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n must be tried by a druid council of justice； not by the weakness of mortal judges？
Sabat was silent。 His brain searched for avenues of escape； means by which Kent might be saved； and failed。 There was no alternative； as the Hirschlanden Warrior had said。
'All right；' he nodded； tight…lipped。 'I will do as you say and keep my word。 Three days and I shall deliver these two men to the Council of Justice at Stonehenge。 With them I shall bring my colleague； also the sacred sword。 But if you trick me； O Warrior； then my vengeance will be terrible。 You may take my life and my soul but you shall not escape unscarred。 That I promise。'
Suddenly the floating skull was gone； leaving the ex…SAS man and his two babbling panions in total darkness。 And in that same instant the small torch came back on and the atmosphere was several degrees warmer。
Sabat felt weak； as though he had undergone a serious illness yet survived。 Two opposing forces had fused in deadly conflict； settled for an uneasy peace formula。 He shone the torch on the other two； grimaced at what he saw。
Walter Stone would be an imbecile for the rest of his days； one who had suffered some kind of major stroke； a human shell that would babble in inane oblivion。 Possibly even death would not release him for if his soul had been claimed by the Cult of the Severed Head； then his skull would float in everlasting torment。 For the Planning Officer； Sabat had no pity。 The bastard had got what he deserved … true justice。 No mortal jury could punish him so effectively。
For Kent there was hope； a slender lifeline back to sanity and only Sabat could give him that。 A bargain had been made； Sabat would keep his side。 It was up to the ancient Oke Priests to keep theirs。
Somehow Sabat got Kent to his feet； a chuckling child that might throw a tantrum at any second。 The journalist needed to be humoured； persuaded。 Vacant eyes that stared straight ahead； the body trembling with inexplicable mirth。
Somehow Sabat got him through the door； closed it behind them to shut out Stone's incessant ramblings。 Walking slowly； unsteadily； a drunk being helped home by an understanding friend。
It took them almost an hour to reach the parked Daimler。
Walter Stone sat there on the floor for a long time after the others had gone。 He did not remember their presence； nor that of the entity in the shape of a tiny skull which had driven him to the brink of madness then thrust him into the yawning chasm beyond。
A sense of euphoria now； an aimless meandering through the house； searching for something； he did not know what。
Picking up objects in the darkness； examining them by feel； casting them aside。 A porcelain statuette shattered into a thousand fragments on the floor； obliviously crunched to powder beneath his feet。 A milk bottle rolled off the sink； bounced and scuttled across the kitchen floor but did not break。 Emptying drawers and cupboards； scattering their contents； turning on a tap in the bath； entranced by the sound of running； splashing water； neither wishing nor knowing how to stop the gushing liquid。
Downstairs again； tugging at a hanging picture until its cord snapped； precipitating him backwards so that he lost his balance and fell。 A sharp corner of the table gouged his spine； made him angry。 Now his hunt for the unknown was more persistent； throwing objects to one side without investigating them； kicking so that fragile things smashed。 He was bleeding from a cut on his hand； a steady drip…drip of sticky crimson fluid that left a spotted trail in his wake。
Still searching。 A box that rattled； fascinated him so that he tried to open it； became angry when he could find no hinged lid。 A grunt of surprise as the interior slid out； a kind of drawer filled with lots of little sticks。 Something flashed across his memory； a reminder that had him scraping a match head on emery paper。 The sudden burst of flame had him backing away with a cry of anguish； the match falling from his fingers and extinguishing itself in a puff of sulphurous smoke。
Walter Stone gurgled his amazement； scrabbled in the box again； spilling some of its contents on to the floor treading on them； igniting them。 He jumped back in alarm then began to laugh again； dropped to his knees and blew at the flames like a child attempting to extinguish burning candles on a birthday cake。
Some of the matches went out。 Two or three were stubborn； their flames wafting； one hungrily attempting to reach a pile of scattered newspapers which had spilled oul of the kitchen cupboard。 A er caught； began to spread。 。 。 。
Stone watched in silence； amazed； an awareness that he had achieved this； his own work； all his own doing。 Now striking matches with gay abandon； flinging them into the air； a private firework display； the bonfire starting to blaze； crackling as some smashed furniture yielded to the persistence of the fire。 The smoke made his his eyes smart and he pawed at them annoyance。 Jubilation as man's primitive instincts were awakened。 Fire was pretty； it was warm。
Too warm。 Hot。 He retreated into a corner； coughed。 The doorway was on the opposite side of the room but it never occurred to him to make a dash for it。 Within seconds that single avenue of escape was cut off。
Now the room was ablaze； wooden units a fiery wall。 Still he stood and watched through smarting eyes； laughing loudly； talking to himself。 It was nice； very nice； he hoped that the fire didn't suddenly go out。
Noises。 A shrill blaring； faces beyond the flames nut he ignored them。 A crashing of glass； shards splintering like that ornament he had dropped earlier。 Voices shouting； a hissing watery sound like the bath taps upstairs made only much more powerful。
Walter Stone gave a cry of defiance。 Whoever these intruders were they could not get at him because he had built an impenetrable barrier of fire。 He stumbled； fell 。 。 。 and then he saw the face in the fire； features that were impervious to the heat； ancient immortality that had surely risen from Dante's hell； features so malign that a cry of inprehensible terror came from the Planning Officer's cracked and blistered lips。 He heard the words； somehow understood them in spite of the fact that his brain was past reasoning。
'The sentence of death has been passed on you by the Council of Oke Priests； traitor who sought to desecrate sacred （and。 Your body will be burned by fire but your soul will suffer eternal purgatory！'
A strange feeling engulfed the man whose clothing was already burning on his body； a kind of dizziness in which everything was blurred； even the heat lessening for a few seconds。 An awful sucking sensation as though a vacuum pipe attached to his head was forcibly drawing his brains out。 Everything went black； then he was conscious again； but it was all different。 Somehow he was airborne； still in that fiery room； looking down on his own incinerated body！ He did not understand； did not attempt to reason even though his mind was no longer fogged。 This was the way