Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (50 page)

 
          
When
Colin crossed the threshold, he could see that the coven was gathered in the next
room, crouched about its altar and the naked bound form of Jamie Melford that
lay before it. The room was filled with a cold damp mist that stank of the
herbs burning on the brazier, but
—
weirdly
—
the smoke stopped at the
perimeter of the circle marked out in charcoal on the floor in the center of
the room.

 
          
The
Satanists did not move. The lines of power were as visible in that room as if
they had been drawn on the ground and the walls in chalk, and the force of the
black coven's focused intention was a solid weight and reality.

 
          
Colin
sweated and shook like a man in the grip of a malarial fever, but his Will,
too, was unwavering as he forced himself forward, toward the edge of the
circle. He could feel the Darkness and the Powers of Hell gathering around,
summoned by pain, desperation, and fear, and it seemed as if dark and shadowy
figures shifted slowly about the periphery of the circle, anxious for the
climax of the rite enacted within. The weapon in his hands vibrated like a
living thing; it was an act of determination to hold onto it.

 
          
"In
the name of God! In the name of the Lords of Karma and the forces of Nature! In
the name of the Fatherhood of God, the motherhood of Nature and the brotherhood
of Man, I scatter your forces!"
Gritting his teeth, he brought the
sword down across the edge of the circle, calling upon those Forces by Whose
leave he operated.

 
          
When
his sword came down, there was a great soundless shout, and suddenly the
swarming monkeylike shadows at the circle's edge turned toward Colin, crowding
toward him. The coven members, shocked from their trance, screamed and thrashed
like victims of electric shock, and suddenly the silent loft was filled with
the sounds of gabbling voices.

 
          
The
most important thing is to move fast once you've made up your mind.
The
voice of Colin's first teacher spoke quietly in the back of his mind.
If you
wait to see what effect you've had on the Darkness, it may be the last thing
you see.

 
          
Colin
strode through the screaming gasping bodies thrashing about the floor, and
shoved over the double-cube altar. The black candles atop it
—
soft and misshapen because
they were not made of honest wax
—
rolled stickily across the floor, and Colin grimaced with
disgust as he stamped them out.

 
          
"I
spit upon the uncleanliness of the Pit. I spit on those who make unclean those
things that God has ordained to the use of man!"
Colin roared.

 
          
He
kicked over the brazier of incense, scuffing through the mess to extinguish
the embers of charcoal. He heard a shriek behind him as Barbara ran forward
looking for Jamie. He paused for an instant and watched, lightheaded, as she
reached him.

 
          
"Colin!
He's got a knife!" Claire shrieked.

 
          
Colin
spun around. A big man came shambling toward him, his lank black hair falling
into his eyes. There was an inverted cross branded into his chest
—
an old scar
—
and in his hand he held the
double-edged knife from the altar.

 
          
The
years between Colin's combat training and this moment melted away in an
instant. Hardly thinking, Colin flung down the sword and plucked up the skirts
of his robes like a dowager preparing to waltz.

           
The French called it
la savatte;
in
Thailand
it was known as
kick-boxing. Americans, with a fine disregard for attribution, called it and
every form of combat like it kung-fu. As the man charged, Colin pivoted on his
other foot and lashed out.

 
          
His
leg traveled through a short arc to connect with the black priest's chin. The
shock of contact telegraphed through Colin's bones; he felt the crunch and the
sudden sickening slackness as the man's lifeless body dropped to the floor.
Suddenly the lights came on; Colin could hear the sound of the switches being
flicked in another room.

 
          
"Barbara,"
Colin said, taking a deep breath. The sound of his own voice brought home to
him how tired he was, and leftover adrenaline made his hands shake. "Run
round to the firehouse and call the police
—
see if they can find
Lieutenant Martin Becket; he works out of Manhattan South, and this is his case
as much as it's anyone's. We'll need some police here
—
and an ambulance."

 
          
Colin
hoped that self-defense would be explanation enough for what he'd done. The
coven's priest
—
it was probably Walter Mansell
—
and God above knew how many
more were dead here, and the survivors were in profound shock.

 
          
Barbara
left, running. Colin heard her footsteps echoing down the stairs as he knelt
beside the body of the man who had attacked him and gently closed his eyes,
murmuring the words of absolution. One of Father Godwin's fallen angels had
come home at last.

 
          
In
the distance, he could hear the sound of a siren wailing.

 
          
It
was a little after five, and the sky was beginning to lighten with Christmas
dawn when Colin stopped the van outside the Melfords' apartment and went around
to the back to open the door. Jamie and Barbara climbed out, looking tousled
and exhausted, like sleepy children who had been lost in the woods.

 
          
"I
don't know how we can ever thank you," Jamie Melford said awkwardly.
"Not just for saving my life, but for everything."

 
          
"I
think you know how you can repay me," Colin said.

 
          
"The
Cannon manuscript," Jamie said, embarrassed. "I'll messenger it over
to you first thing . . . uh, next year. I think that Bess will agree you can
make any changes you want."

