physiological responses to the death of a friend guaranteed to halt even the sturdiest warrior in his tracks. Perhaps, like Cain himself, they had reached that ultracognizant level where they could elevate themselves above the ken of mortal man, to float on the seas of chaos where the 'natural' order of being meant that nothing was as it seemed. This was the realm in which Cain existed; what if these two had achieved the same level of consciousness? What if, after all these years, he had found worthy protagonists, contenders for his title of Prince of Chaos?
He chuckled to himself. Careful that the sound didn't betray his hiding place.
44
standing at the threshold to cain's domain, i balked at entering without a full reconnaissance of the area. Yet at the same time I knew that time was of the utmost importance. John was in terrible danger, possibly with only seconds to live, and I was dithering at the entrance to his torture chamber. Still, that unnatural talent for spotting the viper in the grass was screaming at me and I had to heed it.
I had to choose between my own and John's well-being, and at the end of the day I was left with very few choices. If I waited, he'd be dead. If I charged in, he could still end up dead. I had to act.
I stepped forward.
Rink was behind me. I knew that Cain couldn't come on me from that direction. Rink, on the other hand, had me as a buffer if Cain chose to come at us from the rocks. I went slowly, gun out, eyes and ears scanning for any sign of life. Periodically I looked up.
The rocks towered over me. They were sheer enough that I didn't believe Cain could scale them, but more than one soldier had lost his life by ignoring what was lurking above his field of vision. In Vietnam, many a jarhead was taken by surprise by a noose dropped around his throat, or even by the constriction of an assassin's legs dropping from an overhanging bough. The martial art named Viet Vo Dao is based upon that very premise.
I know I was crediting Cain with more tools than he perhaps possessed, but at that moment, before meeting him in combat, I had to credit him with everything possible. In my line of work, to underestimate an individual is to invite death.
The twin sentinels watched my progress. They were larger than those skeletons we'd already passed. More formidable to the eye, with their bison skulls and hulking forms of tattered rags and strips of leather. They looked like something out of a Tolkien novel; chimeralike demons guarding the door to the lower realms.
Beyond them, I came upon a well-beaten path that led to the center of the rock formation. The fissure in the rocks was natural, but here and there I detected evidence that Cain had helped widen the doorway by means of hammer and chisel. Also, he'd marked his progress with weird symbols and pictograms straight out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. In retrospect, I believe the paintings on the rock surface were a history of his killings, but at the time, I couldn't give his demented story much more notice.
Rink was disciplined enough that he didn't immediately follow me into the passage. I was aware of him somewhere behind me. I could hear his breathing as he crouched at the entrance to the passageway, the strange acoustics amplifying his trepidation. But no words passed between us now. Talking would identify our position. We had to rely on stealth to get us through this thing unscathed. I walked on, mindful of not stepping on a loose pebble or piece of wind-blown brush that would alert Cain. Sweat moistened my brow, tickled between my shoulder blades. My vision was constricted to a narrow focus and my blood rushed in my ears. Not the ideal conditions for hunting. But they were was a response to the adrenaline racing through me and there was nothing I could do about it.
The passage widened out, opening into a cul-de-sac hemmed in on three sides by the towering rock formation. There was only one way in; the ideal location for a trap. Quickly I scanned the rocks above me, my gun at the point of my vision. Nothing stirred; there was nothing to indicate that an ambush would come from above. I stepped into the cul-de-sac, circling on my heels to cover all directions as best I could. Twenty feet in, I found the hole in the ground. Steps leading down into darkness. Breath caught in my throat.
I couldn't make out anything beyond the first few steps. The night had fully descended, and though my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the steps descended into a space I can only describe as being devoid of
I couldn't bring myself to step into the hole. I even looked back for moral support from Rink. If he could have seen me then, he would have seen the face of terror. I couldn't allow that; I quickly stepped forward, tracing the first step with the toe of my boot. Then, before my desperate boldness fled, I descended the stairs as rapidly as I could.
When I reached the bottom, I could make out the faint outlines of a door before me. The reflection of a flame leaked out from beneath the door. Beyond the door a lamp burned. That knowledge gave me the courage to reach out and tug on the door handle. I did so sharply, then stepped into the room it revealed, my gun searching for targets.
The smell hit me first.
I gagged. That was bad enough.
Then my eyes began to make sense of what I was looking at, and for the first time in my life, I retreated with a cry of alarm.
45
oh, what an idiot. you're baring your neck to the headsman's block. You deserve to die with ignominy, you stumbling, sightless fool! To think I credited you with respect when you're as blind as all the rest. Die, cretin. Die, Jared Rington.
Rink was there, no more than an arm's length from him. The big lummox's nerves were strung taut, shredded, fraying under the pressure. His head swung from side to side. He didn't know which way to look. Because of that, he didn't look anywhere. He saw everything, but in doing so, he saw nothing. His mind was so full of stimuli that it was unable to process what was right before his eyes.
And that was all Cain required. He would use Rink's blindness to his advantage. He timed the rhythm of Rink's movements, watched and discerned the momentary gap where the eyes swung a fraction of an instant before the barrel of the gun followed. Into that fraction of space, Cain would insert himself. Before Rink could make any sense of his appearance, it would already be too late.
A-one and a-two and a- . . . now.
From within the shroud of blankets that was the body of the bisonskulled monstrosity to Rink's left, Cain erupted. He made as little sound as possible, and didn't so much leap out as jut forward from his waist, arm streaking down at the juncture of Rink's neck and shoulder. It was a guaranteed instant kill. The point of his blade jabbing down to puncture the heart from above. Rington would die instantly, drop like a slaughtered steer. No shout
