gns.cannibalcult- 第32节

　　
　　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