Cain

by James Byron Huggins

  Soloman took a deep breath, not worrying about silence because the flashlights were giving away their positions anyway, an advantage and a disadvantage. But he saw distant torches burning in the underground, knew this section was being used.

  He made sure the safety of the shotgun was off and walked slowly forward, halting six feet from the door. There was a moment spent as he took a series of deep breaths, preparing. Then he stepped forward to— "Soloman!" Maggie screamed.

  He whirled, knowing instantly what was happening, using the ruse that he'd been deceived. It would be a two-point attack: Someone had come from above and in a split-second another one would rush out of the dungeon entrance to cut off his retreat.

  Soloman half-turned as a vulture-like shape descended between the women firing a pistol and he took a split-second as the shape came over them, black cloak spread like batwings with white fire flashing.

  As the bullets struck to the side Soloman half-turned to glimpse a second figure almost on top of him, charging from the dungeon.

  Deciding instantly, he hurled himself back at the steps, rolling beneath the descending black shape as it soared over his head to land hard on the cobblestone threshold, firing all the way. The attacker quickly exchanged clips as he staggered off-balance and then Soloman was on his feet, shotgun rising. He saw the second man rushing forward as the first collided against the wall and then he fired to pump three quick rounds into the rushing figure.

  It staggered the warlock and Soloman grabbed the massive body to shove him violently toward the figure that had leaped between Maggie and Sister Mary Francis. Then in a chaotic eruption of gunfire with swords flailing Soloman fired again point-blank into the second man's chest, a deafening series of blasts that finally sent both of the warlocks against the wall in gore.

  Heated, on fire with killing rage, Soloman slammed six fresh rounds into the shotgun, cursing as he racked it and saw a live round accidentally jacked into the air, spent from excitement. He shouted at Maggie, "Are you all right? Are both of you all right?"

  "We're all right!" Maggie shouted back and then froze, lifting her head as if she'd heard something.

  She stared with mesmerizing intensity into the echoing darkness as Soloman bent and picked up the unspent round, shoving it into the chamber; he couldn't afford to waste any. He glimpsed the move as Maggie leaped down the stairs and cursed violently as she ran past him. He lashed out to grab her but it was too late.

  "Maggie!" he screamed.

  She ran through the dungeon door.

  "No!"

  Soloman charged forward as she howled in pain, hurled to the side by a blade that lashed out and returned, whirling back, and Soloman angled outside the violent flash as the blade struck sparks from the wall.

  ***

  Marcelle was halfway up the stairs when he heard the almost-silent approach beneath him, knew battle had been engaged. He turned, descending quickly to take steps three at a time when he saw the black shape looming up, a sword held low.

  A white flicker whipped out and Marcelle leaned back. With a shout he leaped farther up the steps, his hands raised to grapple. And the cloaked figure, a warlock or sorcerer, advanced with lethal purpose, the blade raised high. Even in the frantic moment Marcelle saw that the man was powerfully built, far taller than he, but lacking his elemental development.

  "I do not wish to harm you!" Marcelle rasped, backing up the stairs. "Give us the child and leave this place! Hear me! I do not wish to harm you!"

  A vicious swipe sliced his vest as Marcelle leaped aside and another blinding slash stung his arm, cutting deeper than he'd anticipated. He instinctively reached up to his injured shoulder as he backed, crouching, giving the message that, if it came to it, he would strangle this attacker's life from his body; the impression was strong.

  Stares were exchanged for a split-second and Marcelle took the advantage, backing quickly, thinking of Amy. He realized from the faintness of breath that he was badly injured, his strength already fading. His attacker had obviously sliced an artery or a superior vein, and Marcelle knew that if he didn't reach a hospital he would be dead inside an hour.

  Then the warlock attacked again and Marcelle desperately parried with the flashlight, roaring in pain as a finger was severed in the collision of blade and steel. Then the blade returned and at another injury Marcelle almost forgot the pain of the first.