 
          
"There's
that of course," Colin said. "But more to the point, I hope you'll
stay in touch. Barbara's a Sensitive, you know, and we need people like both of
you. Though this has been quite a battle, the war goes on."

 
          
The
war goes on.
The words resonated in Colin's mind as he drove southward.
Claire was asleep in the seat beside him, and it took him several minutes of
shaking before he could rouse her enough to get her to her feet and started in
the direction of her apartment door. He waited outside until he saw the light
go on in her window, then drove off toward home.

 
          
What
had happened here tonight should have made him feel good. The Ungodly had been
routed; the soul of poor John Cannon had been put to rest.

           
The power of the black coven had
been decisively broken; it would never trouble anyone again.

 
          
But
Toller Hasloch had not been there tonight, and Colin was betting that Martin
Becket's investigation would find nothing to connect Hasloch to Mansell and his
crew. Hasloch would simply move on to new villainies. To the seduction of new
innocents.

 
          
Colin
tried to tell himself that if Hasloch had been spared, it was to a higher
purpose. The Oaths he had sworn so eagerly once upon a time had made him no
more than an obedient tool in the hands of the Lords of Karma. Those bonds had
been eased briefly, many years before, but what he considered doing now was an
unsanctioned and unlawful thing.
Thy Will, not mine,
he prayed, and for
the first time, found the words hollow.

 
          
He
had lost the detachment that allowed those who follow the Great Laws to walk
among men and guide only, never compel. Perhaps he had lost it earlier
tonight, when he killed Mansell. Perhaps he had lost it years ago, and had not
truly known his loss until he had once more been confronted by Hasloch's
particular brand of evil.

 
          
And
what good did such resignation do him, if it freed men like Hasloch to do more
harm? He tried to tell himself that the evil that Hasloch did would overtake
him in time; that it was not for Colin to judge or to sentence, but to be a
mindful Instrument of the Light. But he could not keep himself from thinking
that this was willful blindness, not resignation
—
and as great an abuse of his
Oaths as active harm would be.

 
          
How
could he live with himself when he uncovered the next evidence of Hasloch's
malicious spirit, and knew, gazing upon the pain and the devastation, that he
might have prevented all that he saw? People had died tonight
—
people whose lives Hasloch
had touched and twisted, making them into a profane work of art for his own
idle amusement. Hasloch had boasted of the accomplishment. . . .

 
          
In
vain Colin reminded himself that the urge to intervene for a Higher Good was
the greatest temptation the Shadow could present men with. He reminded himself
that to use the methods of the Serpent was to become its tool; that the purpose
of the war he fought was not to win, but to endure. But the harm Hasloch would
yet do in the world was an unendurable knowledge. And Colin had the power to
end that harm. . . .

 
          
Let
it be so. A
great weight seemed to settle upon Colin's shoulders; a weight
almost too great to be borne. He had no choice; knowledge was the first
corruption of innocence, and there had been no other choice for him but to
embrace that corruption. He would take upon his own soul the weight of this
disobedience, expiating in a future life the harm he chose freely to do here
today ... so that Toller Hasloch would do no more.

 
          
"Good
morning, Toller," Colin MacLaren said.

 
          
Cloaked
in that invisibility which a warrior of the Light could summon in time of
greatest need, Colin had walked into the building unnoticed, just as the sun
was rising over the Park on Christmas morning. The locks of Hasloch's Central
Park South apartment were good, but Colin MacLaren had been given decades to
hone his lockpicking skills.

 
          
Hasloch
came out when he head the front door open; now he stood in the center of the
living room, looking tousle-headed and sleepy in the bottom half of his
pajamas. His expression sharpened when he saw Colin, however, and he made as if
to retreat into the bedroom.

 
          
"Don't
move," Colin said, and showed Hasloch the pistol in his hand.

 
          
Hasloch
stared at it in unbelief, as if he did not understand what he was seeing.
"You're going to shoot me?" he said blankly.

 
          
"I'm
going to do far worse to you," Colin assured him honestly, "but I'll
shoot if I have to. Now be a good boy and come over here, or I
will
shoot
you now."

 
          
On
some irrational level, Hasloch still counted on Colin's goodness, or perhaps
he realized that what Colin did here today might be a greater victory for the
Shadow than any Hasloch could claim for himself. At any rate, he came docilely
enough, and soon Colin had bound him to a heavy chair with the roll of duct
tape he carried.

 
          
"And
now you shoot, and I become just another casualty of city life, is that it? I
expected better of you, Professor," Hasloch said, a teasing note in his
voice even in this most extreme of all circumstances.

 
          
"Did
you?" said Colin. /
expected better of myself.
"You should
have known better than to tweak my nose quite that openly, boyo. I've always
had an appalling temper."

 
          
"Yes.
But when I saw you coming up the street that night I couldn't resist. I did so
want to see what would happen; you were so cross with me the last time we'd
met. I had a call from Father Mansell last night, you know. He said he'd call
again when he was finished with the current operation, but do you know, I
expect that I'm not going to hear from him. You broke my toys, didn't you,
Professor?"