On a Pale Horse (42 page)

“Speak to her, Death,” Satan said persuasively. “Tell her to curse Me, and go to Heaven for Eternity.”

Zane hesitated. There was so much in the balance here!

The thug touched Luna’s breasts again. This time she tried not to scream, but an anguished sound squeaked past her constricted throat—the sort of sound one might hear from a mouse being run over by the tire of a truck. There was perspiration on all of her body that was exposed, and her eyes were staring, the whites showing too much.

“Luna!” Zane cried. “Curse Satan! Don’t let them do this to you!”

Slowly her head turned, seeking his voice. She heard him. And Zane knew he had betrayed her—and the world.

Then she forced a smile like a grimace. “Oh, no, you don’t, Father of Lies!” she gasped. “You can’t fool me with Zane’s voice! I know he would never urge me to betray his trust, no matter what!”

Zane felt as if the electrodes had been touched to his own flesh. She believed in him—but he had proved unworthy. He had broken, not she.

The thug extended the terrible electrodes again.

Zane squeezed his eyes shut. He had seen his mother suffering and had acted to free her from a life that had become intolerably burdensome. He had released a whole ward full of suffering old people. He had tried in every case to ameliorate the pain of death where death was necessary, and to eliminate suffering. His whole developing philosophy of death was as a legitimate end to pain. This time it was Luna who suffered, because of him—and he had no right to free her.

He heard her strangled scream. He kept his eyes closed, seeing an explosion of matchsticks. Formations of thought—and how could any of them resolve
this
crisis?

Suddenly the fifth pattern flashed in his imagination:
. The symbol for intuitive thinking. His mind concentrated, assimilating it, hurdling the intuitive gap—

“Death be not stayed!” he cried.

He launched himself from the chair, charged outside, and vaulted onto his ready horse. “Go to Luna!” he cried, showing the orientation stones.

The stallion leaped into the sky. The globe of Earth whirled by beneath them. Then they arrived—on board an orbiting satellite, with normal gravity generated by magic. Naturally Satan was involved in space missions, to make sure no people escaped his power by fleeing planet Earth. But if the Prince of Evil’s minions had thought to escape Death here, they were fools.

A thug appeared. He gaped. “A horse in space!” he exclaimed, amazed.

“More than that, ilk of Satan,” Zane said grimly.

“Hey, you can’t pass here!” the thug protested. “Where’s your Infernal clearance?”

Zane faced him. “Mortal, look at me,” he directed.

For the first time, the thug saw him as his office. The man’s eyes frogged. “Death!”

“Now stand clear, lest you feel my touch,” Zane said.

But the thug recovered some backbone. “You won’t kill me. You’re on strike. If you take my soul, my Lord Satan can kill your woman.”

“You have placed your trust in the wrong power,” Zane said. He reached for the thug, who stiffened in fear but stood his ground like a half-bold cur.

Zane caught the man’s soul and jerked it out of his body. The man collapsed. But the soul was only half out; it remained anchored in the host, as had the soul of the woman on life-support machinery. The thug was not dead, only separated from his soul partway for the moment.

Zane let go of the soul. It snapped elastically back into its host. The thug opened his eyes and stared dazedly up at the cloaked figure before him.

“Go and tell your fell master that Death is on his way and shall not be denied,” Zane said.

The man climbed weakly to his feet and staggered down the passage.

Zane followed more slowly. Soon three more thugs charged up to intercept him.

“Mortis,” Zane said.

The great Deathhorse, who had remained in the background as Zane faced the thug, stepped up. Zane remounted. “Trample any who do not give way,” Zane said coldly. “They have had fair warning.”

The stallion walked forward. His muscles rippled and his steel hooves gleamed. Death’s eerie gaze shone down from above the massive animal. The sound of their tread became loud. Dazzled, the minions of Satan gave way, like rabbits before a wolf. The horse paced on.

One of the thugs drew a small machine gun from under his jacket. He pointed it at Zane. “Your magic’s gone, Death,” he said. “Maybe we can’t kill you, but we can riddle you with bullets. That will stop you!”