  His attacker continued to ascend, whirling and striking in fantastic combinations of blows that Marcelle countered again and again, defying the mesmerizing skill and speed that inexorably pushed him into the prison tower, from which there was no escape.

  ***

  No time for tactics.

  Soloman understood what had happened.

  Maggie had heard Amy's distant scream and her love had abruptly overcome her judgment. Then she had launched herself through the door and another warlock waiting with cold control on the other side had struck a blow that sent her wildly to the floor.

  Soloman went through the door like a hurricane.

  Collision!

  A fierce collision, a violent intertwining of arms and frantic blows before the warlock savagely broke free and whirled with a bladed hook—a close-combat weapon once used for disemboweling men and horses in the Middle Ages.

  Soloman blocked the blow with the shotgun and spun to block another and then another, trying to gain a single second for a shot as the blade fell like lightning, tearing wood from the stock.

  With a roar Soloman lunged to hit the warlock full-force, blasting him away from Maggie and into the nightmarish atmosphere of the dungeon where they rolled together, tearing, grappling until Soloman somehow lost the shotgun and whirled, hurling the cloaked shape against iron bars.

  Wasting a single breath he spun toward Maggie and saw her bleeding from an arm, Mary Francis over her. He also saw that no other warlocks occupied the tunnel; there was only this. He reached for the Grizzly, the shotgun lost in the collision.

  Black and enraged, the warlock rose.

  Soloman found nothing, glared down; the holster was empty.

  The cloaked shape descended over him.

  A sweeping slash and Soloman angled desperately to the side, evading the hook by the faintest edge, but the long weapon returned in a vicious crosscut that would have torn out a lung and Soloman leaped forward to block it forearm to forearm. He struck back hard, his fist connecting solidly, and then he whirled to hurl the powerful figure down the tunnel again, gaining precious breathless moments.

  "Oh, God," Soloman gasped, glaring about for his weapons, but they were gone, gone, and he couldn't use the grenades because it could kill all of them. He heard soft steps and turned, knowing.

  In a blinding wheel of steel the black shape attacked, whirling the hook in a mesmerizing display of skill. He threw a dozen blows that Soloman evaded by the narrowest flashing margin in the darkness, angling, blocking, slipping for frantic moments as the hook struck sparks from the close walls and floor.

  It was a fantastic conflict of speed with fire struck at each blow, and Soloman reacted like lightning again and again, barely avoiding the razor edge. Then the curving blade swept across once more and Soloman ducked wildly as it struck the bars and locked. With a shout the warlock tried to tear the blade free.

  Soloman reacted.

  He trapped the warlock's weapon arm, roaring as he delivered an elbow to the face, and in the next split-second he brought a knee up to strike the flat side of the hook at the hilt.

  It snapped.

  The warlock glared as he stumbled back, holding the shattered hilt. He looked at Soloman a moment and Soloman thought he was about to run, was glad to let him. Then the man charged forward, raising the broken edge like a knife, but at this there was no contest. Soloman parried the slashing blow and his forearm lashed out to hit the warlock's neck. Then, clutching his stunned opponent's head, he spun without mercy to snap the spine and felt the man's body fall limp.

  Enraged and breathless, Soloman tw
isted back to throw the body to the floor, heated and breathless from the rage of combat.

  "Soloman!" Maggie staggered up, supported by the Mother Superior.

  "Are you all right!"

  Taken by the killing instinct, Soloman didn't answer, for he heard the distant screams of Amy. He studied Maggie and realized she was badly wounded, but that she'd survive.

  He moved past her and Mother Superior Mary Francis to quickly locate the lost shotgun and Grizzly, replacing the pistol securely in the holster. He held the shotgun in sweating hands.

  Things were burning down quick, and he felt more certain than ever that he would never make it out of here. He stretched out a hand: "Give me the backpack, Maggie."

  "But—"

  "Give it to me! It's almost over!"

  She handed it to him.

  He knew there was napalm and dynamite along with an extra eight grenades concealed inside. He slung it over his shoulder and moved past them, into the torchlight.

