' said a voice. Griffin did not turn.

'I wondered what had happened to you, Zedeki.'

'You are a hard man to kill, Mr Griffin.'

'I am surprised you did not just shoot me down?'

'I thought you might like to witness the last act in the drama. Watch his hand, Mr Griffin. The next person you see will be your wife being carried to his mouth. . then I will kill you.'

The Devil disappeared and Zedeki screamed. Griffin swung and fired and the bullet punched Zedeki back against the wall; his knees buckled and he sank to the floor, still gazing at the star-filled night sky.

Griffin sat down and watched the young man die.

Abaddon stood on the black marble balcony overlooking the temple steps, revelling in the appearance of his god, feeling his doubts swirling away from him like mist in the morning. The sound of gunshots came from within the temple and the priests scattered. He saw Achnazzar hurled from his feet and devoured by the Devil. Then a dark-clad figure ran forward, the Devil's hand dropped and Abaddon screamed his triumph as the warrior was swept into his palm.

But the Devil disappeared and a pain clutched Abaddon's heart like fingers of fire. He screamed and fell back through the doorway, crawling to his bedside and the ivory-inlaid ebony box which lay there. He whispered the words of power, but the box did not open. Pulling himself to his knees, he struggled for calm and pressed the hidden button at the base. The lid sprang open and relief surged in him as his hands pulled clear the large oval Blood Stone. The pain in his chest eased slightly. He bunked and focused hit eyes on the stone — the red was fading, the black veins growing as he watched.

'No!' he whispered. Brown liver spots blossomed on his hands, and the skin began to wrinkle. He managed to get to his feet and drew a silver embossed pistol from a leather scabbard hanging at the bedside.

'Guard!' he yelled and a young man ran into the room.

'What is it, sire?'

Abaddon shot him through the head, then carried the Stone to the twitching body and held it under the pumping jet of blood coming from the man's brow. Yet still the power ebbed, the black veins spreading and joining.

'There is nothing you can do, Lawrence,' said Ruth. Abaddon dropped the Stone and sank down beside the guard's body.

'Help me, Ruthie.'

'I cannot. You should have died a long time ago.'

His hair glistened white and his face took on the look of worn leather. He no longer had the strength to sit and his body slumped to the floor. Ruth sat beside him, cradling his head in her lap.

'Why did you go away?' he whispered. 'It could all have been so different.' The flesh melted from his face and his lips moved in a last ragged whisper. 'I did love you,' he said.

'I know.'

His body fell back hi her arms and she could feel the bones beneath the skin, brittle and pointed.

The skin peeled away and the bones crumbled to the floor.

On the steps of the temple, Batik swiftly reloaded his pistol and sat facing the crowd. The roar of rage died down and the mob fell back, staring at their painted hands and looking in confusion at their comrades. At the front of the crowd a man groaned and toppled forward and a friend knelt by him.

'He's dead,' said the man. Someone else in the crowd, feeling unwell, drew his Blood Stone from its pouch; it was blacker than sin. Another man died and the crowd backed away from the body.

As other people checked their Stones, panic grew.

On the steps Madden helped Batik to his feet and they moved to Donna, ripping the silver bands from her body. She moaned and opened her eyes.

'Jacob?'

'It's all right. You're safe, girl.'

'Where is Con?'

'He's waiting for us. I'll take you to him.'

'And Eric?'

'We'll talk later. Take my hand.'

Below them the crowd was streaming away. Madden lifted Donna into his arms as a dark-haired young man approached him.

'God's greeting,' he said.

'Who are you?' asked Batik.

'Clophas. You do not know me, Batik, but I was at Sanctuary while you were there.'

'It seems a long time ago.'

'Yes, a lifetime. Can I help you with the lady?'

On the Titanic, people fought with one another to climb the choked stairways and escape the rising water. The Mother Stone, unleashing all its energy, played its role to the full, tilting the ship to imitate the original disaster. Scores of Guardians, their wives and children slid below the foaming torrent, thrashing and screaming for assistance. None was offered.

Whereas in the disaster of 1912 a number of brave men had manned the pumps until the last minute, not one Guardian now had the knowledge to do the same. Where the original tragedy had been enacted during three hours, this Titanic was sinking within minutes. Bulkheads collapsed and hundreds died, dragged to their deaths by the seething ocean.

There was no escape. Many threw themselves from the upper decks, splashing into the sea below only to find themselves piercing the edge of the Stone's field of energy, and dropping through the water to hurtle down the mountain on to the jagged marble ruins of Atlantis.

Amaziga Archer and her son, Luke, struggled through the Smoking Lounge and on to the A-deck foyer. The water here was waist-deep and rising. Lifting Luke to her shoulder, she climbed through a shattered window and out on to the steeply tilted deck. Luke clung to her as she fought her way up towards the stern, rearing like a tower above the swelling sea. Hooking her arm around a brass stanchion, she listened to the cries of the victims trapped below.