“Do that, cretin,” Zane said, and sat firmly while the Deathsteed continued the advance.

The gun fired a burst.

The bullets ricocheted from the Deathcloak and tore into the walls and equipment of the space station. Zane remained unhurt.

The thug stared. “But—”

Zane stretched his right arm toward the man. He crooked his finger. The thug’s soul began to draw from his body as if pulled on a string. “Do not believe all that the Father of Lies tells you,” Zane said. He released the soul, and the man fell back, gasping.

Mortis marched on down the central hall. Death rode regally onward, seeming invincible.

Two Hellhounds appeared. The first leaped for Zane head-on, jaws gaping, fire jetting.

Mortis’ front leg jerked up. The metallic hoof caught the Hound in the head. The full force of the creature’s momentum carried it into that hoof, crushing its skull. It dropped lifelessly.

The other circled and pounced from the side. Zane extended his left arm. The great jaws of the Hound took in the gloved hand and closed on the sleeve surrounding the elbow.

Zane turned his head slowly to look the monster in the eyes. “This becomes annoying,” he said and flexed his fingers in the Hound’s throat, grasping the back of its tongue. “Begone, beast, or I will make my displeasure known.” He squeezed the tongue.

The creature stared. Then, slowly, it dissolved. Soon Zane was left with his arm extended, unhurt, in a cloud of smoke. His magic had been stronger than that of the monster.

They moved into the next chamber. There was Luna, still tied half-naked to the chair. “Death!” she cried. “Don’t take me!”

Zane knew it was no plea of cowardice she made. She expected to live in agony—to foil Satan.

Zane dismounted as the three thugs attending Luna turned to face him, staring. “I have come to take you home—alive,” he said. “But first I have something to settle with these minions of the Evil One.” He drew the great scythe from its holster on the horse.

“No!” Luna cried. “Don’t kill anyone! You mustn’t—”

“Fear not. I shall merely hurt them a little, as they have hurt you,” Zane said, unfolding the terrible blade. “I will cut off their hands and feet, but they shall not die.” He smiled savagely. “No, they shall not die!”

The thugs, abruptly terrified, scrambled away.

A fourth man entered the chamber. “I think not,” he said.

Zane hardly glanced at him. “Death shall not be denied.” He hefted the scythe and took a step toward the three thugs, who cowered abjectly against the wall.

“Death shall have no dominion,” the stranger said. He pointed at the floor before Zane, and fire rose from it.

This was evidently a higher functionary. “I will rescue my love, though Hell bar the way.” Zane swept the blade of the scythe through the flames, and they were cut off like so many weeds. In a moment they died.

The man made a circle in the air with one finger. The space inside the circle fell out like cut paper, leaving a window into a horrendous furnace. “Hell does bar the way. Do not tamper with things you do not understand.”

Zane made a circle with his own left arm, flinging a length of his cape over the window, stifling it until it disappeared. “Who the devil are you to oppose me with such foolish tricks and to slight my intelligence?” He shifted the blade of the scythe meaningfully. “The Devil himself shall not interfere with Death any more.”

The man’s face melted. From the dripping flesh emerged the glowing countenance of the Prince of Evil. “I
am
the Devil, Death!”

Zane was for a moment taken aback. “How can you be out of Hell?”

“I can be anywhere I wish!” Satan exclaimed, a ripple of flame playing across his features. “Evil is inherent in all activities of man. Now bow down before Me and leave off your inane posturings, for your case is lost.”

Uncertainty tore at Zane. He had made short work of Satan’s Earthly and beastly minions—but Satan himself was another matter. He looked around—and saw Luna still tied to the chair, the three thugs by her, one holding
the electrodes used to torture her. Renewed fury suffused him.

“Then I shall deal with you,” Zane said, facing Satan.

The Prince of Evil smiled sardonically. “With Me? How do you propose to do that? Your magic is gone, and you are but a man.”