  "Come on," he rasped. "We've got to find Amy."

  ***

  Ben stared with hate-filled eyes.

  He saw a long limousine draw into the sea house and he raised the binoculars with a vengeance. He wasn't even surprised—measuring it against the unendurable ordeal of his watch—when Archette stepped out of the vehicle to be welcomed into the manor like a king.

  Frowning, Ben lowered the glasses to his gut.

  He scowled.

  "You're about to be a very popular man," he said.

  ***

  Frowning from his throne, Cain knew.

  With a scowl he reached down, his hand settling on the neck of the mandrill, caressing, communicating with the strange intuitive understanding they had come to share in so short a time. Then he stretched out his other hand, locking on the chain securing it to stone.

  With titanic strength he shattered the links and at the impact the mandrill leaped forward, roaring as it loped across the floor on thick simian arms, disappearing into the depth of the Castle to search for prey. In seconds it was lost beyond the torches.

  Silence echoed in flame.

  "Where man fails," Cain whispered, "let beasts prevail."

  ***

  Marcelle roared as he was hit again, backing up the stairway. He hurled a massive forearm high to deflect a blow that tore away flesh and in desperation threw out a fist, losing even more. He tried to ignore the gush of blood from his severed finger.

  A flash.

  Marcelle twisted away again but the blow struck true, slicing him with brutal force, and he threw it back, lashing out with a fist that struck like thunder. The blow was unforgiving and it rocked his attacker to send him cascading chaotically down the stairs where the warlock rose, stunned, a hand to his head, shaking in anger, before he glared up again. His hand tightened on the sword.

  Bleeding heavily, Marcelle spun and saw the opening to the prison tower, a place once used to hold those who refused to accept the wrath of warlords. He wasted a single stare at the advancing figure before he leaped, crawling quickly through the portal to gain his feet.

  A low moon gleaming white in the night bathed him, and Marcelle prayed a short prayer for Absolution, knowing that it was almost over. He tried to control his fear but fear was all there was, all there was ...

  Emerging like Satan from some blackened underworld, the warlock rose slowly from the floor, the wicked, long blade leading the way. Marcelle grimaced, knowing that it had all come down to this single, dreaded moment. He must fight now, he knew, or die.

  He had sworn that he would never take a life – had sworn that he would never raise his hand against another, that he would die before striking back to save his own blood.

  There was a conflicting moment of madness as he watched the warlock advance, always silent. Then Marcelle remembered that it was not his life that he was defending. It was another's, the life of a child who had not yet even begun to live. He shook his head, clenching bloody hands.

  "Hear me!" he gasped. "You are deceived!"

  The warlock froze.

  "Your master is defeated!" Marcelle shouted. "He was a god once, it's true! But his glory was cast down! He is not what you think! And he will not conquer this world! Hear me on this! Hear me! You are deceived! He will not conquer this world!"

  The warlock took a slow step forward.

  Grimacing, Marcelle backed up.

  "Hear me at the last!" he continued. "Hear me and I tell you that your sin may not be mortal! But if you continue I will be forced to use force against you and you will die! Don't you understand?" He raised his hands before his face, clenching with incredible strength. "You are strong but I am far stronger! And if you attack again I will be forced to kill you! Can't you understand? Is there no truth left within you?"

  A pause.

  Then, finally deciding, the warlock bowed his head and stood back in a masterful pose, committed. He held the blade close in his right hand, his left raised across his chest, close to his chin. He came onto the balls of his feet, balanced, ready to advance or retreat. Obviously, he considered this a serious challenge. In a moment he had crossed half the distance of the tower to corner Marcelle, blade leading.

  Marcelle lowered his head, retreating until he knew there was no more room to retreat.

  “So be it," he whispered. "But I will pray for your immortal soul. Do what you will do."

  The warlock came so quickly that Marcelle lost the flash of the blade in the darkness and his hands flew out to grasp his attacker's neck with terrific strength. And as a severing pain struck deep in his chest Marcelle bellowed, twisting to the side to evade a second blow.

