gns.cannibalcult-第32章
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There was no time to be wasted。 Sabat groped in his small breast pocket； plucked out a half…length of white chalk which always reposed there and which he had only remembered now。 It had had its uses before just as it would again someday。
He would have liked more time to prepare the room but time was never a plentiful modity on Walpurgisnacht。 The floor should have been swept clean to remove any particle of dirt which might have hid an evil entity； he had neither silver chalices nor charged water。 Everything in this place was evil。
He must rely solely on the crudely chalked pentagram to protect his mortal body。 Symmetry was overlooked； the huge five…pointed star within the circle merely symbolic。 It might not be enough but that was a chance he had to take。 There was no point in undressing； no means to seal the nine openings of his body。 He had to place his total reliance upon himself； his faith； and Pierre de Lancre。
He lay on that pile of blankets where he had copulated with Madeleine。 They were still damp； he prayed that the wetness was from his own spilled seed and not the cold semen of the risen dead； the veritable spawn of evil。 So much was against him that he had to disregard it all。 Never before had he ignored so many precautions； taken such a multitude of risks when departing for the astral plane。 A universe of hiding places lay ahead of him； a billion secret refuges for one who sought to escape him。 His task was an impossibility； but he still had to try and he had no guarantee of returning。
He tried to relax。 It wasn't easy。 The darkness outside the pentagram was alive； forces that gathered like swarming bees scenting honey in a closed hive； they just had to find the way in。 Shouting； screaming； Quentin's voice loudest amongst them； but Sabat ignored them； for if they broke through his defences there was no way he could stop them。
His breathing became rhythmical。 He told himself that he was not Mark。 Nor Quentin。 He had bee Pierre de Lancre the witchfinder called from the dark past to inhabit a willing body and to live again。 He felt tired； a pleasant drifting sensation mat left those screaming demons from the dark beyond behind。
Floating in a night sky； a million stars and he could have gone to any he chose。 Time came and went but Sabat had to go back； retrace the centuries。
Floating through a dark starless void and he knew he was on the right trail。 Somewhere ahead he made out a faint grey light。 Dawn。。。 not a new day but an old one。 Very old。
He could even smell the rotting vegetation of a place where decay had its own stranglehold and time had stood still。 Waiting for those who dared to return。
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SABAT GOT the feeling that he had been to this place before and accepted it unquestioningly； for he was Pierre de Lancre and he must follow where the witchfinder led。 As Sabat he could have hunted in vain for eternity； as de Lancre he stood a chance of finding that which he sought reasonably quickly。
A land that was old and would remain so until the end of time。 Again it was vaguely recognisable。 Labourd perhaps。 It did not really matter for this was the second astral plane。
He changed form； a small bat flitting insignificantly through the night sky； a creature that was monplace enough； weaving and jinking against a silvery moon。 Below him was a wooded landscape； interspersed with muddy cart…tracks。 The whole countryside slept； peasant hovels with no lights showing。 Rural desolation。
He flew on； mile after mile； letting his instinct take over； plete faith in Pierre de Lancre； not knowing what he was searching for but trusting in the witchfinder。 And then at last he saw the chateau on the hillside and found himself homing in on it。
Once it had housed aristocracy； now it was a shambling shell of its former edifice。 Creeping ivy had taken over to the detriment of the stonework； three of the four turrets already having crumbled。 The extensive grounds stretched up to the surrounding forest； a mass of thick vegetation that had spread with neglect； a pond of some kind； thick with algae。 The casual observer might have sensed an atmosphere of dereliction and emptiness but not Sabat。 As he alighted on an upper windowsill he sensed the presence of others； a feeling of hopelessness that wafted from within on the smell of decay。
He passed inside； changed his form to that of a hornet； buzzed his way down a long panelled corridor thick with dust but noted the trails of footprints to and fro on the floor； a regular thoroughfare。 He followed the footmarks down a flight of stone steps that were only too familiar。 The dungeons of Armageddon where he had spoken to that traitor only a short time ago！ But this was not Armageddon； this was but a parody that existed in the past； in a world where time was unknown。
Now he could hear voices； a weeping and wailing like the sound of the wind in a far off tunnel； but there was no wind because the torches which lit this passageway burned evenly without so much as a flicker of a flame。 So cold； and damp too； condensation trickling down the stone walls。
The noise was louder now and as he rounded a bend he saw the huge dungeon； too big for the torches on the walls to illuminate fully； merely keeping the shadows at bay。 A stench of putrefaction greeted him as he flew up and settled on a sagging overhead beam； the smell of rotting bodies！
His first feeling was one of revulsion。 Amongst the living prisoners chained to the walls he saw corpses in varying degrees of deposition； skeletons that had not been removed； bodies only recently dead with rats gnawing at the flesh with a horrible squelching； grinding sound。 Sabat winced； transferred his attention to the living prisoners。
Men and women of all ages； children too。 All in threadbare clothing that the dampness of this underground place was rotting on their bodies。 They had long given up shouting and screaming at the rats； accepted the presence of vermin； only crying out when sharp rodent teeth bore at living flesh。
These people cried their hopelessness openly； their pain…twisted faces shiny with tears。 They prayed for death but it did not e； for this was their fate； their hell。 But who were the gaolers in these halls of degradation？ Sabat took to the wing again； an erratic course that eventually brought him to the furthermost wall； a distance of at least fifty yards； and even then there was yet another dungeon where humanity was at its lowest ebb。 The dead were the only fortunate ones。 A child was screaming frantically to join its mother on the opposite wall； a pathetic naked figure who sagged in her manacles； her head fallen on to her breasts。 Yesterday she had whispered hoarse words of encouragement to her offspring but today she was silent。 Because she was dead and the rats had already begun to eat her。
Bowls of stinking food that was rotten before it was prepared were stacked by the entrance。 Sabat wondered who came to feed these wretches； what kind of gaoler could tolerate these conditions。 Even the vermin preferred the corpses to the morass of putrid nourishment。 The stench was strong； hanging in this airless underground tomb that housed the living and the dead； and even as Sabat was contemplating going back upstairs the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears。
Back at his vantage point on that central beam he had an unrestricted view of the approaching men。 The one in the lead was obviously the gaoler； a squat； grimed figure clad in crude garments cut from the skin of some animal； either a goat or a sheep。 Eyes that glinted insanely； gleaming with lust and sadism as he viewed his manacled charges on either wall。 In his hand he carried a homemade whip； a length of rope to which innumerable rusty nails had been attached。 Sabat winced； those discolorations might not have been solely rust！ A shambling arrogant gait that only faltered when a well…directed blob of phlegm splattered on his cheek and ran down on to his thick lips。
The prisoner who had spat gave a hollow laugh； then pu
