His hand clamped down on my shoulder, forcing me to my knees, as if I was just one more supplicant of his devil god. It was uncomfortable, but it afforded me an opportunity to get a better fix on my surroundings.
The sepulcher was guarded by no less than eight hooded and shrouded true believers who knelt at the base of the altar. Each knelt with their heads devoutly bowed, hands folded. Next to each of them was a single candle and a sprig of pine in a crystal vase. Spread before them was an opened, large, leather bound journal — the Book of Commitment.
The room was filled with a monotone dirge, a monosyllabic litany with a haunting, unnatural clarity; it was the chant of creatures cursed.
I had to get hold of myself. I was running out of time. If I was going to find a way of saving my highly cherished hide, a plan had to be developed and implemented fast. The whereabouts of both Gregory and Kelto were complete unknowns. There was no way of knowing what had happened to either them or Brenda; I could only hope against hope that each of them had found a way out.
It was an underground world without orientation. All my reference points were gone. East wasn't east, and down wasn't anything except an indication of the way the eroding waters had once flowed. Gregory and Kelto could be anywhere now — hopelessly lost, alive, dead, trapped. The possibilities were endless.
I was jolted out of my speculation by the single, loud, ominous thump of what sounded like an ancient drum. As the beat intensified, the battalion of prehistoric creatures became more restless.
Suddenly, one of the creatures stood up. He was larger than the rest and somehow different. A tissue-like glaze of proud flesh covered the upper half of his hideous, shapeless body. The beast lumbered from its hollow in the wall and staggered crookedly toward the altar. Along the way it made a pathetic attempt at communication with the other beasts — a series of blunted growls and distorted, almost childlike whimpers. With its ascension to each succeedingly higher step, it paused, pounding its chest triumphantly. Ultimately it reached the level of the sepulcher and began slowly to circle it. Each clumsy, half-stumbling step was accompanied by ritualistic gestures of battle — the thrust, the parry, the lunge, the retreat. Then, as if from nowhere, it produced a lance with a hook-shaped blade configurated on the end and thrust it menacingly at the eight shrouded figures kneeling around the base of the altar.
"What the hell's going on?" I snapped.
Bert Johnson eyed me with the contempt all true believers hold for all infidels. "Be quiet," he threatened.
The dull thump of the drum continued, now at decreasing intervals.
The dirge intensified.
The creatures milled about, openly restless yet somehow restrained in their three-sided cells.
The one at the altar worked himself into a frenzy. His warlike gestures became more and more aggressive, the thrusts at the shrouded ones now perilously close. Still, there was no movement.
"Damn it, Bert, what's going on?" The sound of my voice was all but drowned out by the increasing crescendo.
Creatures seemed to be emerging from out of nowhere, as if they were multiplying right before my eyes. Two of them, grunting, gesturing, performing some kind of grotesque and macabre dance, were dragging a protesting, kicking form toward the altar. It was young Gregory, his hands manacled, his face reduced to fleshy ribbons of torn tissue. He was pleading for them to stop.
They presented their beleaguered prize to the warlike creature at the altar. The end was swift, perhaps even merciful.
The thing lunged forward, and the barbed lance ripped savagely through the young officer's body. The dirge drowned out the officer's final screaming protest.
As the monster jerked the lance violently out of the lifeless body, the barb disgorged the useless entrails. The creatures were ecstatic.
The hollow beat of the drum continued. Through it all, the mournful dirge intensified.
My stomach had gone down under, trying to hide. Once again I couldn't breathe.
The supplicants were delighted with their barbaric presentation.
"My God, Bert, have you gone mad?" The question sounded stupid and pointless, but my senses were reeling.
Bert Johnson looked at me with glazed eyes. "Korbac has again demonstrated his allegiance and has asked Sate to be released from the curse, granted dispensation from the bane of eternal atonement. The ritual was all for Sate, to show the Ancient of Ancients how he had defended the sacred sepulcher in the interval between the equinoctial awakenings."
"That thing… that grotesque, misshapen monster with the lance… is Korbac?"
Bert nodded solemnly and pointed to the sepulcher.
The beast's frenzied dance had ceased, and it cocked its bloated head to one side.
The dirge and drum stopped.
Silence.
The monster slowly approached the glass-topped sepulcher and peered in; its massive two-thumbed, three-fingered claws pressed down on the tomb's surface.
Suddenly the beast released an agonized wail of anguish. Its ugly head rolled back, the slit-like mouth opening to emit the terrifying sound. Then its head slumped forward, and it staggered back from the bizarre coffin in abject dejection.
"Sate has refused dispensation," Bert said solemnly.
Almost instantaneously, one of the beasts leaped from its granite cubicle, picked up the ceremonial lance and buried it savagely in Korbac's massive, scarred chest. Korbac slumped, staggered momentarily, righted himself and stoically withdrew the lance, all the while watching the black putrid fluids of his condemned body pump madly out onto the floor of the cave. Then it ceased.
One of the generals had tested Korbac, but the answer was clear. The curse continued.
Korbac, like his attacker, lumbered clumsily down the steps of the altar and back to his cubicle. Korbac buried his obscene face in his deformed paws and began to whimper.
The true believers were mesmerized.
Under most circumstances, I would have been as well, but another message was coming through loud and clear. There was a great more at stake here than the appeasement of a cult god. I didn't know exactly what the true believers had in mind for old Elliott, but whatever it was, I knew I was the only person inclined to put a stop to it.
The action wasn't well planned, nor was it all that subtle. Neither really matters, because I got away with it. While Bert and Angie were still caught up in the ritual that had just unfolded, I had slipped my trusty little Swiss army knife out of my pocket and used the butt end to crack one of the glass containers. Almost immediately the air was assailed by the pungent aroma of gasoline. Then I carefully extracted the other container and slipped it under my jacket.
For a moment I thought I had overdone it. The pink, yellow fluid began to pool around us.
Suddenly the dirge began anew.
The drum beat was incessant.
Bert and Angie both bowed their heads again and, like the eight sentinels at the base of the altar, began to chant. This time the beasts did not join in with their mournful wail.
A clear, pure voice raised above all the rest, and I looked up, stunned. Polly was gliding toward the sepulcher; in her robed lap was a sterling silver tray. It was only then that the final piece of the puzzle tumbled into place. Polly was the Emissary.
At the base of the altar, she rose up out of her wheelchair and walked up the steps with her offering, placing it carefully on the lid of the coffin.
As Jake would have said, it had to end somewhere — and somewhere was here and now.
I bolted — not straight, but a zigzag pattern. I hadn't come all this way only to be denied one brief glance at the Ancient of Ancients. If anybody was ever going to live to say they had actually witnessed the disciple of evil, I had the best shot at it.
With one of the containers still spewing its high octane contents, I raced up the steps of the sepulcher. When I saw the suddenly alert Bert Johnson raise his gun, I heaved the leaking container straight at him. It shattered against the floor, spewing its contents all over him and Angie and just as quickly saturating the bank of torches illuminating the walls of the granite cubicles.