  With a howl of abysmal agony he evaded the third and his arms encircled to snatch his attacker in a hug with gorilla arms tightening hard to close like iron cables, hands locked at the spine. Then in the next second Marcelle closed his arms even tighter and a scream burst from the warlock's throat, the sword falling to the ground.

  But it was too late for surrender.

  Marcelle tightened as a piteous whine burst from the cloaked shape and it squirmed to escape. Then the priest's face contorted with effort and he felt ribs snapping, the spine breaking beneath the pure brute force as he shut his eyes with a roar.

  Finishing it.

  ***

  Soloman found Amy's cell quickly, moving with a speed and intensity of mind that amazed even him.

  He shouted to the child, telling her to back away from the iron door as he tore the Grizzly from his waist. And when Amy was clear he fired to shatter the lock, kicking the door against the wall.

  Amy ran to him.

  Breathless, he caught her in his arms, hugging her hard for a moment as he knelt. Despite the holocaust upon them he took a moment to hold her, gaining strength and life. And Maggie was there, holding both of them. She moaned a prayer and Soloman leaned his head back, grimacing. He shoved Amy into her mother's arms.

  "Hurry!" he hissed. "Get her out of here!"

  Maggie gripped his arm. "What are you going to do?"

  He pulled loose and rose, a bloody image in the torchlight.

  "I'm going after Cain."

  A cold chill struck Soloman as he heard the despondent groan of Mother Superior Mary Francis and he turned, knowing something disastrous had happened. And then he saw it: a crouching, sloped, bestial image standing in the doorway of the dungeon, swaying on short legs. Seconds later a low growl rumbled across the floor, thick with a thirst that emanated from a black animal center.

  He stared and realized that – whatever it was – it wasn't human. Then, horrifically, it advanced; a huge, apelike silhouette in shadow moving on long muscular arms and stout legs. In the faint light of torches, distended fangs gleamed like knives.

  Frowning, Soloman stepped toward it. Without a word he squared off, slowly lifting the shotgun. He let it know it would have to come through him, a primal challenge that was clearly understood beast to beast.

  Mary Francis quickly knelt to lift Maggie arid Amy.
"Come!" she shouted frantically. "This is for Soloman! We must give him room to fight!"

  Gasping in pain, Maggie rose with Amy in her arms and with the old nun's support they staggered away. They were moving toward a deeper part of the dungeon, searching for a place to hide, when they heard a striking, hideous, roar that made the torches tremble.

  And heard Soloman return it.

  ***

  Marcelle lay in blood, moaning.

  He was almost dead, he knew.

  The wound was deep, numb, and burning, sending agony into his soul to tell him that, yes, he would die from this. He rolled onto his back and mechanically felt the black wetness that was his chest as the stars gazed down at him.

  He tried not to despair, knowing that every man had a level he could not endure. Then he remembered Amy and his face twisted in a savage grimace of determination. With a loud curse he rolled again onto his chest and began to crawl, foot by foot, toward the stairway that led down, down, down ...

  Toward the child ...

  ***

  Soloman fired as the beast hurled itself forward, striking iron bars to rebound high and hard and then collide against him with force, instantly tearing the shotgun from his hands.

  A whirlwind of fangs and claws struck as Soloman frantically grabbed the mandrill and hurled it aside, kicking it viciously as it came off the wall. The savage impact stopped it in midair and again Soloman grabbed the tremendously heavy beast and received a ravaging blow to his face.

  Once more he hurled the beast aside and it struck the floor hard and rolled. Instantly it gained its feet to charge back in a whirlwind of swirling simian arms and distended fangs, and Soloman knew a moment of pure panic as the jagged white jaws and claws came over him with a strength he could never equal.

  Falling back before the onslaught Soloman knew only flaying fangs and talons and then some part of himself that he'd lost in the chaos – something he'd forgotten in the horror blazed alive once more. His hands lashed out, snatching it by the neck. He held it at bay for a roaring white moment before the remorseless claws found his forearms, tearing and crushing.