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many occasions until a dishonourable discharge had tumbled him back into civilian life。 Embittered； all that mattered now was the destruction of Quentin； because no one such as he had any right to exist amid Mankind。
The clearing； swamped by shadow so that Mark Sabat could only just make out the silhouette of the hut and the towering pines。 Cold and getting colder all the time。 He checked his means of protection。 The herbs； the garlic； the silver crucifix and the tiny prayer book which was almost a blasphemy in the pocket of one who delighted in killing。 And the revolver； a 。38 which he carried at all times； useless in a situation such as this but a fort in hostile places where earthly bodies might threaten him。 Since those SAS days a gun had bee a part of his personality； a means of instant death bined with his unerring marksmanship。
Then he saw Quentin on the far side of the clearing； a human shape gradually emerging as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness； crouched by the graves。 Eyes that fixed him； seemed to glow brightly with their intensity of hate； a cornered wounded beast of the chase waiting to spring on the hunter。
'So you have e。' The voice was not old and cracked； but smooth and cultured； mockingly defiant。 'You are stubborn； Mark。 So foolish； because we could each have gone our own separate ways and now it is too late。'
'No；' the newer stepped forward； gripped the tiny crucifix in the pocket of his jacket and wondered if it would be powerful enough。 'There is not room enough for the two of us in this world； Quentin 。。。'
His voice tailed off and he stared in disbelief； saw the graves； the soil thrown up in a heap； their contents dragged from the open cavities。 Oh； Jesus God！ Culte des mortes； as it was known in Creole； the native tongue of Haiti … the cult of the dead 。 。 。 necromancy！ He found himself stepping back in sheer revulsion。 Another tortured flash of memory； a visit some years ago to Port au Prince where he had experienced at first hand some of the voodoo rites； houngans digging up corpses in the graveyard at night for a number of revolting ceremonies； the dead walked and having seen it with his own eyes Mark Sabat did not dispute it。 And Quentin had been there； too； learning his trade； pandering to these witch doctors who held the secret of the living dead。
Mark could see clearly now that his eyes had accustomed themselves to the dark。 Three corpses； peasants； a man and a woman in middle…age； the hessian sacking in which they had been buried having rotted away to reveal their emaciated nakedness； putrid green flesh hanging in strips； the whiteness of the bones beneath almost luminous。 And their faces had expressions on them even though they were virtually skeletal。 Masks of terror fixed on he who had disturbed their final peace； arms entwined in a horrific embrace。 And the child between them； that was the worst of all； a young girl； hairless as a babe； her flesh somehow having defied the damp cold earth and the nibbling worms and remained almost intact。 Indeed； she might still have been alive 。。。 a movement； she lurched against the woman as though seeking parental protection a limp hand swinging。 Oh Jesus God； Sabat thought； she's still got her eyes！ Orbs wide with terror seeing him； pleading with him to save them all from this monster of darkness。
'You'll join them。' Quentin held the axe easily now； no longer struggling to lift it。 'You'll soon be one of the walking dead； Mark。 Or perhaps my Master will find other uses for your dismembered body while your soul。 。 。 '
'Stop Mark Sabat advanced into the clearing； the crucifix now clear of his pocket and held out at arms length。 'Enough of these vile practices； Quentin。 These people must have eternal peace 。 。 。 and you as well！'
But Quentin stood his ground。 He should have cowered before the power of the cross and the pungent smell of herbs which emanated from the intruder。 Instead he gave a hollow faugh and that was when the younger Sabat knew 。 。 。 knew that his own loss of faith had failed him in his greatest hour of need； that he was but a mere mortal facing up to a devil incarnate。 And Quentin was fully aware of this； too！ No longer was the evil brother a helpless figure； age and decay still ravaged him hideously but his muscles powered him with the speed and strength of one in the prime of life。 The cold air hissed as the axe went back and up； a whistling arc of instant death； its blade honed to razor sharpness。 A cry left those toothless lips that was more animal than human； reverberating in the still atmosphere； the mountains all around starting to take up the echoes。
Sabat fought against shock and horror which were threatening to petrify him into an easy target。 A sideways leap just as the blade came down； hearing it strike the rocky ground amid a shower of sparks。 Whirling； flinging the crucifix with desperation； seeing it hit his adversary full in the chest。 But Quentin only swivelled round； a horrific sneer on his aged features。 'The cross is powerless without you； Mark。 Not even a symbol； just a lump of meaningless metal。'
Panicking now； a Christian in a roman lion pit； knowing that his agility can only postpone the inevitable mauling。
Mental torture added to bursting lungs and weakening muscles。 Mark Sabat hurled garlic bulbs and saw them bounce off his brother and roll away。 Quentin followed him； the axe poised effortlessly； awaiting the death blow。 It was crazy that such a decrepit body could move so swiftly； the brain within the shrunken bald skull tuned perfectly to outwit its retreating foe。
Suddenly Mark Sabat was airborne and falling； a wave of vertigo sweeping through him； a sensation akin to having stepped off a block of high…rise flats into a black nothingness。 Then a jerk checked him。 He was lying on his back staring up at an oblong that was lighter than the darkness all around； twinkling pinpoints which he recognised as stars。 It took him some seconds to realise what had happened and then it all came to him； the musty damp smell of soil which showered down on him from the narrow； sharp sides of the grave into which he had fallen； sharp slivers of rock gouging his back。
A familiar silhouette above him obliterated the starlight。 Quentin。 Old or young； it was the Quentin he had hunted from Haiti to Bavaria； axe poised for the final blow； savouring this moment of fratricide。 And it was at that instant； even as he was preparing himself for death； that Mark's fingers closed over the cold metal of the 。38 in his jacket pocket。 His movements were instinctive； an act of hopelessness tinged with defiance； a condemned man spitting in the face of his executioner。 A salvo of shots； so rapid that they sounded like a single peal of cannonfire ing up out of the ground； stabbing flame that burned its way through the material of the pocket in which the gun was fired； and gave off a stench that was a mixture of singed cloth and cordite。 And bullets thudding into a human body with a noise like catapult slugs striking wet cardboard。
Quentin was thrown back up to his full height even a