Death of an Adept

Shrinking from this combined abomination, Adam summoned every shred of strength he could muster and at last managed to fling himself sideways off the altar-slab, his fall cast askew by the cord still binding his left wrist to the wrought-iron candlestick, which toppled with him. He landed heavily atop the crumpled form of lolo McFarlane and tried to make himself invisible by flattening himself as much as possible, his free arm upflung to protect the back of his head as the candlestick fell across both of them.

Above him and behind the altar, Soulis and Redcap merged together in a blur of sulphur and shadow. Out of that blur two harsh voices called out as one in cacophonous invocation. Amid the ringing chaos of otherwise unintelligible syllables, Adam heard the name Taranis - warning that the unholy pair were uniting their powers to summon the dark Lord of Lightning.

Their voices rose to a screaming crescendo. In that instant the air above the altar was riven by a blinding bolt of blue-white lightning.

Outside the chapel, crouching low behind a snow-covered tomb stone, McLeod paused to draw breath as he shoved a fresh clip into the butt of his Browning Hi-Power. The flash and chatter of automatic-weapons fire continued to punctuate the darkness beyond the chapel, and bullets had splintered portions of the plywood hoardings ahead. He was about to hail Ian Duart, huddled a few yards to his left, when a low rumble drew his attention to an uncanny break in the clouds overhead.

In the space of a single breath, the break deepened to a fathomless rift, from which shot a sudden crackling lightning-blast that struck behind the hoardings, briefly lighting the night in an actinic glare. An accompanying backlash of wind bowled over two of Duart's men.

McLeod stared at the chapel aghast, for the bolt seemed to have struck very near to the altar area where they had spotted Adam from the air. Collecting himself, and keeping his head down, he bolted for Duart, ducking as a spatter of bullets ricocheted off a nearby tombstone.

"We've got to get in there now!" he rasped, gripping the major by the sleeve.

"I'm working on it," Duart replied.

A whistle and a shout from him sent members of the rescue team darting across the snow, firing as they ran, but return gunfire drove them to ground. Tracking the muzzle flashes back to a dark shape briefly silhouetted against the glare within the chapel, McLeod squeezed off three well-aimed shots and had the satisfaction of seeing his target go down with a cry.

Twenty yards behind McLeod, tightly clutching her medical bag as she sheltered behind a tree, Ximena eyed the advancing SAS men and made a move to follow, but Peregrine grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"Not yet!" he warned. "You've got to give the experts time to clear the way. And for God's sake, keep your head down! If I let anything happen to you, Adam would never forgive me."

"And I will never forgive you if you let anything happen to him!" she retorted, rounding on him with suppressed ferocity. "Are you coming or aren't you?"

Before he could remonstrate, she darted away from him. With an inner groan, he sprang after her. More bullets peppered the snow around them as they caught up with McLeod in the shelter of one of the parked Land Rovers. Peregrine was just going to ask about the possibility of creating a diversion, when the clouds overhead convulsed, spitting another searing shaft of lightning into the confines of the chapel.

Lancing like a javelin at the dagger upthrust by Soulis and Redcap, the lightning of Taranis briefly lit the night like the sun at noon, boiling upward from the blade in a crackling blaze of fire-arcs. Exultantly, the shadow that was Soulis rose up to bathe in the unearthly rain of energy, taking ever more substantial form. United with his master in possession of the dagger, Redcap likewise strained upward to drink in his share of the lightning's might.

Raeburn's remaining henchmen broke and ran, preferring to face the SAS rather than what Soulis had called forth. Shadow-head backflung in ecstasy, Soulis cried out to the heavens, demanding more power, which continued to course through the dagger sacred to Taranis.

Dazzled and deafened, still fettered to the candlestick and too weak to free himself, Adam continued to cower at the base of the altar, his body sheltering lolo's. Above him, just visible if he strained his neck backward, he could catch only a glimpse of the tip of the upheld dagger, now glowing white-hot in the fire of Taranis' might, beginning to melt under the strain of channelling so much energy. As the metal slagged, molten gouts rained down on the altar-top and on the body of the black priest, and greasy smoke began to billow upward in earthly echo of the very hell-fires whose retribution the priest had courted by betraying his holy vows and daring to mock his office.