The Devil's Heart

THURSDAY NIGHT

The hoarse bellow of pain drifted over the darkness of the land. Again and again the screaming spiked the night. Before the echoes of the first howling had died away, another yowl of pain ripped the gloom cast by the shadows of the tall timber. The line of men stopped and backtracked to the clearing behind the mansion, one running for the huge house, fear hastening his feet.

"What is all that screaming and howling?" Falcon asked.

Gulping for air, the Devil-worshiper gasped, "The Christians, sir. He's … put out traps for us. Awful things. Like they used in Vietnam. Punji pits. And he's got swing traps set all over the place; and wire stretched ankle high, too."

"He has what!"

"The wire or rope, sir, is stretched tight, ankle high; man trips, falls forward onto sharpened stakes driven in the ground. The swing traps, sir … you take a stick and tie half a dozen smaller, sharpened sticks to it, about six inches apart. Then you bend a limber sapling back and fix your trap with rope or rawhide. Man triggers the trap, the limb pops forward, coming real fast. King's got them rigged stomach high. It's bad, sir. I never seen nothing like it. You told us this would be easy. You said …"

"All right, all right," Falcon waved him silent. "Stop your babbling and whimpering, man. Get control of yourself. Pull the men back. We won't do anything until morning."

"No, sir, Mr. Falcon," the man stood his ground, "I'm going to have my say on this."

Falcon almost sent him scorching his way to Hell, in :he form of a roach, but he held his temper in check. Things were going badly enough without a revolt among the ranks. "Very well—speak."

"All them monsters and demons and things we helped call out? Well … they're runnin' around like scared chickens. In a blind panic. And do you know why? Well, I'll tell you: 'cause something is after them. There's some … thing out there in the deep timber. I never seen nothing like it in my life."

Falcon suspected what it was. "What do you mean? Speak more descriptively, man. What kind of … thing?"

"Well, it ain't human. I don't know what he is. Wears a gown or a robe; carries the biggest sword I ever seen. Damn thing's five feet long—glows. This thing … laughs; and when he does, it thunders. He's killed a hundred or more of them big monsters. The imps are hiding, so are the satyrs. The centaurs have stampeded, whatever those stupid-looking fuckers do. Everybody getting uptight, sir. You gotta do something." Falcon stared the man down, until the frightened Devil-worshiper dropped his eyes. "I shall do something, Karl. But for now, pull your people back to the house. We all need a good night's rest."

When the man had gone, Falcon allowed himself the first taste of fear, of failure, and it was bitter on his tongue. Ugly. He could understand the fear of the forces in the timber. Even the Beasts had refused to leave their caves. While no mortal could kill Falcon with any conventional weapon, the warrior could. And would. If Falcon was foolish enough to leave the house and go traipsing into the timber. And Falcon dared not call on the Master for more help, for that would be admitting failure, and he would be sent back to the netherworld.

Oh, how Black must be enjoying this! Falcon's thoughts were foul, his mood savage and bitter. Grist for his cunning, scheming mill.

Somehow, Falcon mused, I must draw Sam into the house. Once in here, I have a plan, and I will win.

But how to draw him in?

Falcon decided to rest on the matter.

But no one got much rest that night. Every fifteen minutes, on the dot, rifle slugs would pock the house, seeking entrance through the darkened windows. Then Sam would change the timetable, and every five minutes his rifle would roar. And then he would be silent for a half hour. Then firing every minute. One man was hit through the stomach when he recklessly exposed himself in front of a window, light behind him. One young member of the Coven took splinters of wood into his eyes, blinding him. Another was shot through the head as she tried to peek over a windowsill.

On the ridge above the house, Sam smiled grimly, knowing full well the nerve-rattling psychological game he was playing.

In the deep timber, the once tranquil forest floor began to resemble a bloody, stinking battlefield as the Warrior wielded his mighty flashing sword as if God's fury was controlling each devastating swing of the blade.

The creatures of the evil calling were running and flapping and scurrying and lumbering and galloping in all directions, fleeing the awesome sword in the hands of the warrior they knew they could not best.

The mightiest of all God's warriors strode through the forest, shouting in a voice only the godless could hear. He roared at them to stand and fight; he insulted their courage with oaths that made God cringe in the firmament, thinking: I will have to speak to the old warrior about that … again.

The warrior rained down slurs upon the od forces' master. But still they ran in fear. Roaring his rage, the sky thundering from the echo of the mighty voice, the warrior stamped the evil life from the rats that scampered in fright beneath his great feet; the bats swirled overhead, screeching their fear, not understanding this manner of man who roared at them, disturbing their inner radar, causing many to slam into trees. Those that were left went flapping back to the warp in time that had allowed them entrance to this place.

And when the forest was quiet, rid, for the most part, of the forces of the netherworld, the old warrior rested, quite pleased with his work this night.

He did so enjoy a good fight.