“My magic gone? So you claimed before, but it was and is a lie. I received no confirmation from Purgatory. My magic horse remained, and my magic gems, and my invincible cloak. I was never without magic! Lies are all you have, Father of Lies. You suggest you can arbitrarily deprive me of my powers.” Zane stepped toward the Devil. “
Satan, it is not your prerogative!
Death is inviolate, as it must be, not to be tampered with by the likes of you. Where Death has dominion, the Lord of Flies has none.” Zane took another step. “Now get behind me, Satan, and disperse the ilk you brought here. Stay me no longer from my mission, lest I orient my power on you.”

Satan harrumphed, and his horns glowed. “A month ago you were the least of pip-squeaks scrambling to pay your back rent. The assumption of a cloak and scythe does not convert a nothing-creature to a something-creature. You have delusions of grandeur that will quickly be dispelled. You bluff, mortal man.”

For answer, Zane swept the deadly scythe at Satan’s ankles and tail.

The Prince of Evil jumped back, avoiding the cut. He flicked his fingers, and a sparkling globe of energy floated at Zane’s face. “Fool! Then feel the wrath of Satan!”

Zane stood still, not even attempting to evade the globe. It settled about his head, blazing high, coloring his vision as if he looked out from an inferno, but there was no heat. In a moment it dissipated harmlessly. The Deathhood had protected him. “The bluff is yours, Father of Lies.”

Satan sneered. “You talk big, mortal man, holding the magic scythe and wrapped in the magic cloak, backed by the magic steed. These are mere tools of the office. Without them you are nothing.”

“You lie again,” Zane said. “You have no power over me, regardless.” He set down the scythe and lifted the cloak from his shoulders.

“No!” Luna cried from the chair. “Don’t let Satan trick you into powerlessness, Zane!”

Now it was her faith that was weak, instead of his. Zane smiled and threw the cape aside. Then he removed his shoes and stripped off his gloves and gems.

“You are indeed a fool,” Satan gloated.

“Then all you have to do is stand still,” Zane said, “and we shall make the proof of my prerogatives.” Slowly he reached one bare hand toward the Devil.

Satan nudged back. “What idiocy is this? I can destroy you with a single flick of My finger!”

“Then you had better do it,” Zane said, “for I am about to hook your soul with my own finger.” He extended his hand farther.

Satan moved back some more, staying just clear. “Fool! I am trying to spare you the ignominy of being humiliated!”

“How very kind of you, Father of Lies.” Zane leaned forward, shooting his hand at Satan’s midsection.

The Devil puffed into nothingness.

Zane turned to see the Prince of Evil re-form behind him. “So you got behind me, Satan,” he remarked. “I have moved you. Do you think that improves your position? Strike, Lucifer! Do not spare my feelings any farther. Humiliate me. Destroy Death while he stands vulnerable. I turn my back on you again, to facilitate your chastisement.” And he turned away.

Satan sighed. “You have prevailed, Death. You called My bluff and forced Me to give way. You have at last realized your full power.”

“What else is news?” Zane picked up his cloak and got dressed again.

“If I may inquire,” Satan asked without sarcasm, “as one Incarnation to another—what gave you the clue?”

“The fifth pattern of matchsticks,” Zane said.

“Intuitive thinking,” Satan agreed, comprehending immediately. “That would do it.”

“I realized that if there were any way for you to meddle in the affairs of Death, or to stop Death from performing his duty, you would have done so long ago. No magic cloak would have stopped you, the Incarnation of Evil,
the personification of black magic, whose powers of enchantment are not matched anywhere on Earth. It had to be inherent in the office, not in the paraphernalia. Death has to be inviolable, absolutely certain. Not even God, the Incarnation of Good, acted against Death when I declined to exercise my power in the world. Only Death can determine his business. Therefore you had to be powerless against me in this instance. I cannot defend this by logic; I simply know it is true. I have faith in my office.”

Satan nodded. “You do indeed. Against that faith, even I can not prevail. Yet had you chosen another issue, you would never have been able to oppose Me. Your power is less than Mine, as evil lives after death.”